But who could he ask regarding the odd material? Father Rasmussen? The father was by far the most highly educated in the village, but his education had been largely ecclesiastical, and that might or might not enable him to give a judgment as to the value of the beads, buttons, and the other larger pieces. Besides, Father Rasmussen was a noted gossip, and the chances of keeping the matter secret were the good father to be consulted were extremely remote. Per Baunsgaard, the blacksmith? The one who fixed most of the farm equipment as well as the fishing gear that required any metalwork? He might recognize what alloy the stuff was made of, but Per Baunsgaard was an even bigger gossip than Father Rasmussen. Showing him the pieces would be the same as advertising the affair in the Copenhagen newspapers, or putting it on the radio. Besides, Per Baunsgaard was a noted liar, so how could he be trusted no matter what opinion he gave?
It was a problem, and Knud Christensen had the habit of putting problems off awhile to see if possibly they might solve themselves. Certainly it wouldn’t do any harm to sleep on this one, at least. Sleep, he was sure, would not be hard to come by that night, or what little was left of the night. And if he had any dreams, he only hoped they might lead him to some idea of the value of what he had discovered. Satisfied with the temporary solution to the problem, he packed the stuff back into its box, pushed it into a closet for the time being, and went to bed.
Nor was Knud Christensen wrong, for when he woke at dawn the following day he knew exactly the man to help him solve his problem. It was a distant cousin; actually the son of one of his mother’s cousins. His name was Arne Nordberg and he was a professor or something of that nature at Copenhagen University. Certainly, Knud thought, mentally chastising himself for not having thought of it at once, Nordberg would be the exact man to help him in his dilemma. Satisfied, and refreshed by not having had any dreams at all, good or bad, he got up and began to dress. Uncharacteristically, he intended to go to Copenhagen without delay and ask the advice of his cousin. He had never met the man, but he was sure that would make no difference. His mother had mentioned his cousin often enough, usually to point out the difference in his own educational ambitions as compared to those of the other. Now those educational differences were going to work for his benefit.
Whistling, he completed dressing …
CHAPTER NINE
COPENHAGEN—April
From the window of his small office at Copenhagen University, overlooking the Frue Plads on one side and the Nørregade running into it, Associate Professor Arne Nordberg stared sourly at the pretty co-eds hurrying past, books in arms, their short skirts and lack of brassieres raising lewd thoughts in the professor’s mind. But they were useless thoughts, he knew. For some unknown reason he never seemed to be able to impress the pretty ones, and the ugly ones didn’t interest him, though he had never been able to impress them, either. His hints that favors might be returned in the form of better grades were invariably met with, at best, blank stares; at worst, by barely concealed smiles of derision.
If he had money, Nordberg assured himself, it would all be different; his shortness would be forgiven, as well as his tendency toward obesity, or the fact that at the young age of thirty-two he was rapidly losing his hair. Or if he had an international reputation like some members of the faculty, there would be, he was sure, no problem. Girls would be all over him like they were over that idiot Carl Becker, and for what? So the man won a so-called prestigious award once. It had been pure luck, those things mostly were. But the sad fact was that Arne Nordberg had very little money; he could barely afford the girls he visited over the sex shops in the Istedgade, beyond the railroad station, and then only the cheapest. And as for scholarly attainment, of the few papers he had managed to write all but one had been refused publication by the University Press, although they were constantly importuning the faculty for submissions, and seemed to print every piece of garbage sent in by anyone else. The world was against him, and that was a fact. The professor knew it was a fact, although just why the world should take this unfair attitude was beyond him.
So he was considered strict in class? Why shouldn’t he be strict in class? Who did anything for him that he should do anything for others? He had also heard it said, snidely, behind his back, that he was also unintelligible in class. That, simply, was a lie. If others couldn’t or wouldn’t recognize erudition when they saw it or heard it, it was just too bad. So he didn’t have any friends among the faculty? Why should he go out of his way to appear friendly to a bunch of louts who seemed to think friendship consisted solely of drinking another person’s liquor or eating another person’s food? The truth was he was as bright as anyone on the staff, although naturally nobody would admit it. He was also as educated, as intelligent, as personable. But what had it gotten him? Nothing! Take Carl Becker, for example. He would bet that Carl had been in the skirts of half the girls in his classes. And what did Becker have? Tell the truth—a laugh like a hyena, and little else!
He became aware that his intercom was buzzing and he glared at it. My God! A man couldn’t even take a few minutes to cogitate, to reflect, to relax after the grind of four hours of trying to pound some historical facts into the heads of a bunch of big-breasted, succulent-bottomed numbskulls, without being constantly interrupted. He considered disregarding the intercom, but he knew that his secretary—a dessicated, flat-chested widow ten years his senior he had once considered seducing—his face flushed at the memory although he still wondered how it might have been—would continue her racket until he answered. With a scowl he flipped the proper switch downward.
“Yes? Now what?”
“There’s someone here to see you, Professor.” She had a voice like a crane, as if there were something wrong with her throat. Why couldn’t she at least have sounded intriguing, even if she wasn’t?
“Professor?”
He brought his mind back to the matter at hand. “Who is it?”
“He says he’s a cousin of yours, Professor. Knud Christensen.”
Nordberg frowned at the telephone. Christensen? It seemed faintly familiar. A cousin? Some distant relative of his mother’s, as he recalled. Fishermen, weren’t they? From somewhere down in Nykøbing, or Korsør, or one of those other Godforsaken villages in the south. What on earth could a fisherman cousin—not even a real cousin, but one of those hundred-times removed cousins—want of him? The answer wasn’t even a problem. Money, of course. All these country yokels seemed to think if you lived in Copenhagen, you were rich. If you were a professor at the university, you were made of money. Well, little did they know! He stared at the intercom, seeing in his mind’s eye his middle-aged secretary at the other end of the line, leaning over to press the intercom buttons. He tried to picture the view down her gaping blouse, and then recalled that she was flat-chested, or so he had to suppose from the tight brassieres and buttoned-up blouses she wore. Why couldn’t he have had the luck to be assigned a good-looking secretary? Like Carl Becker—?
“Professor?”
He cleared his throat. “Tell him I can’t see him. I’m busy.”
“Yes, sir.” Nordberg’s hand went thankfully to push the intercom switch, but before he could do so his secretary’s voice came back. “Professor, Mr. Christensen says he’ll wait.”
Damn! Nordberg stared about the small office. There was no escape other than the one door leading past his secretary’s desk and the undoubtedly raw-boned and equally undoubtedly fish-smelling peasant outside. Nordberg thought a moment and then allowed himself a feeling of righteous anger. What did he owe this perfect stranger? Everyone was constantly trying to take advantage of him, and he wasn’t going to stand for it! Enough was enough! He would simply tell this oaf he was wasting his time, and that would be that. He didn’t have to explain the circumstances; he knew if he were the richest man in Denmark he would still refuse the man money. What did he owe the man, anyway? He steeled himself and glowered at the intercom.
“Tell him to come in.”
The door op
ened and Nordberg coldly considered the man who stood there. Christensen had dressed in his Sunday best, and did not appear particularly raw-boned, although he was certainly big. He also had a thick head of curly hair, and not for the first time Nordberg resented his father’s baldness that had apparently been transferred through genes to blight his son’s existence. Christensen also did not smell of fish, although this, Nordberg thought sourly, would not get him one penny. Christensen carried a small cloth bag with him and smiled with a bit of uncertainty at his distant cousin. Nor was any smile going to do the lout any good, Nordberg thought with an inner sneer, and did not even offer the man a chair.
“What can I do for you?”
“I thought—” Christensen paused and looked around, finally finding a chair and sitting in it. He edged it to the desk, his small bag held firmly in his lap. Here it comes, Nordberg thought, and waited, his face expressionless. Christensen studied the ranks of books on the shelves that enclosed the tiny office, and finally brought his attention back to his cousin. Rather than speak again, he opened his bag and brought out a piece of metal, placing it on the desk. “I thought you might be able to tell me if this had any value.”
Nordberg frowned. What was this? A new way to ask for money? Or an attempt to use the fiction of their relationship to peddle something? Or was it simply a case of thinking of him as one would of a pawnbroker, which was simply insulting? Or even simply asking his advice. Others on the faculty occasionally served as consultants, but they were paid for it. He picked the piece up and studied it without much interest, finally looking up at Christensen.
“Where did you get this? Do you have more?”
“I have a few more pieces with me. There’s lots more at home.” Christensen hastily brought out the rest of his samples and laid them on the desk. Nordberg looked at them, his interest at least piqued. They were undoubtedly old, very old. How had a mere fisherman come by them? He looked up again.
“Where did you say you found them?”
“You see—” Christensen began, and then paused. He was never very good with words. Maybe it would be better if he began at the beginning. “You see, my brothers were both drowned three months ago. There was a very bad storm—”
So he was going to ask for money after all! The pieces were just a lead-in; the sob-story was about to begin. Well, better to cut it off quickly.
“I’m afraid—” Nordberg began.
“I wanted to bring up the body of my youngest brother,” Christensen went on. He hadn’t heard the interruption; his mind was back in the icy water cutting Gustave’s body loose. “He was tangled in the shrouds. So I went down and found the wreckage of the boat, and brought up his body for decent burial.”
Despite himself, Nordberg was impressed. “You dove for his body—when?”
“Three months ago.”
“In January? Where was all this?”
“Off the Gedser lighthouse. Yes, it was January,” Christensen said simply. “It was cold, but it had to be done. But what I’m trying to say is that when I was down there I saw this box, this crate, made of steel. It must have come from the second boat I found, which must have been sunk a long time ago, because I never heard of the sinking, and it was less than a mile from my house. Anyway, when the weather got better—last night, in fact—I went out in my dory and I dove and brought the box up. And when I opened it I found these pieces. And a lot more.”
“How much more?”
Christensen shrugged. “Much, much more. Hundreds and hundreds of pieces. Oh, most of them were small, like beads and buttons and things like that. I didn’t count them. There were too many.” He looked down at his samples and then up to Nordberg’s face. “Do you think they have any value?”
Nordberg bent over the pieces once again, now studying them intently. There was something vaguely familiar with the piece he was looking at, a small slightly curved mask with open eyeholes, too small for an adult, probably for a child, or possibly a small woman. The material, he was sure, was gold, almost pure gold if he was not mistaken. He tried to recall where he had read about something like this. It seemed to him he had been reading or researching another matter, when he had run across something about some pieces … Still, he was sure it would come back to him in time. In the meantime, caution was clearly indicated in giving this peasant any information.
“Value?” He shook his head. “I doubt it. I would have to see the rest of the pieces you found to give you any idea at all. But if these pieces are representative—” He looked across the desk. “Are they representative?”
Christensen swallowed miserably. “The other pieces mostly are a lot smaller, but some are bigger. There’s a cup … I think it’s a cup … or maybe a bottle …”
“You see? No, I’m afraid you found something somebody probably threw away. You can see for yourself. They’re obviously made of some inferior alloy. See how easily it bends. And as for the workmanship—if you can call it workmanship—it’s simply childish. I doubt they would be worth more than their value as scrap. Still,” Nordberg added, as if trying to put the best face on the matter, “I won’t say they’re totally worthless. Or at least I won’t say it until I’ve had a chance to see the rest of what you found. Can you bring it to me?”
“I—”
“Or possibly it would be less trouble for you if I were to come over to your place?”
“You’d go to that much trouble?” Christensen asked anxiously. Nordberg shrugged modestly. “Could you come back with me? I live in Gedser, on Falster. It’s only a few hours by train.”
Don’t rush, Nordberg told himself sternly. No show of the slightest anxiety over this freak accident. Some of these country types are shrewder than they look. And you may have fallen into something just because you were smart enough to see this yokel. Others, like Carl Becker, for example, wouldn’t have wasted a minute on him.
“Today? I’m afraid not. In any event, I don’t believe it’s all that important,” Nordberg said, and forced himself to bite back a yawn. He reached over and flipped the pages of his appointment calendar, being careful that his visitor could not see the blank pages. “Ah! How about a week from Sunday?” Even as he said it he wondered if perhaps he was being just a bit too reckless; if given too much time the man might go to someone else for an opinion.
“Not before?” Christensen could not keep the disappointment from his voice.
Nordberg flipped the pages again, and then reached for a pencil. He crossed out something on a page. “I’ll postpone that,” he said, half to himself, and looked up. “Saturday next, then,” he said, making a great concession. “I’ll drive down to your place on Saturday.” He nudged the pieces on his desk. “If you wish you can leave these here with me. I can try to find out what alloy they’re made of. Or you can take them back with you, whichever you prefer.”
Christensen shrugged helplessly and came to his feet.
“You might as well keep them,” he said, and sighed. “Until Saturday, then. Anyone in Gedser can tell you where Knud Christensen lives.” He walked to the door and then paused, twisting the empty cloth bag in his hands. “And thank you,” he said sincerely, remembering his manners. “Thank you for your time.”
Nordberg waved the thanks away gracefully.
It came to Nordberg at three o’clock in the morning. He left his bed and padded to the front room of his small apartment, lighting a lamp, and then searching the bookshelves for the reference copy he wanted. He drew it down, the excitement in him growing, and flipped the pages until he reached the section he wanted. He found the part that had teased his memory, found the reference it made to another book, and hastily searched for the second book without bothering to replace the first. He almost tore the pages in his anxiety to find what he wanted. He thrust the page under the lamp. There it was! There it was! A picture of the very mask that was now locked in his desk at the university. And there! Look there! That diadem, with the owl’s head at the end of each of the hanging chains; the owl’s
head of Athena! My God! Was it possible? He felt himself begin to tremble. The Schliemann treasure in the hands of a stupid fisherman from Gedser, when the entire world was convinced it was in Russia someplace, most probably at the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad? Was it possible?
He fell into a chair, eagerly reading a description of the treasure, and then fell back, his mind churning. He had suspected the pieces had value, but nothing like this! He forced himself to try and think clearly. Saturday was four long days away. Could he take the chance and wait that long to go to Gedser and verify that the treasure was, indeed, the Schliemann collection? Suppose the fisherman went to someone else for advice, or an opinion, in the meanwhile? Or suppose he had listened to his words and went and disposed of it for scrap to some metal dealer who, in all probability in that part of the country, wouldn’t know the difference and would bale it together with other scrap and sell it to some factory where it would all go into the furnace together, iron, steel, tin—and the Schliemann gold! The thought was too horrifying to contemplate. Or the metal dealer would recognize the material as gold, which was even worse!
But on the other hand, if he went down to Gedser any sooner than the following Saturday, wouldn’t the peasant wonder at his early arrival? Would the clod begin to suspect that possibly the pieces he had found were of greater value than mere scrap? What excuse could he give for hurrying down to Gedser that would not arouse suspicions on the part of this Knud Christensen?
It was a most difficult problem, and one that prevented him from sleeping the rest of the night. He sat and gnawed his nails, staring at nothing, trying to find a suitable answer. And then an even greater problem formed itself in his mind, relegating the one of a reason for an early appearance at Gedser to a very minor position. He sat a bit erect as he contemplated this new, and far more frightening, possibility. Eventually, no matter what he did with the treasure, word would get out! The world would know that the Schliemann treasure had been found! And Knud Christensen was part of that world! There would be newspaper articles. It would be marveled at in the magazines and on the radio! Pictures would be shown. Would it be possible that with all the attendant publicity, the clod would not hear of it? And if—or, rather, when—he did hear of it, what would his reaction be?
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