World War II Thriller Collection (122 page)

“Oh, no!”

“If you know how to reach Arne, please, for God's sake, try to get a warning to him in the next hour.”

“I don't think—”

“I can't risk being seen with you. I have to go. I'm sorry. Do your best.” He turned and walked rapidly away.

At the top of the steps he passed Tilde, who was pretending to read a timetable. She did not look at him, but he knew she had seen him, and she would now follow Karen.

Across the street, a man in a leather apron was unloading crates of beer from a wagon drawn by two big horses. Peter stepped behind the cart. He took off his trilby hat, stuffed it inside his jacket, and replaced it with a peaked cap. He knew from experience that this simple switch effected a remarkable change in his appearance. It would not defy careful scrutiny, but at a casual glance he looked like a different person.

Standing half concealed by the wagon, he watched the station entrance. After a few moments, Karen came out.

Tilde was a few paces behind her.

Peter followed Tilde. They turned a corner and walked along the street that lay between the Tivoli and the main railway station. On the next block, Karen turned in to the main post office, a grand classical building of redbrick and gray stone. Tilde followed her in.

She was going to make a phone call, Peter thought with exhilaration. He ran to the staff entrance. He showed his police badge to the first person he met, a young woman, and said, “Bring the duty manager, quick.”

A few moments later, a stooped man in a well-worn black suit appeared. “How may I help you?”

“A young woman in a yellow dress has just entered the main hall,” Peter told him. “I don't want her to see me, but I need to know what she does.”

The manager looked thrilled. This was probably the most exciting thing that had ever happened in the post office, Peter thought. “My goodness,” said the man. “You'd better come with me.”

He hurried along a corridor and opened a door. Peter could see a counter with a row of stools facing small windows. The manager stepped
through the door. “I think I see her,” he said. “Curly red hair and a straw hat?”

“That's the one.”

“I'd never have guessed she was a criminal.”

“What is she doing?”

“Looking in the telephone directory. Amazing that someone so pretty—”

“If she makes a call, I need to listen.”

The manager hesitated.

Peter had no right to listen to private phone calls without a warrant—but he was hoping the manager would not know that. “It's very important,” he said.

“I'm not sure I can—”

“Don't worry, I'll take responsibility.”

“She's putting the phone book down.”

Peter was not going to let Karen phone Arne without listening in. If necessary he would pull his gun and threaten this dozy post office clerk, he decided. “I must insist.”

“We have rules here.”

“Nevertheless—”

“Ah!” said the manager. “She's put the book down, but she's not coming to the counter.” His face cleared with relief. “She's leaving!”

Peter cursed with frustration and ran for the exit.

He cracked the door and peeped out. He saw Karen crossing the road. He waited until Tilde emerged, following Karen. Then he tagged along.

He was disappointed, but not defeated. Karen knew the name of someone who could get in touch with Arne. She had looked that name up in the phone book. Why the hell had she not phoned the person? Perhaps she feared—rightly—that the conversation might be overheard by police or German security staff doing routine surveillance.

Still, if she had not wanted the phone number, she must have been looking for the address. And now, if Peter's luck was in, she was heading for that address.

He let Karen get out of sight but kept Tilde in view. Walking behind Tilde was always a pleasure. It was good to have an excuse to watch her
rounded rear. Did she know he was staring at her? Was she exaggerating the sway of her hips deliberately? He had no idea. Who could tell what was in a woman's mind?

They crossed to the small island of Christiansborg and followed the waterfront, with the harbor on their right and the ancient buildings of the government island on their left. The sun-warmed air of the city was refreshed here by a salty breeze from the Baltic Sea. The broad channel of water was lined by freighters, fishing boats, ferries, and ships of the Danish and German navies. Two young sailors fell in behind Tilde and cheerfully tried to pick her up, but she spoke sharply to them and they peeled off immediately.

Karen walked as far as the palace of Amalienborg, then turned inland. Following Tilde, Peter crossed the wide square formed by the four rococo mansions where the royal family lived. From there they headed into Nyboder, a neighborhood of small houses originally built as cheap accommodation for sailors.

They entered a street called St. Paul's Gade. Peter could see Karen in the distance, looking at a row of yellow houses with red roofs, apparently searching for a number. He had a strong, exciting feeling of being close to his quarry.

Karen paused and looked up and down the street, as if checking whether she was observed. It was far too late for that, of course, but she was an amateur. In any case, she did not appear to register Tilde, and Peter was too far away to be recognized.

She knocked on a door.

As Peter caught up with Tilde, the door opened. He could not see who was there. Karen said something and stepped inside, and the door closed. It was number fifty-three, Peter noted.

Tilde said, “Do you think Arne is in there?”

“Either him, or someone who knows where he is.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Wait.” He looked up and down the street. On the opposite side was a corner shop. “Over there.” They crossed the road and stood looking in the window. Peter lit a cigarette.

Tilde said, “The shop probably has a phone. Should we call
headquarters? We might as well go in in force. We don't know how many spies might be in there.”

Peter considered summoning reinforcements. “Not yet,” he said. “We're not sure what's happening. Let's see how this develops.”

Tilde nodded. She removed her sky blue beret and put a nondescript patterned scarf over her head. Peter watched her tuck the curls of her fair hair under the scarf. She would look somewhat different when Karen came out of the house, so that Karen was less likely to notice her.

Tilde took the cigarette from Peter's fingers, put it to her own mouth, drew in smoke, and handed the cigarette back. It was an intimate gesture, and he felt almost as if she had kissed him. He sensed that he was blushing, and looked away, toward number fifty-three.

The door opened and Karen came out.

“Look,” he said, and Tilde followed his gaze.

The door closed behind Karen and she walked away alone.

“Damn,” Peter said.

“What do we do now?” Tilde asked.

Peter thought fast. Suppose Arne was inside the little yellow house. Then Peter needed to summon reinforcements, bust into the house, and arrest him and anyone with him. On the other hand, Arne might be somewhere else, and Karen could be on her way there—in which case Peter needed to follow her.

Or she might have failed in her quest and decided to give up and go home.

He made a decision. “We'll split up,” he told Tilde. “You follow Karen. I'll call headquarters and raid that house.”

“Okay.” Tilde hurried after Karen.

Peter went into the shop. It was a general store, selling vegetables and bread and household necessities such as soap and matches. There were cans of food on the shelves, and the floor was obstructed by bundles of firewood and sacks of potatoes. The place looked dirty but prosperous. He showed his police badge to a gray-haired woman in a stained apron. “Do you have a phone?”

“I'll have to charge you.”

He fumbled in his pocket for change. “Where is it?” he said impatiently.
She jerked her head toward a curtain at the back. “Through there.”

He threw some coins on the counter and passed into a small parlor that smelled of cats. He snatched up the phone, called the Politigaarden, and got Conrad. “I think I may have found Arne's hideout. Number fifty-three St. Paul's Gade. Get Dresler and Ellegard and come here in a car as fast as you can.”

“Right away,” said Conrad.

Peter hung up and hurried outside. He had been less than a minute. If anyone had left the house during that time, they should still be visible on the street. He looked up and down. He saw an old man in a collarless shirt walking an arthritic dog, the two of them moving with painful slowness. A lively pony was drawing a flatbed cart carrying a sofa with holes in the leather upholstery. A group of boys were playing football in the road, using an old tennis ball worn bald with use. There was no sign of Arne. He crossed the street.

Indulging himself for a moment, he thought how satisfying it would be to arrest the elder son of the Olufsen family. What a revenge that would be for the humiliation of Axel Flemming all those years ago. Coming immediately after the expulsion from school of the younger son, the unmasking of Arne as a spy would surely mean the end of Pastor Olulfsen's hegemony. How could he strut and preach when both his sons had gone wrong? He would have to resign.

Peter's father would be pleased.

The door of number fifty-three opened. Peter reached under his jacket and touched the grip of his gun in its shoulder holster as Arne stepped out of the house.

Peter was filled with elation. Arne had shaved off his moustache and covered his black hair with a workman's cap, but Peter had known him all his life, and recognized him immediately.

After a moment, triumph was replaced by caution. There was often trouble when a lone officer tried to make an arrest. The possibility of escape looked tempting to the suspect who was up against only one cop. Being a plainclothes detective, lacking the authority of a uniform, made it worse. If there was a fight, passers-by had no way of knowing that one of the two was an officer, and might even intervene on the wrong side.

Peter and Arne had fought once before, twelve years ago, at the time of the quarrel between their families. Peter was bigger, but Arne was fit and strong from all the sports he did. There was no clear result. They had traded several blows then been separated. Today Peter had a gun. But perhaps Arne did, too.

Arne slammed the house door and turned onto the street, walking toward Peter.

As they came closer, Arne avoided his eye, walking on the inside of the pavement, near the house walls, in the manner of a fugitive. Peter walked on the curbside, furtively watching Arne's face.

When they were ten yards apart, Arne stole a glance at Peter's face. Peter met his eye, watching his expression. He saw a frown of puzzlement, then recognition, then shock, fear, and panic.

Arne stopped, momentarily frozen.

“You're under arrest,” Peter said.

Arne partly recovered his composure, and for a moment the familiar careless grin flickered across his face. “Gingerbread Pete,” he said, using a childhood nickname.

Peter saw that Arne was about to make a run for it. He drew his gun. “Lie on the ground facedown with your hands behind your back.”

Arne looked worried rather than frightened. In a moment of insight, Peter saw that it was not the gun Arne was scared of, but something else.

Arne said in a challenging tone, “Are you ready to shoot me?”

“If necessary,” Peter said. He leveled the gun threateningly, but in truth he was desperate to take Arne alive. Poul Kirke's death had dead-ended the investigation. He wanted to interrogate Arne, not kill him.

Arne smiled enigmatically, then turned and ran.

Peter held his gun arm straight and sighted along the barrel. He aimed at Arne's legs, but it was impossible to shoot accurately with a pistol, and he knew he might hit any part of Arne's body, or none. But Arne was getting farther away, and Peter's chances of stopping him were diminishing with every split second that passed.

Peter pulled the trigger.

Arne kept running.

Peter fired again repeatedly. After the fourth shot, Arne seemed to
stagger. Peter fired again, and Arne fell, hitting the ground with the heavy thud of a dead weight, rolling onto his back.

“Oh, Christ, no, not again,” Peter said.

He ran forward, still pointing the gun at Arne.

The figure on the ground lay still.

Peter knelt beside it.

Arne opened his eyes. His face was white with pain. “You stupid pig, you should have killed me,” he said.