“Of course not,” he shot back over his shoulder. “A friend of mine is a great admirer of your product, Mr. Carlsberg. I wanted your autograph for my cocker spaniel.”
Then he left, suddenly, slamming that door behind him.
Take a random thought at midnight. Mull it over in the mind all night, work on it through the day, nurse it along past twilight. Take a random thought and turn it into an obsession. Larry knew where he had to go when he left Carlsberg’s suite in even more of a hurry than his previous departure. He’d given Sheldon Garth a riddle to ponder, and perhaps he’d solved it, but it was a dangerous riddle. A deadly riddle. Valdemar had died of it, and Garth had disappeared.
And so Larry knew where he had to go now that it was dark and the shadows would cover his face. He grabbed the nearest elevator going down and crossed the lobby quickly. Was that the fat man lurking near the entrance? From the back all fat men looked alike, and Larry couldn’t risk a front view now, but he hoped it was the fat man. Let him tail Carlsberg for a while. Let him have a good wild-goose chase for his trouble. But please, Lord, keep him away from Larry Willis just a few hours longer….
It took a mustering of nerve to go back inside Tivoli Gardens after what had happened last night. It seemed there should be some scars, some remembrance that violence had occurred here. Back home they’d have a rope around the table where Valdemar died, and an overflow crowd of the curious would come to stare and halfway hope another body would drop from some dark corner; but Tivoli was an old veteran who’d seen many scars, and everything seemed just the same. Larry lingered at the gates, studying the program on the posters and mustering up the nerve. Then he went inside to have a dinner he’d missed last night. His appetite was lagging, but there was nothing weak about his curiosity. When a man’s been invited to meet a princess, he should at least have curiosity.
The princess in the fairy tale. Larry thought about her long and carefully while the night grew deeper and the colored lights glowed brighter against the velvet sky. He sat at one of the little tables not twenty feet from the place where Valdemar drank his cognac and peeled his fruit. Come by nine thirty at the latest, Valdemar said, otherwise you may miss meeting the princess. When a man’s been invited to meet a princess he should at least be prompt. Larry waited, lingering over his coffee. The place, the time—all he needed now was the girl. Something must have happened at nine thirty to put a knife in Valdemar’s heart. Something must have happened to make the whole story beautifully clear to a man who hadn’t lived to share the tale. Larry thought about it a long time until it seemed that he knew exactly what it was and why Valdemar had to die in the darkness with a glass in his hand and a smile on his face.
It was almost time.
“Check, please,” Larry asked the waiter.
The sound of happy laughter drifted in across the grass. The sound of happy talk and the sound of clinking glasses. Have another drink, Valdemar Brix. Have one more while you’re waiting for a foolish American who gets everything wrong. The bottle is handy. Have another drink and spin out your fairy tale.
The waiter came back, and Larry placed a bill on his tray. “I beg your pardon,” the waiter said, “but this is twenty dollars. Perhaps you would prefer to use something smaller. We must give all change in kroner, you see.”
Larry smiled in the darkness. The overture was starting. He recognized the music because it kept time with that drum at his ribs.
Have another drink, Valdemar Brix. Have several. The cognac is free.
18.
IT WAS MUCH LATER WHEN LARRY PAUSED OUTSIDE THE DOOR of Ira McDonald’s apartment—but not late enough. He glanced at his watch and then took one of the calling cards from his wallet. The signal was three short knocks, and the time was midnight; arriving an hour early called for special treatment. He used the three short knocks for a starter and then slipped the card under the door. After a brief wait, the door opened cautiously.
“Willis!” McDonald gasped. “What are you doing here at this hour? What’s wrong?”
It wasn’t exactly a red-carpet welcome, but Larry pushed his way inside and closed the door behind him. Ira McDonald was dressed for travel. He wore an expensive flannel jacket with a stubby pipe nosing up from the breast pocket, and his pale slacks were just right for the climate in Rome. He looked puzzled and a long way from pleased.
“I got lonesome,” Larry said. “I decided to wait here until time to pick up Maren.”
McDonald frowned. “But what if you were followed?” he asked.
Larry didn’t answer. In lieu of an invitation, he helped himself to a chair—but he crossed over to the desk to do it. He’d never quite gotten around to examining that photographic collection, and it seemed highly interesting now that he knew what to look for. “I’m a man who has to keep busy,” he mused, swinging his swivel chair in an arc before the photos. “Today’s been quite a strain on me. Still, it’s good to have time to think now and then. Saves a lot of trouble sometimes.”
He could feel McDonald’s eyes on him even before he looked up. He knew how the man must feel. He’d felt the same way when Valdemar spoke in riddles.
“Do you know what I’ve been doing tonight, Mac?” he went on. “You don’t mind if I call you Mac, do you? After all, we’re fellow countrymen—or maybe you’d rather not be reminded of that.”
“What the devil do you mean?” McDonald snapped.
Larry shrugged. “You never know,” he said. “Sometimes an American lives abroad so long he doesn’t feel comfortable with the folks from home; they’re too common, too uncultured. But that’s what I started to tell you. Tonight I went back to Tivoli Gardens for some of that culture Valdemar recommended. It wasn’t bad at all. Very educational, in fact.” Larry paused to study one of the photographs at closer range. It was autographed in a very friendly manner, just as he expected. “Two performances nightly,” he mused, “and the last one starts a little after nine thirty. I finally made it, Mac.”
It seemed that McDonald should say something. After a calculating silence, even he seemed to know that.
“That’s fine!” he said. “I’m glad you’ve been enjoying yourself, but what if the police had spotted you there? If you were to be picked up now, it would ruin the whole plan.”
“I don’t like the plan,” Larry said.
“You what?”
“I don’t like the plan. I didn’t like it last night, either, but I was too upset over finding Valdemar’s body to think straight. I’ve done a lot of thinking since. As for the police, I saw Sorensen just a few hours ago, and he didn’t lay a hand on me. He can’t. Sheldon Garth has my knife.”
The spun-glass lampshades gave a bright, clear light that accented every line and shadow in Ira McDonald’s face. Sometimes a face could be more eloquent than a tongue, and Larry needed both eyes to see what McDonald wasn’t saying.
“Carlsberg’s secretary!” he gasped. “What’s he doing with your knife?”
“Looking for you,” Larry said. “It was pretty obvious last night that he thought I knew more than I told him. He followed me to Tivoli and took the knife from Valdemar’s body to use as a threat to make me talk.”
“You didn’t!”
“I couldn’t. I ducked out on him this morning, but he was going to check back with me later. He hasn’t shown up.”
Swift relief flooded McDonald’s face. “That’s a break,” he said. “Garth’s a nosy devil. Means well, of course, but he could spoil everything.”
“That’s what I thought,” Larry said.
It must have been the way he said it. Something spoiled the relief in McDonald’s face so that it came up flushed under that white light.
“And he still can,” Larry added. “You see, Mac, Garth hasn’t shown up anywhere today, and the old man’s worried. So worried that he’s called in the police.”
“The police! Carlsberg?”
“Carlsberg,” Larry said. “He’s got Sorensen combing the city for Garth right now.”
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McDonald looked shaken in the brief glimpse Larry had of his face before he turned abruptly and headed for the liquor cabinet. He must have needed that drink he was getting, because the bottles and the glasses seemed to be making an awful lot of noise.
“The last time I saw Garth, he was combing the city looking for you,” Larry said. “He didn’t find you, by any chance?”
“Find me?” McDonald sputtered. “Are you crazy?”
“I don’t think so…. And if you’re getting a drink for me, Mac, make sure it isn’t cognac. Too much free cognac can give a man a terrible case of heartburn.”
McDonald swung around with an empty glass in his hand and an unconcealed glare on his face. For a moment it seemed the time Larry was watching for had come, but the hand McDonald sent into his coat pocket came back with a handkerchief to wipe off the excess moisture from his upper lip. The motion dislodged Larry’s card, and it drifted to the floor like a little white ticket to trouble.
“Is that the way Valdemar got in last night?” Larry asked.
“Valdemar?” McDonald echoed. “Do you think Valdemar was here?”
“He had to be here,” Larry said. “He had to make contact some way, and you wouldn’t answer the phone. But Valdemar knew you were here, Mac. He knew all along that Ira McDonald was a complete phony—”
“Now, wait a minute, Willis!”
“No, you wait! You’re going to have lots of time for it!”
Larry was on his feet again. Some things had to be said standing up. Some things had to be said from a position where a man could defend himself in case the discussion suddenly dropped to a lower plane.
“Because Ira McDonald was a complete phony, he couldn’t have engineered a legitimate operation of any kind,” he insisted, “particularly something as big as the escape of General Yukov. He couldn’t have played cloak and dagger on that fishing boat, and he couldn’t be hiding out in terror of his life. But, being a showman, Ira McDonald could take advantage of a timely news break and stall off Carlsberg until the make-believe Yukov, who missed the boat Tuesday night, could be found and sent on to Copenhagen…. When did he get in, Mac? Today? Tonight?”
Ira McDonald looked like a man who had just lost his trousers in public. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he yelled.
“I’m talking about Carlsberg’s yacht,” Larry said. “It sails at midnight, and I don’t think it’s sailing without something to show for the old man’s ten thousand dollars. Or is it more by this time? A smart operator like Ira McDonald should realize how much more valuable the merchandise is after all the free advertizing it’s been getting in the press.”
“Carlsberg’s yacht?” Slow comprehension began to spread across McDonald’s face. He should have reacted with anger at that open hint of larceny, but instead he actually laughed. “So that’s what’s got you so jumpy,” he said. “Of course Carlsberg sails at midnight, but only as a decoy! After you and Maren left last night, I got the brilliant idea of calling the old man and setting up a fake rendezvous at sea. If the phone was tapped, the call would draw off the watchers; if not, the sailing would do the trick.”
McDonald paused and then laughed again. “You poor devil,” he added. “You must have thought I was turning Yukov over to the old man after all, and leaving you to face a murder charge alone.”
If a couple of quick, nervous laughs could make everything right, McDonald didn’t have a worry in the world. But McDonald was too anxious. He’d missed the whole point.
“You weren’t listening,” Larry said. “That’s not what I said at all, although I did think something of the sort at first. That was before I started listening to Valdemar Brix. He’d told me the whole story, you see. I just had to decode his way of talking and put it all together.
“And he did come here last night. I know that now. I can even guess the approximate time he came—two performances, nightly, Mac, and Valdemar had to steal a bicycle to make sure he’d get back to the city in time for the first one. Of course, he didn’t have to see it through. All he had to do was recognize a girl you brought to Carlsberg’s party, and then he could come to you. Not to tell what he knew—Valdemar was too clever for that—but to say just enough to lure you into the gardens at nine thirty so I could meet my double face to face and also identify Hansen’s widow. I can imagine that Valdemar had quite a dramatic scene planned for the moment when we all came together; but one of his guests arrived early.”
McDonald paled, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t get a chance.
“The thing to remember about Valdemar is what he’d learned yesterday afternoon,” Larry continued. “He learned about a sedan wrecked on Highway One, he learned where a policeman spent his off-duty hours, and he heard an old man’s complaint of a stolen bicycle—”
“I explained about the bicycle last night!” McDonald interrupted.
“So you did,” Larry said, “but you didn’t explain why you had to wreck your car, not the real reason. I’d have known as soon as Valdemar if I’d been wise to Ira McDonald, because the simple truth is that I never saw the car that killed Holger Hansen. I saw a black sedan tailing him, and when an eyewitness to the accident described the car that had swung around the corner to strike him down, I took it for granted that it was the same black sedan. But it couldn’t have been the same sedan, Mac, because what I saw took place on a corner nearly two blocks from the scene of the accident … and even a bright-eyed boy like little Viggo wouldn’t have noticed a turn that far away. I realized that when I talked to him again this evening. It’s remarkable what a man can learn when he stops believing what he thought he saw and just believes what he can hold in his hand.”
What Larry held in his hand was a long gray envelope filled with Hansen’s grief. Sheldon Garth was responsible for fitting that piece into the picture. Sometimes it took a lot of carpenters to build a gallows.
“Hansen’s three hundred dollars,” he said. “Why did he stuff it inside my map, Mac? Excited as he was, that was no accident. No, Hansen had to get rid of this money. Hansen was a Dane. Kroner in his wallet were all right, but three hundred dollars in his pocket meant that he’d been doing business with an American, and after what he’d seen in the evening papers that didn’t seem a very healthy occupation. Your little boat ride might have been innocent enough, but the man in the black sedan didn’t know that. If he caught up with Hansen, no denial would have been convincing. But he didn’t catch up with him, that’s the whole point. The man in the black sedan followed Hansen because he wanted information, and Hansen could talk only if he was alive. But a dead man couldn’t tell anyone the truth about that boat ride, not even Otto Carlsberg. A dead man couldn’t speak a word to ruin a ten-thousand-dollar hoax.”
The pause was for measuring the lines and shadows in Ira McDonald’s face again. There would be a moment when they passed beyond the stage of shocked surprise.
“What I finally got through my head,” Larry added, “was the fact that you owned a black sedan, too, Mac; but you didn’t drive yours to police headquarters the day after Hansen’s death and park it under the eyes of officers who were looking for the vehicle that struck a man hard enough to kill him. A blow like that would do a lot of damage to a light car. The best way to hide the evidence was to complete the wrecking job.”
“McDonald was always an extravagant fellow,” Valdemar murmured approvingly. “Perhaps he got a scratch on the paint and didn’t like it any more.”
Larry had given up trying to argue with a dead man. Only Ira McDonald could do that now.
“So you think I killed Hansen!” he yelled.
“And Valdemar,” Larry said. “He couldn’t have invited me to dinner if he hadn’t expected a windfall, say about a hundred dollars’ worth. After all, he needed some pretext to get you to come to the gardens, and a slight threat if you didn’t pay up would have done the trick. But he didn’t collect. Maren says the police found only a few kroner on his body, and yet, somebody paid for that cognac a
nd paid in a foreign currency. I was at the table when the waiter brought the change. He made that regulation apology for the kroner.
“But the pay-off, Mac, the real clincher that I missed last night because I was scared out of my wits at the time, is that the waiter didn’t give the change to Valdemar—he gave it to me. He even asked if I wanted to order anything else, just as if I’d done the ordering before. An awful lot of people seem to mistake me for Ira McDonald in a dim light.”
There was nothing dim about the light now, literally or figuratively. It was time for the trouble to start. It was time for McDonald to do something more than wad a damp handkerchief in his hands and stare at the modernistic wall clock behind Larry’s shoulder as if he still expected to go somewhere. Maybe he was stunned, or maybe he just thought Larry Willis was such a big, stupid hick he could still be talked into buying himself a pair of iron bracelets.
“That’s quite a story,” he said, at last, “but can you prove any of it?”
“Can you disprove it?” Larry asked.
“I don’t have to!”
“Oh, but you do! You have to convince me that it’s really necessary to go through with this hocus-pocus at the airport tomorrow morning. You have to talk fast, Mac, and don’t forget to throw in that line about what might happen to Maren if I don’t co-operate, because right now I think this whole operation is just a fancy scheme to get her off to Rome with you and leave me holding the due bill for Valdemar’s murder…. Where’s the notorious general? Still pounding his ear?”
Larry started toward the hall, the eyes on that closed door he’d never been able to open.
“What are you driving at?” McDonald roared. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“The bedroom,” Larry said. “Why do you keep that door closed all the time?”
“I told you last night!”
“You told me, yes, you showed me, no. I should at least be entitled to look at the reason I’m putting my head in a noose.”
Stranger in the Dark Page 16
