Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

“You’d better get in the car and get going,” Ulanov said evenly. “It just occurred to me what can be done about that Newkirk person you worry so much about.”

Newkirk smiled coldly. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “I don’t know what you think you can do about that Newkirk person,” he said, “but this isn’t East Berlin. I owe you for that, Ulanov!”

“You owe me for lots of things,” Ulanov said, and glared at Kovpak. “I said, get moving!”

Kovpak hesitated. He could scarcely leave a smaller Ulanov to take a beating from Newkirk, but the fact was he had the Schliemann treasure in his hand, and in a very few minutes the place would be swarming with both curiosity seekers as well as police, all drawn by the spectacular accident. And anyone around — especially with one of Count Lindgren’s initialed suitcases in his hand — would have a great many questions to answer. The faint sound of a distant siren convinced him. Without another word he ran for his car. Newkirk made a move after him, but Ulanov threw himself around the taller man’s legs, bringing him down, holding him tightly by the ankles as Kovpak jumped into the car and started back toward Copenhagen.

Newkirk kicked himself loose and started for his own car, but again Ulanov brought him down with a tackle. Newkirk stared at the other car, disappearing up the road, and knew he could never catch it. Still, there was something he could do that he had wanted to do for a long time. He came to his feet, his face white, and reached up, taking off his glasses and putting them away. “I’m going to beat you to a pulp, Ulanov,” he said heavily. “For East Berlin—”

“Wait a minute,” Ulanov said hastily, holding up a conciliatory hand. “If I’m not mistaken, your assignment was to discover who had the Schliemann treasure, and why they were auctioning it off, wasn’t it? I can tell you quite frankly that that was my assignment.”

Newkirk paused, his fist drawn back, uncertain as to the other man’s motives in telling him all this. “What are you driving at?”

“Just this,” Ulanov said, wasting time until Kovpak was well on his way and until the police could arrive and prevent him from being battered to bits, “I know that you people have always thought that we Russians had the Schliemann treasure. Well, we were always sure that you had stolen it from us. We wanted to know if you were auctioning off the treasure, why you were doing so; if someone else was auctioning it off, how they had breached your security to get their hands on it. I can only assume, since you thought we had it, that your assignment was the same. Now that we both know and can prove that neither one of us had it” — he shrugged — “well, we’ve completed our assignments successfully, haven’t we?”

Newkirk frowned as he considered this in detail. Then his fist slowly opened, his arm dropped. The little old Russian major of the KGB was quite correct. He, Newkirk, was now in a position to demonstrate that Russian security had not been breached, and that therefore the KGB would not go about changing their systems which the CIA was on the verge of solving. Not bad for a lowly stringer! That credit alone could bring him advancement, even possibly a change to the New York Times . Paris was not the same since they started to put up all those skyscrapers. Looking at it in that light, this Ulanov deserved a pat on the back, not a beating, for pointing out the possible advantages of his position. Newkirk smiled at Ulanov sheepishly and held out his hand.

“I’m sorry. You’re quite right.”

“That’s all right,” Ulanov said magnanimously as he shook hands, and then, in the new spirit of friendship that had been aroused, he added, “By the way, you recall that small tape recorder you carried in that book in London? I don’t suppose you happen to have any spare tapes?”

Newkirk stared at the small man a moment, speechless, and then plowed in, swinging, just as the first police car came roaring up, siren screaming.

An hour had passed since Ruth’s call to Count Lindgren, and she was feeling more abandoned by the minute. She was also more worried. Her calls to Gregor’s room continued to go unanswered, there had been no message for her at the desk which she checked every five minutes, and her calls to Nordberg’s apartment were equally unproductive. She was about to telephone the Lindgren Castle for a second time, when there was a sharp rap on the door. She hurried over, her heart beating faster, hoping against hope it was Gregor, or at least Axel Lindgren, but when she opened the door the man facing her was a complete stranger. He was a large, heavily muscled man with a balding head, and despite the heat of the day he was dressed in a heavy tweed suit complete with vest. He was considering her politely.

“Dr. McVeigh?”

Ruth frowned. “Yes?”

“My name is Ib Rodhe. I am an inspector of police.” He brought out his identification and presented it, and then neatly put it away before continuing. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Ruth led the way, closing the door after the man. Her heart was pounding; she had a premonition of disaster. She turned to face the large moon-faced man who was looking at the two chairs in the room in the manner of a person deciding which one he wished to buy. “Something’s happened to Gregor, hasn’t it?”

“Gregor?” The inspector finally made his selection and sank into it. It was obvious from the slight frown on his face that the name Gregor meant nothing to him. He put the matter aside to pursue the more important one that had brought him there. “Dr. McVeigh, I understand you placed a telephone call to Lindgren Castle a little over an hour ago. Is that correct?”

Ruth frowned. This was not what she had feared the police were here for. “Yes, I did. Why?”

“Count Lindgren was killed in an automobile accident only moments later. I was wondering—”

Ruth was staring at him in shock. “Axel Lindgren is dead?”

“Yes, ma’am. He died instantly, if that is any consolation. Now, about your call—”

“It’s my fault,” Ruth said miserably. “He was hurrying to get here...”

“No, ma’am. According to the butler, Wilten — the one who informed us of your call — Count Lindgren was on his way to the airport—”

“The airport ! But that’s impossible!”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am. I have known men like this butler, Wilten, before. While his master was alive I have no doubt that Wilten would have lied for him. But with his master dead, there was no reason for him to do anything but give us as much of the truth as he knew. I have no doubt at all that Wilten’s statements are correct in every detail. Wilten said—” The inspector took a notebook from his pocket, flipped it to the page he wanted, and nodded in satisfaction. “Here we are. Wilten’s exact words, ma’am. He said, ‘Count Lindgren received a call from Dr. McVeigh, an American lady, at about ten-thirty o’clock. I do not know what the conversation consisted of, but when it was over Count Lindgren seemed unusually perturbed. He instructed me to call the airport and to arrange a ticket for him on the first flight out of the country to anyplace except Russia or the eastern countries. He mentioned Rome or Amsterdam or Paris or London—’”

“What?” Ruth was looking at him with unbelieving eyes.

The inspector returned her look apologetically. “I am only repeating Wilten’s words, ma’am. He then said, and I quote,” the inspector said, looking back at his notebook, “‘Count Lindgren then hurried upstairs to his study. When he came down he had a suitcase.’ The inspector’s eyes came up. “I asked Wilten if, which seemed logical, the suitcase contained clothing for the count’s trip. He said—” The inspector went back to his notebook. “He said, quite as if I’d insulted him, ‘Sir, I pack for Count Lindgren! When I saw him descend with a suitcase and leave the castle, I immediately checked his wardrobe. He had taken no clothes with him.’”