The Golden Horns

by John Burke

  Logan hailed a cab, and in a matter of minutes they were plunging into the heart of the city, to draw up outside the Hotel Axelhus.

  Trams grated round a corner and clattered past. The eldritch hooting of a speeding ambulance screamed across Raadhuspladsen, and died away as the Raadhus clock dropped its oddly perverse, indeterminate chime into the hustle of traffic.

  Carol got out and looked around. Seeing the gaily coloured umbrellas on the pavement outside a restaurant, she smiled appreciatively.

  “Just the right time of year for a holiday,” she commented. “I think I’m going to enjoy this.”

  “This is not a holiday,” Logan assured her, “and you’re not going to enjoy it.”

  He meant what he said.

  There was no delay. While their bags were being taken upstairs, he went into the hotel telephone booth, dialled the Obro exchange, and asked for the number, which Martin Slade had given him.

  There was a short pause.

  Then he said: “May I speak to Mrs. Holtesen, please?”

  There was only one way to tackle this case, and that was to plunge straight in. He did not know where he would surface after the dive, but he was convinced that this immediate onslaught was better than dithering about on the edge, waiting and doubting.

  “It’s like underwater swimming,” he said to Carol on the plane, on the trip across. “You can’t see anything from above. But put a good pair of goggles on, get below the surface, and you’ll be surprised how clear everything becomes.”

  Carol had nodded, and Logan had prided himself on a rather neat simile. Now he hoped that he was going to justify his confidence.

  “Yes?” came a woman’s voice in his ear.

  He said: “Mrs. Holtesen? My name’s Logan. I’m a friend of Martin Slade.”

  There was the faintest pause, then: “Oh, how nice. How is Martin?”

  “He asked to be remembered to you. In fact, he suggested that I should ring you. I feel it’s rather forward of me do so, but he insisted that I must get touch with you.”

  Again there was a pause. A longer one this time.

  He did not break it. Let her wonder, and worry, and feel the stirrings of curiosity. Why should Martin have wanted her to meet one of his friends? How much did he know? What was behind all this? She could hardly make some conventional remark and leave it at that.

  At last she said: “Of course. We shall always be glad to welcome any of Martin’s friends to Copenhagen. Where are you staying?”

  He told her.

  “You are alone?”

  He told her that his secretary, Carol Dane, was with him.

  “Your secretary? Oh, yes. You are here on business?”

  “Partly pleasure,” said Logan smoothly, “and partly business. Legal business.” he added with a wry smile, which she fortunately could not see.

  “You must come and have dinner with us,” said Birgitte Holtesen. The invitation came slowly and thoughtfully. “I am afraid we are engaged this evening—”

  “Oh. I wouldn’t want you to—”

  “But you must,” she said, more firmly.

  Logan smiled again. Not this evening of course—that would not give her time to talk to Eiler or to sit down and work out theories about Martin Slade and Martin Slade’s friend. She said: “What about tomorrow?”

  “It is most kind of you,” said Logan.

  “Tomorrow will be ideal. There is a concert in Tivoli—a very fine violinist is playing the Shostakovitch concerto. We can get tickets.” A sudden, unexpected eagerness came into her tone. “You must come. It will fit in so well.”

  Fit in with what? Perhaps the phrase was casual and meaningless, but Logan sensed something beneath it.

  He remembered Martin Slade’s story—the story of how Slade had accepted a telephoned invitation, and walked into trouble that might have cost him his life—and wondered what he and Carol would be walking into tomorrow.

  * * * * * * *

  The appointment was for the evening, but that did not mean that Logan intended to waste the earlier part of the day. He firmly quashed Carol’s hopes of a morning’s window-shopping, and sent her down to Dagmarhus, the main police station, to establish contacts with an Inspector Holmboe to whom he had been recommended.

  This had nothing to do with the Clifford murder: it was just that Slade’s international organisation was widening, and he lost no opportunity of fixing up further strings.

  Then he went for a walk in the park.

  It was a bright, clear morning. Tourists strolled in the sunshine, children played on the grass; young women sat with their heads back and eyes hidden behind sunglasses, drinking in the warmth.

  Logan looked like any tourist might have done. In sports shirt and light grey jacket, with impeccably creased flannels, he sauntered down a winding path to the edge of a lake, and glanced casually up at the tall houses beyond the far hedge.

  It was not hard to pick out the Holtesen house. He had checked up with a street map before setting out, and now he was able to identify the place.

  Third house from the corner. Tall and imposing, with a pattern of austere, dignified windows. No ornamentation. Somehow withdrawn, and self-sufficient. There were not many houses like it within the city itself: most Copenhageners were flat dwellers or else lived outside the city.

  Logan moved slowly on. A girl looked up at him from a seat and smiled provocatively. He smiled in response, but he did not stop. Without ever staring at the building, he contrived not to let his attention wander from the facade of the Holtesen place.

  At the back of his mind he was collecting and sorting information and speculation. Expensive district…gracious living, tradition of dignity and formal hospitality…not the sort of people mixed up in petty crime.

  If there were any smuggling going on, it must be something big. And the strands would be hard to unravel. People who lived in houses like that did not do their own dirty work: they hired other people to do it for them. And it would not be worth their while to play with such things unless there was big money involved.

  Drugs?

  Logan wondered. Until he had actually met the Holtesens, and had an opportunity of sizing them up, he would not be able to judge whether they were the kind of operators who did not scruple to deal in drugs. And even then, it was not easy to tell.

  Nothing in this game was ever easy.

  A flicker of movement outside the house snatched at his attention. Through the foliage he saw a man coming out of the building and turning left along the boulevard.

  Logan did not quicken his pace, but he changed direction and strolled along the edge of the park, moving towards the exit.

  Trams raced up to a congested corner, and traffic piled up at the intersection. People crossed the road, and cyclists swerved madly inwards. Through it all, Logan kept his quarry in sight.

  The man was heavy and broad-shouldered. He walked with a sort of massive determination, setting his feet down in a ponderous, resolute rhythm. When he stopped on the edge of the pavement, ready to cross the road, he scowled at oncoming traffic as though to compel it to halt. This, thought Logan, must be Eiler. He fitted Martin Slade’s description admirably.

  Logan left a good distance between them. He was not driven by any sense of urgency. Nothing very exciting was likely to happen at this time of the morning.

  But he liked to appraise people without them realizing he was there: studying them unobserved, he had a good chance of judging characteristics that the untrained watcher would not have understood.

  It was that keen, unremitting concentration which made him aware, as they went along, that somebody else was involved in this slow pursuit.

  From the corner of his eye he became conscious of a repeated flash of colour. A young woman in a pale yellow dress was weaving in and out of the passers-by, her face set, keeping her eyes fixed on Eiler.

  She was obviously not used to this sort of thing. It was an amateurish effort. Logan was able without difficulty to kee
p both Eiler and this newcomer in sight without drawing attention to himself.

  She was young, slim and fair, and held herself tautly. He could not see her face, but he was willing to swear that her eyes would be ice-blue.

  This could only be Inge Nielsen—clumsily trailing her father!

  Perhaps, after all, this stroll was going to be a rewarding one. Perhaps Logan would acquire something more definite than merely an impression of the place.

  He stopped to light a cigarette, allowing Inge to gain a lead. Then he was off again.

  The awnings of several pavement cafés made a blaze of colour immediately ahead. Here, near a train station, there was a little cluster of shops and a cinema. It was a busy corner; but there was shade and leisure beneath the shadowy awnings.

  Eiler Nielsen went into one of the cafés. But he did not sit at one of the tables outside. Although it was a bright day, he went indoors.

  David Logan stood casually on the corner, looking about him with the idle interest of a foreign visitor. He saw Inge Nielsen crossing the road; saw her sit down at a corner table, well away from the door into which her father had disappeared.

  Logan studied the other cafés. One of them offered a good view of Inge and the doorway beyond her. He sauntered over to it, sprawled in a chair, and ordered a pilsener.

  He had ten minutes to wait.

  At the end of that time, a small man, with hunched shoulders and a ferrety little head emerged. He looked from side to side, almost like some underground creature coming out unhappily into the open, and then darted away.

  He crossed the road and passed close to Logan, who took a quick but thorough note of his sharp features and the restlessness of his close-set eyes.

  Then he was gone; and Eiler was coming out of the inner room.

  Inge stood up. Eiler turned, and even from this distance Logan could see how he started involuntarily.

  The two of them began to talk. Or to argue. They were both tense. They stood close together, father and daughter, leaning slightly forward as though about to plunge at one another. Then Eiler turned brusquely away, and stamped off with that menacing tread.

  Inge watched him go.

  She stood there for a full minute then put one hand despairingly up to her forehead. A second later, she was slowly following.

  Logan pushed his lean length up out of the chair, and went back to his hotel.

  Carol joined him there in time for lunch.

  “Any luck?” she demanded. “Any new developments?”

  He told her briefly what had happened. “And,” he added, “when we see these people this evening. I want you to get what you can out of that Nielsen girl. Arrange to go shopping with her tomorrow, or something—”

  “That’s sweet of you,” said Carol.

  “But make sure,” Logan drawled, “that the shopping takes second place in your thoughts.”

  Carol shook her head despairingly.

  Then she said: “Don’t you want to know how I got on?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I managed to find Holmboe. It took some doing. Every policeman in the place is called Holmboe, with the exception of a few eccentrics who are called Olsen. But I established contact. He’s sweet. He hopes to see you and get one or two formalities settled before we go back to England.”

  “You didn’t mention the Clifford business?”

  Carol stared indignantly. “What do you think I am?”

  Logan allowed himself a lazy, appreciative smile. He looked at the angry thrust of her lips, and the haughtiness of her magnificent head.

  “I think,” he said, “you are far too attractive to be as intelligent and reliable as you are. But I’m glad you are!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Logan’s scrutiny of the Holtesen house had been so thorough that it seemed almost like the home of old friends as he and Carol approached it that evening.

  The welcome, too, was friendly—effusive, in fact.

  “Mr. Logan? I’m Birgitte Holtesen. I’m so glad Martin told you to get in touch with us. So very glad.” The auburn hair blazed as her head turned towards Carol.

  Logan shook hands—and noted that, although his hostess’s handshake was as firm and strong as a man’s, it had also that smooth lingering quality which was challengingly feminine.

  He said: “This is Miss Dane—Carol Dane—my secretary.”

  Birgitte’s gaze was shrewdly questioning. There was an unspoken question in her eyes as she turned back towards Logan. He made sure that there was no answer in his own.

  Sociable chatter swelled up suddenly around them. “Dear Martin, how is he…? We had such a splendid time during the Festival…still a lot of music…there is always music in Copenhagen…your first time here…? Do come in…. And this is my brother, Eiler....”

  Yes, Logan had certainly seen Eiler before. This was most assuredly the man he had followed this morning. And the girl to whom he was introduced a moment later was Inge.

  He looked into her eyes, and agreed with what Martin had said: there was bewilderment and unhappiness there.

  Glasses clinked. A siphon spurted. Birgitte said “Skaal,” as though she were sure that foreign visitors would expect this, whatever was being drunk, and they nodded at one another over their glasses.

  Carol moved towards Inge, and spoke to her in a casual, friendly undertone. A minute or two later they both laughed—Inge uncertainly and rather shyly.

  But at least she had laughed.

  Logan was saying to Birgitte: “Yes, legal business. Very dry, straightforward stuff. It’s very pleasant to get away from it for a few hours.”

  “I’m so sorry my husband is not here. He had a long-standing engagement. Business also. He had to go to Kalundborg.”

  “Perhaps,” said Logan politely. “I’ll meet him some other time.”

  “If yon are staying a few days, yes. You must come to see us again.”

  Eiler stood in the middle of the room with his small glass, his weight on one foot, sagging like a tired Viking without a battleaxe to lean on.

  “It is so good that you are here,” Birgitte Holtesen went prattling on, her English slurring as she spoke. “So fortunate to be here for this concert. We are so glad to have you—are we not, Eiler?”

  Eiler stared at her as though not sure what she was talking about. Then he nodded ponderously.

  “Very glad,” he said in a thick voice

  All right, all right, thought Logan. So you’re glad to have us. So it couldn’t be a nicer evening. So…

  So what? So it looked as though they were unreasonably delighted to see a friend of Martin’s—perhaps because they thought he might help them as Martin had failed to help?

  Or perhaps there was something more immediate, more urgent than that.

  Logan had found that they dined early in Denmark. His digestion had hardly adjusted itself to the unexpectedly magnificent lunch it had had to cope with at the hotel, and now here was another enormous meal.

  It made conversation easy: one could politely ask about different items—the salt fish, the decorative salads, the dressings—and the replies came enthusiastically.

  At last Birgitte said: “Well, if we’re going to this concert—”

  “I don’t think I’ll come, if you don’t mind,” said Inge quietly.

  Both Birgitte and her brother Eiler tensed. Eiler’s heavy brows thrust dark shadows down into his eyes.

  “But you must come,” said Birgitte pleasantly. Her voice was very soft and very level. “We got the tickets for all of us. It is a good programme. You know you will like it.”

  “I do not feel like coming, after all,” said Inge.

  Carol’s eyes did not meet Logan’s, but he knew that she had sensed the change in the atmosphere, as he had done.

  It was puzzling. Why should Birgitte and Eiler be so alarmed at Inge’s wish to stay away from the concert? For alarmed they were…there could be no doubt about that.

  Eiler growled something in an undert
one, then his voice rose.

  He was not speaking English. He seemed to mouth the broad, twisted vowels of the Danish language as though wrenching them about his teeth before hurling them out. There was something ugly and menacing about his attitude.

  Birgitte glanced swiftly at their guests, and said very carefully and reasonably:

  “But, Inge, my dear, if you stay at home—”

  “I did not mean that I would stay at home,” said Inge.

  There was a perceptible relaxation.

  Birgitte suppressed a little sigh, and went on:

  “But if you are not staying at home—”

  “There are evenings,” said Inge with a grave little nod towards Carol, as though appealing for sympathy, “when music is not—how do you say it?—when you are not moody for music.”

  Carol laughed lightly. “Not in the mood for music,” she said.

  “That is it. That is how I feel. This evening I wish to not think. I shall go to the cinema.”

  Eiler sat back. He looked more at ease.

  “What time will you get back?” asked Birgitte, as though it did not matter at all, but Logan could still feel the tightly controlled concern.

  “Late,” said Inge. “A little time after you come home, I expect.”

  Birgitte nodded. She was satisfied.

  It was odd. Evidently neither she nor Eiler, the girl’s father, was worried about Inge going off on her own or staying out late: indeed, they seemed happy only now that they knew she would not be coming back early.

  “We will put you off on our way,” said Eiler.

  The car that awaited them when they left the house was a large Opel—with an extremely large chauffeur. He might easily have been Eiler’s brother, but his hair was darker and his hands, if anything, larger. As he got out to hold the door open, he and Eiler towered over Birgitte and Inge.

  Either of them, thought Logan dispassionately, could have ripped a man open and spreadeagled him in the old days of Danish invasions.