The Golden Horns

by John Burke

  “They were delighted by your appearance on the scene, I imagine,” said Martin.

  “It certainly strengthened their alibi. But it didn’t help the plan. Nothing could do that. Holtesen may have got wind of the scheme, or he may have decided to come back early for genuine business reasons. Anyway, he reached the house while the burglar was at work…and let Bentzon deal with him.”

  Carol, in the back seat, shivered. She thought of the chauffeur’s great hands, and imagined them savagely bending the ribs back.

  Suddenly there was the gleam of water to their right. The car sped into the heart of a town, and the dockside of Korsor opened up ahead of them.

  Logan slowed, swinging into line for the ferry. When he cut the engine, there was a moment of apparent silence before the noises of the dockside and traffic in the town became noticeable.

  “How long do we have to wait?” asked Carol.

  “Not long,” said Martin. “The ferries are pretty frequent.”

  It was hard to be patient. Hard to sit there, impotent, knowing that one of the blunt-nosed boats had already carried Eiler and Inge across the wide expanse of the Great Belt, and that Henning Holtesen had been close behind them.

  * * * * * * *

  Somebody tapped on the nearside window of the Renault. Martin fumbled for money for the ticket, then grinned and let the window down.

  “Preben!”

  “We have news,” said the podgy middle-aged man who had approached the car. “Eiler Nielsen—we know him well do we not? He went over an hour ago to Nyborg. There was a girl with him.”

  “And the other car?”

  “It was here twenty minutes later. The Opel. And the men, as you described them.”

  Logan nudged the Renault forward, and the sides of the boat closed in about them. By the time they had squirmed out of the car and edged between the serried ranks of vehicles towards the companionway for the upper deck, the ferry was already moving off.

  Wind came rippling across the water, and fingered Carol’s hair. She stood watching the receding land, and abruptly burst out:

  “It’s all so slow. They’ll be so far ahead of us….”

  “They’ve had to take exactly the same route,” Martin pointed out. “They’ve suffered from the delay on the ferry just as much as we have. And once we’re in Jutland I know the roads like the back of my hand. We’ll have to go all out to intercept them there.”

  He explained the rest of the journey they would have to make. This ferry should land them on Funen, the central Danish island. They would soon be across that and then would race over the Little Belt Bridge, high above the water, into Jutland. Here the road to Germany swung south.

  The most direct route hugged the coast and crossed the frontier north of Flensburg.

  “But that’s too easy,” Martin said, biting his lip, “it’s the obvious way to go and there’s a lot of traffic on that road. The Customs authorities are pretty efficient, and used to going through things thoroughly. And if Eiler suspects that there’s anyone behind him, he may try one of the other roads down into Germany. We just can’t tell.”

  “Until we get word from your net of friends,” said Logan.

  “We’ll stop in Odense, in the middle of Funen, and see if anything has come through.”

  With infuriating slowness the bulky ferryboat nosed out across the shimmering expanse of water. Other boats passed on the return journey.

  At last they rolled into Nyborg, and extricated the Renault from the tangled mass of vehicles. The straight road opened up ahead of them once more. Logan’s foot went down. His mouth was shut like a trap. His brow was furrowed with anger and impatience.

  “The big town ahead,” said Martin, “is Odense. Where Hans Andersen was born.” he added.

  “Cut out the guidebook stuff,” said Logan tersely. “Do we stop here? And if so, where?”

  Martin rapped out directions. They swung into a rush of traffic between gaudy shops and down narrow streets.

  “Here,” said Martin.

  The car shuddered to a halt. The door of a smorrebrod shop opened, and a man in a white apron came out. He flicked Martin a half-salute.

  “Both cars are heading across Jutland,” he said in precise English with an attractive lilt to it. “Our old friends Bang and Rutzou tried to stop the second—the Opel. They failed. They were almost run down, and they were shot at.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “We are all out of practice these days.”

  “Can’t be helped,” said Martin, his lips pursed. “Which road did they look like taking?”

  “The leading car turned off towards the west at Aabenraa. The Opel went south, then came back. The driver or the Opel is asking questions all along the route. He is close behind the first one.”

  Martin brought his head back into the car.

  “Get moving.” he said.

  Logan flung the Renault out of the town and on to the main highway again. His head was beginning to throb from the blow be had received: the original pain had given way to a steady pounding, which seemed to slog away at the back of his eyes.

  He said: “From the map, I’d say they had a big lead on us.”

  “These roads are good,” said Martin. “The map is deceptive. You can make good time. We’ve got to get them.”

  There was a long silence now. Logan’s face was expressionless. He watched the road, and Martin watched it unremittingly, as though hoping that by some miracle they would suddenly overtake their quarry.

  The car raced over the great span of the bridge, and swung south.

  “Take the next right turning,” said Martin suddenly. “It’s a minor road that cuts off several miles. We used to use it a lot.”

  The Renault began to bounce on a rutted surface. Logan’s hands tightened on the wheel.

  The landscape became bleaker: there were great expanses broken only by huge, squat farmhouses. Wind smacked against the side of the car, and as evening came on the wind grew colder.

  * * * * * * *

  They stopped once more. Information this time was clear and specific.

  “They must be making for Rudbol.”

  Their informant was an elderly man with a limp. He had the seamed, weather-beaten face of one who lived out of doors in a rugged, fierce climate. When he had passed on his message, he stood back on the roadside; and there was nothing behind him but mile upon mile of dark fields, shadowy in the uncertain light. A premature twilight was settling on the land.

  Logan drove on.

  Martin said: “I’ve expected this all along, really. Eiler and I used to use Rudbol quite a bit. It’s a tiny hamlet right on the frontier: the official frontier line runs down the middle of the village street. The guards there are pretty good, but we found one or two ways of getting stuff through. It’s nothing like the main frontier posts.”

  Now he had to give more detailed directions. They chose winding roads, which followed the lines of old dykes and watercourses. A few sombre farmhouses rose from the flat countryside. Here and there lights began to wink on.

  Logan peered into the deceptive blur of sky, land and shadow ahead.

  “Aren’t there a couple of cars over there—over to our left?”

  Martin’s eyes narrowed.

  “Looks like it,” he confirmed. “But they’ve got no business to be over there. Unless Eiler was trying to cross the frontier over the fields. He must be crazy if he thought he could get away with that.”

  “Neither Eiler nor Henning Holtesen seem notably good examples of sanity.” Logan observed sourly.

  He stopped. The wind sang faintly, chillingly across the fields and marshes.

  Logan and Martin Slade got out. As their eyes grew accustomed to the shifting perspective, they could pick out the shape of a car, strangely tilted above the land.

  “He must have tipped into a ditch,” murmured Martin.

  “Is it Eiler?”

  “If it’s not, what is the other car doing there? If we’re too late….”


  He could not finish. A sob crackled in his throat. Then he and Logan moved off the road and slid down into the shelter of a ditch, above which was a low bank.

  Carol’s whisper came to them: “Let me come, too.”

  “No,” returned Logan. “Drive the car on, as though it had only stopped for a moment while you looked round. Take it into the cover of that tumbledown farmhouse. Wait there.”

  The car moved away, its gentle purr blown away by the wind.

  Logan said: “Let’s get closer. But don’t do anything wild until we know what’s going on.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  There were a thousand sounds across the desolate marshy country. Water in the ditches plopped and muttered gently. Reeds rustled, and the wind drew a succession of different notes from the grasses and stunted bushes.

  The wind also brought voices.

  Logan was the first to hear them. Creeping slowly forward, crouched below the bank, he stopped and put out a warning hand.

  Words in Danish, as sibilant and indistinguishable as the whispering in the reeds, came drifting down the ditch.

  Martin closed up alongside Logan.

  He put his mouth close to Logan’s right ear, and said:

  “That’s an invitation. Holtesen is there, He’s telling Eiler to come out of the car. ‘Come out and let Brentzon deal with you, Eiler’—that’s what he’s saying.”

  The dark threat of a Luger slid into Logan’s hand.

  “We don’t want any firing if we can help it,” he muttered. “Any more than Holtesen does. If we’re as close to the frontier post as you say, a gun battle is the last thing to indulge in. But I don’t want my ribs made into a pattern for Bentzon’s amusement.”

  They edged forward. Still nothing was visible. There was no further sound from Holtesen. It was like a dream—a dream in slow motion, in a landscape without colour and without life.

  Suddenly they rounded a slight bend in the ditch. Ahead of them were the tilted back wheels of a car.

  Logan stopped. Martin lay behind him, flattened against the bank. Some tiny animal splashed into the water, and faint ripples chattered for a moment below the muddy grass.

  And a dark shape moved towards the car.

  For a moment a head was silhouetted against the dark, cloud-smeared sky. It was a large, brutish head. It could have been Eiler’s, but it was not: it was the head of Bentzon.

  There was a sudden cry of terror from inside the car, and an explosion that cracked out resonantly across the silent levels. Bentzon rose to his feet and shambled quickly forward.

  Logan, sitting on his heels, gave a terrific thrust upwards and was beside Bentzon in one wild spring.

  Again a gun spoke—this time from a hundred yards away, from the shadow of the Opel, which stood on a narrow path across the fields. Logan heard the whistle of the bullet past his head. Then he had closed with Bentzon.

  They fell heavily against the side of the car. Pain lanced through Logan’s shoulder, but he dragged himself upright and swung ferociously with his right. It connected. Bentzon lost his balance, and went down on one knee.

  Logan struck him without compunction across the bridge of the nose, followed with a jab to the mouth, and toppled the man’s mighty body over towards the edge of the ditch.

  Bentzon cursed thickly, and butted with his head. Logan drove upwards with his knee and felt the crack of Bentzon’s jaw.

  Holtesen’s gun coughed again, and a bullet screamed along the top of the car.

  Martin Slade shouted something. From the corner of his eye Logan caught a glimpse of Eiler escaping from the offside door of the car and scrambling over the farther bank, clutching a large dark box. Martin sprang across the ditch; and another shape flickered across the skyline for a moment in pursuit,

  A hard fist smacked into Logan’s stomach. He sagged, twisted away from another blow, and grabbed Bentzon’s arm. The two of them were taut and motionless for a fraction of a second. Their arms locked; they strained, pitting strength against strength.

  Suddenly Logan relaxed. Bentzon swung eagerly round, his fist moving up. And Logan’s knee jabbed cruelly, his right flashed in to the jaw, and one neatly placed hook lifted Bentzon from his feet and smacked him hard against the car. The impact finished him. His knees crumpled, and he slid down to the ground.

  Logan stood back, and turned his attention at once to the three figures in the near distance. His Luger had slipped back into his pocket, but now it emerged again. There was no point in trying to be quiet any longer. Holtesen had shattered the night with bullets.

  He sprang across the ditch as Martin had done, and hastened towards the other three.

  Henning Holtesen, moving like some light-footed evil spirit, was closing in on the ungainly Eiler, who was loaded down with the priceless box. Martin was trying to intercept them, but he would never get there. Their three figures made a vague, confusing pattern against the shadowy background.

  Holtesen fired again, and for a moment there was flame against the twilight.

  Eiler lumbered on, then seemed to stagger. He faltered, and looked wildly from side to side. He was on the edge of a ditch.

  Holtesen’s thin, hysterical laugh blew across the field.

  Logan’s finger closed on the trigger of the Luger. He stopped; stood still; squeezed.

  Holtesen’s left leg crumpled. He fell forward, carried on by the impetus of his mad pursuit. Then his body seemed to curl up into a dark ball and disappear.

  There was a splash.

  Martin Slade hesitated, half turned, then went on. He launched himself in a flying tackle, and brought Eiler Nielsen down. They struggled for a moment, then Eiler groaned and lay still.

  Logan made his way towards them. He was overtaken by sudden, unexpected brightness; the beam of a powerful torch stabbed out, and there was a bellowed challenge. Martin looked up.

  “The frontier guards. We’ve got some explaining to do.”

  Logan leaned over the bank of a small pond, which opened up abruptly before them. Below, a dark shape lay half in, half out of the water. It did not move. Logan swung over, and went up to his knees in chill water. As he tried to get his hands under the motionless figure light blazed down from above,

  It shone on Henning Holtesen’s sprawled body. It struck slivers of brightness from the surface of the pond. And it showed curling red streamers, which spread slowly out below the surface of the water.

  Holtesen had plunged face downwards on a jagged wooden stake that jutted up from the bank below water level. He would not move again,

  * * * * * * *

  The clamour of voices bore down upon Logan. He struggled upright and shook his head wearily as questions rained down upon him. Behind them, penetrating through the insistent demands, was a familiar voice—Martin Slade, shouting at Eiler Nielsen.

  “Hvor er Inge?—Where is Inge?”

  * * * * * * *

  Holtesen’s body was dragged into the back seat of his own car. Two of the guards also lugged Nielsen, still unconscious, into the Opel, and bumped it across the uneven ground until they reached the road.

  The others made their way on foot towards the lights of the Customs post. Eiler Nielsen, still dazed, had to be supported most of the way.

  Inside the shed, there was a babel of voices once more. Martin took the opportunity of turning to Logan and saying:

  “Nielsen says Inge got out of the car before he ditched it. Says he told her to run for it: he didn’t think he’d get through, and he let her get away before Holtesen closed in.”

  “I hope he’s telling the truth.”

  “So do I,” said Martin savagely.

  A tall man in a dark raincoat banged on the table in the centre of the room.

  “Taler cie dansk?” he snapped.

  Martin took a deep breath, and answered in Danish. Logan studied him warily. How much would he give away; how much would have to be given away, and how much could still be concealed, even at this late stage?

 
The box containing the golden horns lay, unopened, on the table.

  The official behind it turned suddenly towards Logan and began to speak in halting English.

  “You are David Logan, the detective?”

  Logan nodded, and drew his credentials from his inner pocket. They were flicked through and then handed back with a respectful bow. Evidently Martin was playing for time and also contriving to establish their respectability.

  He went on talking. Then, again, attention was focused on Logan.

  “There is this story of a madman who murders in England…and in Copenhagen. Copenhagen we know. We hear about it. We do not yet hear about England. But it is so?”

  “It is so,” confirmed Logan.

  “You accuse the man Bentzon.”

  “I do indeed. Maybe fingerprint checks will show something. Maybe, now that his boss is dead, you can break him down by questioning. But somehow or other you must get it out of him. Bentzon’s your man all right.”

  “But why these murders? What is the reason?”

  Logan looked at Martin. Martin shrugged. Their eyes turned inevitably towards the box on the table.

  The man in the raincoat looked down.

  He opened the catch of the box, and lifted the lid. For a moment his eves widened; then he beckoned one of his colleagues forward. They stared into the interior.

  The second man said: “Turistvare.”

  Martin gasped. “Tourist ware?”

  The two men nodded. Martin took a step forward, and looked down. Logan followed him.

  Even without touching the golden horns, they knew that it was true: these were merely cheap replicas—souvenirs made for the tourist trade.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The questioning was over. A long distance call to the Copenhagen police had verified Logan’s credentials, and he had promised to get in touch with Inspector Holmboe as soon as he was back in the capital. The frontier guards seemed half baffled, half skeptical.

  To murder for the sake of a couple of imitation horns…!

  The body of Henning Holtesen lay covered up in the Customs shed. Bentzon was under guard until a police car could come and pick him up.