“No point in disturbing the neighbors,” the inspector said, almost as if speaking to himself, and led the way up the stairs. The inspector rapped loudly on the door to Nordberg’s apartment, waited a few minutes before repeating the knock, and nodded to the driver. A moment later he had opened the door and stepped back. Inspector Rodhe pushed the door wide and stood, looking inside. Ruth peered around his shoulder. Then she screamed. Professor Nordberg was sprawled on the sofa, his face almost black, suffused with blood, the marks of his strangling clearly visible on his neck.
For the first time in her life Ruth felt herself getting faint. “Gregor!”
The inspector looked at her sharply. “That’s Gregor?”
“No. That’s Professor Nordberg. I meant—” She shut her mouth resolutely.
“I see. I suggest you wait for me in the car,” the inspector said politely, and tilted his head the slightest bit for the benefit of the driver, who drew Ruth back and led her down the steps as the inspector entered the room and closed the door behind him.
Ruth sat in the police car stunned, damning herself for everything she had done from the very beginning. Why had she ever wanted to find the treasure in the first place? It had resulted in Axel Lindgren’s death, in Gregor killing Nordberg, and for what? A bunch of pieces of artifacts that were not worth anyone’s life. And worse, why had she mentioned Gregor’s name to the inspector, as much as telling him who had killed Nordberg? Oh, why hadn’t Gregor listened to her when she begged him not to use force? But she hadn’t begged him. There was no exculpation in that thought. She had actually promised to let him try his methods if hers failed, when she knew all along he meant to use force if nothing else worked. She wondered how long the dead man had held out before Gregor unwittingly—for nothing could make her believe he had killed the man purposely—found himself with a dead man on his hands. Had the professor begged for his life, telling the truth that Count Lindgren had the treasure, only to have Gregor continue his pressure, not believing the man?
Oh, Gregor, Gregor! she thought despondently. My darling, my love, a murderer! At this moment undoubtedly hiding someplace. And he had done it for her, for her greed for the treasure! It was all her fault, the death of Nordberg, the death of Axel Lindgren, the fact that her beloved Gregor was a murderer. He had done it for her, and the guilt would lie on her soul and her conscience for the rest of her days …
She looked up. Inspector Rodhe was coming from the apartment, pushing ahead of him a manacled figure. Knud Christensen was looking at her in complete non-recognition. The inspector ushered the manacled man into the front seat next to the driver and climbed in back beside Ruth.
“He was in the kitchen, drinking aquavit,” the inspector said cheerfully for the benefit of the driver. “Gave me no trouble at all. Kept saying he had been cheated, and that the dead man wouldn’t drink some whiskey he had brought with him, and the next thing he knew he was holding the man by the neck.” He looked at the silent figure beside the driver. There was a touch of compassion in his voice. “I don’t believe he’s all there …”
Ruth felt a wave of tremendous relief, followed by a flush of shame that she could have thought her Gregor capable of killing Nordberg, followed by an equal feeling of shame that she should be happy it was poor Knud Christensen who had committed the crime. Another thought came. If Gregor was not involved, where was he? Inspector Rodhe might have been reading her mind.
“This Gregor,” he said gently, almost sadly, “is his last name Kovpak?”
Ruth nodded dumbly, waiting for word of more terror. The inspector nodded to the driver. “First, the Plaza Hotel,” he said, and turned back to Ruth. “I made a call from your hotel room, you may remember. I just called again from the apartment upstairs to get the results. I am an old-fashioned policeman, perhaps, but when something very valuable connected with a case disappears, and when a person connected with the same case also disappears, I tend to believe they very well might be together.”
Ruth stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” the inspector said in his gentle voice, “that a man named Gregor Kovpak took a Scandinavian Airlines nonstop flight for Leningrad less than thirty minutes ago. He was carrying a very expensive suitcase; the young lady who checked him in remembered it particularly, because it was so similar to the luggage she had very often checked in for Count Lindgren on his many travels …”
V
1979
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NEW YORK—August
The three weeks Ruth McVeigh had spent in Paris of a month’s leave of absence, approved by cable from the board of directors of the Metropolitan, had done nothing to lessen the combination of grief and anger she still felt whenever the thought of Gregor Kovpak and/or the Schliemann treasure came to her mind. Her visits to the Louvre, once one of her greatest pleasures, were dull and purposeless. She paced the many galleries without seeing the many treasures on either side of her, feeding on her anger, unheeding, even, of where she was or why she was there. No amount of time spent in boutiques selecting clothing—all purposely high-necked and as sexless as she could find—could assuage the constant bitterness. Parisian food, once her greatest delight, was tasteless in her mouth. Her nights were lonely and sleepless, tormented with a need she tried to reject for the sake of her self-respect. Nor did the passage of time seem to ease either the grief or the anger, and when she knew her hiding from her work would never really resolve the problem—although she did not know what would—she cabled the Metropolitan that she had had enough vacation and would be back at her desk on the following Monday.
The plane trip home seemed endless, with her mind constantly revolving between the hurt she had suffered at the hands of a man who had taken advantage of her, taking her to bed under the pretense of love, making her fall in love with him, and then capping his churlishness by stealing a treasure from her—and what she intended to do to even the score once she was home. To begin with, there was no doubt it had been a common theft, a theft from the Metropolitan, as well as from her, personally. After all, she had traced the treasure, she had insisted upon their visiting Knud Christensen, when that—that—Lothario—had wanted to go back to Copenhagen and go to bed. She had done all the work. Dr. Kovpak had merely tagged along to get what he could get, and then when he saw the opportunity, he had stolen the treasure. A common thief! Surely there had to be a way to press charges, possibly through the State Department to the Cultural Commission in the Soviet Union—although if they were anything like Gregor Kovpak, they would probably deny any knowledge of the treasure. And how could she prove her case? At the time she had left Copenhagen, after attending Axel Lindgren’s funeral, poor Knud Christensen had been put in a home for the mentally handicapped. And Count Lindgren was dead and so was Professor Nordberg. So how could she prove her story? To the police, all that Gregor Kovpak—damn the memories of the man!—had stolen was a suitcase. What it contained, nobody knew.
But she knew!
And proof or no proof, she would see to it that the entire world knew just what a libertine Gregor Kovpak was, what a cheat, despite all his fine titles and his great reputation! A common thief, a liar, despite his dark good looks and his glib tongue. She would spread the word through every archaeological society, every professional journal, to every friend she had in the entire archaeological world. She would drive the name of Gregor Kovpak down so far he would never dare to show his face anywhere except at the Hermitage, if even there! Men!
She arrived at Kennedy Airport early on that Monday morning, tired but determined to get right on with her campaign. Until she could rid herself of the incubus of her disgust with Gregor Kovpak and her equal disgust with herself for having fallen in love with a knave, she felt that she could never again lead a normal life. She dropped her suitcases off at her apartment and took a taxi at once to the Metropolitan Museum. She climbed the steps, hating Gregor Kovpak even more for taking from her the great pleasure she had always felt in walkin
g up those steps each day. Now there was no feeling of belonging, of possession. Now there was no feeling except the need for revenge.
She stalked past the many receptionists, all of whom looked up with smiles of pleasure to see their director back again and then looked at each other in wondering surprise at not even having their greetings acknowledged. She marched down the corridors past the neat guards without seeing them or caring how they looked, and entered her office intent upon getting to her telephone and beginning her campaign. Her secretary looked up with a smile.
“Hello, Dr. McVeigh! It’s good to have you back! You have a vis—”
“Later!” Ruth said brusquely, almost savagely, and moved with purpose toward her private office. The first thing to do was to get someone from the legal staff working on the matter. She pushed through the door and then stopped dead, her heart seemingly in her throat. There was a man standing looking from the window and the shoulders and back looked achingly familiar. He turned. It was Gregor Kovpak.
He smiled, his pleasure at seeing her evident in his eyes. “Hello, Ruth.”
“Gregor!” She sat down abruptly, unable to believe it. “What—what are you doing here?”
He shrugged, as if his presence was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m in love with you. You are in love with me—or you were a while ago. I thought we would get married. I’ve defected from my country—with the help, I might mention, of a good but slightly battered friend, a retired colonel, now—and I’ve requested asylum in this country.”
“But—but, Copenhagen—?”
“Ah, yes? You mean my sudden departure from Copenhagen with that suitcase?” Gregor grinned and then straightened his face. “Ruth, suppose I told you that when I got to Leningrad, that suitcase was empty?”
Her anger returned. “I wouldn’t believe you!”
Gregor persisted. “But, suppose, even if there had been something of value in that suitcase—which I am not in a position to verify—that I honestly believed it belonged in Russia, as I once explained. And suppose I thought, considering that fact, that you might be willing to take me, instead …”
She stared at him a moment and then smiled, at first a bit ruefully and then with happiness. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“I’m afraid not.” Gregor frowned slightly. “Incidentally, where have you been? I’ve been in New York over a week, until they told me you would be here this morning.”
“I was in Paris. Trying to forget you, as a matter of fact, but without much success.” She looked at him archly, but feeling as good as she had felt miserable just minutes before. “And you waited over a week before you tried to find me?”
“I was in Copenhagen,” Gregor said. “You had already left when I got there, but there was something I had to do there.”
“And that was?”
“To arrange for a large granite monument,” Gregor said simply. “Knud Christensen will be allowed to visit it rather frequently once it is completed.”
“Oh, Gregor!” She came to her feet and into his arms, but even as they kissed, Dr. Ruth McVeigh, director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, was trying to figure how she could get her hands on the Schliemann collection to exhibit, if only on loan. But for a decent period of time, not just for a few miserable weeks or months …
The announcement of the coming marriage of the two famous archaeologists, Drs. Ruth McVeigh, of the Metropolitan, and Dr. Gregor Kovpak, late of the Hermitage, was written up in the New York Times by their new cultural reporter, Mr. James Newkirk …
About the Author
Robert L. Fish, the youngest of three children, was born on August 21, 1912, in Cleveland, Ohio. He attended the local schools in Cleveland and went to Case University (now Case Western Reserve), from which he graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. He married Mamie Kates, also from Cleveland, and together they have two daughters. Fish worked as a civil engineer, traveling and moving throughout the United States. In 1953 he was asked to set up a plastics factory in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He and his family moved to Brazil, where they remained for nine years. He played golf and bridge in the little spare time he had. One rainy weekend in the late 1950s, when the weather prohibited him from playing golf, he sat down and wrote a short story that he submitted to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When the story was accepted, Fish continued to write short stories. In 1962 he returned to the United States; he took one year to write full time and then returned to engineering and writing. His first novel, The Fugitive, won an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery. When his health prevented him from pursuing both careers, Fish retired from engineering and spent his time writing. His published works include more than forty books and countless short stories. Mute Witness was made into a movie starring Steve McQueen.
Fish died February 23, 1981, at his home in Connecticut. Each year at the annual Mystery Writers of America dinner, a memorial award is presented in his name for the best first short story. This is a fitting tribute, as Fish was always eager to assist young writers with their craft.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1980 by Robert L. Fish
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0715-3
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ROBERT L. FISH
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