by John Oram
When she spoke again her tone had changed. She said gently, “Want to talk about it, Napoleon?”
“No, thanks. I’m in no mood for humor. Have another beer.”
“I’m not laughing.” She swung around in the chair to face him. Her hand came to rest on his. It felt friendly.
She said, “Look, brother. I’ve been in this business probably longer than you have—a darned sight longer than I care to think about. You think I like doing purl and plain on that damned switchboard? Look!”
She pushed the blonde curls back over her scarf. Her forehead was seared by deep ragged scars, crisscrossed like railroad tracks. She let the hair drop back, slowly peeled off the thin gloves that she wore even in the office and held out her hands. They were charred, fleshless claws.
“Souvenirs of Thrush,” she said. “That’s when I lost my girlish laughter.”
While Solo was trying to control the sickness in his stomach she slid off the chair and patted her hair into place. “Let’s get out of here before I start crying into my beer. I want to talk to you.”
They walked down to the waterfront and stood looking out over Inderhavn, leaden in the winter sunlight. A big freighter was moving upstream, her black sides streaked with rust. Some of the crew were clustered in the stem, getting their first view of the home port maybe for months. A kid in a thick sweater and white gob cap waved to Gütte. She waved back and the boys whistled on two descending notes. One cupped his hands and shouted something. All they caught was “toni…ight”. But they could guess the rest.
Gütte said, “I know everything that went on this morning—and last night. It’s part of my job to monitor and tape all discussions in the inner office. Napoleon, you must find that factory.”
He grinned. “That’ll be an easy job. If we only knew where to start looking.”
She said, “I do not think you will find the answer in Horsens. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I think you should go to Aarhus. There’s a man there—an old Resistance fighter.” She took an envelope out of her coat pocket. Here are his name and address. Go and see him. If the Germans had underground factories in Jutland he would have known about them.”
Solo said, “Why tell me? Why haven’t you put it up to Jorgensen?”
She shrugged. Mr. Jorgensen does not take advice gladly. Besides…when I got these”—she touched her scarred forehead—“I was with just such another traeklods—chump—as you. He didn’t get back…”
She turned abruptly and headed fast along the Havnegade.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE SAS plane touched down at Tirstrup airport within forty-five minutes of leaving Copenhagen. A light snowfall was cutting the dusk as Solo climbed into a cab for the twenty-two mile run into Aarhus.
“Your first visit?” The driver’s voice had the lilting Jutland intonation that was almost like the Welsh.
Solo said, “Yes.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
“You should come here in summer. Biggest Fourth of July celebration outside the United States.”
“How come?”
“Don’t ask it. All I know, every Fourth of July thousands of Danish-Americans and their families get together up in the Rebild hills—that’s about a hundred kilometers from here—and have a real ball. That’s quite a sight, mister. Good for business, too.” He chuckled reminiscently. “I got a fare once—a Texan—gave me a hundred dollars to take him there and back. For a few bucks more he could of had the cab.”
He dropped Solo at La Tour, a quiet but excellent motel on the outskirts of Aarhus. He said, “They’ll treat you right, here, and the food’s wonderful. And if you want to do business in the city or see a little night life, like maybe Den Blaa Fugl—that’s The Bluebird and it’s open till 5:00 A.M.—a taxi will get you there in five minutes.”
Solo checked in and a black-haired chambermaid piloted him to Cabin Ten. It had twin beds, built-in wardrobes, a bedside table, a writing desk and the inevitable radio. A connecting door led to a pint-sized shower room.
Solo showered, shaved and changed his suit. Then he locked the door, switched on the radio and took a tiny black instrument from his valise. It looked like a Weston exposure meter. He turned the calibrated dial, pressed a button and called softly, “Come in, Jester.”
Illya’s voice answered: “Jester here.”
“What’s new in Horsens?”
Illya said, “Not a trace of our friends so far. Karen’s still out, looking. But here’s a queer thing. Ever hear of a man called Sonder?”
“No…”
“He’s a top electronics man attached to one of the factories here. And he’s missing. Walked out of his office three days ago to attend a conference and disappeared. He never got to the conference. His wife’s frantic.”
“The police?”
“They’re working on it,” Illya said, “but so far they haven’t come up with anything. No witnesses. Seems nobody saw the man from the minute he stepped out of his office.”
Solo said, “Get a picture to me here. Have fun.”
He broke contact.
One of the star tourist attractions of Aarhus is Den Gamle By (The Old Town). This collection of town houses and shops, mainly from Aarhus and Aalborg but also from other parts of Denmark, was started almost by chance in 1909 when Dr. Peter Holm moved and reerected a 1597 merchant’s house in the town to accommodate the historical section of the Aarhus National Exhibition. It was the first time in Denmark that an historic town house had been replanted that way.
After the exhibition the house was moved again in 1914 to its present site in the Botanical Gardens, and gradually Holm surrounded it with a unique collection of fifty-three ancient buildings to make a living, inhabited echo of the past. Centuries-old shops and houses line its cobbled streets, there is a post office with its own stamps and postmark, and even a stagecoach that makes its daily run through the town.
As Solo came into the old town from the Vester Alle the thin sprinkling of snow on the high, sloping roofs gave the streets a Christmas-card look. He crossed a wooden bridge over a stream where ducks waddled disconsolately on the ice, and came to the house he sought. The wrought-iron sign over the door announced that the resident was a clockmaker, but the man who answered Solo’s knock looked more like a university professor.
He was small and slim in build, and his skin was the color of old parchment. Thin white hair receded from a high forehead. Almost startlingly blue eyes gazed steadily from behind heavy shell-rimmed glasses. He wore a brown corduroy jacket, a red checkered flannel shirt and gray unpressed pants. His feet were shod in walrus-hide slippers with turned-up points.
He said politely, “Goddag, Goddag! Hvormed kan jeg tjene Dem?”
“Mr. Sorensen?”
“Ja.”
“Do you speak English?”
“I do. But slowly only.”
Solo said, “Good. I bring you greetings from Gütte in Copenhagen.”
Sorensen said cautiously, “There are many Güttes in Copenhagen, my friend.”
“She said you liked this tune.” Solo whistled the opening bars of the Trumpet Voluntary.
The blue eyes lit up and the parchment face split in a wide. smile. “Ah! Gütte.” He held the door wide. “Come in, my friend. Welcome!”
The room was low-ceilinged but beautifully proportioned. Old teak furniture gleamed in the light from the plant-cluttered windows. A huge old-fashioned cylindrical stove in one corner radiated almost tropical heat.
“Please sit.” Sorensen was plainly delighted to have a visitor. “So how is my lovely Gütte? She is well, yes? But first we must drink.” He lit the candle of welcome and set it on the antique table. “You will of course have a beer. Our Jutland beer is very fine. Or perhaps a Cherry Heering?”
“Beer will be fine.”
“Good.” Sorensen went into the kitchen, came back with two bottles of Ceres lager and tall glasses shaped like tulips. He opened a box of Obel cigars and placed
it near Solo’s chair.
They went through the ritual of skaaling. Then Sorensen asked, “You know, of course, the significance of the tune you whistled?”
“I was told you would recognize it.”
“It was the—how do you call it?—the theme-tune of the Resistance here in Denmark. This means Gütte did not send you only to bring me hilsener, to enquire about my health.”
“I’m afraid not.” Solo rapidly outlined his mission. Sorensen listened without interruption. At the end he said, “We know this man Garbridge, of course. We should have taken steps. But he was clever. And the evidence against him was inconclusive. Even in the worst times we did not take a man’s life lightly. In his case, perhaps, our tenderness was a mistake.
“As for your flying saucers…I have heard the stories. Who has not? But I have seen nothing and I confess I did not believe the tales. In certain circumstances”—he smiled and lifted his glass meaningfully—“men have also told of meeting trolls and goblins.”
“But you can’t put trolls on film,” Solo said. “We have pictures of the saucers. They exist. Our guess is that they are being made in an underground factory somewhere here in Jutland. That’s why I’m here.”
Sorensen nodded. “One of the old German war factories.” He drew on his cigar, frowning. “There was such a place between Aarhus and Horsens. It is possible…”
Solo said, “This character Sonder. Do you know him?”
“Sonder? Yes, I have met him. He worked during the Occupation with a communist group. Make no mistake, my friend: our Danish communists were brave and loyal fighters in those days. Sonder was a brilliant man but an idealist—and, like many idealists, dangerous. I should doubt that his disappearance is involuntary. An organization like this Thrush would appeal to his impatience to change the world. He would need little persuasion to join them.”
“But what use would he be? You would need a expert, not an electronics specialist, for this kind of project.”
Sorensen shook his head. “These objects, if we are to believe the reports, fly quite silently. That is part of their terror. But jet aircraft make much noise. I think it more probable that a machine such as a flying saucer would have to utilize magnetic fields of force, possibly tapping the electricity of the ionosphere. Such a thing seems impossible—but in developing that kind of propulsion a man of Sonder’s ability and background would be invaluable.”
“But the explosions? Our films show the things blowing up.”
Sorensen said, “The machines are still in the experimental stage. They may develop defects in flight. In which case, what better way of destroying the evidence than by blowing them up?”
He stood up. “My friend, there is only one way to find out the things we wish to know. Tomorrow, you and I shall inspect the factory. Meanwhile, let us open a couple more bottles of our good beer and be comfortable.”
“Tomorrow?” Solo repeated. “But—”
Sorensen pointed cheerfully through the window at the snow-filled sky. “Not even saucers will fly today,” he said.
When Solo got back to he found Illya and Karen waiting in his room.
Illya said, “We’ve drawn a blank in Horsens. Sonder seems to have vanished into thin air, and if Garbridge has been there nobody has seen him. Here’s Sonder’s mug shot.” He handed Solo a photograph.
It was obviously an official picture, probably taken for the electronics company’s personnel records. It showed a man of about fifty-five years of age, thin-faced, clean shaven, with dark hair receding from a high forehead. The eyes staring straight into the camera from behind thick round spectacles were mild, but the mouth was a thin line curving downward at the corners. There were two deep vertical clefts between the eyebrows.
“He looks pretty harmless,” Illya said. “What do you suppose has happened to him?”
Solo said, “If my information is right, he’s joined up with Thrush of his own free will. Sorensen thinks it’s the kind of thing that would appeal to him.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS BARELY daylight when Sorensen drove up to La Tour in an ancient covered farm truck. A double-barreled twelve-bore rested beside the driving seat. Sorensen was wearing a fisherman’s knitted cap, a duffel coat and heavy gumboots. He pointed to the vehicle and said, “It does not look elegant, but it rides well. And where we are going it will attract less comment than a smart automobile.”
He climbed up behind the wheel and Solo got in beside him. Karen and Illya huddled down on a pile of sacks in the body of the truck. Sorensen said apologetically, “Had I known a lady was to be with us, I should of course have made better arrangements.”
Karen lit one of her torpedo like cigars and snuggled closer to Illya. “Please,” she said happily, “do not worry about it. When I joined this business I stopped being a lady.”
“And that,” said Illya, “is the most encouraging thing I’ve heard this morning.”
They headed west out of Aarhus along the Heming Highway and were soon looking at snow-covered rolling scenery that reminded Solo of the Sussex downs.
Sorensen said, “This is country that holds many memories. It is the road to Silkeborg. Seven miles outside the town, in the Horbylunde Hills, the poet Kaj Munk was murdered by the Germans for speaking out against them in his pulpit. They shot him down like a dog in a roadside ditch. A stone cross now marks the place.”
He waved his free arm expansively. “It is wild country here—all lakes and heather-covered hills. Excellent territory in which to mind one’s own business. That, no doubt, is why the Germans chose it for their secret factory. It was certainly not for ease of access or working. Even with slave labor their difficulties were many.” He laughed. “We, of course, tried to add to them in our small way.”
“What were they making?” Solo asked.
“That,” said Sorensen, “is what makes your present search interesting to me. The factory was engaged on rocket research. It was there they made parts for the V2.”
“You think Thrush is still using their equipment?” Illya asked.
He shook his head. “I doubt it. We blew in the whole face of the hill. It is difficult to believe that anything can remain.”
He swung the wheel. The truck turned onto a rugged minor road and began to climb through thickly wooded country. Through a break in the trees Solo caught a glimpse of a desolate, reed-fringed lake, gray with thick ice.
The truck reduced speed. Sorensen said, “Now we shall see. We are approaching the site of the old factory. I shall not stop, but I think as a precautionary measure you in the back should keep hidden.”
A few seconds later Solo exclaimed, “Look!” and pointed to a great white scar that looked as if a giant hand had ripped at the hillside. There were cranes and tackle, a donkey engine, and open cars on a light rail track that disappeared into a black tunnel. A high wire fence cut the property off from the road. Two burly men came out of a concrete blockhouse beside the gate and watched suspiciously as the truck lumbered past.
Sorensen said, “They’ve turned the place into a chalk mine. You know, these hills are solid limestone.”
“You ever see a chalk mine that needed to be protected by an electrified fence?” Solo asked. “Or a blockhouse with machine-gun ports?”
“That had not escaped me, my friend. But can you think of a better ‘cover’? Who is going to question such an innocent activity?”
Solo said, “The question is, how are we going to get into the place? That fence won’t be easy pickings.”
Sorensen chuckled, but made no reply. A few kilometers further along the road he swung the truck into the yard of a small farm and cut the engine. He said, “You can get down now.”
A short, stocky man, bearded like a Viking, hurried out of the farmhouse, hand outstretched. He cried, “Velkom! Velkom!” as if he really meant it and, without waiting for an introduction, shook hands vigorously with every member of the party.
Sorensen said, “This is Viggo Jacobsen, an old comr
ade of the Resistance. He was expecting us, as you see. It would not be wise to return past the quarry with the truck still empty, so Viggo will load it for us. I did not know what we should find, but I take no chances. Now—they are innocent chalk miners, and we are innocent farmers, eh?’
Viggo roared with laughter. “Knud, we were always innocent, nej? But come into the house, please. It is cold and a drink would go good. Also, my wife has prepared a little meal.”
He led the way into the big, friendly living room. It was already gay with Jul decorations. On every picture frame, on every cornice, stood or sat little nisser—the gray-coated, red-hooded gnomes who on Christmas Eve bring presents to Danish boys and girls. There were garlands and crowns of fir and red wax candles and long strings of miniature Danish Hags. A big straw goat, almost life-size, stood beside the still undecorated Christmas tree.
A lovely woman with hair the color of ripe wheat came from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of steaming Jul punch. She put the bowl on the table beside a tray of smorrebrod. Then she said, “God Dag og Velkom!” and shook hands.
Viggo said, “This is my wife, Else. Ak! she speaks no English, but I can tell you, she cooks good.” He roared with laughter again.
Else smiled at him, poured punch into the glasses and indicated the smorrebrod tray. “Please,” she said. “Eat.”
She said something in Danish to her husband and went out of the room.
Knud Sorensen said, “She is still discreet.”
Viggo told Solo, “In the old days she was a nurse in Copenhagen. She was a nurse by day and a saboteur by night. The Gestapo picked her up.” His cheerful face darkened. “My friends, they gave her the full treatment. But she did not break. For that reason only, some of us are alive today.”
Karen said, “A brave woman.”
He made a little bow and raised his glass to her. “As I hear it, Froken, this must be said of you, too.”
He turned to Sorensen. “And now, Knud, what is this mystery? Why is it necessary that I must break off my work to load your truck with sacks of straw? And why do you bring these nice people to see me so suddenly?”
