Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

Ruth had been listening without a great deal of attention. Axel Lindgren dead! Gregor missing! But why was Axel going to the airport when he had told her to wait for him at the hotel? She became aware that the inspector was continuing to read from his notebook.

“So I asked him, if the suitcase hadn’t contained clothes, what it might have contained, and he said, ‘I surmise, sir, it was something that Professor Nordberg brought to the castle a few days ago. They were both quite protective, even secretive about it.’”

Ruth had been standing, looking down at the inspector incredulously. Now she sank to the bed, her knees suddenly weak, her mind trying to comprehend what she had heard. Professor Nordberg had brought something to Lindgren Castle, and after her call Axel Lindgren had taken something — undoubtedly the same something and equally undoubtedly the Schliemann treasure — and in attempting to leave the country with it, had been killed! In a way it had been her fault, not for asking him to come and help her, but in giving him the whole story, in threatening him — although she had not known it. Poor Axel! How like him to see in the treasure a means of getting a huge sum of money with which to continue his normal, extravagant, flirting ways! And now he was gone! It seemed odd to think of anyone as vibrant, as alive, as — well, as selfish — as Axel Lindgren being dead. She became aware that the inspector had been speaking to her.

“About your telephone call, ma’am—”

Something suddenly occurred to Ruth that was far more important than her telephone call. “Then the police have this suitcase?”

“No, ma’am. There was no suitcase in the car. There were two men there beginning to fight furiously when the police arrived,” he said, recalling the reports. “One of them was a Russian and the other an American. It was lucky for the Russian the police got there when they did—”

“Gregor!”

The inspector wondered a bit at this constant reference to the unknown Gregor. He also seemed sad to be constantly forced to contradict the lady. “No, ma’am,” he said, and referred to his notes once again. “One was named James Newkirk, who claims to be a reporter for a Paris newspaper. The other was named Serge Ulanov. He says he’s an assistant curator at the Hermitage Museum. They won’t talk, at least not yet, but we have them both in custody,” the inspector added in a tone of satisfaction, as if in his opinion any fighting done in his bailiwick should be done by natives. He came back to the subject that had brought him there. “Now, about your call, ma’am—”

“It’s a long story,” Ruth said wearily, and repeated the entire history of their locating the treasure and following it with their visit to Nordberg. “But it looks as if we were wrong,” she ended. “It appears that Professor Nordberg gave the treasure to Count Lindgren. They must have been working together.”

The inspector looked at her shrewdly. “And now the treasure is gone. And this Gregor is also gone. Is that the story, ma’am?”

Ruth glared. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong! Something has happened to Gregor, or he would have been here by now! I’m worried! I left him at this Professor Nordberg’s apartment, and now the apartment telephone doesn’t answer, and I’m sure Gregor must be hurt, or something—”

“This Gregor, I assume, is a good friend of yours, ma’am?”

“He is,” Ruth said a bit defiantly.

“Yes. Well, then, if you will permit me to make a telephone call on your phone, we can make a trip to this professor’s home and see if we can find out where your Gregor is.”

He crossed the room to the telephone, got an outside line, and dialed. He spoke into the telephone in a low tone, his back turned to Ruth. All she could distinguish was a murmur. When the inspector was done, he hung up, nodded his thanks for the use of the instrument, and led the way from the room.

An unmarked police car with a driver was waiting below. They climbed in and the inspector looked at Ruth inquiringly. She gave him the professor’s address and they rode through the city in silence, pulling up at last in the Israels Plad before the apartment house. A blond man leaning against the building considered them curiously. One good look at the inspector and he seemed to remember an appointment elsewhere, for he folded his newspaper, tucked it into his pocket, and began to stroll away. The inspector looked after him a moment, frowning, and then shrugged. One thing at a time. He led the way to the front door of the building and pressed the bell under the name “Nordberg.” There was no response. He nodded to his driver who came from the car, his hand reaching into his pocket for a bunch of keys. Moments later the door succumbed to the driver’s skill and they passed through, the inspector indicating he wished the driver to accompany them in case further locked doors were encountered.

“No point in disturbing the neighbors,” the inspector said, almost as if speaking to himself, and led the way up the stairs. The inspector rapped loudly on the door to Nordberg’s apartment, waited a few minutes before repeating the knock, and nodded to the driver. A moment later he had opened the door and stepped back. Inspector Rodhe pushed the door wide and stood, looking inside. Ruth peered around his shoulder. Then she screamed. Professor Nordberg was sprawled on the sofa, his face almost black, suffused with blood, the marks of his strangling clearly visible on his neck.

For the first time in her life Ruth felt herself getting faint. “Gregor!”

The inspector looked at her sharply. “That’s Gregor?”

“No. That’s Professor Nordberg. I meant—” She shut her mouth resolutely.

“I see. I suggest you wait for me in the car,” the inspector said politely, and tilted his head the slightest bit for the benefit of the driver, who drew Ruth back and led her down the steps as the inspector entered the room and closed the door behind him.

Ruth sat in the police car stunned, damning herself for everything she had done from the very beginning. Why had she ever wanted to find the treasure in the first place? It had resulted in Axel Lindgren’s death, in Gregor killing Nordberg, and for what? A bunch of pieces of artifacts that were not worth anyone’s life. And worse, why had she mentioned Gregor’s name to the inspector, as much as telling him who had killed Nordberg? Oh, why hadn’t Gregor listened to her when she begged him not to use force? But she hadn’t begged him. There was no exculpation in that thought. She had actually promised to let him try his methods if hers failed, when she knew all along he meant to use force if nothing else worked. She wondered how long the dead man had held out before Gregor unwittingly — for nothing could make her believe he had killed the man purposely — found himself with a dead man on his hands. Had the professor begged for his life, telling the truth that Count Lindgren had the treasure, only to have Gregor continue his pressure, not believing the man?

Oh, Gregor, Gregor! she thought despondently. My darling, my love, a murderer! At this moment undoubtedly hiding someplace. And he had done it for her, for her greed for the treasure! It was all her fault, the death of Nordberg, the death of Axel Lindgren, the fact that her beloved Gregor was a murderer. He had done it for her, and the guilt would lie on her soul and her conscience for the rest of her days...

She looked up. Inspector Rodhe was coming from the apartment, pushing ahead of him a manacled figure. Knud Christensen was looking at her in complete non-recognition. The inspector ushered the manacled man into the front seat next to the driver and climbed in back beside Ruth.

“He was in the kitchen, drinking aquavit,” the inspector said cheerfully for the benefit of the driver. “Gave me no trouble at all. Kept saying he had been cheated, and that the dead man wouldn’t drink some whiskey he had brought with him, and the next thing he knew he was holding the man by the neck.” He looked at the silent figure beside the driver. There was a touch of compassion in his voice. “I don’t believe he’s all there...”