by Robert Elmer
“Are you kids all ready?” asked Uncle Morten later that night. He jogged in place in the Andersen kitchen, next to where Peter and Elise were doing the dinner dishes while Tiger played with his shoelaces. “Because Lisbeth and I are leaving on this grand bike voyage tomorrow morning whether you’re coming or not.”
“We’re ready,” Henrik told him, chuckling. He watched the twins from the kitchen table, where he had been parked since he and his mother had arrived after dinner. “But now that crazy Elise is coming, she’ll have to get ready, too.”
“I’m ready,” she countered. “I don’t take as long as you boys.”
“Ha!” Peter laughed. “We’re ready already. We’ve been ready for the last couple of days.”
Mr. Andersen chuckled as he walked into the kitchen. “There’s still time to change your mind, Morten. You and Lisbeth are brave to volunteer.”
“Brave?” Uncle Morten gave his brother a playful push with his shoulder. “I was going to take a couple of days off anyway to take the train to the big get‑together. And now since Elise is coming along, both Lisbeth and I are saving the train ticket money. It’s a double savings.”
“Oh, so that’s it.” Peter’s father laughed once more. “You’re going because you think you’ll save money. Well, I know the kids appreciate it. If I could take the time off, I would consider going with you, too.”
Peter looked at his father with disbelief. “You would?”
“Why does that surprise you? I’ve been on a bicycle before, you know.”
“If you’ve been on a bike, brother,” put in Uncle Morten, “your kids have never seen you.”
“Morten,” said Lisbeth from the living room. “You sound like you’re teasing your poor brother again.”
Uncle Morten only grinned, while Peter’s father quietly stuffed something into Henrik’s shirt pocket.
“Mr. Andersen!” objected Henrik.
“Now, I’m giving it to you because I know you’ll spend it only on necessary things like ice cream and soda.”
“But...” Henrik stammered.
Peter could tell from the color of the paper that it was a fifty‑kroner bill. He did some quick math. That’s enough for 150 ice cream cones!
“No buts,” insisted Mr. Andersen. “I want you kids to have fun on this trip. Now, you remember the schedule?”
“We know the schedule,” answered Uncle Morten. “We’ve talked it through ten times.”
Peter’s father nodded and continued. “Okay, I just want to make sure I know you know. You leave tomorrow morning, Thursday, and then we’ll take the train over and meet you the following week at Harald and Hanne’s place on the coast. You know where it is?”
Uncle Morten nodded patiently and pointed his thumb at Elise. “Just south of Ho Village. These two know the way.”
“Well,” Elise put in, “it has been a couple of years since Peter and I were there.”
Peter finished scrubbing his last dish and drifted off to the window while everyone else kept talking and planning. Not that he wasn’t as excited as the others about the bike trip—maybe even more. But something else kept bothering him. He looked down at the street, searching again for the black car that he had been trying to find all week.
Henrik acts like nothing ever happened, he worried. Like no one ever tried to run him down.
For a second, the roof of a small car caught his eye. But he couldn’t tell from above. Nearly every car in Helsingør was black, or maybe gray....
“Well, is it, Peter?” asked Uncle Morten. Peter hadn’t noticed anyone talking to him, only the rumble of people’s voices.
“Huh?” Peter said, turning away from the window.
Uncle Morten chuckled and shook his head. “I wish I could tune out the world the way you do, Peter. I asked, is that tire pump of yours working? We need to make sure we have at least one to fix flats.”
“Oh, sure,” Peter replied. Then he stopped to think. “Last time I checked. Maybe I better go see, just to make sure. I’ll be right back.”
Peter hurried down the stairs to where his family’s bicycles were parked in the street‑level courtyard. Other families in the building kept their bikes there, too. Besides the bus or the train, it was the only way many Danes had to get around.
Peter kept his pump behind a couple of bricks in the corner, next to where he parked his own bike. The pump was a large one, as big as a baseball bat, with a big handle to grip with two hands. He undid the hose from its clip and gave the pump a couple of strokes to feel the air.
“Better pack it in my bag,” he told himself, “so I don’t forget.”
He was about to return up the stairs when he paused at the outside doorway to the street. A car passed slowly, and Peter poked his head around the corner to see.
The little black car!
Peter pulled back until only his eyes were showing, and he watched as the car stopped and backed into a parking space across the street. Peter waited for the dark Middle Eastern man to get out, but no one did.
That has to be him, Peter thought, shaking even in the safety of the shady courtyard. He stepped back away from the sidewalk, yanked open their street‑level door, and flew up the stairs two at a time.
“Did you find your pump?” asked Uncle Morten when Peter burst into the living room. Peter’s uncle was sitting on the couch with Lisbeth, talking with Peter’s parents and Mrs. Melchior.
“Works great.” Peter nodded and tossed the pump to his uncle. He didn’t stop but rushed through to find Henrik and Elise still in the kitchen.
“He’s down there,” Peter whispered into Henrik’s ear. Henrik was hanging up his dish towel and looked at Peter as if he didn’t understand.
Peter didn’t step up to the window but pointed down at the street.
“Who?” asked Henrik.
Elise moved toward the window. With one hand Peter grabbed her arm, and with the other hand he held a finger to his lips.
“Peter!” Elise complained.
“Shh,” Peter warned. “Now look out the window, down on the other side of the street. I just saw the man pull up in his little black car and park. Mr. Broken Nose.”
“You saw him?” Henrik’s eyes grew wide as he crawled up to the window with Peter.
“Well,” admitted Peter. “Not exactly. But the car is the same one. He pulled up while I was down below, and he’s still in the car, I think.”
“Hard to tell,” judged Elise, looking down at the street. “All car roofs look about the same from up here.”
“It’s him,” Peter insisted. “I know it’s him. He’s following us now.”
“There’s one way to find out.” Henrik headed for the door between the kitchen and the living room.
“Are you crazy?” hissed Peter, but by that time, Henrik had already disappeared. A moment later, he popped his head back into the kitchen.
“Are you two coming?” he asked.
“Wait up,” said Elise, following Henrik.
“We’ll be back in a little while,” Peter told their parents.
“No later than eight‑thirty,” their mother said. “Just because it’s light out until almost ten doesn’t mean it’s not still late.”
“We’ll be back,” Elise promised.
At the foot of the stairs, the twins and Henrik slipped out the door into the courtyard. They kneeled on the pavement just inside the street entryway, a foot from the sidewalk and protected from view.
“He’s still in that car,” Peter whispered.
“I don’t see anyone.” Elise wasn’t convinced.
“I don’t even see the car,” announced Henrik.
Peter looked again, but Henrik was right. The little black car had disappeared.
“Aw, he’s gone,” Peter said, straightening up and stepping out on the sidewalk.
“Maybe he saw you run up the stairs to get us,” offered Henrik, following as Peter walked. Peter could only shrug as they headed slowly in the direction of the harbor. An
older couple was walking their direction, and there were several other people on the sidewalk, enjoying the warm summer evening. Window‑shoppers, people out for walks. A block later, Peter stopped short.
“Look down there,” he croaked, afraid to point.
“Who? What?” asked Henrik, following the direction he was looking.
“I don’t see anything,” commented Elise.
“Half a block down,” Peter whispered. “Other side of the street. It’s his car.”
“How do you know?” began Henrik, looking closer. “I’m going to go see.”
Peter held on to his friend’s shoulder. “Wait a minute,” he told Henrik. “You can’t just walk by the car. Suppose he gets out and grabs you?”
“I’ve got you along for protection, remember?”
“How do we really know it’s him?” Elise wanted to know.
Henrik walked ahead. “Like I said, there’s only one way to find out. Come on.”
When they were even with the car on the other side of the street, Peter accidentally stepped on the back of Henrik’s shoe. While Henrik bent down to pull it back on, Peter and Elise tried to look anywhere but in the direction of the little black car.
“Oh, look at that.” Elise paused and looked into the window of a bakery. “That French bread.”
“Right,” agreed Peter, trying to look as if he always took time to study loaves of bread. He glanced at the reflection of the car in the big window in front of them, but he still couldn’t make out anyone in the driver’s seat.
“I don’t think he’s in the car,” Henrik said after a moment. He looked both ways and ran across the street. Peter took a deep breath and followed, with Elise close behind.
“See?” Henrik called back to them. He pushed at the side of the car to make it rock back and forth. “No one’s here.”
Peter’s heart still beat double time. “Henrik,” he warned, “he was here a minute ago. Probably got out of the car a second ago. He might be watching us right now.”
“Peter, we don’t even know if this is the same car,” replied Elise, leaning down to look more closely at the driver’s side door. “I don’t even see any... uh‑oh.”
Henrik traced his finger down a large scratch on the door.
“Looks like it’s dented from Henrik’s bike,” Peter told them, pointing to the door. “You can really see it from the side.”
Elise squinted and nodded. Peter started to shake.
“Now we’re sure.” Henrik tried the door of the car.
“Henrik!” warned Elise. “You can’t do that.”
Henrik shrugged. “Just checking. Maybe there are some clues inside.”
“Yeah, right.” Peter looked around nervously. “I can just see us rummaging around in Mr. Broken Nose’s car, and he comes up and kidnaps us. Or else the police will take us away.”
“Come on, Peter.” Henrik bent down to pick up a stick out of the gutter. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Henrik, what are you doing?” Elise asked, leaning closer to see. Henrik had crouched by the car’s street‑side rear tire, and they heard a hissing sound.
“Henrik, cut it out!” Peter also bent over to see what he was doing. Henrik had jammed the stick into the air‑filler valve and was trying to hold it in place.
“Look, all we have to do is slow him down. Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere in his car. I’m letting the air out of his tires.”
“Henrik,” Peter said, “this is definitely not a good idea.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Henrik, scooting up to the front tire on the street side. “It’s done.”
“But, Henrik...” Peter and Elise followed Henrik to the tire, and Peter couldn’t help hopping nervously. A truck went by, and Peter thought the driver looked at them suspiciously. “It’s still daylight. We’re going to get in big trouble.”
Peter turned around to make another check of the neighborhood, and this time he came face‑to‑face with a scowling, dark‑eyed man. Peter gasped and backed up into the car while Elise shrieked.
“Would you guys quiet down?” Henrik said, still fiddling with the tire. “Someone’s going to get suspicious if you make all that noise. Just act normal.”
“H‑Henrik,” sputtered Peter. He kicked at Henrik to get his attention. Backed against the car, Peter felt like a mouse cornered by a snake.
“And what, may I ask, do you kids think you’re doing with my car?” the man said sternly. Of course, he spoke perfect Danish, as most Danes would. He was dressed in a sharply pressed black suit and gray businessman’s hat, and his hair was as silver as a full moon. And there was not a trace of Middle‑Eastern blood in his features.
“What?” asked Henrik, finally looking around. “Who are you talking—”
Henrik stopped in midsentence when he finally realized what was going on. His mouth began to flap before any more words came out, while Elise reached quickly for the stick in the other tire.
“We... we thought you were someone else,” Peter finally managed to squeak. His ears were burning red with fear or embarrassment or both. The man still towered over them, his arms crossed.
“You did? And who would that have been?”
“You probably wouldn’t believe us, sir, if we told you.” Henrik looked afraid to move, afraid to stand up.
“I ought to call the police,” the man growled, reaching in his pocket for his keys. “But I’m already lost and late.”
“Can we help you find something?” asked Henrik hopefully.
He’s brave, thought Peter.
“You’ve already helped enough,” the man replied, with an impatient wave of his hand. “Now get out of here before I change my mind.”
“Yes, sir,” gulped Peter, backing up. “We really did think it was someone...”
“Go!” thundered the man. He brushed Henrik aside and opened his door.
Peter didn’t need a lot of encouragement, but he wasn’t sure his legs would do what he told them to do. He grabbed Elise’s arm, and they slid away from the man’s withering stare.
“Wait up!” Peter called after his friend. After a block, they caught their breath. Elise was the first one to look back.
“He’s gone,” she reported.
Henrik put his hands on his knees. “I thought you two were keeping watch,” he puffed. “We didn’t get a chance to really flatten the tires.”
“Yeah, good thing,” muttered Elise. “Or else we would have really been in trouble. Henrik, how could—”
“Peter thought it was the right car, too!”
“Henrik’s right, Elise. It was my fault.”
“I don’t know whose fault it was.” Elise frowned and crossed her arms. “But we need to tell Uncle Morten what’s going on with this Mr. Broken Nose.”
“Right, and have him cancel the bike trip?” replied Henrik. “Let’s just forget any of this ever happened.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” countered Elise, but she didn’t sound so sure.
“Henrik, someone nearly killed you, and now you’re saying we should just forget it?” Peter couldn’t believe what his friend was saying.
Henrik looked uncertainly down the street. “You can tell your uncle what you want. I’m going to go home and make sure my bag is packed. See you in the morning.”
“Maybe Henrik’s right.” Peter frowned at his sister and kind of waved his hands, unsure which way to turn. “Maybe when we leave in the morning, we can forget about Mr. Broken Nose.”
Elise still stood with her arms crossed, looking back down the street. True, this had been a false alarm. But Peter could tell she wasn’t going to forget about Mr. Broken Nose, either.
10
Over the Next Hill
“How much farther to the lake?” Lisbeth gasped.
Peter didn’t think it was much of a hill, but still they all pedaled more slowly so she could keep up. He had to admit, though, that there were more hills here than they had run into before. After all, Denmark was mostly a flat c
ountry. Perfect for a summer bike ride.
“Just over the next rise,” reported Uncle Morten cheerily. “Keep pedaling, dear. You’re doing great after four days.”
“Oh‑h‑h.” Lisbeth put her head down and groaned. “I’m sorry I’ve ruined this trip for you.”
“Nonsense. You haven’t ruined anyone’s trip, has she, kids?”
“No way!” piped up Elise.
“It wasn’t your fault your pedal came off the first day in Liseleje,” Peter offered.
“And anyone could have had three flat tires.” From the lead position, Henrik looked over his shoulder at the group.
“Four,” Peter corrected him.
Uncle Morten frowned, as if that wasn’t quite the kind of encouragement he had in mind.
“That’s not what Uncle Morten means.” Elise came to her uncle’s defense. “We’ve had a great trip so far.”
“You’re right.” Peter looked around at the scenery as they approached one of his favorite spots in Denmark—the Silkeborg Lake region. He could smell the aroma of heather on the rolling hills around him, and he and Henrik had a contest going to see who would be the first to sight the water.
Three days ago, Henrik was the one who had been trailing behind, and he kept looking back at Helsingør. Of course, Peter couldn’t blame him; it might be the last time his friend would ever see their city. And before they left, Henrik’s mother had been hugging her son as if she would never see him again. Three days later, though, things were a lot better—except for Lisbeth’s troubles.
“I liked the boys’ choir that sang for us the first night,” Elise said. That had been in the little coastal town of Liseleje, where the youth hostel they stayed in for the night was set up in a technical school. Something like a dormitory‑style bed‑and‑breakfast, that hostel was one of many that dotted the Danish countryside. Some were in schools, others in their own buildings or even small estates.
“My favorite so far was the Saint Hans bonfire Friday night,” Uncle Morten added. “Even though you kids stayed up too late.”
