Ruth smiled, but it was a sad smile. “The less said about the London conference, Axel, the better. About all that really came out of it that was even faintly useful, was that the question of legal ownership of the treasure was certainly put in doubt.”
Lindgren frowned. “But do you believe that would make any difference as far as this so-called ‘Auction of the Century’ is concerned?”
“Without a doubt,” Ruth said positively. “One result is that there undoubtedly will be more bidders than the ones who were originally asked to participate in the auction. And that will mean that the price will undoubtedly go very high.”
Count Lindgren looked properly sympathetic. “That’s too bad! Understandably this cannot have been very welcome news to the Metropolitan.” He glanced at Kovpak. “Or the Hermitage, if they should bid. Or to anyone else.”
“It isn’t. If we could have gotten some co-operation from those—those—people in London—!” Ruth seemed to realize she was flogging a dead horse. “Axel—”
“Yes?” Count Lindgren looked up as Sture appeared with menus. “If you will permit me to order for us all?” There was general acceptance of this; Count Lindgren gave the orders and turned back to his table companions. “You were saying?”
Ruth leaned a bit closer to him, unconsciously dropping her voice. “Axel, suppose I were to tell you I have a very good idea of where the treasure—the Schliemann gold—might very well be.”
“What!” Count Lindgren recovered instantly, frowning in a slightly skeptical manner, although his heart was beating much faster. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I have a theory as to what happened to it. It never reached Russia in 1945. I think that can be proven. Just how is unimportant at the moment. But I think it ended up in Denmark, and with your help I think I can prove it.”
“With my help?” Lindgren’s mind was racing. Had Nordberg told him a bunch of lies as to how he had come upon the treasure? It was very possible. Nordberg certainly didn’t look the sort to put up any great sum of money for anything. He didn’t look as if he had ever had any great sum of money. And why should anyone stealing the treasure from the Hermitage and then defecting, turn to an obscure professor in Copenhagen to rid himself of the collection? He looked at Ruth, his face indicating nothing but polite curiosity. “How with my help?”
Ruth was prevented from answering by the arrival of their food. They gave the excellent cuisine the homage it deserved by refraining from any serious conversation, although Count Lindgren’s brain was churning. It was not possible! Ruth had always been known for quick decisions and for outlandish conjectures, and this “theory” of hers had to be another similar case. Certainly Kovpak would know if she was only imagining things, and equally certainly Kovpak would have every reason to go along with any crazy idea of hers, since it permitted him to stay with her and make love with her and enjoy her in all the ways the count was sure the Russian was enjoying her.
But—on the other hand—what if she was on to something, something that could prove dangerous to him? What if Nordberg had been lying as to how he had gotten his hands on the treasure? Suppose he had gotten it in a manner that left a trail that could be picked up, and that now it had been picked up? And if that were the case the trail might not stop at Nordberg but could lead to him. Although the trail could be cut at Nordberg. Unless, of course, Nordberg had left some indication of where the treasure was. In that case, much as he admired dear Ruth and respected the good Doctor Kovpak, something would have to be done about them, and Count Axel Lindgren was not a man to have the slightest compunction in handling the situation.
But first, of course, one had to be sure. With the arrival of their coffee and brandy, Count Lindgren looked at Ruth. “You were saying I could help you? In what way?”
Ruth put down her demitasse. “Do you know anyone at the Admiralty?”
Lindgren frowned. He failed to understand the question in relation to the problem, but the one way to find out was to go along and see where it led. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “He’s head of Naval Intelligence. We were close friends when he was Naval Attaché in Lisbon and I was posted there. What would you want from him?”
“There must be records somewhere in Copenhagen, probably in the Admiralty, of storms and shipwrecks in the Baltic, aren’t there?”
Lindgren thought, and what on earth was that all about? “Well,” he said, “he may not have the information himself, but I’m sure he can get it for you. Why would you want it?”
Ruth smiled. “That’s a secret, at least until I get the verification I want.” She glanced at her watch and then at Lindgren, putting appeal into her voice. “Would it be possible to get hold of him now?”
Lindgren forced a laugh. “Impatient as ever! I’ll see what I can do.” He came to his feet, put down his napkin, and disappeared in the direction of the maître d’s desk and the telephone there, as anxious as Ruth to move on the matter. He returned shortly, smiling. “He’s in his office now. I can take you there, if you care to come now.” He signaled Sture for the check.
As he led the way from the restaurant to his car, Count Lindgren hoped he would have an answer soon to the burning question of how much Ruth knew or suspected. He waited while Wilten sprang from the driver’s seat to open the car doors and then close them behind the three of them. He hoped the answer would come soon, because he had an appointment later with Professor Nordberg …
The young ensign was determined to give the lady all the help he could, not just because those were his orders from the admiral, nor even because the lady was accompanied by the fabled Count Axel Lindgren, but simply because she was as beautiful a lady as the ensign could recall ever having visited the Naval Station, which was one of the problems of the naval service, the ensign thought, and laid the ledger he had procured from weather archives on his desk. He opened it and began leafing through the pages.
“May 22 and 23, 1945, I believe you said,” he said briskly, as if such inquiries were routine. “Ah, here we are.” He looked up, smiling brightly. “Good weather both days. A high-pressure system over the entire western Baltic.”
To his surprise the beautiful lady did not seem to be pleased with the information. “Good weather? You’re sure? No storms?”
The ensign checked the reports again and then looked up, slightly puzzled by the lovely lady’s reaction. “No, ma’am. Excellent weather around Falster and the western end of the Baltic both days. Full moon, only scattered clouds, calm sea.”
Again the lady seemed perturbed. The young ensign could not know, of course, that the lady was trying to picture a large ship running down a small fishing vessel à la some romantic sea story under a full moon that allowed perfect visibility. “Full moon, no cloud cover, calm sea,” the ensign repeated and pointed to the entries, as if to remove any responsibility for the bad news from his shoulders, although why no storms and a full moon under clear skies should be bad news, was beyond him.
Count Lindgren was waiting patiently, watchfully. So far whatever Ruth McVeigh’s theory was, it seemed to be lacking support, but Count Lindgren was a man who could be most patient in checking out every angle of any situation that might be threatening. Ruth looked at Gregor disconsolately, and then smiled faintly.
“It looks as if I might be wrong,” she said. “Do you think that’s at all possible?” She suddenly turned to the ensign, still not ready to accept the fact. “Does the naval station keep information on reported wrecks, or ships asking for assistance, or things like that? As far back as 1945?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” While they waited Ruth and Gregor wandered to the window, staring across the water from where the Naval Station was located. They could see tourist buses lined up along the embankment while their passengers took photographs of the Little Maiden, the famed statue in the harbor from the Hans Christian Andersen story that symbolized Copenhagen for most people. A hydrofoil came into the harbor, slowing down, settling back into the water like some huge bird
. In the background the spires of Copenhagen’s churches could be seen outlined against the early-afternoon sky. Gregor suddenly turned from the window, lowering his voice.
“Ruth—”
“Yes, darling?”
“Look, this is all very foolish. Why don’t we forget the Schliemann treasure and simply enjoy ourselves? We’re wasting our time and the time of your friend, Count Lindgren. Copenhagen is beautiful. Look at all those tourists over there having a good time. Why don’t we forget all this and begin to enjoy—”
He broke off as the ensign came back with another ledger, placing it on his desk. He had already checked it but had brought the ledger along for verification should the lady not be pleased with his report. Ruth, Gregor, and Axel Lindgren drew close. The ensign sighed. “There were no wrecks or ships asking assistance on those two days, ma’am.” He looked unhappy that he could not satisfy the beautiful lady who somehow seemed to want storms and shipwrecks, although why she desired these unpleasant things was a mystery. He pointed to the ledger as if to ask her to check for herself if she didn’t believe him. He paused. “Ma’am, if you told me exactly what you’re looking for, maybe I’d know better what files to consult.”
Count Lindgren drew closer, not wanting to miss a word. Gregor smiled, a sad smile.
“We’re looking for a boat that my friend thinks left Warnemünde in Germany the night of May 22, 1945, or early the next morning, and that my friend believes never arrived.” Gregor was getting tired of the entire affair. He wanted to be with Ruth in a more romantic setting than this dingy office searching through dusty files for things that were not there. He knew they had little time together, and he hated to waste those precious hours in this silly game. “Of course,” he added, not attempting to keep the sarcasm from his voice, “we don’t know that the boat never arrived, since we have no idea where it was heading.”
Lindgren refused to allow himself to feel sanguine by the sketchiness of the information he was gathering. If Ruth McVeigh put importance on a boat she felt had left Warnemünde and never arrived in Denmark, then it had importance. And if Kovpak didn’t think so, then Ruth McVeigh had simply not confided everything to him, lovers or not. He continued to watch and listen, his expression one of polite interest, but nothing more.
“There is one more possibility,” the ensign said hurriedly. He hated to see the lovely lady go; his small office would seem even less attractive with her departure. Besides, he honestly wanted to help her. “Wait here a minute,” he said, and dashed off. He came back in a few minutes with a further file. He opened it and leafed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. He looked up. “I don’t know if this is any help, but it’s for that date. These are copies of the ships’ logs for our patrol boats for those years. They’re from the Coast Guard files. This one is from a ship named the Elritse. At least it’s a possibility.”
Ruth, Gregor, and Lindgren read the entry over the ensign’s shoulder. The log had been entered in a spidery hand that seemed to be common to ships’ logs. They stared at the page and then Ruth and Gregor looked at the ensign, frowning.
“What’s it say?”
The ensign reddened. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s in Danish. I’ll translate.”
“I’ll translate,” Lindgren said. His voice was unconsciously harsh. He leaned over the book. “It says, ‘23 May. Propeller shaft twisted after hitting unknown object 2315 22 May necessitating delay and reduced speed thereafter—’”
“We’re not looking for a wrecked Danish patrol boat,” Ruth said, disappointed.
“No, no! Let me go on. It further says, ‘At 0205 today we encountered small boat running without lights off Gedser coast. Flashed orders for her to lay to, and when it did not obey, fired several shots across her bow. In our crippled condition she could have outrun us, but unaware of the fact, elected instead to self-destruct. The Elritse cruised the spot where she blew up and foundered until 0300. There were no signs of survivors or anything to indicate what cargo the ship carried so precious as to cause the smuggler to blow the ship rather than to lay to and submit to search.’” Lindgren stopped and looked at Ruth. “That’s it.”
Ruth was beaming. “That’s it, is right! That’s it!”
Gregor sighed. “Darling,” he said with a patience he was far from feeling, unhappy to be contradicting her before Lindgren and the ensign but seeing no other course, “why would they blow themselves up? It doesn’t make sense. That”—he pointed to the log entry Lindgren had just read—“was probably someone running explosives or illegal arms. The chances of that having anything to do with what we’re looking for are—well, infinitesimal isn’t even the word. Impossible is the word.”
“It isn’t impossible! That’s it, I tell you! That’s our fishing boat!” She turned to Lindgren. “Axel, isn’t Gedser that little point of land just across from Warnemünde? I thought so. Gregor, darling, that’s where the train ferry docked when we were coming from Rostock here, don’t you remember? We’ll drive there tomorrow.” She smiled at the ensign. “Thank you. I don’t know how to thank you!”
The ensign blushed and tried to look as if compliments for his service were commonplace, but he knew he would remember that smile for a long time. Gregor merely shook his head in disgust. So the charade was still being played! Now that they knew they were in love with each other there was no need for excuses to be together, so why waste the time? With a shrug he nodded his thanks to the young ensign, although he would have liked to strangle the lad for being such an eager beaver and unearthing the Coast Guard log reports. As he followed Ruth and Axel Lindgren from the room he wondered which he was going to remember more once he was back in Leningrad and had only his memories to live with—the pleasure of being alone with Ruth, or the difficulty of getting to be alone with her as long as she had this mania about searching for the Schliemann treasure.
Leading the way to the car, Axel Lindgren was trying to make sense of what he had heard. It was obvious that Ruth McVeigh’s theory was that the treasure had been aboard a small boat that had exploded near Gedser. If this was true, then it had been found and somehow got into the hands of Arne Nordberg. And from those hands into his. And the fact that Kovpak acted as if he did not believe it could be a sham to keep Ruth from disclosing too much. Or Kovpak could actually not believe it. That was unimportant. What was important was that Ruth McVeigh’s idea was a very distinct possibility, and a very dangerous one for him. The count helped Ruth into the rear of the large car, waited until Gregor Kovpak had been seated, and then climbed in, taking a jump seat. Wilten closed the door behind him and got into the driver’s seat, turning at the open divider glass to look inside inquiringly.
“The Plaza Hotel,” Ruth said, and leaned back, happy.
Wilten nodded and put the car into gear. Lindgren slid the dividing glass shut and turned back to his guests.
“I really cannot allow you to hire a car for tomorrow,” he said, and smiled deprecatingly. “Wilten will be very happy to drive you to Gedser or wherever you wish. He is thoroughly familiar with the road—with all the roads in our small country, as a matter of fact. And he can even take you sight-seeing afterward, if you wish.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Gregor said. “You’ve been more than kind as it is.”
“Ruth is an old friend,” Lindgren said with a smile. “I’m afraid I insist on having you use Wilten and the car! I have no plans to go anywhere tomorrow, and it would be foolish for you to hire a car. I really do insist.”
Ruth smiled. “Well, you’re being very sweet, and we appreciate your lunch and your help with the naval station, and everything else.”
“That’s what old friends are for,” Lindgren said expansively, and waited as Wilten drew up expertly before the Plaza Hotel, got out, and ran around to open the door. When they were standing in front of the hotel, Count Lindgren bent over Ruth’s hand in the gesture of a kiss, and straightened up, smiling. “The car will be here for you tomorrow whenever you wish.�
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“Would nine o’clock tomorrow morning be all right?”
“Fine!”
Ruth smiled. The day had turned out to be perfect. “Thank you, Axel.”
Count Lindgren waved it away as being nothing. He waited until both Ruth and Gregor had disappeared into the hotel and then climbed into the front seat of the car beside Wilten. As the car left the hotel and started on the road back to Ringsted and Lindgren Castle, Wilten raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Lindgren nodded.
“Trouble!” he said heavily. “There’s a good possibility that Nordberg was lying to me about how and where he got the treasure.”
Wilten spoke without taking his eyes from the road. “You’re seeing him in a while. Will you put the question to him?” There was not the normal servant/master relationship in his tone of voice, nor did Lindgren seem to expect it. The two had had a long history of roguery behind them, and Wilten was willing not only to give his Caesar his due in deference before others, or even when they were alone and not involved in schemes, but he was equally willing to always remain the lesser of coconspirators. He lived better than any other valet-cum-butler-cum-chauffeur of his acquaintance, and he was well aware that his future welfare depended upon the largesse of his master. His ambition was simply to serve—and to gain thereby, and to date it had always worked. In the silence that had fallen, he repeated his query. “Will you charge the professor with lying?”
Lindgren shook his head. “He would only deny it. And for him to think I didn’t trust him, didn’t believe him, would simply put him on his guard. No, I’ll stay with my present plans.”
The Gold of Troy Page 31