Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

Kovpak hesitated before answering. “Because,” he said at last, “I don’t believe there is a boat. And when this is proven to be just a boat that some smuggler was using to bring explosives, or gunpowder, into Denmark — or, what is far more likely, isn’t proven to be anything — then we’ll be at the end of the road.” He looked across the car somberly a moment, “Then what excuse will we have for — well, for not saying good-bye and going home?”

Ruth leaned over, touching his cheek tenderly, and then sat back again. “We promised not to discuss that,” she said quietly. “When it happens, it will happen. In the meantime, it’s pointless to think about it.”

Gregor shrugged. “If you feel that way about it.”

“I feel very much that way about it. I don’t see any other way to feel about it,” Ruth said, and looked out the window. They had passed Nykøbing and were nearing Gedser, with an arm of the sea visible to their right beyond the railroad tracks that paralleled the highway. The land here was flat, farms running down to the edge of the waters, fields separated by hedges rather than by trees, tiny docks at the end of each bit of land, and the farmhouses were small and gaunt, built of stone, with sharply sloping roofs. Ruth turned to Gregor. “This is more what I thought Warnemünde would be like, instead of those big cranes and warehouses and all that concrete.” She pointed. From the slight rise on which they found themselves a dock and sails could be seen in the distance. She nodded positively. “This is where we finish this business.”

Which, Gregor thought a bit sadly, is what I’m afraid of.

Ruth leaned forward, sliding the glass divider open. “Wilten—”

“Miss?”

“That dock. I want to stop there.”

“Yes, miss.”

The car pulled into the town proper, past the small shops and the narrow spired church, past the large ferry slip where the train ferry from Germany landed, and turned to take a small road running in the direction of the dock they had seen, past the slight rise where the lighthouse stood. The road ran along several farms and then curved toward the dock. Sailing boats were scattered about the small harbor, white chalk marks against the slate gray of the water, each trailing a dinghy or two like piglets suckling a sow. Men were visible on the dock, repairing nets or just smoking and talking. As they approached and Wilten began to slow down at the entrance to the pier, Ruth could see that while none of them appeared to have chin whiskers, and none was wearing a sou’wester, the scene was remarkably reminiscent of the Winslow Homer scene she had pictured in Warnemünde. Maybe it’s an omen, she thought hopefully, and turned to Gregor as Wilten brought the car to a halt and hurried around to open the door for her. “You stay here. I’ll do the talking.”

Gregor smiled faintly. “My pleasure.”

A thought came to Ruth as she got down. She looked at Wilten. “Do you suppose that any of them speak English?”

“Oh, yes, miss. Almost everyone in Denmark speaks English except possibly the very old folks. It’s taught in school, and school is compulsory, miss.”

“Good!” Ruth said, and marched off toward the nearest group.

The men looked up at sight of the beautiful lady, and then one by one they came to their feet, wiping their hands on their trousers, wondering at the unexpected visit. The oldest, who seemed to have been elected spokesman for any unforeseen events, stepped forward a bit, frowning uncertainly. Beautiful ladies seldom visited the Gedser dock. “Miss? Is there something—?”

Ruth took a deep breath and got right to the point, looking from man to man as she spoke. “There was a ship sunk very near here, off the Gedser light,” she said. “It was a long time ago, I realize. It was in 1945 — May 1945. It was a small boat, probably a fishing boat. Do any of you recall anything like that?”

“1945?” The spokesman frowned and shook his head. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, miss. That was a long time ago. I was in the Royal Navy at the time, stationed off Iceland.” He looked around. “I don’t believe any of us was around in 1945.”

Ruth looked at the others. One by one they shook their heads.

“I was working in factory,” one said. “In Herning. Defense industry—”

“I was army—”

“I was fishing, but off Sylt—”

“I was just a lad in 1945. Living in Korsør, going to school—”

Ruth sighed. “Let me ask you this. Would there be anyone around who might remember a ship sinking off the lighthouse in 1945? May 1945?”

The men looked at each other. The oldest shook his head slowly. “That was over thirty-five years ago, miss. Gedser wasn’t much of a place in those days; not much of a place now, to tell the truth. Not much reason for anyone to be here.”

“Then or now—” someone added bitterly.

The elderly man disregarded this. “How was she sunk, miss?”

“She exploded.”

“In May 1945? That was just after the war,” the man said thoughtfully. “Lots of ships sunk during the war between here and Germany. Lots of them exploded, too. We scuttled some ourselves, in the navy—” He studied her. “Why are you asking, miss? You a reporter for a newspaper?”

It was as good an excuse for asking questions as any. “A magazine,” she said with a smile, and went back to her questioning. “Does anyone remember anyone trawling around here, say in the past four or five months, and bringing up a crate, or a box, or a case of some sort?”

“From that sunk ship, miss?”

“We think so.”

The men looked at each other and then, seemingly with one accord, shook their heads. “Near the light, that would be? Nobody trawls there, miss. Lose their nets if they did. Bottom’s a jumble of rocks, sharp as knives.”

Ruth was running out of questions, getting a bit desperate. “Or diving, say, four or five months ago?”

“Four, five months ago?” The men grinned. “Nobody dives in water around here, miss. Oh, a little in summer, some of the younger fellows, but certainly not in winter. Water’s like ice.”

“Lots of times water is ice—”

“Man would be crazy—!”

“Except,” one man suddenly said, thinking about it, “that Knud Christensen. You took him out, didn’t you, Jens?”

Jens Krag nodded. He stepped forward, happy to be in the limelight, even though he considered the entire discussion to be foolish. “Man was diving for his brother’s body,” he said quietly. “Tried to talk him out of it, but couldn’t. His only two brothers went down in a storm off the light. Never found Niels or any sign to this day, but Gustave, the youngest, was tangled in ropes. Knud, he went down for Gustave’s body, not for any crate or box. Brought Gustave up, too.” He said it with a touch of pride for the man’s tenacity and endurance.

“Anyway, Knud Christensen ain’t a man. He’s a bear. A polar bear.”

“He’s a loony, diving in water that cold,” someone else said. “Lucky he came up himself.”

“Anyway, it wasn’t in 1945 that the Christensen boat went down,” Krag added, as if to put an end to the matter. “It was January this year, end of January.” His voice became philosophical. “Knud hasn’t been the same since his brothers died. Farm’s going to hell.”

“He should have married—”

“Who’d marry him? Sits like a log and just stares half the time. Drinks more than he should. More than he can afford, too. Going to lose the farm he doesn’t wake up—”

“Don’t think he cares. Anyway, going to starve first, one of these days—”

“This Knud Christensen,” Ruth said suddenly. “Where does he live? I’d like to talk to him — for my article.” Although, she added to herself with honesty, he doesn’t sound like the man who could possibly have brought up the treasure, not if he’s on the verge of starvation. Still, he might have seen something when he was bringing up his brother’s body—