The Golden Horns

by John Burke

  “Right.”

  “And while you’re about it,” Logan said, “you might see if there’s a Henning Holtesen mentioned. It’s most unlikely, but you never know. And if you can get a full list of names anyway, something might strike us.”

  “Couldn’t you get details more quickly from your end?” suggested Harry.

  “I don’t want to use any official contacts yet,” said Logan. “Don’t be so darned lazy,” he added. “This’ll give you something to do while we’re away, instead of sitting on the corner of Zoe’s desk all day.”

  Harry drew in his breath in protest, and then replied with great dignity:

  “It shall be done, chief. What time can I ring you back?”

  “I’ll be here all morning unless something turns up. Say until two o’clock, anyway. If I’m out, leave word that you’ve called, and stay in the office until I ring you.”

  When he had replaced the receiver, he absently reached for a cigarette, sank back into a chair, and stared ahead through curling wreaths of smoke.

  Then he rang Martin Slade again and asked questions about Henning Holtesen. And about Birgitte Holtesen and Eiler Nielsen.

  They did not add up to anything wonderful; and the answers added up to about the same. As far as Martin knew, Birgitte had married old Holtesen for his money. It was as easy as that. Nothing unusual about it in this materialistic world.

  No doubt she had fixed her brother Eiler up with a job with Holtesen’s organisation—unless he was still involved in the international currency smuggling racket, which Martin doubted. Holtesen’s place was a large house, with plenty of room in it for his wife’s brother and Inge, the daughter. Henning Holtesen was feeble and probably easily swayed—probably he had been madly in love with his beautiful bride—and they could have done anything with him.

  But something had gone wrong. Somewhere along the line, the whole arrangement had turned sour.

  Unless of course, it had all been phoney from the beginning. Maybe Eiler, ex-smuggler and ex-crook, had planned a long-term scheme, which would end in a terrific robbery. It would need to be terrific to be worth the trouble involved.

  What could Holtesen possess that was so well worth stealing? It could not be cash: a man of his sort would not stuff banknotes into a box under his bed. In any case, a huge consignment of Danish currency would not be easily disposed of in another country—and young Clifford had been used to take something out of the country.

  And if Holtesen knew that his wife and brother-in-law were trying to rob him, why did he put up with them?

  Because he was still in love with Birgitte? Or did he have insufficient proof? Perhaps, after a bitter dose of suspicions, he would swing round and be full of remorse for having thought evil things of his beautiful wife.

  Cigarette butts piled up in the ashtray. Logan began to feel the need for action. It was enervating to sit here, unable to see an opening.

  At the end of the morning Carol returned. As soon as he heard the click of her door, he uncurled from the depths of the chair and went to see her.

  He said: “Anything to report?”

  “Nothing clear-cut,” she said, “but quite a few things that add up to make an interesting picture.”

  “Let’s have them.”

  He flicked a cigarette towards her, and her eyes narrowed languidly as she bent over the flame of his lighter.

  “I’ve had to make deductions from odd remarks the girl dropped while we were walking about. She’s a very nice girl—very clean, straightforward, uncomplicated…and unhappy. It’s not hard to sense a mood, and she’s desperately unhappy. She feels hemmed in by things she can’t understand.”

  “What things?”

  Carol shrugged her beautiful shoulders.

  “All this is supposition,” she warned him. “All I can say is that I gather, just from phrases and hints, that she doesn’t approve of her Aunt Birgitte. She didn’t say anything outright, of course, but I got the feeling that she knows her father and her aunt are up to something, and she’s upset by it. I doubt whether she knows what it is, but she’s a sensitive child, and the atmosphere at home is unsettling.”

  “She’s not in on their plan, whatever it may be?” said Logan.

  “No,” said Carol decisively. “I think she feels that Birgitte has behaved very badly towards Henning Holtesen. I managed to ask the usual casual questions one often docs ask—it’s much easier when you’re talking to a foreigner whose English is limited: you fall into quite a routine of simple questions that sound polite rather than inquisitive.”

  Logan nodded approval. He could imagine how Carol would do it.

  She went on: “Apparently, when Birgitte married Holtesen, she persuaded him to take her brother Eiler on in his import and export firm. It sounds like a sinecure, and I don’t think Inge approves of that in the first place. She’s the sort of puritanical miss who would prefer her father to work hard for his living instead of sponging on his sister’s husband. In the second place, she suspects that Holtesen is getting a rotten deal from both of them.”

  “She likes Holtesen?”

  Carol watched a smoke ring drifting up towards the ceiling, turning and expanding gently.

  “I fancy they got on well together,” she said judiciously. “Until a short time ago, anyway. Inge is very patriotic, and Henning Holtesen seems to be one of the old school—very proud of his lineage, and very formal. He’s descended from a really old Danish family. Or so Inge claims. It’s funny how intensely serious she is about this country. It’s rather moving, to find someone so patriotic about a tiny country like this.”

  “From what Slade said, it’s not uncommon,” observed Logan. “National pride is a real, living factor in the smaller countries, particularly in these northern lands.”

  “Anyway,” Carol continued, “she shared that with Holtesen. But if I’ve interpreted her properly, Holtesen has tended to withdraw into himself recently. Perhaps he’s so hurt by his wife’s behaviour—whatever that may be—that he is shying away from her whole family.”

  “Stick to her,” said Logan. “She’s our only real lead. If you can make a friend of her—”

  “We got on well together. I’ve promised to drop in at the house one afternoon and pick her up. She finds it easier to talk to someone like me, I think, than to one of her friends; they know the language too well, and she probably thinks they can sense things better than I can.”

  “She’s wrong,” said Logan dryly. “Well, that’s one possibility. Another is—”

  He was interrupted by the abrupt jangle of the telephone from the next room, He went swiftly in, and picked up the receiver. Carol, following, lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

  “Harry,” said Logan briefly. “I hope.”

  Then he nodded, and listened.

  “Yes. Good work. Uh-huh…. Yes, I gather there are quite a few Holmboes? What…? Oh, if he came on right from Stockholm, I don’t suppose.... No.”

  Carol watched the lean, shrewd face with a sort of detached appraisal. She watched the terse movements of Logan’s lips…and then, watching, saw his lower jaw quiver. Her eyes were suddenly wide.

  “What? You’re sure?”

  Harry’s voice crackled on for a few seconds more, and then Logan was putting the receiver down.

  He turned to Carol.

  “Very interesting. I’ve had Harry checking on the passengers on the plane from Copenhagen to London just before Clifford’s murder. He’s found the name of one acquaintance of ours, anyway.”

  “Eiler Nielsen?” hazarded Carol.

  Slowly Logan shook his head. “No. Birgitte Holtesen.”

  Carol stared. “But….”

  “She flew to England. And a couple of days later, she flew back again.”

  “She couldn’t have murdered Clifford. Not…not in that hideous way.”

  Logan was reaching once more for the telephone.

  “I seem to have been doing most of my work so far from the end of this thing,” he
commented. “It’s time to move in a bit closer.”

  He gave a number, and waited. His face was calm yet taut. A moment later he said; “Fru Holtesen…?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  When Birgitte Holtesen was shown up to his suite, Logan was alone. Carol, with other things to do, had gone out.

  Logan looked into the wary eyes of Holtesen’s wife, and smiled his most wintry, non-committal smile.

  She said: “Why did you send for me like this Mr. Logan? I’m not used to being summoned so…in such a way.”

  “But you came,” he pointed out. “You came. Pretty fast, too.”

  “After the extraordinary remarks you made on the telephone—”

  “Won’t you sit down?” Logan cut in.

  “I do not propose to stay long,” she said stiffly. “My chauffeur is waiting, and I have told him fifteen minutes….”

  “He’s waiting outside the hotel?” said Logan, mildly surprised.

  “I left him a short distance away. It is not good to encourage gossip among servants.” She loosened her light summer coat.

  Beneath it she was wearing a simple but expensive grey dress, which touched the challenging lines of her body caressingly. One link of pearls lay across her smooth throat,

  “Well, Mr. Logan? I wish an explanation of your remarks about”—she faltered—“about Martin Slade, And about Sean Clifford.”

  He said: “Very well. What did you have to do with young Clifford’s death?”

  “I know nothing about his death,” she said smoothly. “Until you spoke to me I had no idea that he was dead. He was very young to die.”

  She must have rehearsed this on her way here in the car. It was all glib and assured.

  “It was not mentioned in the newspapers over here?” said Logan.

  “Why should it be? We do not report all the murders that take place in foreign countries.”

  “Who mentioned murder?” flashed Logan.

  She was silent for a moment, her features quite expressionless. Then she said: “You did, didn’t you? When you spoke to me on the ’phone. The language you used then was…well, it gave me the impression that he had been murdered.”

  “But you had no idea until today? You didn’t see it in the English papers?”

  “I do not read the English papers.”

  “Not even when you’re in England?” demanded Logan.

  “If I were visiting England, then of course—”

  “As you were visiting it,” said Logan remorselessly, “the day before Clifford was killed. You flew over. The day after Clifford—and Martin Slade, for that matter—left Copenhagen by rail to catch the boat, you left by plane. You were there in London long before they got there. In time to greet them, one might say.”

  She had gone pale. But she was still capable of looking contemptuous.

  “What nonsense!” she sneered. “Why would I fly to England?”

  “Perhaps to hit Martin Slade on the head and to slit Sean Clifford’s insides open,” said Logan brutally.

  “What do you mean?” This time it was little more than a whisper.

  He told her—told her harshly and clearly, without any frills.

  She began to whimper, then stopped herself. She put her head in her hands.

  “What does it all mean?” demanded Logan. “You’d better answer. If you’ve got anything to do with it, or if you know anything about it, you’d better tell me.”

  She shook her head wretchedly, but did not reply.

  He said: “You didn’t kill Clifford?”

  Now her head came up. “No,” she cried. “Why should I? He…. I liked him. We had only just met. He was a very pleasant young man.”

  “And,” said Logan, “he was doing you a favour, wasn’t he? He was carrying something for you from Denmark to England.”

  She moistened her lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do. Don’t forget, I’m a friend of Martin Slade.”

  “Martin Slade did nothing for me,” she said.

  “No, but you tried to make him.” Logan moved across the room and looked down at the swirling traffic. It all seemed remote and unreal. Only this woman and her secrets were real and urgent. He said abruptly: “It could be awkward for you if I passed all this information to the police, either here, or in England.”

  “What do you want?” she asked bitterly.

  “I want,” said Logan, “to suggest myself as a replacement for Martin Slade, who refused to help you—and Sean Clifford, who came to such an unfortunate end. Martin passed the suggestion on to me. He thought I might be interested. And I am interested.”

  There was a long silence. At last she found her voice. “You told me you were over here on legal business.”

  “Shall we say that I am also connected with illegal business?”

  A strange tremor ran through her.

  “There’s nothing you can do for me,” she said. “Nothing I want you to do. You do not understand any of this.”

  “Perhaps you’d better do a little explaining, then.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No. It is over. You have made a mistake. Martin Slade should not have spoken. There will be no explanations. I want no more trouble.”

  “There’ll be a lot more trouble,” said Logan with silky malice, “if the police get on to all this. You’d do better to deal with me.”

  “But I can’t.” Fear welled up in her eyes. “It has been bad already. It must not get worse. You do not realize. You can’t—”

  “Tell me, then.”

  “No. I dare not. I must say no more. It is over, and that is the end.”

  Terror held her in its grip.

  Logan felt no compunction. Whether she had killed Sean Clifford or not, and whether she or her brother had been responsible for the death of that man in Copenhagen or not, her selfish plans had somehow set things in motion and produced these results. She was a dangerous woman, and he would not let himself feel sorry for her.

  He said: “We’ve got to do a deal. I don’t know what it is you want taking out of the country, but once I know, I’ll fix it. It’s my job to fix things.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Who are you afraid of?”

  She shook her head mutely.

  Logan laughed without humour. “You’ll have to be more convincing than that. I’m willing to come in with yon—do the job smoothly—provided yon make it worth my while. And if you don’t make it worth my while…well, maybe there are other people who would pay me for a certain amount of information.”

  “You’ve got no proof of…of anything.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” said Logan.

  Again there was a silence. He watched conflicting emotions chase across her face.

  Anger boiled up within her, but she did not get up and march out of the room, as she would have done if she had really been sure of herself. Then, returning over and over again, were twitches of fear, dragging at the corners of her mouth and drawing them down in an ugly grimace, which she could not control.

  And. incongruously, there was hope.

  She said: “How could you hope to succeed where others have failed?”

  “Try me,” said Logan.

  Try as she would, she could not repress the mounting hope. She was an impetuous, impulsive woman. Logan had blown on the embers of her dying hopes, and already they were burning again.

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t know,” said Logan casually. “You’ll just have to decide for yourself whether I’m a dependable sort of character.”

  She studied him wonderingly.

  It was as though she had not looked at him before. He saw a gleam of approval come into her expression. It made her more than ever an alluring woman. Insensibly, she relaxed, and gave a faintly appreciative smile.

  “I’ve a good idea that your brother Eiler is just about played out,” Logan coaxed her. “He’s not as tough as he looks, is he
? Why not play it along with me?”

  She leaned towards him.

  “If you really think you can succeed….”

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  “We could meet in England. There are many things we could do together.”

  “Many things,” Logan agreed smoothly.

  It was almost pathetic to see how easily she had succumbed to the hope he had held out to her. Once more plans were fermenting in her mind.

  She said: “I will have to make arrangements at home. They are kept at the top of the house—”

  “What are?”

  She hesitated. “The things I want you to take to England,” she said. “It will be necessary to wait until my husband is out of the house. Then I will telephone to you, and you must come and...”

  Despair crept up again into her voice.

  She shrugged, and uttered a disillusioned laugh.

  “What’s wrong?” Logan demanded.

  “The room is securely locked. My husband is taking no more chances. You will never be able to get in.”

  She looked at him, waiting for reassurance. He gave it. He said: “There isn’t a locked room in this or any other country I couldn’t get into if I had to.”

  The conviction in his tone was enough for her. She wanted to believe him; so she believed.

  “Tomorrow,” she said eagerly.

  “When my husband is out tomorrow afternoon, I will telephone you. Stay until I telephone. Then come. And then we must get away—out of the country—at once.”

  Logan said: “What will your husband do? What has he done already that makes you so scared?”

  Fear was vivid and immediate in the room again,

  “I cannot tell you,” she muttered. “Do not ask. It is better that I do not say. Let us keep this business purely as business, shall we? Later, perhaps, I will speak. But not now.”

  Logan shrugged. “All right. If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way it is. Purely business—for the time being. But”—he snapped the word commandingly at her—“you’ve got to tell me, right now, what it is I’m supposed lo carry.”