“Look,” he said earnestly. “Do you know how much a good block of granite is worth? Big enough to go across four—no, five graves? Maybe this high?” He stood, towering above them, and placed his hand across his chest, and then sat down again, looking at them anxiously. “Maybe three-feet thick, with enough stone for a cross on the top.” A sudden frightening possibility occurred to him. “Do they—do they quarry granite that big?”
Gregor had no idea of how granite had come into the conversation, but there was no doubt that the man was deadly serious. “Yes,” he said simply. “They quarry granite that large. They quarry it as large as you want.”
“And what would a block that big cost?”
Gregor shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea.”
Christensen turned to Ruth, who had been staring at both men during the conversation. “Do you know, ma’am?” Ruth could only shake her head. The giant sighed and turned back to Gregor. “I don’t want a lot of money. I just want those pieces I found, if you say they’re worth something, to have the value of a piece of granite that big. Including the engraving,” he added hastily. “There would have to be a polished panel in the center on one side big enough for five names, though only four need to be engraved now. But there has to be enough room for all five. And enough money left over to engrave the last one,” he finished, not wishing to overlook his own name once he would be beyond collectors.
Gregor sighed. “I have no idea why you want a piece of granite,” he said, “but the value of the treasure you found would probably pay for every headstone in every cemetery in Denmark.”
Ruth leaned forward, determined not to be left out of the conversation.
“I know why you want the granite,” she said quietly. “You want it for a memorial to your family, and to the brothers you lost. If you will tell us the name of that professor cousin of yours, the museum I direct will guarantee you a reward of one hundred thousand kroner. Which will be more than the cost of your monument. If it isn’t, we’ll see to it that it is.”
Christensen looked miserable. It would have been nice to buy the monument he had always visualized, and if anything had been left over to put the farm back into shape, because he felt with a proper headstone over the family graves, he would have been able to go back to the farming he had always liked, and even begin to live as a human being again. But it was impossible. “I can’t,” he said sadly. “I promised.”
Gregor started to say something, but this time it was Ruth who savagely waved him to silence.
“I’ll tell you who you promised,” she said angrily, but her anger was not directed at Christensen but at that “nice fellow,” his cousin. “You promised a man who cheated you.”
“Cheated me?”
“Your cousin cheated you,” Ruth said evenly. “Your professor cousin cheated you. He knew exactly what you found, and he knew its value. In fact, he is offering the treasure for auction to the leading museums of the world, asking a fortune in money.” Christensen was staring at her in shocked disbelief. “It’s the truth,” she said flatly. “You were cheated.”
“Arne Nordberg cheated me—?” Christensen looked stunned.
“Yes,” Ruth said, and glanced swiftly at Gregor. The name had not been lost on Kovpak. Ruth came to her feet, looking down on Christensen with pity. “When the treasure is recovered, you will receive the hundred thousand kroner. From the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.”
“Cheated …”
Ruth opened her purse and brought out money. It was all she had with her but she knew she could get more at a bank in the morning as soon as she cabled New York. “Here are two thousand kroner on account, and my card. I’m at the Plaza Hotel in the Bernstorffsgade, if there is anything I can do for you.” She held out the money. “Take it and find out how much your monument will cost. I promise you’ll get it, no matter what happens to the treasure.”
Knud Christensen made no move to take the money. Ruth placed the small pile of notes on a table as Gregor also came to his feet. Gregor put his hand on the other man’s rigid shoulder and pressed lightly in comradeship. There was no response from the large man in the chair. He continued to stare sightlessly at the floor. Gregor addressed him, although he was not sure if the other man heard him or not.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Mr. Christensen. You’ll get your monument, I assure you. And more.” He looked around the dingy room. “Enough to begin living like a man again.”
Christensen did not respond. He seemed to be stunned by everything that had been said, all that he had heard. He watched dully as the two people nodded their good-byes and walked from the room, closing the door behind them. He heard the car engine start and listened to the wheels churning in the gravel as the car swung about to leave. He stared at the door without actually seeing it, and took a deep breath.
Cheated …!
And not just him, but the entire Christensen family. They had been cheated of their granite memorial. Gustave had been cheated; Niels had been cheated; even his poor parents, hardworking and dead all these many years—they had all been cheated. They could have had their granite monument by this time, had they not all been cheated.
And after cheating him and his entire family, the man had presented him with an expensive bottle of scotch whiskey, of a quality so good that he had held it for an occasion …
He came to his feet, a lumbering, stumbling giant, and walked into the kitchen. He reached as high as he could to the top shelf of the cupboard, far to the rear, the place he had hidden the bottle to await a proper event to celebrate. His fingers fumbled blindly for a few moments and then found their target. He drew the bottle from its hiding place and carried it to the living room. He sat down and stared at it, and then looked at the two thousand kroner on the table that the lady had left.
A proper event? What was a proper event?
In the rear seat of the car, the glass divider once again closed after Wilten had been instructed to return them to Copenhagen and their hotel, Ruth and Gregor stared at each other in total disbelief while Wilten brought the car back to the main road and headed for the city. Gregor held up one of his hands; it was shaking.
“My God!” he said, almost as if in shock.
“I don’t believe it,” Ruth said, her voice tinged with awe.
“It isn’t possible!”
“But it’s true …”
“A farmer! Diving for his brother’s body! And finding—!” Gregor found it impossible to even voice the words, to comprehend the enormity of their discovery. They had found out what had happened to the Schliemann treasure, after all those years, after all the conjectures undoubtedly on the part of the Americans as well as Ulanov and the KGB! It was enough to make anyone’s head spin, let alone the head of a dedicated archaeologist and scientist.
“It was a game,” Ruth said in a dazed voice, almost as if speaking to herself. “A silly game. I never actually thought—”
“Neither did I,” Gregor said with wonder. “Who on earth could ever have thought—?”
Ruth reached over and took Gregor’s hand, squeezing it tightly and feeling him respond equally. She closed her eyes, inexplicably fighting back tears. And then opened them as the car slid to a halt before a pump in a gasoline station. Wilten leaned over, speaking to them through the speaking tube; his words echoed hollowly in the enclosed space. “Fuel …” He climbed down, gave instructions to the attendant to fill the tank and check under the hood, and then tilted his head toward the rear of the station, indicating that while the needs of the automobile were being attended to, he would attend to his own needs. He walked to the back. Beside the twin doors to the rest rooms there was a telephone booth. He squeezed his ample bulk into it, dropped a coin, and dialed.
Count Lindgren had been awaiting the call anxiously. He snatched the telephone up at the first ring. “Yes?”
“Wilten here—”
“Well?”
“First they stopped at the Gedser dock and the w
oman spoke to someone there. Then they had me drive them to a farmhouse nearby; the name of the man who lives there is Christensen, Knud Christensen. On the way there they said something about his diving for his brother’s body. Does the name Christensen mean anything to you?”
“No. Do you know what they talked to him about?”
“I don’t know, but they talked to him a long time. When they came out they seemed to be almost in shock. I kept the car’s intercommunication line open, even though the glass divider was closed. They kept saying things like, ‘It can’t be true, but it is,’ almost as if they had discovered something important.” He remembered something else. “The man, the Russian, said something about a farmer, diving for his brother’s body, and finding—”
“Finding what? Speak up!”
“He didn’t say. And the woman said, ‘It was a game. I never thought—’ and that’s when she stopped. Then they didn’t say any more, so I stopped for gasoline, and I’m calling you from there. They can’t see me.”
“Did they mention Arne Nordberg?”
“No, sir.”
Count Lindgren took a deep breath. His mind had been racing all through Wilten’s report. “They discovered something! I’m sure they discovered something! The treasure has been under the sea, just as the girl suspected, and they have found out how it was found. It never was in Russia. She said that, and it was true! That lying Nordberg! They’ll find him, and he’ll lead them to us. If we let them, that is!”
“Yes, sir.”
“So we won’t let them.” The decision made at last, the count’s voice seemed to lighten. Actually, it was a decision that Lindgren had suspected would be necessary since their lunch the day before, and the information that had been given them at the naval station. It was too bad, in a way; he had liked Ruth McVeigh, and he disliked destroying anything of beauty. But where his own well-being was at stake, there was no choice. “You know what to do?”
“We discussed it last night.”
“Exactly! When you’re through with the police, get back here as soon as you can.”
“Right.”
Wilten put the telephone back in its cradle, pushed himself from the narrow booth, and walked back to the car. He paid the bill and climbed into the driver’s seat, starting the engine and pulling the car back into the slack traffic pattern of the highway. In the rearview mirror he could see his two passengers holding hands tightly, looking at each other in silent wonder. With no expression at all on his fleshy face, Wilten brought his attention back to the road and stepped on the accelerator, heading north.
In the rear seat Gregor and Ruth continued to look at each other, still unable to accredit that the silly game that had begun in the map room of the British Museum had eventually led them here, to where there was an excellent possibility that they would shortly be able to actually put their hands on the Schliemann collection! It seemed so absolutely unbelievable, particularly in the first moments of their discovery, that they sat in silence, as if speaking of it might bring their remarkable success from reality to the phantasy it seemed it had to be. In their silent contemplation of the miracle that had befallen them, Gregor became aware that the car was slowing again. He looked through the window. They were at the point in the highway he remembered from their trip down, where the sea could be seen below from a point near the Fakse Bugt. Gregor leaned forward as the car left the road and came to a halt nearly out of sight of the highway on a dirt road pointing to the sea.
“Why are we stopping now?”
Wilten’s voice came hollowly over the intercom system. “I’m afraid one of the rear tires is losing pressure, sir. I’m just going to check it now. It will just take a minute, sir.”
“Oh.” Gregor leaned back and watched the heavy-set Wilten get down and move out of sight behind the car. He was about to turn to Ruth and say something when he became aware that the heavy car was beginning to move, to roll down the slope, gaining momentum. Ahead in the near distance he could see the dirt road end in a turn-around guarded only by a low stone wall, and beyond that a sheer drop to the sea. He swung around, staring through the rear window. Wilten was running after the car as fast as his weight would allow, his hands outstretched. He could hear Wilten’s voice, screaming.
“Oh, my God! I forgot the hand brake! Oh, my God!”
Ruth was sitting rigidly, white faced. Gregor tried the door handles; the doors were locked! Ahead, the edge of the cliff was coming closer and closer as the heavy car picked up momentum, the deep ruts of the worn dirt road keeping the wheels locked on their inevitable juggernaut course, the sea below frothing over rocks beneath a sheer drop. Suddenly Gregor leaned back in his seat, raising his two feet, jamming his shoes through the glass that divided the empty front seat from the enclosed rear. A moment later he had forced himself through the shards of broken glass still embedded in the frame, unaware either of the ripping of his clothes or the shredding of his skin as he slithered on his stomach across the seat and under the dashboard, pulling with all his force on the emergency brake. The car responded slowly, as if resenting this interference with its unexpected freedom, swaying from side to side as its great weight seemed determined to overcome the demands of the tightening brake bands. Gregor blanked his mind to the thought of the rapidly approaching cliff, or of Ruth sitting petrified in the rear of the car. He gritted his teeth and pulled on the emergency brake with all his power. The car shuddered under the force of that strength, swayed a bit more, and came to rest with a jarring thud against the stone wall of the turn-around, settling down with one wheel dished under by the impact.
For several seconds Gregor stayed where he was, half under the dashboard, his hands still locked tightly on the emergency brake, trembling, and then he reached up with one shaking hand to open the front car door and roll to the ground just as Wilten came panting up, his face truly white as he considered Count Lindgren’s reaction to the failure of his mission.
“Thank God!” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Count Lindgren will never forgive me! You might have been killed!”
Gregor came to his feet still trembling, and opened the door to the rear of the car. Ruth still sat inside, unable to move. Gregor turned to Wilten, his jaw hard, his eyes narrowed in fury. “The doors didn’t open from inside!”
“Oh, no, sir! They are locked, controlled from the front seat. For safety reasons, sir—” Wilten seemed to realize how foolish that sounded in the circumstances. “I mean—well, sir, the count never opens the door himself. The chauffeur always does that, sir. So when they are locked, the doors are arranged only to be opened from the outside. Count Lindgren often sends his car to take orphans on picnics, sir, and you know children, sir—” He brought out a handkerchief and held it out a bit tentatively toward Gregor. “Your cheek, sir. It’s bleeding.”
People were stopping on the highway, looking down toward the wreck; a farmer was trotting over from his fields alongside the sloping road. Wilten was pleased with his presence of mind in acting the innocent chauffeur, screamingly denouncing himself for his failure to set the hand brake. Let them think him stupid, but never let them suspect the truth. Count Lindgren, unfortunately, would not be that forgiving. It was a thought Wilten preferred not to dwell upon.
Some of the people from the highway were beginning to come down toward the wrecked car. Gregor took a deep breath, bringing himself under control, holding the handkerchief against his cut cheek. It was an accident, but at least it was over and both he and Ruth were alive. He reached into the car for Ruth’s hand, bringing her to stand beside him. Her face was still pale from the fright and the thought of the death they had so narrowly escaped, but her pride in Gregor for his quick thinking that had saved them more than compensated. Gregor studied Wilten’s face. There was no doubt the poor chauffeur was as upset by the affair as he had been himself. Gregor looked at the dished wheel and then back to Wilten.
“And what do we do now?”
Wilten looked at the people coming down the roa
d to see if they could help. “I’m sure one of these people will be happy to give you a lift into Praestø, sir,” he said deferentially. “You can rent a car there. I’m terribly sorry for this, sir. I’ll stay with the car, if you could ask them to send a wrecker …”
“I’m sorry, too,” Gregor said, feeling compunction for the unhappy Wilten. “It was just one of those things, and I’ll tell Count Lindgren that.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Wilten said, although the statement did not make him appear any happier. “Count Lindgren will be very upset about this, sir. Very upset …”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
From his corner of the Plaza Hotel, slightly hidden behind some plant although with no idea of trying to make himself invisible, Major Serge Ulanov of the KGB waited glumly for the arrival of his compatriot, Dr. Gregor Kovpak. The plant which partially protected him from view was one Major Ulanov did not recognize, but if it gave him hay fever he would not be surprised. It would be in line with the rest of his day. The major had arrived in Copenhagen that afternoon after a long, uncomfortable train ride from Berlin. He had no idea why he had not flown and preferred not to think about it as it would only make him feel worse. If there was any satisfaction to be gained at all, it was in knowing that Newkirk had suffered equally the day before. In addition, upon reporting to the Russian Embassy in the Bredgade and using their telephone facilities to report to Colonel Vasily Vashugin in Moscow, Major Ulanov had been informed that one week of his annual vacation had already been deducted, and if he were not home in two days at the most, the one week deduction would become two.
“I realize,” Vashugin had said with no attempt to disguise the sarcasm, “that the fate of our country, not to mention the entire planet, rests upon the vital investigation you seem to be conducting in all the most comfortable—not to mention the most expensive—cities of Europe. Your expense account will probably deny us the importation of several thousands of tons of wheat. I don’t exactly know why we began this investigation in the first place, but it was at your instigation, as I recall. We have also had several inquiries from the director of the Hermitage Museum wishing to know when we will be through requiring the services of Dr. Kovpak.”
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