“I don’t know,” Larry said.
Garth didn’t believe him. The disbelief was written all over his big face. “Look, Mr. Willis, I’ve trusted you—” he began.
“And I’m telling you the truth!” Larry shouted. “I’d be questioning Valdemar right this minute if I knew where to find him. I just don’t know! I don’t know where he is!”
Larry was beginning to get angry again. He was beginning to remember how much he disliked having somebody break into his room and give him a cross-examination. Off in the distance the bells started ringing in that tower again, and he suddenly realized that he didn’t like bells any more. Bells didn’t always sound happy. Bells rang for funerals too.
And then something happened that made him a liar just the way Garth’s eyes suggested. The telephone rang. He answered, and it was Valdemar.
Valdemar sounded very happy. It might have been the power of Maren’s suggestion, but he sounded as if he’d been dipping into that cognac bottle.
“Ah, Herre Willis,” he cooed over the wire, “you have returned from your outing in the country. I trust you enjoyed the scenery.”
“I trust you enjoyed the exercise,” Larry growled. “What was the big idea?”
“But I told you, that is, I told Chris. Didn’t you get my message?”
“I got it. Are you feeling better now that the atmosphere is more cultural?”
“Oh, much better, thank you. And it’s much more cultural. That’s why I called you. I was sitting alone at a table outside Divan One—”
“Divan what?” Larry echoed.
“Divan One. One … as in what comes before two. It’s a restaurant here at Tivoli. So, I was sitting alone enjoying a wonderful dinner in lovely surroundings, and I suddenly remembered my dear friend, Herre Willis. Such a terrible holiday he is having, I thought. Is this the way we treat a stranger in Copenhagen? In a moment I had left my table and sought out a telephone.”
“Thanks,” Larry muttered. “Thanks for the memory.”
“As you Americans say, you’re very welcome,” Valdemar replied. “Now, how soon can you get here?”
“Get where?”
“At my table, of course. You’re to be my guest, Herre Willis. Dinner, wine, cognac … everything. Never let it be said that Valdemar Brix is not a good host!”
Valdemar must have dipped awfully deep into that cognac; his generosity was overpowering. But Sheldon Garth still stood at the door with his ears pointed out and his eyebrows pointed down. Larry had a suspicion that the invitation didn’t include extras, and he was right.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t get away right now,” he said.
“You aren’t alone?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then you must get rid of your company and come as soon as possible,” Valdemar said. “And be sure that you come by nine thirty, at the latest, otherwise you may miss meeting the princess.”
“The princess?” Larry echoed. “What princess?”
“The princess in the fairy tale. This is the land of fairy tales, you know. Childishly simple fairy tales…. I’ll be waiting at my table.”
Pickled in cognac! Valdemar was talking in riddles again, but he didn’t talk long enough. A click on the line told Larry the conversation was over, and he was left staring at the phone with just a lot of silence that began to get awkward when he realized Garth was watching him.
“A—a girl,” he said weakly, dropping the phone back in the cradle. “A girl I met in the lobby. She wants me to take her to dinner.”
Garth didn’t believe a faltering word of it. “You must work fast, Mr. Willis,” he said. “With all the things that have been happening to you, I wouldn’t think you’d have time to pick up girls.”
Larry smiled miserably. “You know how it is. A stranger in town gets lonely.”
“And foolish.”
Maybe Garth was right. Valdemar was supposed to be an actor, wasn’t he? He might not be drunk at all, and “the princess” could be just a fancy name for one of the comrades who liked to play tag with speeding automobiles. But nobody could play tag in Tivoli Gardens, and there were a few questions Larry wanted to ask Valdemar Brix without anyone’s assistance.
Garth waited a few seconds longer, but by this time even he knew that he wasn’t going to be invited to the party.
“All right, play the lone wolf if you want to,” he muttered, “but if you change your mind I’d still like to find McDonald before the Commies get to him.”
Larry waited for a good ten minutes after Sheldon Garth’s departure and then checked on the hall. It was empty but that didn’t mean much. If Garth intended to tag along, he’d probably wait in the lobby where he could watch the elevator. Larry took the stairs. He took them carefully, down three flights and then a quick bypass by way of the dining-room exit. He even made a fast check of the diners in passing, but apparently the fat man was stoking his groceries somewhere else tonight.
Forgotten now was the call to Sorensen. A few blocks away Valdemar Brix was feeling generous, and maybe his tongue was generous too. Some men needed a lot of lubrication before they got confidential. Larry walked rapidly, no longer needing a guidebook map or the eager directing of young Viggo. Once he stopped to look behind him, but there was nothing unusual about the street. No sinister-looking man in a black sedan, no shoulders the width of Sheldon Garth’s. Where the wide boulevard crossed the square he turned right and merged with the crowd headed for the bright marquees and the overflowing sidewalk cafés. It was Friday night, and he wondered if Friday was date night in Copenhagen the same as it was at home. Date night for young people, that is. For people a lot younger than Larry Willis had ever found time to be. But now he was at the main entrance to Tivoli Gardens with more serious things to consider. How to find one particular restaurant out of a score or more, for instance. How to locate a man he had to see about a murder.
“Divan One? Straight ahead, sir. Between the Glass Concert Hall and the Pantomime Theater.”
Thanks to the man at the turnstile, Larry solved his first problem with no more trouble than it took to edge through a pleasure-seeking crowd and all its pleasures; but a sea of little tables fanned out from the restaurant, and each one of them seemed to be lighted by fireflies….
… He didn’t see Valdemar at once. First he saw the cognac bottle, the glasses, and the plate of half-peeled fruit. It was only when he came very close that Larry saw Valdemar sitting quietly in the chair with three inches of steel buried in his heart.
13.
SOMEWHERE IN THE DISTANCE AN ORCHESTRA STRUCK UP THE first wild strains of an overture. It was lively and loud, but not half so loud as the drum pounding against Larry’s ribs. He sank down on the empty chair next to Valdemar and stared dumbly at the handle of the knife that protruded from his chest. There was no need for more light to make out the lettering on that handle. It might as well have been inscribed with his name and passport number.
Valdemar looked quite contented. His chin had dropped down on the knot of his shabby tie, and the stem of an almost empty brandy glass was still clutched in the fingers of one dead hand. He slid forward a little when Larry grabbed blindly for the knife, and the warm blood trickled down the front of his white shirt. But the knife was buried to the hilt. It would take strength—and privacy—to get it out.
Strength, Larry had, but not privacy.
“Your change, sir. I’m sorry, but we must give all change in kroner.”
The waiter must have come on tiptoe, or maybe it was just that drum against Larry’s ribs that drowned out his approach. Another brandy glass was on the table. He grabbed it and leaned close to the dead man. Two old cronies hanging one on together, that’s how it must look to the waiter. He didn’t even glance at the tray that was placed at his elbow.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Nothing,” Larry muttered. “Not now.”
He held his breath for an agonizing moment until the waiter moved on, but now Larry w
as conscious of more than a dead man with the most terrible of weapons buried in his heart. All about him were scores of people clinking their glasses and making happy noises by the firefly light. It reminded him of murder in the plural, a public street, a public park. The technique was the same. This was the work of a killer who liked company while he worked, a killer who must have sat in this very chair and drunk from this very glass!
The glass seemed alive when it sprang from Larry’s hand. He watched it roll crazily across the table and drop out of sight in the darkness below. His fingerprints were on that glass, on the knife handle, too, and no chance now of wrenching the blade free, this side of disaster. Valdemar tipped forward again, and Larry shoved the plate of fruit to one side. With just a little guidance, his faintly smiling face came to rest on the table between the bottle of cognac and the glass in his outstretched hand. That’s how Larry left him, obviously feeling no pain.
It was sad about Valdemar. It was sad about the fairy tale he’d never tell. But it was also sad about Larry Willis, who suddenly realized that murder is such an educational experience. Mix with murder and a man learns to run, to hide, to get lost in a milling crowd. He learns to start at the sight of a uniform, and to search the happy faces for a glimpse of an ugly man who didn’t seem to care how the bodies piled up along the way. Through the numbness and terror a new riddle was itching at his mind—why Valdemar? For Hansen’s death there was a reason, even a stranger in the dark could see that now, but why Valdemar? If the man hadn’t talked in riddles, there might be an answer; but Valdemar Brix had stolen a bicycle and made a long ride back to Copenhagen before inviting a man to dinner. Somewhere in those several hours of unaccounted for time there must be an answer.
Larry took the riddle with him on the nightmare walk. He saw a white-clad ballerina with stars in her hair delight an audience that applauded inaudibly; he saw an orchestra labor over instruments that made no sound. He saw everything and nothing, because nothing was real but the drum of his heart and the panic that sent him out into the street blind and deaf and without direction.
Why Valdemar, and what now?
“No, not Valdemar!” Maren cried. “Not dear Valdemar, too!”
For some things there were no words. Grope and fumble, stumble along the dark streets with dread for a shadow until the bell-tower chimes broke through the silence to remind you that a girl was waiting; but when the time came for telling what must be told there were no words, only hammer blows.
Larry was late. It was long past the time of meeting when he found his way, and God alone knew how, to Maren’s apartment.
“Larry!” she scolded, at the sight of him. “Where have you been. I called your hotel three times!”
And then she saw the look of his face as he leaned back against the door, exhausted, and fell silent. It was Larry’s cue, and he had no words for death.
Afterward, he had to wait for her tears….
The kind thing would have been to let her alone, let her sob out her grief, shout it out, or wear it out with silence; but murder wasn’t a kind thing, and a man with a time limit on his freedom couldn’t indulge in courtesy. Larry could only guess how long it might be before Martinus Sorensen saw that knife with its telltale inscription and remembered a man who left his card when he visited police headquarters. A few hours, perhaps. Until morning, or, with luck, a little longer. That left little time to find a murderer, and no time at all for mourning tears.
He drew close to Maren again.
“There’s something I have to ask you,” he began softly. “Maren, who was Valdemar Brix?”
She turned and stared at him as if he were still a stranger.
“He wasn’t an actor,” Larry said.
“Why do you say that?”
“I didn’t say it, Sheldon Garth did. He was with me when Valdemar called. He’d come to check up on me just as he’d already checked on you and Valdemar, only Valdemar didn’t check. Garth said he wasn’t known at any theatrical agency in the city.”
It was a bad time for such questions. A kind of fury sprang into her eyes.
“So it’s still Valdemar!” she cried. “Even now, even when he’s dead!”
“Maren, please—”
“Even when he’s been murdered himself!”
She pulled loose and started to back away. “Of course the agencies don’t remember Valdemar,” she said. “How could they after all these years? … And you’re right, he wasn’t an actor. He wasn’t an actor, or a painter, or a sculptor, or any of those things he talked about. He was a pianist.”
She’d backed away until she stood pressed against the opposite wall. Now she held up her hands and stared hard at them. “A pianist,” she repeated. “Oh, I can remember how he used to practice out in the old studio on the farm! I was only a child, but I remember. Valdemar wasn’t much more than a child himself when Father found him. He was a music teacher, my father, and Valdemar was his most promising pupil…. But that was a long time ago. Long before the invasion.”
Maren’s hands dropped to her sides. Her voice, when it came again, was like a dead echo.
“They broke his fingers, one by one. My brother was killed and my father imprisoned, but not because of anything Valdemar told them. Not one word did he tell them, not a single word. And so, one by one, finger by finger—”
“Maren, stop!”
Larry’s voice was like a slap across the mouth. She shouldn’t have smiled at him, but she did.
“What’s the matter, Herre Willis, can’t you bear to hear about it?” she taunted. “After all, you did ask.”
It hurt, what she was saying. It hurt even more when Larry remembered that Valdemar might still be alive if he hadn’t wasted precious time getting rid of Sheldon Garth before answering that summons to Tivoli. Hadn’t the man warned him against playing the lone wolf? But regret wouldn’t help a dead man, and it sure wouldn’t help Larry Willis.
“I could hear about it all night if it would bring back Valdemar’s life or put his killer in our hands,” he said, “but I can’t bear watching you torture yourself. Valdemar is dead. It’s a terrible thing, but we’ve got to accept it because somewhere in this city there’s a killer who may strike again. Garth mentioned that tonight. He admitted that Otto Carlsberg financed McDonald’s escape plan, Maren, just as we thought; but now the old man’s too frightened to confide in anyone. He hasn’t said anything about it, but Garth thinks he’s heard from McDonald.”
Any kind of hope was better than the grief and burned-out anger in Maren’s eyes. He let her hold it in silence for a moment.
“He thinks McDonald needs more money,” Larry added, “and has contacted Carlsberg in order to get it. I suggested following the old man if he makes a move, but Garth pointed out that a few others might be doing the same thing. What it boils down to is that we have to find McDonald before he makes his whereabouts known to Carlsberg and sets a trap for himself, and now there’s very little time. I gave my card to Sorensen yesterday, the one with the Prairie State advertising. Sooner or later he’s going to see that knife and remember me.”
Larry should have stopped when he was ahead. There was nothing left of her anger but ashes until he stirred it up.
“That’s what really worries you, isn’t it?” she challenged. “That’s what has worried you all this time—not Hansen’s death but your getting stuck with his money; not Valdemar’s murder, but your knife—”
“All right!” Larry shouted.
“—and not Mac’s safety, but your neck!”
“All right, I said!”
Why did she have to stand there thinking what Valdemar would have thought, looking the way Valdemar would have looked, and saying the things Valdemar would have said? Why did she have to keep reminding him that he’d been a fool too long?
“Sure, I’m worried about my neck,” he admitted. “I’m not a noble martyr like Valdemar or a daring hero like Ira McDonald. I’m just a dull guy who has hayseeds in his hair and works for a liv
ing, but that doesn’t stop me from being right just this once. These people play for keeps, Maren. After tonight you should know that without me telling you.”
She’d begun to look sorry already. It helped a little to remember that a person who has been struck hard sometimes strikes back at anything or anyone.
“What can I do?” she asked weakly.
“Stop resenting me because I’m alive and Valdemar isn’t,” Larry said. “Stop calling me ‘Herre Willis’ and getting angry just because I asked a simple question. I had a reason for asking about Valdemar. Can’t you see? If we can learn where he went and what he did after leaving us this afternoon, we may be able to learn what it was he wanted to tell me tonight.”
Larry paused, suddenly arrested by his own words. What was it Valdemar had said?
“… The princess,” he murmured. “Maren, did you ever hear Valdemar refer to anyone as ‘the princess'?”
His argument must have carried weight. She considered carefully before answering.
“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because of something he said over the phone. I thought at the time that he was just drunk, but now I’m not so sure. He said for me to join him before nine thirty or I might miss meeting the princess. I asked what he meant, but he just made some crazy remark about a princess in a fairy tale. It just occurred to me that it might be a nickname.”
Instead of being enlightened, Maren looked even more puzzled.
“What about McDonald?” he suggested. “Could it be one of his friends … or clients?”
“The princess,” she repeated. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Mac mention anyone like that.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“Oh, Larry, please! I’m not sure of anything just now!”
It was nice to have the first name back in use again, and a very good omen, too, because now Larry was remembering something else. Last night he’d gone looking for McDonald and come back with a pocketful of clues, but maybe he’d missed a few by chasing after that prowler. An address book, perhaps, or a photograph (and that desk was crowded with photographs) signed by a “princess.” It was a wild hope, but a man fast running out of time couldn’t afford to be conservative.
Stranger in the Dark Page 11
