The Gold of Troy

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “You wished to see me about—?”

  For the first time a touch of doubt came to Arne Nordberg. He wondered if possibly it had been the aquavit he had drunk the previous day that had made him think Count Lindgren would help him. With all the money the count had, was it not possible—in fact, likely—that the man would not be interested in helping him dispose of the collection? What could he offer Count Lindgren that Count Lindgren did not already possess? Or could not buy if he so wanted? Still, he was here, and after so many days of terrifying indecision, there was nothing for it but to tell the whole story, or at least the concocted story, and see where it led. One thing was reassuring, and that was the gentle, friendly smile on the count’s face. Nordberg wet his lips, took a deep breath, and began.

  “You know, I’m sure, of the Schliemann treasure, sir—?”

  No muscle moved on Lindgren’s face. He remained the same smiling friendly man, but within his mind a slight wonder formed. Was he going to be forced to eat a delayed lunch just because this idiot wished to discuss art objects?

  “Yes,” he said, anxious to terminate the pointless interview. “I’m quite familiar with the collection. Before the war I was fortunate enough to have seen it at the museum in Berlin. I was a child, but my father insisted upon my getting a very broad education. May I ask in what connection you asked about the treasure?”

  Nordberg swallowed, and then to his own amazement heard the words come from his lips. He had meant to be far more circumspect in releasing the information.

  “I—I have it …”

  The smile disappeared from the count’s face, replaced by a slight frown. “I beg your pardon? You said—?”

  “I said I have it. I have the Schliemann treasure. In my possession.” The very saying of the words seemed to bring renewed confidence to Nordberg. After all, he did have the treasure, and nobody else did, and that was a fact!

  “Are you quite sure you know what you are saying?” Count Lindgren was now convinced he was dealing with a mentally unbalanced man. He promised himself to speak to Wilten about being more careful in whom he admitted. Wilten was usually excellent in this regard, having much experience, but—democracy was all right in its place, but letting insane people in to annoy him was quite another matter. He began to rise. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid—”

  “Please!” Nordberg’s tone was pleading. Then he seemed to read something in the other man’s expression. He leaned forward. The count was forced to sink back in his chair to avoid a collision. “Look, sir, please! I’m quite serious. I’m not lying, and I’m not crazy. I said I have the Schliemann treasure, and I have!” He reached into a pocket; the count’s frown deepened. Was the maniac going for a gun? But before he could ring for Wilten to come and eject his unwelcome visitor, Nordberg had brought out a tissue-wrapped packet and was opening it. He reached over, handing the count a diadem. He had selected the most ornate, the most individual, for his presentation. “Have you ever seen this before, sir?”

  Count Lindgren took the diadem carefully, examining it in detail. It certainly looked genuine. Was it possible that a lout like Nordberg actually had the entire collection? It seemed impossible. In fact, it seemed utterly ridiculous. Still, there was the diadem. He looked up, his interest now fully aroused. “Where did you get this piece?”

  Nordberg now felt surer of himself. “It’s not just that piece. I have the entire collection. Thousands of pieces,” he said with confidence. “And I have them in a very safe place—”

  “I asked where you got it.”

  “Well, I’m sure you know the treasure has been in Russia all these years since the war—”

  “And I thought it was still there. You still haven’t answered my question.” Count Lindgren’s tone was insistent, the tone of a man accustomed to being answered when he asked a question.

  “Well, sir, it was stolen.” Nordberg raised a hand hastily. “Oh, not by me! I’ve never been in Russia. It was stolen by a man who worked in the museum—it was the Hermitage, in Leningrad—and he stole the collection and defected. He got as far as Copenhagen and he needed money desperately to continue his escape. He came to me at the university and offered it to me for sale. At first I was sure it was a hoax—he wouldn’t tell me how he got it out of the museum, or even how he got it out of Russia. But when I examined the pieces, and compared them with the records of the collection, the pictures and the detailed sketches in Schliemann’s own book, I knew it was genuine. So I—I bought it.”

  Lindgren tried to comprehend the startling fact, if it was a fact, that Arne Nordberg—Nordberg, of all people!—should be in possession of the Schliemann treasure. It just did not seem possible. In fact, the more he thought about it the less possible it seemed. Still, the diadem was there. He supposed the professor’s story might be true; stranger things had happened in the world. But not many. He frowned at Nordberg.

  “I see. And may I ask just why you’re telling me all this?”

  This was the part that Nordberg had rehearsed in his mind when he first planned to present the case to the count. He had been sure it would be one of the first questions. But it really wasn’t so hard. All he had to do was tell the truth.

  “Well, sir,” he said earnestly, “the fact is, I’m like the man who stole the treasure from the museum. He had it, but he didn’t know what to do with it. That’s the position I’m in. I’ve got it, but I don’t know what to do with it. It cost me all the money I had in the world—”

  “And how much was that?”

  “I know it won’t sound like very much to you, sir, but it cleaned out my bank account—” Nordberg hesitated as if ashamed to be mentioning such a minute sum to a man as rich as Lindgren. The count waited. “It was fifty thousand kroner, sir. But I thought it was worth it.”

  “I’m sure,” Count Lindgren said dryly. Fifty thousand kroner for the Schliemann collection? The cost of a new Volvo for one of the greatest collections the world has ever seen? “And at the risk of being impolite and repeating myself, may I ask again, just why are you telling me this? Do you wish to resell it? I’d have to verify its authenticity—”

  “No, no!” Nordberg said hastily, moving to the edge of his chair, wishing to correct this misunderstanding at once. “I had nothing like that in mind! I thought—” He hesitated. Lindgren waited. “I thought,” Nordberg said at last, in a subdued tone of voice, not looking at the count but staring at the thick rug instead, “that we could be sort of—of partners, sir. That you might be able to figure out how both of us could make some money from it …” There! It was out, it was said!

  Lindgren contemplated the man before him with outer calm, but inwardly his mind was racing. So the man wasn’t as big a fool as he appeared. Nordberg was, however, still a lout, there was no doubt of that, but he was an educated lout, after a fashion, and he would scarcely have been foolish enough to pay whatever he paid—the count was positive it would not have been fifty thousand kroner or anywhere near it, but that was unimportant—for a hoax. Nor would he have been so foolish as to attempt to bring a hoax to Count Lindgren. It would have been far too dangerous to attempt anything like that with a trustee of the university where he worked. It would mean his job, if not worse. The count fully intended to verify the authenticity of the collection, but he was beginning to really believe that the miserable person facing him actually, through some weird accident of fate, had come into possession of the Schliemann treasure. The story of the Russian defector probably was the truth. It was the only way Lindgren could imagine Nordberg getting hold of it. Certainly not through his own weakling efforts.

  And if Nordberg actually had the treasure, there was indeed a fortune to be made. Enough, in fact, to enable the count to return to the style of living he had unfortunately been forced to abandon for the time being. It was rather a good thing the man had not wanted to sell it; he might have been foolish enough to have given him something for it. Now, if it really existed, he was sure that somehow he could realize its value witho
ut sharing a bit of it. If, always if, it were real …

  He became aware that Nordberg was speaking and looked up. “I’m sorry. I was thinking. You were saying—?”

  Nordberg smiled nervously. “I was wondering what you were thinking, sir.”

  Count Lindgren smiled genially. “If the collection is genuine,” he said, “and that, of course, I shall have to verify, then I think I might be interested.” He laughed. “Oh, not for the money, of course, but for the sport of it. I think it might be rather a lark, you know? Interesting, in a way.”

  Nordberg was thrilled. He could feel the wave of emotion travel the length of his body, prickling him. He had been so right to contact Count Lindgren! So absolutely right! Not, of course, that the presence of the count automatically meant a solution to the problem, but he knew he felt better for just not being alone with the problem any longer.

  “Do you have any idea, sir, of—of just how we—you—we might—?”

  Lindgren waved the question away airily. “I’m sure there are many means of disposing of a collection that desirable,” he said absently, and smiled, the same intimate friendly smile that had greeted Nordberg when he first arrived, admitting the professor into the warm fraternity of the rich and privileged. The count swiveled his chair to face a cabinet and brought forth a bottle of rare brandy. He poured two glasses and held one out to the professor. Nordberg could hardly believe it; he was drinking cognac with Count Axel Lindgren! He tapped his glass against the one being held out by the count, raised it to correspond to Lindgren’s gesture of a toast, and sipped. My Lord, it was good! To think that with money one could drink this ambrosia of the Gods every day of the week! He finished his drink but refused a refill. It would not do to look greedy in front of his new partner. Besides, there was a more important matter to be discussed.

  “How much money do you think—?”

  “I shouldn’t worry about that, if I were you. The Schliemann treasure should bring in a fortune,” Lindgren said encouragingly, and offered Nordberg a cigar. Nordberg took it and put it to his lips; the count held a flame to it from a gold lighter. The professor did not smoke, but it would have been unthinkable to refuse an offering from the count. He smiled to hide a grimace at the unfamiliar acrid taste, and persisted.

  “But, roughly, how much—?”

  “Please don’t worry about that,” Lindgren said sincerely. “Whatever monies result from selling the treasure, I assure you will be yours. I have all the money I need. What I don’t have is some project to occupy my mind. And this sounds as if it might be good sport. But first, of course, I should not wish to even become involved unless the treasure is authentic. And when may I verify that?”

  “Right now, if you wish.” Nordberg puffed out smoke, wondering if one could become accustomed to rich cigars. “It’s in several safe-deposit boxes at my bank, the Handelsbanken in the Østergade in Copenhagen. The bank is open, and it’s only an hour from here—”

  “Shall we say tomorrow, instead? Suppose I meet you at the bank at eleven,” Lindgren said, and came to his feet. He did it in a reluctant manner, as if he would have liked to continue the scintillating conversation with the brilliant professor for hours, but unfortunately other matters prevented him from this pleasure. The truth was he had a lot of thinking to do and he wanted his mind clear when he saw the treasure the following day. If it should turn out to be authentic, he did not want to be confused about what had to be done. He walked his guest to the door, one friendly arm about the other’s shoulders, saw him properly taken over by Wilten, and made his way toward the dining room.

  Professor Nordberg walked to his ancient car as if on air. It was real! It had happened! He had neither imagined it, nor dreamed it! Everything had come about exactly as he had hoped and prayed for. And what a pleasure to be associated with a gentleman like Count Lindgren! He had the count’s word for it—his word!—that he would never need for anything again! The money was all to be his! Ah, to be rich. Oh, not to live in a grandiose place like Lindgren Castle, but to have a larger apartment, with a servant—a combination maid and cook … He could picture the maid he would hire when money was no problem. With a low-cut uniform that would show off her full figure to the best, short skirts for her wonderful, enticing legs. A maid who would understand the needs of a passionate man, and who would share that passion.

  He climbed into his car in euphoria, started it, and listening to the engine promised himself that even before the new apartment, even before the maid, he would get himself a new car. One that would attract the attention of the girls who had refused to share his ten-year-old, battered, limping automobile …

  In the dining room, for once Count Lindgren’s mind was not on the food. The overdone introductory omelette, François’ answer to tardy diners, barely was noticed. The soup, made a trifle bitter by unnecessary boiling, was consumed with equal lack of complaint. The chop, toughened by a purposeful long tenure in the pan, was merely dallied with. Count Lindgren had more important things on his mind.

  Barely on the fringes of his mind, however, was the matter of Arne Nordberg, or any claim he might have to share in whatever the Schliemann collection would bring. Count Lindgren had killed in the Korean War. He had once killed in an unpublicized duel—a duel in which Wilten had acted as his second and had been in charge of seeing that the pistols were properly loaded, or at least one of them. In his youth Count Lindgren had volunteered as a mercenary in Africa just for the adventure. Count Lindgren would not have the slightest compunction about eliminating a person as distasteful as Arne Nordberg should the need arise, and Count Lindgren realized without the faintest regret that the need might very well arise. And even had Arne Nordberg not been distasteful, the count’s compunction would have been no less. Axel Lindgren and his desires came first; all else was secondary.

  No, Nordberg would present no problem. Nor, for that matter, would disposing of the treasure. An auction, conducted between the top museums of the world, without, obviously, revealing his identity or anything else not necessary to the negotiations. With his contacts throughout the world, it should be no problem. It would take a bit of planning, of course, but it certainly could be done. Oh, the museums would all claim, as he would have done himself, that they couldn’t touch anything the slightest bit doubtful as to ownership, but they’d all manage to bid anyway, one way or another. And not only the ones brought in to bid, but others, advised of the auction by the undoubted publicity the affair would garner in the world press. Yes, it actually would be a lark, in addition, of course, to bringing his reduced finances from the pit in which they found themselves.

  But all this was a bit premature. First, of course, there was the matter of getting the treasure transferred from the insecurity of bank safe-deposit boxes to the true security of Lindgren Castle’s vaults. After all, safe-deposit boxes could be opened with court orders. Robbers had been known to be able to open safe-deposit boxes not only in banks but in hotels, as well. No, the proper place for the treasure was at Lindgren Castle. After all, in the more than five hundred years since the castle had been built, its security had never been breached. And it carried in its halls and on its walls a fortune in art objects as great if not greater than the Schliemann gold, not to mention the plate and other valuables in its vaults. So what better place to insure the safety of the valuable collection? And he and the lout Nordberg were, after all, partners, were they not? With the mutual interest of seeing to the treasure’s safety until it could be properly and advantageously disposed of?

  The count smiled coldly and reached for the trifle, heavily oversugared by an irked François …

  IV

  1979

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LONDON—June

  The Translation Conference Room of the new and impressive Gramercy Arms Hotel in Park Lane was slowly filling up. Ruth McVeigh, at the head of a long conference table that had been installed in place of the normal theater-seat arrangement, sat and watched her colleagues slowly file in and
take the places assigned to them by their name cards. Many of those present were friends of hers, or at least acquaintances, but some new faces could be seen settling down, bringing out cigarette packets and placing them with matches beside the already-furnished pads and pencils, pulling ashtrays closer, or fiddling with the water glasses at each setting. Before each person was a small console furnished with a pair of earphones and five buttons for the five languages to be furnished in instant translation, if required.

  Along the wall, as if in the position of observers, were faces she did not recognize. She assumed they were from the world press, men who had been unable to arrange space at the press tables, for the wall chairs were not furnished with translation consoles. Television cameras had been barred, and many of those along the wall were waiting patiently with notebooks on their knees, their breast pockets filled with sharpened pencils. One man, sitting along the wall in a relaxed manner, dressed more informally than most in a dark jacket over a white turtle-neck sweater, seemed faintly familiar to Ruth, although she was sure she had never met him. She was sure she would have remembered if they had. Without notebook or pencil, he appeared to only be a curious observer. Ruth leaned over to a colleague from the Cleveland Museum, the antiquities curator, Timothy Rubin, speaking in a low voice.

  “Tim, don’t just turn around and stare, but that man along the wall, the one sitting next to that man with the stiff white hair, the one with the turtleneck sweater. He looks familiar. Do you know him? I expect he’s from some small museum—”

  Tim Rubin managed to casually look around, as if checking the room, and then turned back, his expression one of complete innocence, although there was a wicked glint in his eye.

  “As a matter of fact, I do know him,” he said, “but I wouldn’t bother with him if I were you. He comes, as you say, from an insignificant museum. I’m surprised they even let him in.” He turned away, as if he had answered the question fully.