… And Maren had the key.
It was eleven o’clock when they reached the apartment. The street was an empty tunnel through the darkness, and the chimes in the tower had few listeners left outside their feather beds. They took the stairway up because it was quieter than a whining lift. They listened in a silent hall before turning the key, and entered into a moment of darkness before reaching for the light switch. After his encounter with the prowler, Larry didn’t know what to expect; but everything looked the same. The heavy drapes were still drawn tight, the desk was still cluttered with photographs, and everything looked as if the occupant had just stepped out for a package of cigarettes. Larry went to the desk immediately. This business of violating another man’s property was something he liked to dispose of in a hurry, particularly with Maren along to share any trouble he found. Coming along was her own idea, of course. Some women just wouldn’t listen to reason.
“I’ll be the lookout,” she’d argued. “If that prowler returns we’ll be ready for him.”
It was overoptimism, and Larry’s nerves knew it. After that last trip to Tivoli Gardens he’d never be ready for anything again; but there had to be an answer to Valdemar’s riddle somewhere, and they had to take risks to find it.
So he went to the desk immediately. “An address book would be the best bet,” he whispered, sliding open the top drawer. “Do you remember that scrap of paper with all the figures and letters on it? Three hundred—H, one hundred—V, and the rest? There was an A, too. One hundred—A. I wonder if the letter was for the first or the last name.”
Larry could wonder all he pleased, but he wasn’t going to get the answer out of that drawer. He wasn’t going to get anything but a prickling sensation at the back of his neck when a noise from behind whirled both himself and a preoccupied lookout about like a pair of puppets on a string.
The noise was a cough, polite and gentlemanly. Across the room, standing in the doorway to the hall, was a tall young man with sandy hair who wore a silk dressing gown over his pajamas and a half-smile on his face. He would have looked almost friendly if it hadn’t been for the gun in his hand.
“I thought I heard prowlers,” he said, smothering a yawn with his free hand. “I don’t know what you’re looking for this time, chum, but take it easy on that desk. I hate cleaning up other people’s messes.”
14.
LARRY DIDN’T NEED AN INTRODUCTION. ALL HE NEEDED WAS time to assimilate what his eyes saw and his ears heard. The man in the doorway was tall, lanky, and sandy-haired. He would look awfully familiar in a trench coat. But the man in the doorway had been buried last night at a private ceremony from which Maren was excluded, and exhumation was a troublesome business.
Maren had no trouble at all. “Mac!” she cried. “You’re back! You’re safe!”
She was a little thing. For a few moments she was almost lost in those silk-clad arms, and the exhumation was completed. So this was Ira McDonald! It would have been more polite to buff his fingernails or look at his shoes during this touching reunion, but Larry couldn’t take his eyes off the man. There was the matter of that revolver still gripped in his free hand, not to mention the way he stared back at Larry over Maren’s copper-colored head.
Then she drew away to look at her find at arm’s length. “When did you get back?” she demanded. “And where have you been?”
“I never left,” McDonald said.
“What?”
“I’ll explain in a minute, honey, but first I have to know about your friend. Who is he? What’s he looking for?”
It wasn’t a flattering thought, but Maren seemed to have forgotten Larry. She turned around and stared at him.
“Oh, that’s Larry Willis,” she said. “He sells farm machinery. He’s an American, too.”
In the face of such a flowery introduction, Larry couldn’t blame McDonald for laughing. “Well, I guess that makes everything all right,” he said brightly. “Go right ahead with whatever you were doing, Mr. Willis. Be my guest.”
The gun went out of sight inside the dressing-gown pocket, but Larry couldn’t go ahead with what he was doing because now he couldn’t even remember what it was. He couldn’t remember anything but the sudden knowledge that here was Ira McDonald, alive, unharmed, and quite casual about the whole thing. That was where the resemblance between Ira McDonald and Larry Willis ended. Larry had never been casual about anything in his life. Then he remembered something else, too. Something remarkable that McDonald had just said.
“You never left?” he repeated. “Do you mean to tell us that you’ve been in this apartment all the time?”
“Practically all the time,” McDonald said.
“Including last night?”
Now that Maren wasn’t using his arm any more, Ira McDonald stepped back into the hall long enough to close the door of the bedroom just behind him. That done, he came across the room and helped himself to a cigarette from a box somewhere among the clutter of his desk. His eyes did a good job of examining Larry over the flame of a lighter, and they seemed to be remembering the same thing Larry remembered.
“Yes, I was here last night,” he admitted, “except for a short time when I had to go banging out the back door to get rid of a nosy fellow in my living room.”
“But why?” Maren gasped, and only because she reached the words an instant ahead of Larry.
Ira McDonald shrugged. “I told you—to get rid of him,” he said. “I went to a lot of trouble to make sure anyone who tried to reach me would think I was out of town. I knew that you had a key, Maren, but when this character—I beg your pardon, Mr. Willis—when this gentleman walked in with no more formality than a warning knock, how was I to know he was an old fraternity brother?”
Through a cloud of smoke, the prodigal who hadn’t left home eyed Larry again.
“By the way,” he added, “now that we’re exchanging confidences, just who are you, Mr. Willis?”
“The innocent bystander,” Larry said.
“Really?”
“Really,” Maren volunteered. “Larry was standing on a corner Wednesday night when the sailor you rented the boat from ran up and called him by your name. Then the sailor put three hundred dollars in Larry’s map and was killed by the man in the black sedan.”
It must have been the excitement of finding McDonald that set her off like that. Larry appreciated the endorsement, coming as it did on the heels of a recent accusation of murder, but he had to fill in a few details to get rid of that bewildered expression on McDonald’s face. All through the details, the man in the dressing gown sat on the edge of the desk and listened, his blue eyes alert behind the plume of cigarette smoke.
“And you actually saw this sedan run down Hansen?” he asked.
Larry hesitated. “No, but I reached the scene a few minutes after it happened, and the bellboy at my hotel told me the man was struck down by a black sedan. He saw the whole thing—”
Larry’s eyes clouded. It wasn’t fair of McDonald to put doubts in his mind … not now! But then, this man on the edge of the desk didn’t know the rest of the story. He told him about the visit to headquarters, about the ugly man and the widow who wasn’t, and after that there was no more doubting.
“So they caught up with Hansen, poor devil,” McDonald said. “I was afraid something had happened to him, but I didn’t dare make an inquiry.”
“They?” Larry echoed. “Do you know that pair I saw at headquarters?”
It was too much to hope for. Much too much. Ira McDonald shook his head. “Not by name,” he said, “but I can certainly guess what they are.” He paused long enough for one last drag on the cigarette before grinding it out in an ash tray on the desk. When he looked up again, it was to face a rapt audience of two. An audience expects a performance, and McDonald had a piece to speak.
“It’s obvious that I don’t have to explain what’s behind this hide and seek routine,” he said. “If you two know about Hansen and his boat, you must know more.”
“Quite a lot more,” Larry agreed. “We’ve seen the papers.”
“Yes, those damned papers,” McDonald muttered. “It was after they came out that Hansen called me. Some man in a black sedan had been driving past the boat and had him all excited. He wanted to see me right away, but I was afraid he’d be too easy to tail by daylight. We made a date for ten o’clock, and you know what happened. I was worried when he failed to show but I didn’t dare go out looking for him. I’d seen the papers, too.”
“And received a wire from Berlin,” Larry demanded.
McDonald looked surprised until his memory started to function. “That’s right,” he recalled, “you’re the boy who goes through wastebaskets…. Yes, I got a wire from a friend in Berlin who was helping in this deal, but by that time I already knew something was wrong. When Hansen didn’t come after making all that fuss, it seemed a good time to go under cover.”
“In your own apartment?”
Some of Larry’s incredulity must have crept into his voice. Ira McDonald’s eyes were busy again. Then he looked at Maren.
“Are you sure this fellow’s all right?” he asked.
“Show him your card, Larry,” Maren said.
Larry showed the man his card, and the man read his card with one eyebrow out of line. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind, and when it was made up, the story continued.
“Sorry, Mr. Willis,” he said, “but I’ve been a little nervous lately. I guess you can understand that…. Yes, I did go under cover in my own apartment. I had no choice. I took an empty bag, called the porter to brief him on what to tell anyone who came around looking for me, and then got into my car and headed for open country. At first I merely intended to abandon it somewhere along the highway and hike back to the city under cover of darkness; but then I got the bright idea of smashing it up just to add to the general confusion. Anything you see, to divert attention from Copenhagen.”
“It diverted our attention,” Larry muttered.
“And the fat man’s,” Maren said.
“The fat man?”
The fat man was a new item to Ira McDonald. He had to be explained, and the explanation didn’t create an air of festivity.
“I don’t like it,” McDonald said. “This plot has too many heavies.”
He got up from the desk and crossed over to the hall door, opened it, and peered out at the silence. When the door closed again, he made sure the latch caught tight.
“I should have a bolt on this door,” he muttered, “but then you two wouldn’t have been able to get in, and I’ve been practically praying that Maren would remember the key I gave her. I haven’t been answering the phone for obvious reasons, and since Wednesday night I haven’t even used it to make calls. Didn’t want to run the risk of a wire tap.”
“What about Carlsberg,” Larry suggested, “didn’t you call him?”
Every time Larry asked a question he got that look again: cold, calculating, and suspicious. A man in McDonald’s kind of trouble was entitled to be careful, but it didn’t do anything for Larry’s nerves. Not when he remembered the gun in the dressing-gown pocket, and not when he remembered, as he was beginning to remember now that the shock of meeting McDonald face to face was wearing thin, a certain other unpleasantness that had taken him on this nocturnal housebreaking venture.
“So you know about Carlsberg, too,” McDonald said.
“And Sheldon Garth.”
“Garth? Oh, you mean the old man’s secretary.”
“That’s what he calls himself. I talked to him just a few hours ago. He had the idea that you’d approached Carlsberg for more money.”
“Money!”
Money was a perfectly legitimate word so far as Larry was concerned, but Ira McDonald spat it out like a new kind of profanity.
“Money isn’t what I need now,” he muttered, stalking back from the door-checking chore. “Sure, I called the old man after I got Brad’s wire and told him to keep his mouth shut until he heard from me again, but that won’t be until I work out a few answers. Now that you two have come on the scene—”
Larry had a premonition that he wasn’t going to like whatever it was McDonald was thinking. A man in trouble developed a sixth sense about those things.
“Do you know, honey,” McDonald added thoughtfully, “your friend does look a little like me at that?”
“I don’t think so,” Larry said quickly. “I can’t see the likeness at all.”
“But others have seen it, that’s the point. Hansen saw it, the man in the black sedan saw it, and your fat shadow saw it…. That’s it! Maren, I could kiss you for bringing Mr. Willis up here! He’s the answer to a prisoner’s prayer!”
It was a shame to spoil all that enthusiasm, and it was going to be spoiled because now Larry knew what was coming even before McDonald pronounced the words.
“Don’t you see?” he exclaimed. “One Ira McDonald can’t make a move without being followed, but if the bloodhounds were to follow the wrong McDonald—”
“The bloodhounds are already following the wrong McDonald,” Larry cut in, “or will be very soon, only they won’t be the same bloodhounds, and the man they’ll be looking for is named Larry Willis…. Sorry to disappoint you, McDonald, but I found you a few hours too late. Since about nine thirty tonight I’ve been a fugitive myself. That’s when I found my knife in Valdemar Brix’s chest.
It was a pretty blunt way of breaking the news. McDonald didn’t say anything for a few moments. He stood in the center of the floor and turned several shades of gray, but he didn’t say anything. Then he walked over to a portable bar against the wall and found a bottle with a little Scotch in the bottom. He didn’t offer anyone else a drink. He seemed to need it himself.
“Valdemar,” he said, “my God!”
It was tough on Maren, too, having to go through this thing again. Larry made the story as brief as possible, and while he told it certain things seemed to come clear in his mind.
“That’s why we came here tonight,” he explained, “trying to find a lead to whatever it was that brought Valdemar to his death. He must have learned something. He must have stumbled onto someone…. By the way, McDonald, did you hike back from that automobile wreck, or did you ride a bicycle?”
McDonald drained his glass before he turned around. He looked bewildered and a little annoyed.
“What kind of question is that?” he asked.
“An important question. A bicycle disappeared from Tante Gerda’s farm the night of your wreck. Apparently Valdemar appropriated another cycle and headed back for the city as soon as he heard about it.”
“All right, I took the cycle,” McDonald admitted. “What does that prove?”
“It doesn’t prove anything, but it makes for some interesting speculation. Maren, do you remember saying something about the possibility of that car being deliberately wrecked, when we were talking about driving to the farm, I mean.”
Maren’s frown deepened, then disappeared in a moment of remembrance.
“Why, yes,” she said, “and Valdemar said it was an interesting possibility.”
“Exactly. After that he lost interest in the trip. The missing bicycle tipped him off. In case you’re still wondering what this is all about, McDonald, I think Valdemar Brix guessed that you’d never left Copenhagen. I think that’s why he knew all the answers were here.”
McDonald was beginning to get his color back. “All right, I’m trying to follow you,” he said. “What next?”
What next? That was the tough one. Larry had only one suggestion at the moment, and he knew it wouldn’t be the right one.
“He didn’t come here?” he asked.
“Here?” McDonald almost choked on the word. “I’ve spent forty-eight hours locked up in this apartment just waiting for a friendly face, someone I could trust. If Valdemar had come here this evening, Maren would have heard from me long ago.”
“Then he must have gone to the princess,” Larry said.
As a statement it didn’t make much sense; but as an attention-getter it was more effective. McDonald stopped frowning at his empty glass and stared at Larry.
“Princess?” he echoed. “What princess?”
His words were just a repeat of Larry’s own reaction, and that was all wrong because this was the man who was supposed to know the answers. Up until a few hours ago, finding Ira McDonald was all Larry asked of life; but now it wasn’t enough. Now he needed a murderer to stand in for him when Martinus Sorensen saw that knife. But McDonald didn’t know any more about a princess in a fairy tale than anybody else, and his declaration of the fact only added to the gloom of a night that didn’t know how to end.
And the news of Valdemar’s death seemed to have come hard. He tried to squeeze another drink out of the Scotch bottle and had to settle for a couple of swallows. In the meantime, Larry kept on firing questions that didn’t hit anything. Who was Hansen’s widow, for instance, and what about the girls who attended Carlsberg’s dinner party?
McDonald looked blank. “Girls?” he said. “Gad, man, that was weeks ago! Who remembers the names of girls like that? I just hire them to entertain my clients.”
“Then you must hire them from someplace.”
“Yes, I suppose I must.”
An empty glass wasn’t doing McDonald any good. He put it down on the bar top and moved over toward his desk. Then he stopped, as if he’d started to do something and suddenly forgotten what it was.
“Look, Willis,” he said, “I’m sure there’s a good reason for these questions you keep asking me, but right now I can’t think so straight. You come in here and announce that Holger Hansen is dead. Then you tell me Valdemar has a knife in his heart. I realize this puts you in a spot, but I’m in kind of a spot myself.”
“But not alone,” Larry said.
McDonald stared at him as if he hadn’t heard right.
“That’s what I’m driving at,” Larry added. “I may not know my way around the way you do, but I’ve got sense enough to know that it takes more than a couple of men and a fishing boat to rescue a man like General Yukov from an iron-curtain prison. It takes a whole organization.”
Stranger in the Dark Page 12
