by Dorothy Eden
It was horribly cold in there, dank and cold.
“So now it’s murder.”
“Ja.”
“How horrible,” Grace whispered. After a little while she said sharply, “What do you want me here for? Haven’t I looked at Willa’s things enough?”
“You can identify these?”
“Some,” she said reluctantly.
“Good.” The man smartly closed the case. Then he said unexpectedly, “The diary. You say you found it in the birdcage. Your cousin was clever at hiding places. Here, for instance, she left another diary which escaped the notice of the person who thought he had cleared everything up tidily. We found it under the clock. Just here. So simple, isn’t it?”
Grace looked fascinatedly at the small pigskin pocket diary.
“What’s in it? More riddles.”
“Riddles?” The officer, who was growing quite endearing with his solemn eyes and earnest desire to understand English, didn’t know this word “We don’t know what’s in it. We want you to read it for us. The script is very small and difficult, but you understand your cousin’s handwriting?”
Grace looked at the spiky writing crushed into the small pages. Her heart was beating too fast again. What was this? Another cryptogram?
It seemed to be a real diary with entries under their proper dates, but the entries grew longer and longer, running over several days at a time. The writing was so cramped as to be almost illegible. The last sentence was unfinished. Willa must have been interrupted. She must, by then, have been in terror of whoever had interrupted her. But she had still found an opportunity to slide the little book under the clock. It was her last mute cry for help.
“Sit down, fröken,” said the officer. “And please speak slowly so that I can make notes.”
Grace obeyed, poring over the little book, reading in a stiff voice.
October 3. Peter waiting for me at railway station as he had promised. Good idea to let that nosy Fru Lindstrom and others think I was leaving by train. We got in car and drove very fast. Very happy. Laughed all the time. Wondered if I had been a bit mad to write that letter to Grace. But thinking of Bill, I guessed a bit of caution wasn’t a bad idea. Am I awful to still love Peter?
October 5. Two days of bliss. Peter supposed to be having a weekend elk shooting. But now he’s gone back to Stockholm and I feel a bit gloomy. It’s this early dark, and I keep hearing the forest rustling. Makes me think of Bill. So I’ll write what led up to this, to pass the time.
Why do men confide in me so often? Bill said I was sìmpático. Poor devil. He was terribly worried and rather drunk. Fancy, he told me he was being got at by a Russian agent because the Russians had these pornographic photographs of him. He had a Swedish boyfriend. You’d never have guessed he was that type. I bet the ambassador didn’t know. Of course, they had to make his death an accident, but I knew it was suicide. I had it on my mind so much that I told Peter, but he ordered me to keep my mouth shut. There mustn’t be a scandal. I realized that, of course. Realized Peter and I would have to be discreet, too. We fell in love the week after Bill’s death, that hot summer day by the lake when I told him Bill’s story. I’d adored Peter from the start, but I didn’t know he had me. He said he had been unhappy with Kate for a long time, but I must give him time to work that out. It isn’t fair for him to be unhappy because he’s so marvelous when he’s happy.
Anyway, soon after we knew we were in love, he persuaded me to leave Winifred’s flat and get one of my own which he found for me. Things were just fine, we had a great time, until I got pregnant.
Honestly I didn’t mean to; I don’t play those tricks. But when I knew this had happened, I wouldn’t listen to Peter’s suggestions about an abortion. I wasn’t going to be a murderess again. I told him how I’d nearly had a mental breakdown after my first abortion. This time I intended to have my baby. I wanted it, especially since it was his. We went to the cottage and spent a whole day arguing. I wouldn’t budge an inch. I felt sorry for Peter because this would be tough on his career, but he should have thought of that in the first place. I intended to have my baby, and him, too. He says I have a ruthless streak. This is true, but you’ve got to fight for things in this life.
Anyway, that was the day when the awful, the cataclysmic thing happened. Peter went out to get some wood for the fire, and I wanted a cigarette and got his silver case out of his jacket that he’d left lying on the bed. I hadn’t handled the case before, so I’d never had the chance to find the sort of flap that shut off a secret compartment. Of course I looked in it, I’m as nosy as Fru Lindstrom, and there was this thin bit of paper with bits of potted history of several people in the embassy with things like “weakness for blue films” or “a pushover with women” underlined.
I couldn’t believe it at first. It couldn’t be Peter who had told the Russian agent things about Bill Jordan. But it must have been. My Peter! I really love this man. Even knowing this, I still love him. You can’t cut off emotions in a split second. After all Melinda MacLean followed her husband, didn’t she? And later married another spy, Philby.
Was Peter really a spy? I couldn’t work that out. All I knew was that I had here, in my hands, a means of making him marry me. And I was going to use it. I knew I was. My baby deserved a legitimate father, didn’t it?
Am I awful? Am I as bad as Peter for betraying Bill? But I really am mad about him. When he takes me to bed, I couldn’t care the faintest bit about anything else in the whole world. He’s a man, and I’m a woman, and that’s all there is to it. Communists, anti-Communists. What are they?
It’s only when I sit here in the half-dark listening to the forest rustling and wondering how long it will take him to get Kate and the kids sent back to England (where they want to go, anyway) and his resignation given in. (We’ve planned to go to Germany, probably Munich. Peter speaks perfect German, and he’ll get a job there.)
But to go back to that evening. It was pretty painful. We drank a lot of snaps and I cried, and Peter said of course, he loved me, but this was all crazy, and I was jumping to conclusions, those notes were quite harmless. However, I didn’t budge an inch. After all, I’d talked to Bill, and it was from this cottage that he’d gone out and shot himself. Truly I never want to see the place again, and I loathe being here alone.
Well, anyway, Peter realized that even if no one believed my story, it was going to do him a lot of harm, so finally he gave in. We’d get married when he’d got a divorce. We’d go back to Stockholm that night, and I’d give notice at work and say I was getting married to a Swede. Gustav, as I had called him since that day in Gripsholm Castle. So there was the name. Gustav.
He bought me a ring, this great lump of lapis lazuli that I adore. I swanked it around, and gave a party, and asked everybody, even that cold-eyed Axel. And Peter, to keep people from suspecting about us, made too much fuss of Ebba, and Kate was mad. So was I, although I couldn’t say so.
And that’s how I come to be sitting here in the dark, brooding. Since Peter has been rather naughty (although he still doesn’t admit he’s done anything wrong), I suppose I have to pay, too, by being lonely and miserable. And a bit frightened. After all, I’m condoning his misdeeds. Bill’s dead because of him. Oh, hell, why do I have to be left here?
October 16. Thank God, Peter came back this weekend. Said Grace was in Stockholm making a nuisance of herself. (Why did I write that letter? But I can’t help feeling rather glad I did because I still might need a lifeline.) Peter couldn’t stay long. Hadn’t told anyone he was coming here. But I’d be pleased to hear that Ebba and Jacob von Sturpe knew the whole story, were extremely sympathetic, and I was to go there for a while. So long as I promised to keep out of sight!
Now how could he have dared to tell Ebba and Jacob? Unless they are in this conspiracy with the Russians, too. Are they?
Now I’m glad Grace is here, makes me feel more secure. And a change of scene, as Peter said, will be good for me, although Ebba is
n’t my favorite person.
October 18. At Ebba’s, but in the attics! She has asked me never to come down if there’s anyone about. I was horrified when I found that I was being locked in. I rattled on the door until Ebba came and said not to be stupid, this was for my safety, not theirs. Why is being pregnant and waiting for one’s lover to get a divorce such a secret affair? I thought the Swedes didn’t give a hoot about these things. Of course, it all gets back to the embassy, and the importance of no scandals. Blast them. I sit here and mope and slowly die of boredom.
October 20. They have asked me, Ebba and Peter, to write to Grace. She is being awkward. Must reassure her. I am secretly maliciously pleased to sign my private signature that only Grace understands. Now she’ll ask more questions than ever. Hear she found my dark glasses that I lost when I was staying in the cottage. I could have found them myself if I’d bothered, but who cares about that gimmick now. Any more than I care about my hair looking frightful now that the dye is fading. If Peter isn’t careful, I’ll soon stop caring about looking attractive for him. This is the oddest treatment any bride ever got.
October 21. Have a fearful suspicion. It’s that Peter hasn’t given up this horrible business of telling tales to this mysterious agent, and I’m sure now that Ebba and Jacob are in it, too. That’s why it was safe to bring me here. I’m beginning to hate Ebba. She was always cold. Now she’s like a white snake, the way she writhes her long neck. Jacob is her cat’s paw, or whatever you call silly doting old men. I’m so tired of eating alone when they’re entertaining. One day I’ll start screaming. That’ll startle the guests. Only, if I do anything silly, I’ll lose Peter. I must be patient.
October 22. Today I swear I heard Axel Morgensson’s voice downstairs. Is he in this, too? I have to stand on a chair to look out of these damned attic windows. By craning my head, I did manage to see who was leaving, Axel and Sven Backe. So that’s why Sven didn’t like me asking him those questions about Bill Jordan’s death? Now I’m glad I wrote all these names in the notes I left for Grace. I only had an intuition about them then, but I was right. Oh, God, when will I get out of here and get a wedding ring on my finger?
October 23. Ebba comes in and smiles and says, “Dear child, be patient. We’re protecting you. If you do anything silly it will rebound on Peter, you know.” What silly thing could I do, except jump out of the window?
She’s given me wool to knit baby things. When all the time I believe she would rather strangle my baby.
October 24. Such a thing, today—Ebba for once forgot to lock the door and I crept downstairs and telephoned Peter. Not at the office, at home. Georgy answered and didn’t know what I was going on about, but she’ll tell her father, and he’ll come. Surely he’ll come. Ebba caught me, and she was furious. She said that was the end, my not being trustworthy, and now I wouldn’t even be allowed down for meals with her and Jacob when they were alone. Can’t say I think that much of a penance. Except that I’m so lonely I’m going mad. What is Peter up to?
October 26. Peter is coming for me, hurray, hurray, hurray! Ebba has just been to tell me. Axel was here today back from a voyage. Was it his idea that Peter should take me away? Now I’m remembering that it was he who told Peter about the empty flat in Fru Lindstrom’s house. It was just after I’d been to see Sven and asked all those questions about Bill Jordan. I believe Axel wanted to keep his nasty staring eyes on me. Is he the one Peter told secrets to? Oh, God, this is a mess.
October 27. Back at the old address. Peter cold and unfriendly. Won’t talk about us getting married. I don’t believe he has said a word to Kate. He is out now getting firewood. If he is expecting his usual evening by the fire with a bottle of snaps, then off back to Stockholm, leaving me here going crazy, he’s mistaken. Was he joking when he talked about a sea trip on Axel’s ship? But it goes to the Antarctic. All those icebergs. It couldn’t be a pleasure trip. I’m going to politely decline that suggestion. Politely! Peter hasn’t seen me when I’m really mad. Tonight he’s going to find out, and if that doesn’t convince him—
That was the end. That was when she had heard Peter coming and had slid the little book under the clock. Grace felt cold to the bone.
“So Willa was the cargo Axel was waiting for,” she said. “She was to be taken that day Jacob and Sven and Peter were supposed to be elk shooting. But they found her gone. Peter must have had to put on an act since he was the one who knew exactly where she was. But he was good at putting on acts, wasn’t he?
“Ja! I imagine Herr Sinclair’s friends were angry with him for making a mess of that job. He can’t have expected the opposition the young lady put up.”
“She fell into a lake instead of the sea with icebergs. But how could she have been persuaded to go down to the lake?”
“There was the empty snaps bottle, and the young lady a bit helpless by then, I expect. She was carried down and put in the rowing boat and rowed out to a deeper part of the lake. A drink for you, fröken?”
Grace lifted her frozen face.
“No, don’t worry, I’m all right.”
The police officer was calm, even a little contemptuous. “It’s all a very small-scale affair compared to what might happen in Berlin, for instance. The Baroness von Sturpe came from East Germany, perhaps you knew. She is a very unpleasant woman, and we know now that she has corrupted many people, including her husband, who was a good man, but weak. She has a fatal power over men, including Herr Sinclair, who was ready to betray his colleagues for her. And for money, of course. He is a greedy man. Your cousin was greedy, too. She enjoyed the presents Herr Sinclair gave her.”
“All those people Willa tried to warn us about,” Grace said. “Axel, Jacob, Sven, Gustav.” She still didn’t quite believe the revelation about Gustav’s identity, although now she recalled sharply wondering whom Peter had reminded her of yesterday when his lips were swollen from his cold, his eyelids heavy. Polsen would have spotted Gustav, she thought. And suddenly Willa was no longer uppermost in her mind.
“Polsen!” she cried in despair. “They’ve got him now. He went to Sven’s house. Oh, God!”
A heavy hand came down on her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, your friend will be all right. For instance”—that phrase, which the officer obviously liked, was becoming monotonous—“we had news on the radio as we came here that Captain Morgensson’s ship had put in to Gothenburg. Presumably some cargo it had failed to pick up in Stockholm was now available. Or it’s—” he groped for the word, and the sergeant produced it, an air of pride in his knowledge. “Equivalent,” he said.
“Unfortunately,” said the officer, “there are often innocent victims in these affairs. But your friend Polsen won’t be one. Neither will you. Come, we’ll take you home.”
It was dark now. The forest on each side of the long road was as black as a nightmare. Only in the headlights of the car could one see the whirling leaves.
“Look,” said the sergeant, pointing to the windshield. Untidy white blotches were spattering against it. “The snow is beginning,” he said.
For once, thank goodness, Fru Lindstrom was absent from her post in the hall. Weary to the bone, Grace climbed the stairs. She had refused the offer of the sergeant to accompany her.
“What is there to be afraid of now?” she had asked.
All the same, when she saw the door slightly ajar and the lights on, she was rigid. Who was in there? Peter Sinclair, with that strained look of frenzy in his blue eyes, waiting to take revenge?
Don’t be a fool, if someone wanted to take you unawares, the light wouldn’t be on, she said to herself, firmly pushing the door open.
“So,” said Polsen.
She flew into his arms. His thick jersey smelled of brine. His arms almost cracked her bones. When she looked up, she saw that he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his mild blue eyes were full of ridiculous tears. There was a bruise down one cheek, and a neat cross of sticking plaster on his forehead.
�
�Polsen, you’re hurt!”
“This bit of damage? It’s nothing. Why are we crying?”
“It’s you who’s crying. Where are your glasses?”
“They got broken, unfortunately. Now, I know you’re cold and you’re tired, and my face is spoiled and I’m half blind without my glasses, but all the same we’re going out to dinner at the nicest place there is.”
“Are we celebrating something?” Grace asked in disbelief.
“Yes. Being alive. And free. I, for my own stupidity, nearly am not. Imagine being taken in by a telephone call. And from that girl we thought a ninny.”
“What girl?”
“Dr. Backe’s nurse. She said she had something important to tell me that couldn’t be said on the telephone. She had been ordered to do this, of course. And when I got there, her master, her lover, whatever he is, was there also. And then Ebba and Jacob came. Although I’m a strong man, I wasn’t strong enough to overcome three people who had only one idea, to stick a hypodermic needle into my arm.”
“And then?”
“Before I got quite unconscious, I was helped into a car, a sick man being taken to hospital, anyone watching would think. And after that I knew nothing until the police stopped the car in Gothenburg. This was some time the next day, I am told.”
“On the wharves?”
“So you know that?”
“Yes. You were going to be taken in Axel’s ship behind the Iron Curtain. The interfering professor. Oh, Polsen! You risked your life for Willa.”
“Not exactly for Willa. You’re not as stupid as that, Grace. Now hurry with your bath. I’m hungry.”
It was strange how the pretty bedroom didn’t seem so cold now. It was almost warm and alive. Grace thought she would put on her red dress, then wondered if that was being heartless. “It’s a gorgeous color, Grace,” she heard Willa saying. “Go on, wear it.”
