Stranger in the Dark

by Nielsen, Helen

  “Tak,” said the fat man, and put a whistle to his lips. This was how the police found Otto Carlsberg’s secretary.

  20.

  “… AND SO YOU SEE, HERRE WILLIS, WE WERE WATCHING you all the time,” Martinus Sorensen said. “By accident at first. When Ira McDonald failed to deliver the general to Carlsberg’s yacht, as we knew he planned to do, we sent out an alarm. An American of his description was reported as having just registered at your hotel, and I sent Thorkild to investigate; but after watching you in the dining room he reported back that Herre Willis was not Ira McDonald. Thorkild is a very observing man.”

  Thorkild smiled, and the gold caps gleamed. Then he went back to work on an open-faced sandwich that rather frightened Larry. He doubted that everything on it was completely dead.

  “But when you walked into headquarters the following morning and began to ask questions about Holger Hansen,” Sorensen added, “we were really puzzled.”

  “I can imagine,” Larry said, “especially when I said that I was looking for a friend named McDonald.”

  “Exactly! Perhaps there is more to this man Willis than meets the eye, we decided. Perhaps we should keep him under surveillance…. What do you think of the akvavit, Herre Willis?”

  Larry wasn’t sure. Maybe he didn’t have the right technique. He kept watching Thorkild, but it was difficult to know whether the beer was a chaser for the akvavit or the akvavit was a chaser for the beer. After a few more tries it probably wouldn’t matter one way or the other, but before reaching that happy state he wanted to get a few details cleared up. It was disturbing to be somewhat of a hero without knowing why.

  “And did Thorkild follow me to that American bar, or was he tailing Miss Lund?” he asked.

  “Miss Lund,” Sorensen answered. “We knew, of course, that she was a friend of McDonald’s, and thought we might discover where he’d gone by watching her. We did a rather thorough job of checking the man as soon as he started keeping company with a certain ballerina who had long been a known agent of—shall we say—a foreign power?”

  “A known agent!” Larry gasped.

  The surprise in his voice only added to the sparkle in Martinus Sorensen’s blue eyes. “Of course,” he said. “Anna has been very useful to us for some time, though I’m afraid her usefulness is over now. Because of her we became interested in Ira McDonald, because of Ira McDonald we became interested in Larry Willis—”

  “And because of Larry Willis you now have General Yukov!” Maren concluded triumphantly.

  It was sweet of Maren to be so enthusiastic, particularly after what she’d just gone through. Losing an old friend was bad enough; learning the truth about a man she might have married was even worse. Larry polished off another akvavit and smiled at her. If his teeth had been gold-capped they would have gleamed just like Thorkild’s.

  “Because of Larry Willis we now have General Yukov,” Sorensen repeated solemnly, “unmasked. That’s what we were trying to establish, actually. The way important people are coming through the iron curtain these days one would suspect it is more of a steel sieve. To appear genuine, Yukov had to make something of a dramatic entrance, and what better way than through the foolish scheme of Ira McDonald? No, not for one moment did we believe the man was actually responsible for Yukov’s escape! But had that escape been engineered by anti-Communists using McDonald as an innocent tool, or was it the work of Communists doing the same thing? When Hansen was killed, it began to look as if the general’s change of heart was genuine. With the subsequent death of Valdemar Brix, who was known to be an associate of McDonald’s, we were almost certain. But last night revealed the truth. I think we should drink a toast to Herre Willis.”

  Larry didn’t know how many more toasts he could stand. They had been sitting here in the gardens for almost an hour. It seemed to be the thing to do on a bright Sunday afternoon when there were no more elusive refugees to be found and no more black sedans to be dodged. The strains of a uniformed band drifted across the grounds, and a parade of towheaded youngsters with the strings of red balloons clutched in their fists and the evidence of chocolate ice cream spread on their faces marched past on the path before them. Last night’s horror was beginning to seem centuries away. An outdoor restaurant could be such a charming place when knives weren’t served with the cognac.

  “My knife,” Larry reflected. “I can see now that Garth took it from Valdemar’s body hoping to threaten me into leading him to McDonald. It must have put him in a bad position with his superiors when the general wasn’t delivered to Carlsberg on schedule.”

  “A very bad position,” Sorensen agreed. “Otto Carlsberg was an ideal recipient for Yukov. In his hands this alleged turncoat would get the maximum of publicity, a situation much more desirable for propaganda purposes than an ordinary surrender to your government—or to any government. Professionals in this business are so much more cynical than well-meaning zealots. But when Carlsberg’s secretary set up this plan, which seemed so ideal, he overlooked the possibility that McDonald might identify his replaced actor and change his mind about letting him go so cheaply. When Hansen’s boat returned to the fishing docks, no one was on hand to meet it—he was expected at the yacht; consequently, McDonald was able to spirit away his prize without being followed. The search didn’t start for several hours. A two-way search, of course. The man in the black sedan, who is in custody now, by the way, on one hand and the security police on the other.”

  “And I landed smack in the middle,” Larry muttered. “But look, if you knew all this you must have known that Hansen had no widow.”

  Sorensen’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his glass. “Naturally,” he said, “but it isn’t polite to call a lady a liar, particularly when you are hoping that she and her simulated cousin will lead you to a regrettably misplaced political enigma and his not so trustworthy guardian.”

  Sorensen sobered momentarily, his eyes on Maren’s face. Propriety seemed to call for a minimum discussion of a man who had committed two murders in a futile attempt to save his own skin—and his bank roll; but Maren didn’t wince. There had been no tears for Ira McDonald after all. There had been tears only for Valdemar and the horror of it all.

  But now it was beginning to seem a century ago.

  “It really doesn’t matter, does it?” Larry said.

  “What is that, Herre Willis?” Sorensen asked.

  “Which is the chaser, the beer or the akvavit…. No, that isn’t what I meant to say. About this dancer, Anna. You invited me to watch the ballet with you, remember?”

  Sorensen brightened again. “Of course,” he said. “I wanted to observe your reaction when you recognized the widow.”

  Larry nodded. “But it doesn’t matter because I found her anyway, but only because of something Valdemar said. Valdemar recognized her from that dinner party. McDonald didn’t even know she was a—what was it you said?—an agent for a foreign power, until Valdemar told him she must be the missing widow. After that—”

  They were right back to that touchy subject again. Larry let it drop, but Martinus Sorensen, whose sharp eyes could read a great deal in a woman’s face, took it up again.

  “After that he had to die for the same reason that Holger Hansen had to die,” he declared. “An unpleasantness is half over once we’ve faced it, Frøken Lund, and Ira McDonald is an unpleasantness you must forget. He’s not worth remembering. Had he carried out his original plan, dishonest as it was, he would have lived to enjoy his profit and an unearned honor. Because he did not, two men had to die for his greed. And yet, as you have pointed out a few minutes ago, because of this terrible affair we know that General Yukov’s new-found love of democracy is a fraud, and that, in the end, may save many more lives than two. From what I know of your friend Valdemar Brix, I think he would have found that a more than fair exchange. I think we should drink to Valdemar Brix.”

  They drank, solemnly, and then Martinus Sorensen’s manner changed. He took out a fresh cigar. Over the mat
ch flame his eyes began to smile again. The band across the way struck up a popular air, and he began to hum along with it. Thorkild poured himself another glass of beer and Maren, with a great sigh, leaned back in her chair. Sitting on a powder keg, Larry thought, as if nothing was wrong with the world. And why not? He rubbed his bruised knuckles reflectively. The great fear came before the fight, and these people were veterans. After all, what was this freedom the world was so concerned about if not the power to remain unafraid … even of freedom itself?

  Sorensen seemed to be reading his mind.

  “Such a lovely afternoon,” he murmured, watching the cigar smoke search for the sky. “We Danes have been coming here to Tivoli for over a hundred years, Herre Willis—did you know that? Over a hundred years, and some of them very grim years indeed. But man must have a little peace even in the cruelest of worlds…. And so, enough of this terrible business! You must forget it and enjoy your convention!”

  “To hell with the convention!” Willis muttered.

  “What?” Maren gasped.

  It must have been the akvavit. Larry grinned sheepishly. “I beg your pardon,” he said, in a most deliberate manner, “I meant to heck with the convention. Let’s go to Rome!”

  “Larry!”

  “Why not? I have the tickets. The plane’s gone now, but I’ll exchange them. I’ll get two more for tomorrow morning.”

  “But, Larry, your position!”

  That was the point. That was the whole point that he’d have to explain so she’d stop frowning.

  “All of my life,” Larry said, “I’ve thought of my position. All of my life I’ve done nothing but beat my brains out because there was something I had to prove … and now I can’t even remember what it was. I’m turning over a new leaf!”

  It seemed such a good idea. He waited for her smile while the frown grew darker.

  “You,” Maren said, and she wasn’t a bit pale any more, “are doing nothing of the kind! If you think I’m going to spend the rest of my life married to an irresponsible, globe-trotting fool—”

  She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. She’d already said the only thing Larry would hear … the rest of her life!

  Martinus Sorensen put down his cigar.

  “Apparently something has been going on that Thorkild didn’t observe,” he murmured. “This seems to call for another toast. I rise to salute the happy couple—”

  There was no stopping Martinus Sorensen. When he wanted to rise, he rose. Now everybody was staring at them, all of the happy faces at all the little tables, and they were like the faces of dear old friends.

  “Hurrah!” cried Sorensen.

  “Hurrah!” echoed Thorkild.

  “Hurrah!” joined the happy faces.

  Larry just sat there and grinned at his girl like any normal fool. It wasn’t easy to remain a stranger in Copenhagen.

  If you liked Stranger in the Dark check out:

  Shot on Location

  Chapter One

  THE OCTOBER SUN was sloping towards the horizon curve of the Adriatic when George Ankouris banked the small, single-engine sports plane and turned back towards the craggy range of mountains. Moments earlier Harry Avery had switched off the camera he had been shooting over the side of the open cockpit, and closed the canopy.

  “Okay, I’ve got enough for today,” he said. “Man, I’m tired. I don’t know why I’m so tired.”

  “Tension,” George declared. “You’re not used to this kind of flying—no pressure cabin, no reclining seats, no pretty stewardess serving martinis. Hey, I could do with one of those right now myself.”

  Harry laughed. “So I’m just a spoiled American—is that what you think?” Compared to George he looked the part. George was a handsome Greek—about thirty-two, Harry guessed. Broad shouldered, thick black hair on his head and arms and curling up out of the deep V opening of his faded army shirt. Black moustache and, when he smiled, gleaming white teeth. The typical Greek virility symbol. Harry Avery had a good eye for virility symbols. Projecting them was his business. Officially, it was called Saga Productions with home offices in a very modern, air-conditioned and wired-for-music suite on the tenth floor of a Sunset Boulevard hi-rise on the Strip. Harry Avery, who, at thirty-six, had produced the hit television series, The Bandits, which was now going into its fourth season and would be good for at least four more, and who was now, four years later, starting production on his third feature film with a budget bigger than anything George Ankouris, and all his kin, could accumulate in several lifetimes. And yet Harry, in his custom-built flight boots, hand-tailored trousers, doeskin bush jacket and an old baseball cap, habitually worn for luck, wasn’t half the man George was physically. He wondered how Rhona, his wife, had missed that obvious fact and then immediately wondered if she had. There had been several unaccounted for evenings back on Corfu, before she returned to Athens. The thought crossed his mind with no twinge of jealousy. It was too late for that now.

  But he still had his vanity.

  “You’re wrong, George,” he said. “American I am and spoiled I may be, but I’m also a pilot. I jockeyed a jet all over Korea for almost three years.”

  “Combat?” George asked.

  “Reconnaissance. That can be even hairier. But I’ll have to say that I had a lot more plane under me than this tree-topper. What did you say you built it from—an old box-kite?”

  “Bolköw!” George corrected. “She’s basically Bolköw. I altered the canopy so I could fly with the wind in my hair and added a few other things of my own.”

  “I see the bicycle horn. Where are the pedals?”

  George feigned instant indignation. “That’s a very important bicycle horn!” he insisted. “And don’t you belittle my plane! She took you where you wanted to go. ‘Into Albania,’ you said. ‘I need a ship that flies low—under the radar screen. Who cares about the danger? A man needs a little danger in his life to keep from getting rusty!’” George’s voice dropped from his mocking imitation of Harry’s speech. “Okay, so she does everything you asked for. She flies as low as you wanted to fly—”

  “Now all she has to do is get us back to civilization before dark. Damn, but I’m tired.” Harry had finished locking up the camera in its case while they talked. He had placed it with the other equipment in the small baggage space behind the seat, and settled back to relax. His right hand hovered over the bulging breast pocket of the bush jacket. The case was intact. He could give himself a booster now, but he hated using the needle before another man. Weakness was for private places. He glanced at his watch to see how much longer he could hold out, and then George grabbed his attention with a sharp cry.

  “We’ve got company on our tail! Hey, I think we’re being followed.”

  George’s eyes were sharper than Harry’s. By the time he sighted the plane it was almost over them. It shot past and banked in a wide, circling sweep.

  “It’s a jet,” George said. “Looks like a MIG.”

  “Russian?”

  “Not coming from behind us. Look, it’s coming back. Hey, that’s too damn close!” George flipped open the mike and radioed a blast from the bicycle horn as the jet passed again. “It keeps birds away from the propeller,” he said. “I think they want me to land.”

  “How far are we from the border?”

  “It should be just over that highest ridge of mountains. The jet’s coming back. They may open fire. Hang on, I’m dropping down out of range.”

  Due to the great speed of the jet, each turn required a wide sweep that gave the slower plane time to lose altitude. They were flying over a rough terrain, wild and melancholy in the late afternoon light. The mountains were creased with narrow ravines into which the jet could not fly without great hazard—certainly not at the tree-skimming height of the sports plane. And every mile brought them closer to the border. By the time the patrol plane had completed its wide circle and started back for another sweep they were approaching the first range. Now the Greek pulled back on the c
ontrols and the small plane rose sharply, gaining just enough altitude to skim over the highest crag. The jet screamed over them—they dropped again. The radio was still on. The Greek grabbed the mike and began to call Corfu; Harry understood enough of the language to grasp that much. But there was time for only one terse message before they were forced to gain altitude again, and now the patrol had perceived their manoeuvre and was coming towards them, like a hawk swooping down on its prey. Ahead, over the high ridge, the late light shimmered on a patch of blue lake.

  “Helias!” George shouted. “We’ve made it!”

  The jet dived as they cleared the ridge. Instinctively, the Greek shoved the controls forward and this time he was seconds too soon. The plane shuddered and wrenched free, leaving a part of the landing gear wedged in the rocks. Damaged, the plane hurtled downwards as the Greek grappled with the controls. They were over the border, but there was no place to land in the rock-strewn shrub growth that was rushing towards them. The first fringe of brush tore at the right wing and then the trees came up in a tangled canopy to blot out the sky.

  The patrol jet circled high above, until it was certain the small plane would not appear again.

  Beverly Hills is a city where even the service station ladies’ rooms have bidets. This observation was not original to Omar Bradley Smith, through whose awakening hours it wandered like an irrelevant vagrant. It was, he recalled, as the morning began to evolve from an over-indulged night, a direct quote from Rhona Brent, who had been just plain Rhoda Brandt the first time he went to bed with her. Not that Rhoda was a tramp. They had had more going for them than mere youthful lust and loneliness. Fun, yes, but more because it was Rhona’s words he remembered on an early morning, and it was her waifish smile that he looked for, without finding, in the many faces of the women he had known during the five years since their parting. Rhona was his first love. That might be the reason she lingered in his mind.