Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

“Ruth!”

“—if he did, I wonder—”

“ Ruth !”

“I’m sorry, Axel. What is it?”

“I asked, whose apartment ?”

“You wouldn’t know him. His name is Arne Nordberg. He’s a professor at the university. It’s a long story—”

“Ruth, hold on a moment.” Count Lindgren cupped the receiver in one damp palm and thought furiously. Panic at this point could be fatal. Damn Wilten for failing to handle the two of them the day before, and double damn that fool Nordberg! First for lying about where he had gotten the treasure; secondly because he had undoubtedly done exactly what Kovpak had calculated the idiot would do when threatened, and that was to run to his protector, his savior, his friend, Axel Lindgren! And with Kovpak undoubtedly right behind him! There was no time to lose. He went back to the telephone. “Ruth—”

“Yes?”

“Stay in your room at the hotel and wait to hear from me. I’ll be back to you as soon as I can.”

“All right, Axel. But, hurry—!”

“I’ll hurry,” Lindgren said with grim sincerity, and hung up abruptly. He would have to find some excuse for having suddenly left the country without calling Ruth back, but at the moment that was the least of his worries. Escape came first. He came to his feet swiftly. “Wilten!”

“Sir?”

“Call Kastrup Airport. I want the first flight out on any line, to Rome, Amsterdam, London, Paris, Madrid — anyplace not in the eastern zone. Understand? I’ll check the lines for the one you arrange when I get there.” His tone also indicated that Wilten had better not foul up on this assignment if he knew what was good for him.

Wilten got the message. “Right away, sir.”

“If anyone calls or drops in, tell them I’ve just gone for a short drive and should be returning shortly. Tell them they can wait if they wish.” That should give him extra time.

“Yes, sir.”

“And take care of things while I’m gone. I’ll be in touch when I can.” Count Lindgren dropped his napkin, until now held in rigid fingers, and hurried into the castle. The steps to his study were taken two at a time; a suitcase taken from a shelf over the wardrobe. The cabinet containing the treasure was opened and the treasure hastily stuffed into the suitcase. With the suitcase held rigidly in one hand, the count trotted down the steps, going at a fast walk to the stables, four of whose stalls had been requisitioned for his cars. He selected the fastest, a Ferrari open-topped two-seater, tossed the suitcase in the narrow space behind the driver’s seat, and climbed in. He started the motor, allowing it to warm up for maximum performance later. Damn that bloody fool, Nordberg! Damn Wilten! Damn them all!

With a curse, Count Lindgren brought his mind back to his newly and instantly formed plan. He would go south a few miles and then cut over on a secondary road to the Vordingborg-Copenhagen road, and across to Amager and Kastrup Airport from the south; Nordberg and Kovpak undoubtedly would be taking the Copenhagen-Roskilde-Ringsted route, and this way he would avoid passing them. He took one final glance at the suitcase wedged behind him, as if to reassure himself he actually had the treasure, then he gunned the motor and roared from the stable down the curved road that twisted its way through the park-lands of Lindgren Castle.

Despite his hurry, Kovpak had to stop twice to ask directions. Both times Newkirk had parked on the shoulder of the highway a few yards behind him, his engine pulsing gently, waiting patiently with a smile on his face as he noted the care with which neither man in the car ahead paid him the slightest attention. As Kovpak pulled away from the gasoline station where he had made his final inquiry, Newkirk started up as well, bringing his car up to speed to keep up with the man ahead. Kovpak jammed the gas pedal down and glared at Ulanov.

“Are we going to let that whatever-his-name-is stay ten feet behind us all the way to the front door of the castle? And listen in to everything I’ve got to say to that bastard, Count Lindgren, which will be plenty?”

Ulanov shrugged. He could not imagine exactly why Gregor Kovpak was so irked with this unknown count, but at least it promised for an interesting interview. And as for the car behind them — “His name is Newkirk,” Ulanov said. “And I told you before, don’t worry about him.”

“Don’t worry about him? That’s ridiculous!”

“Possibly,” Ulanov said equably. “What would you suggest I do? Go back and politely ask him to go home?”

“I don’t know, but there must be something you can do!”

“When it occurs to me, I’ll do it,” Ulanov promised. “Better slow down. That must be the castle gate there.” He started to lean back as Gregor braked to swing into the castle grounds, and then suddenly shot forward, pointing. “Look out!”

A maniac in a small roadster had come shooting around the final curve of the wooded parkland drive and was heading directly for them. Gregor swung the wheel of his car as hard as he could, stepping down on the accelerator in the hope that he might clear the roadway before the small open-topped car crashed into them. The driver of the roadster saw their car at the same time and tried desperately to avoid a collision by hitting his brakes to attempt to swing around the other car, which was still not clear of the Ferrari’s projectilelike path. The roadster skidded wildly under the sudden application of the brakes at that speed. It bounced off the side of a tree; one wheel struck a rock and blew, completing the disaster. Now completely out of control, the small roadster shot erratically back across the road and crashed head-on into one of the huge stone piers that anchored the open gate. It bounced back several feet and remained there, leaning to one side like a weary animal at the end of its strength, steam spouting from its crushed radiator, dust swirling up from the torn gravel. The driver of the small Ferrari had been thrown violently forward by the impact, crushing the steering wheel, and now lay as if sleeping peacefully, his head to one side against the shattered dashboard, the column of the splintered steering wheel protruding bloodily from his back.

Gregor had braked his car with all his force once he had cleared the roadway, bringing his car to a shuddering halt, swaying, its front bumper only inches from one of the huge parkland trees. For a moment he sat there, his hands shaking at the nearness of their escape. Then he and Ulanov were out of the car, running over to see if there was anything that could be done for the driver of the roadster, but they stopped at the side of the car. It was evident the count had died almost instantly. Despite his hatred of the man, and the fact that Count Lindgren had tried to have Ruth and him killed the day before, the horrifying death the count had suffered seemed to more than pay for his crimes. He looked at Ulanov. “That’s Count Lindgren.”

“Who was going somewhere in a very great hurry,” Ulanov said dryly. He had seen death too many times, in far more horrifying guises, to be greatly affected by the other man’s death. He moved closer to the car, studying the interior, and then reached down, dragging the suitcase from its wedged position back of the twisted seat. He laid it on the ground and opened it, unwrapping the top bundle, looking up. “Would this be the treasure you’ve been talking so much about?”

Kovpak crouched beside him, trying to forget the gruesome sight of the count impaled on the steering wheel shaft. “Yes...” Behind them Newkirk came hurrying up. He stared with wide eyes first at the dead man in the car and then down at the open suitcase. Ulanov paid him no heed, but closed the suitcase and came to his feet. He handed the suitcase to Kovpak who had also risen.