The Gold of Troy

Chapter Seven

Gedser — January

Winter storms on the Baltic are not uncommon, but the one that raged down from the north that day in late January surpassed any of the long, bitter season. Knud Christensen, standing at the window of his farmhouse outside of Gedser, stared with concern out over the sea. Ahead was nothing but a wall of white sweeping over gray waters lashed by wind. The small dock at the end of his property was barely visible, with the high waves washing over it, foaming as they tried to sweep away the dory anchored under it. But it was not the vulnerability of the dory that concerned Christensen. He was worried about his two brothers, out in the storm. They were both seasoned fishermen, both excellent sailors, but this storm had come up so suddenly, so viciously, that any boat caught in it could be in danger.

It was odd that Knud had not been the one to take to fishing, leaving either Niels or Gustave to handle the farm. As a boy of fourteen he had been the most attracted to the sea; the oldest and biggest of the three brothers, the best swimmer, the best diver, the one most at home in or on the water. But as he grew older, Knud Christensen realized he preferred the quiet, almost stolid life connected with bringing things slowly from the earth. Sailing, as well as fishing, required the making of instant decisions at times, and Knud would have been the first to admit he was ill-equipped for this. Now, at twenty-eight, he knew he had made the right choice. Farming permitted a man time to think, to ponder, to consider problems in depth; either the middle brother, Niels, or Gustave, the youngest and the family favorite, were quicker and far better in general for the life at sea they had chosen.

But now his two brothers were out in a storm and Knud was worried. For once he wished he had gone with them; the sea held no fear for him. He might not have been the quickest-witted, but he was by far the strongest, and muscle was needed as well as brains in a storm of that magnitude. But here he was, chained to the land, warm and safe in a house, helpless to do anything but wait.

The snow ceased as suddenly as it had come, but the winds, if anything, seemed to intensify, whipping about the old house, raising the waves even higher. The light of the lighthouse could be seen once again; under its probing eye the huge waves twisted and lashed at each other, battering their way to fall with fury on the shore. Christensen strained his eyes. In the dim light cast from the dull sky he could see a boat, and then another, heaving on the waves, trying to beat their way into the harbor and safety, but it was impossible to distinguish or identify any particular boat at that distance. He stood there until darkness finally blocked everything from the sea, and only the eye of the lighthouse, revolving endlessly, could be seen high in the dark sky, the beam it threw lost in the night. Then, at last, he left the window and went through the house turning up the lights.

There was the possibility, he suddenly realized, that they had managed to reach another haven, another harbor, but in that case surely they would have telephoned. A thought came; he went to the telephone and raised it. There was no sound. The storm had interrupted service. Christensen felt a sudden wave of relief. That was it. They had put into another harbor and had been unable to get in touch with him. He was beginning to act like an old mother hen with his two chicks. They were fine and could take care of themselves. Hadn’t he himself taught them to sail? Pleased with his solution to the problem he went into the kitchen to start supper. The two would be starved when they got back. It would have been impossible to have managed anything in the small galley in that storm.

A sudden knock on the door and Christensen mentally kicked himself for having waited so long to start cooking. Then he paused, frowning. His brothers never knocked, why should they? He hurried to the front room, swinging the door wide, stepping back against the wind that rushed in. Jens Krag, a neighbor and a fisherman, came in, shaking drops from his sou’wester, standing on the entrance mat, dripping, his face wreathed in misery. Knud stared at him blankly, wondering at the visit. Then, slowly, the other’s silence, his expression, brought understanding.

“Gustave... Niels...”

Krag stared at the floor, unable to look into Christensen’s gaunt face. He swallowed. “The storm came up so suddenly...”

Christensen grabbed the man by the front of his slicker, shaking him savagely. “Where are they? What happened?”

Krag allowed himself to be shaken. He seemed to feel that anything that could relieve the other man’s agony was permissible. Christensen suddenly seemed to realize what he was doing, but there was no thought of apology. He released the other man and pointed abruptly to the sofa. “Sit down. I’ll get something to drink. You will tell me what happened.”

He shoved Krag onto the sofa and walked into the kitchen. It seemed to him he was walking in a dream, or standing to one side watching someone else walk into the kitchen and cross to the cupboard to take down a bottle. He stopped and stared at the wall without seeing it. No. No! Jens Krag was a liar! He wouldn’t give the bastard a drink. Instead he would beat the truth out of him! It was impossible that Gustave was dead, that Niels was gone! He would make the miserable liar admit the truth — it was a vicious joke, and Knud Christensen was not one to be joked with!

But Jens Krag had told him the truth, or would when he gave him a chance to say anything at all. Krag was not a liar, and he knew it. He walked back into the front room with a bottle and two glasses, fighting the tears that stung his eyes. He filled the two glasses, threw his own drink down his throat without waiting for the other. It might have been water for any effect he felt. He refilled his glass and stood over Krag, a menacing figure.

“Now — what happened?”

Krag took his drink down gratefully. It brought color to his face and made the telling of the tragedy, while not easy, easier. He was relieved that Knud Christensen had not gone completely berserk at the news. He had known Knud since the Christensen child had been the only one. He had seen him grow and knew the boy who was now a man, while slow to temper, could be frightening when finally aroused. He looked up into Knud’s white face and then looked down at the carpet, his heavy veined hands slowly twisting the empty glass, speaking hesitantly.

“The storm came up so suddenly... It had looked threatening, but we were sure we would be back before anything serious. The herring were running, we were netting them like mad, our lockers were almost full, and nobody wanted to leave until we had filled them completely. It hasn’t been so good lately, the fishing I mean, and—” He seemed to feel Christensen’s increasing impatience and hurriedly went back to his story. “When the storm really struck, we all pulled our nets and headed in. We were off the lighthouse when it really hit. We were within sight of each other when the snow came, but in that blizzard we couldn’t see a thing. I was afraid we’d run into each other, but we had to keep moving. Without the engines we would have been swamped in a minute. Then, suddenly, the snow stopped and I saw we were almost on top of your boat. I veered away and then I saw they were in trouble. The engine must have failed. They were losing way and bouncing around completely out of control. There was nothing we could do to help them in that sea. Then—” He paused.

Christensen’s eyes were cold on Krag, as if accusing the man of the crime of surviving when his two brothers had not. “Then?”

“Then I saw Niels starting to raise sail—”

“Raise sail? In that sea?”

“There was no choice! He had to try something, didn’t he? Without power he wouldn’t have lasted a minute—” Krag suddenly seemed to realize they still hadn’t lasted. He swallowed. “Anyway, he had barely started when the wind caught the sail and — and the mast snapped.” He spoke hurriedly now, anxious to finish and be done with it. “It threw Niels overboard. He was swept away in an instant. There was no chance to do anything to save him. He was gone almost at once—”

Christensen’s voice was like doom. “And Gustave?”

Krag swallowed once again; he knew Knud Christensen’s feeling for his youngest brother. But it had to be said. “The wind took the boat into a trough, swinging it, tangling Gustave in the shrouds, and then — then it seemed the boat just seemed to open where the mast had split the deck, and — and the next thing she was gone, just like that.” He seemed to be relieved to have finished the painful and thankless job of telling Knud Christensen the story. He sighed and filled his glass, drank gratefully, and then set the glass down carefully on the floor. He came to his feet, still avoiding Christensen’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Knud. Everyone’s sorry.”

“Sorry...” Christensen was staring past Krag through the window at the blackness beyond. The storm seemed to have abated. The sound of the wind had died down. “Everyone is sorry...” It was all his fault if they foundered because the engine failed. They had discussed the need for the new engine, but he had felt the farm requirements came first. His one vote against their two, and he had won. A great victory... He spoke, still staring through the empty window. “They were the only boat lost?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Krag retrieved his sou’wester, pulling it on, moving to the door. “I have to be going...”

“Wait.” Christensen brought his attention from the window to the man at the door. His face was expressionless, carved in granite. “Do you know where the boat went down?”

“Fairly close,” Krag said, pleased to be on more familiar ground. He was sure he understood the reason for the question. “We could see both the light and the harbor entrance. She wouldn’t drift much with her lockers full the way they were, and it’s too deep there for much undersea movement from the waves. As soon as it’s calm I can locate the place well enough for Father Rasmussen to hold a proper service.”

“A proper service,” Knud repeated. “A proper service...” he said once more, and turned without another word to climb the steps toward the bedroom. Krag sighed and went out into the windy night, closing the door softly behind him.

It was not the first service of its kind that Father Rasmussen had held nor, as he sadly knew, would it probably be the last. He stood in his own small dory, bobbing lightly on the calm sea; about him the boats of the other villagers were grouped. The air was bitter cold, but calm. Above, the sky was a deep blue, as if the heavens were compensating, this fine Sunday morning, for the two lives that had been taken in fury a few days before. Everyone standing silent at the rails of their boats was bundled in sweaters. Father Rasmussen wore a heavy pea jacket over a turtleneck sweater. Some of the villagers had managed to get some hothouse flowers; others had brought small wreaths woven from fir boughs in their own homes. As the final sad words of Father Rasmussen’s all-too familiar service ended, they leaned from the rails of their boats and tossed their offerings from gloved fingers into the pulsing sea. There were a few moments’ silence, all eyes following the drifting flowers, the men all aware that but for the grace of God it could be they, themselves, under the sea and the floating wreaths above them; the women thinking how fortunate it was, in a way, that the Christensen boys never did marry, for at least now there were no grieving widows to suffer loneliness and loss. Then there was the sound of Father Rasmussen’s outboard being started, and the other boats followed suit, slowly pulling away, heading back to the village.

Krag moved to his boat’s controls, happy to no longer be standing beside the silent and somehow frightening Knud Christensen. He pressed the starter, revved the boat’s engine, and swung the wheel in the direction of the harbor. And then became aware that Christensen had moved silently to stand at his elbow.

“Jens—”

“Yes?”

“Pull into my dock. I have to get something. Then I want you to take me out again.”

“Of course, Knud.” A personal gift to the dead, Krag thought; something too personal to be offered to the sea before the audience of the villagers. He wondered how long Christensen intended to grieve. “What is it you want to get?”

“My diving gear.”

“What!” Jens Krag took his eyes from his boat’s way a moment to stare incredulously at the man at his side. “That’s crazy! What do you think you’ll find?”

“My brother.”

“But that’s mad! You couldn’t live five minutes in that water! This is January, for God’s sake!”

Christensen calmly reached over and changed the position of the wheel. The boat obediently changed course, chugging evenly toward the Christensen dock. “When we get there,” Knud said conversationally, quite as if Jens Krag had not spoken at all, “you will wait for me and take me back out to where the boat went down. Do you hear?”

“But — not only is it too cold, but the water’s at least eighty feet deep there!” Jens was almost frantic. “It’s insane, don’t you understand?”

“If you say so. I’ll try to get my gear from the house as quickly as I can,” Christensen said, and moved away from the wheel, walking stolidly to the stern of the boat, hands deep in pockets, staring back at the spot he had marked during the somber ceremony. That service was for you, Niels, he said silently to the waves. Somewhere in this vast sea you are resting, and that service was for you. But Gustave shall rest in Gedser cemetery, beside our mother and father. I know you would both want that. I shall recover his body and see he has a proper burial, that I promise all of you. One brother for the sea is enough. Gustave shall be properly buried on land with the Christensens, in a place where I can go and mourn when I want...

The boat tacked, the engine was cut, the boat coasted with practiced precision into the dock, nudging it quietly. Christensen stepped to the dock, warped the ship’s rope to the bollard there, turned and walked quickly toward the house. Jens Krag stared after him, frowning. The man was patently mad, totally insane! Should he go off and leave him? Go and get men from the village to subdue him, get the doctor to give him a hypodermic, put him in hospital, maybe in restraint, until he regained his senses? Or maybe the man simply wanted to commit suicide, to join his two brothers in the sea. That, of course, was his prerogative, but making Jens Krag his accessory, his accomplice, was vastly unfair!

On the other hand, if Krag should take his boat and leave, he had no doubt that Knud Christensen would find him and make him sorry he had not waited. And his far greater age would not prevent the younger man from beating him unmercifully. There was nothing to do but to obey and wait. But it was truly insane! In that freezing water? My God, they had ice in parts of the Baltic farther north! And at that depth? And he, Krag, could have been a hundred yards or more off in his estimate of where the Kirsten Christensen had gone down! How would he ever explain that when Knud came up empty-handed? If he ever came up...

He watched with a feeling of dread as Knud Christensen came tramping down the path, heavily laden with his gear. He dumped it over the rail, untied the boat, and jumped in. Krag hesitated in starting the engine, trying desperately to think of some further argument that might dissuade the other from the dive. Christensen seemed to read the other’s mind. He took partial pity on Krag.

“Jens, I’m not committing suicide,” he said quietly. “I have compressed-air equipment, not oxygen. It’s good for well below a hundred feet. I’ve worked deeper with it myself. And I’ve worked in cold water. I’ve got a wet suit and a good lamp. I’ll be all right.”

“But, Knud—”

“Get moving.” There was no longer any understanding in the big man’s voice, only implacable command. Jens Krag sighed and started the engine. The best thing to do was to get the affair over with. If Knud Christensen didn’t come up, he refused to take the slightest blame. He started the engine and headed out to sea, aware that he was probably being watched with curiosity by villagers along the shore, and possibly from the tower itself. At the approximate location he slowed and allowed the boat to drift, checking the position of the lighthouse tower and the harbor entrance, trying to picture their relative locations as they had appeared the night of the storm. The truth was he was far from sure, but would Knud Christensen accept that statement if he dove and failed to locate the Kirsten Christensen? Undoubtedly not. The man had gone completely crazy! He sighed and became aware of Knud’s harsh voice.

“Well? This is where we held the service.” The large man had climbed into his wet suit; he was strapping on the compressed-air equipment.

“I think — I think it was about here...”

“You think?” He glared at a subdued Krag. “You think?”

Krag swallowed. “It was a storm, a bad one, don’t you understand?” he said helplessly. “One minute we were halfway up to the sky, the next down in a trough like a mine! We were bouncing all over. Who could try and see—?”

Knud Christensen took a deep breath and held back his temper. There was only one solution to the problem. He pulled on his flippers, picked up his lamp and walked to the railing, putting his back to it.

“Be here when I come back,” he said quietly, and put the breathing tube in his mouth. One enigmatic look at Krag’s unhappy face, and he leaned over backwards, falling into the water.

Chapter Eight

The water was cold, shocking, numbing, deadly cold, and despite his wet suit, and despite his great strength, his iron resolution, and his almost fanatical stubbornness, Knud Christensen realized he had only minutes in that icy water in which to locate his brother’s body. He sank like a plummet, brought to the bottom by the heavy weights he had attached to his belt, front and back. They would have to be jettisoned for him to rise quickly when his search was finished, but they were there to enable him to reach the bottom as rapidly as possible, and give him that much more time underwater for the job he had given himself.

The beam from his electric lamp cut weakly through the dark waters as he sank, and when at last he was on the bottom it illuminated only a small patch before him as he began a circular search, widening the arc of his path with each succeeding circuit. He had never before explored this particular section of sea bottom, but he was not surprised to find it a mass of broken rock, in sharp contrast to the chalk, sand, and marl so common elsewhere in the area. His brothers and the other fishermen had always avoided deep trawling here; a history of torn nets lay in the past experience of the older men.

Knud pushed ahead, hoping that by the very effort needed to propel himself through the freezing waters he might generate enough body heat to keep him going a few extra minutes, give him that much more time before he would be forced to abandon the search. The rocky bottom displayed only the normal detritus of an area within sight of land; discarded food tins, the remains of broken and discarded fish crates, an abandoned skiff, its torn bottom the reason for its being there. Christensen forced himself on.

The deadly cold suddenly seemed to be abating. He almost had a feeling of increasing comfort, of warmth, in fact, and he realized he was rapidly coming to the end of his endurance. Many more seconds of the satisfying torpor and he would lose all control and quickly die. One final circuit, he promised himself sleepily, and then came awake with a start, staring into the gloom. Ahead of him, looming out of the darkness, was an obvious wreck, but it was much larger than the small fishing vessel, the Kirsten Christensen. It was only as he approached it that he saw he had come upon the wreckage of two boats, locked together on the rocky bottom. He circled, seeking some identification. The nearest boat had obviously been down for many years; the other was beyond, and he swam about the first, sweeping his lights from side to side. A small case momentarily blocked his path, perched between two rocks, forming a slight barrier. He held it in the beam of his lamp as he swam about it, pushing against it to hold his turn to a minimum. The rotten wooden cover fell away, almost disintegrating, revealing a metal inner shell, rusty but apparently still solid. He swam past it, pushing himself to the other side of the combined wrecks. There, faintly seen in the dimness, was his brother Gustave. The body hung from the shrouds, seemingly relaxed, still in the still waters, as if it had come to terms with its grave beneath the sea and was waiting patiently for Armageddon.

Christensen forgot the strange metal case in an instant. He dragged his knife from his belt, somewhat surprised at the difficulty he had in commanding his fingers to obey even this simple chore. He swam over the crushed gunwale and hooked a leg about the stub of the mast, forcing himself to slash at the ropes above his head, knowing his time was rapidly running out. Still, he refused to even consider surfacing, resting, and then returning to the task. He was here and Gustave was here, and it only required a few more seconds, a little greater effort, to free the body and take it up with him.

The rope seemed to be made of steel; his knife seemed merely to be sawing at it aimlessly, helplessly, uselessly. And then it seemed to Knud as if in slow motion he could see the rope part, see the individual fibers wave slowly in the motion of the sea caused by his frantic thrashing about. Gustave seemed to hesitate a moment as if reluctant to leave the safe harbor of the shrouds, and then the body slowly began to rise. Only the most convulsive thrust of his flippers allowed Knud to catch up with Gustave before he rose out of sight in the dimness of the sea. With a curse Christensen remembered the weights at his waist. Rather than attempt to unloosen them from his belt he flipped the belt buckle, feeling the weight and his knife and all his other gear fall away; and then he was free and rising, his brother’s arm clasped as tightly as possible in his numb hand.

The boat with Jens Krag seemed far away as they broke surface. The waves washing over him seemed unnecessarily rough, and he prayed he could hold onto his senses long enough to attract Krag’s attention. He tried to call out, to shout, but his voice was a mere croak that barely carried to his own ears. At his side Gustave lolled, uninterested. For a moment Knud Christensen felt a touch of panic; not that he might die but that he might fail. Had he come this far only to freeze to death within sight of Krag’s boat? But the old fisherman had been searching the sea for him, or for his frozen and dead body, and he had seen Knud surface with his lifeless cargo. In seconds he had brought the boat to Christensen’s side and was dragging the semi-conscious man aboard. Knud tried to protest, to insist that Gustave be taken aboard first, that Gustave not be abandoned now. And then at last he lost consciousness.

He awakened, sputtering, choking, the warm bite of sharp aquavit in his throat, its wetness dribbling down his chin, aware that he was alive, swathed in blankets, lying on a bunk before a gas fire. Krag’s boat was uncommonly steady, he thought, and then stared through a porthole to realize they were tied at dock. Krag was sitting next to him, a beaker of spirits in his hand, waiting for his response before feeding him more of the potent liquor. Christensen looked around and then tried to sit erect. Krag gently pushed him down.

“His body’s on deck,” he said quietly, and shook his head in wonderment. “How you ever managed in that water...” He reached out with the beaker. “Crazy...”

Christensen fell back, pushing away the hand with the aquavit. Now, at least, one brother would have a decent burial in the cemetery on the hill next to their mother and father. Now he, Knud Christensen, would be able to sleep a little better, knowing he had done what little he could do to save at least one brother from slowly rotting in the sea. It was, if nothing else, the fulfillment of a promise he had made to himself. It was not much, but it was something. He closed his eyes and drifted into restless sleep.

Gedser — April

Spring came early and swiftly to the Gedser peninsula and to all of Falster that year. One day it was still winter, with the threat of snow, and with blustery winds whipping in from the west and north, and then, suddenly, the winds swung around to blow softly from the east and south, and the smell and feel of spring was there.

The sleep that Knud Christensen had promised himself would be eased by the discovery and proper burial of his brother’s body, had not materialized as he had hoped. Though he deliberately tired himself out during the day with the many winter chores necessary to prepare for the spring plowing and planting, the nights still brought the incubus of seeing himself standing at the window staring out at the storm, wondering where his brothers were, even though knowing them dead; of seeing again Jens Krag standing in the doorway fumbling with his sou’wester, stumbling through his story, while the wind shook the shutters and slashed at the roof.

And then one night the nightmare did not come, but before he could feel his relief he knew it was going to be worse, much worse. He found himself swimming underwater and was aware of the cold and he knew he was searching for the Kirsten Christensen. In the dim light filtered down through the ninety feet of green sea water he could somehow see the ship clearly, but no matter how desperately he attempted to swim to it, it remained the same fixed distance ahead of him. Gustave could be plainly seen, locked helplessly in the shrouds, staring at him intently, as if pleading with him to hurry, hurry. But a box of some sort seemed to stand in his way, and whenever he tried to swim around it, it seemed to move in some subtle fashion to block him anew. Somehow he knew he would have to remove that damnable metal case if he ever wished to reach Gustave.

He woke feeling a bit dizzy, rubbing his head furiously, trying to recall just what dream he had had that had so disturbed him. A box, a case of some sort. He frowned, suddenly remembering. It was the metal case he had seen, had pushed aside, when he had dived for Gustave’s body, when the wooden cover had almost disintegrated at his touch. Beneath there had been the gleam of a metal case. Well, what of it? What of it was, of course, that the case might contain something of value. Or, equally of course, it might not. Still, someone had gone to a good deal of trouble to encase whatever it held in metal, and nobody went to all that trouble for something that was worthless. Unless it held medicines, or papers, or — he realized the case could hold any number of relatively worthless items. And to dive again in that area, to see again the remains of the Kirsten Christensen and realize it had taken his two brothers to their deaths? Money was important — among other things it would buy the memorial to his brothers he had often thought of but could not afford — but, still... It was a problem!

It was when the nightmare of the metal case blocking his passage to Gustave continued for another week that he awoke one morning knowing he had to bring up the case if only to appease whatever devils were forcing him to picture his youngest brother just beyond his reach night after night. Maybe with the case out of the way the dream would disappear and he could go on with his life in peace, albeit with loneliness.

Still, being the person he was, Knud Christensen considered the matter carefully for several additional days. Jens Krag, he knew, would be glad to take him out in his boat the following Sunday after church, although in that case Knud knew he would be obligated to share in whatever he salvaged. And somehow there was the feeling that sharing in the case or its contents would somehow be a little like sharing Gustave, who, after all, had not only led him to the metal box, but had also been its guardian, so to speak, watching over it until his body had been rescued — recovered, that is. No, Knud would bring the case up alone. He would do it at night. There was no need for anyone else to know or to be involved. He could reach the spot easily in his dory and be down, up again, and back home before anyone was even aware he had been out there diving. Relieved at having reached a positive decision, Knud Christensen went to bed that night, and while he had the same dream again, somehow there was less dread in it; he assured the waiting Gustave that he would be back, to rid them both of the nightmare.

The following night, once the lights of the village began to go off one by one, Knud Christensen took his compressed-air gear and the hundred feet of rope he had prepared and carried them down to the dory. He quickly spliced the extra rope to the forty or more feet of rope the dory anchor normally carried, and then returned to the house. There would be no Jens Krag waiting for him this time, and he would be in no position to search for a drifting dory. In the darkened house he put on his wet suit, attached the new belt he had since purchased together with new knives. He would not require weights this trip, the anchor would serve that purpose. He picked up his lamp and flippers and walked quickly down to the dock.

He paused, looking about. Above him and to one side the searchlight atop the lighthouse tower revolved impersonally, lighting a swath of sea in its glow, its principal beam reflecting back from a bank of lowering clouds. A bit of rain might come later, but there was ample time for his mission beforehand. He climbed into his dory, untied it, and reached for the oars.

When he judged he was close enough to the spot where he had located the Kirsten Christensen and Gustave’s body, he paused and looked about. The tower light still rotated evenly, but there was no indication he was being watched. Not that it really made any difference, he said to himself, and pulled on his compressed-air gear and his flippers. Then he tucked his mouthpiece in place, clipped his lamp to his belt, picked up the ánchor, and leaned backwards over the gunwale, falling silently into the water.

The water was still cold, and although nowhere near as cold as it had been in January, he knew he could not stay down for very long. For one thing his determination to recover the case was not the same driving force that had willed him to recover Gustave’s body. He came down in total blackness, not wanting to use his lamp until he was sure the glow of light beneath the water could not be seen from the surface or from the lighthouse walkway. When he struck it was with a painful jolt against the sharp rocks, the anchor pinned against his chest, and for a moment he feared he might have pierced his wet suit, but a swift check proved this fear unfounded. He settled the anchor firmly in the rocks, hooked the slack rope into his belt to be sure not to lose the line that led to the surface and the waiting dory, and began his search. His lamp pierced the darkness of the sea for only a few feet, and he wondered if he should have waited for daylight to make his search. But that might have brought curious neighbors. Besides, the difference in light at that depth was negligible. He felt a tug; he had reached the limit of the rope. With a muttered curse he pulled himself back to the anchor, raised it, swam ahead for a few minutes, and then replaced it in the rocks, taking up the search again.

He was about to move the anchor for a second time when he saw the tangled wreckage of the two boats ahead of him. He nodded in satisfaction and swept the sea floor with his lamp. He had come upon the object of his search in time. A few more minutes and he would have had to surface and try another night. But where was the case? He frowned and then realized he had come upon the two boats from the side of the Kirsten Christensen. He swam to the right, skirting the wreckage, his lamp moving furiously from side to side, almost afraid to look up for fear of seeing Gustave tangled in the ropes. The feeling made him realize he was running out of time. Where was the case? For a moment he feared someone had been down there before him, had stolen the case from him — the case, he now felt, was his by rights — and an unreasonable anger swept him. And then, just as he was about to concede failure this first night of his search, he saw the glint of light from metal, and knew he had found it.

In the light of his electric lamp, now held close to his strange discovery, he saw that the last of the wooden casing had rotted away during the hard winter, and only a few bits of board were held clamped between the steel case beneath and metal straps that had been wrapped around the case. He locked the anchor rope to his belt, set down his lamp, and put both hands to the task of shifting the box. Even though its weight was greatly reduced under water, it was heavy, and Knud paused, thinking. Then he came to a conclusion. He cut the anchor loose and thrust the free end of the rope through the metal straps, drawing the rope tight, making a sturdy knot that held the case firmly. Then with one last look at the box he gave a firm thrust with his flippers, grasped the rope, and swiftly drew himself up through the chill waters to his dory.

He climbed aboard, slipped off his gear, and sat down, resting a bit. The only problem now, as he saw it, was whether the straps would hold the weight, or if he had abandoned a good anchor for nothing, and would have to repeat his search another time. He began hauling slowly on the rope, bringing the case from the bottom. Beneath his feet the dory dipped dangerously. Maybe he should have brought Jens Krag into the picture, he thought. With the winch on Krag’s boat it would have been no job at all to handle the heavy case. But no! The case and its contents were his by right of discovery and by every other right! He would not share. He would get it ashore by himself. He pulled on the rope steadily, the case moving with greater ease as it came up from the bottom.

Christensen knew, as he slowly pulled the steel case toward him, that he would never be able to bring the case into the dory without capsizing, but that was not what he had in mind. When the side of the box bumped gently against the bottom of the dory, he looped the rope tightly around one of the dory’s bollards and bent to the oars. It was hard rowing, and occasionally Knud could feel a slight bump as the heavy case swung against the dory at the end of its tether, but he was getting closer and closer to the dock. As he rowed he kept a steady look over his shoulder, judging his position constantly should the straps or the rope break and drop the case to the bottom again, requiring another dive, but it was still with him when he nudged the dory against the dock.

Christensen climbed out, secured the boat, and then waded out to his prize. He reached down with his knife and cut the rope, leaving enough slack to wind about his thick arm and allow him to drag the case to land. He paused, panting. One thing was sure; the case was heavy. Another thing was equally sure; he could not and would not ask for any help. With a deep breath and the assurance to himself that if there was anything of value in the box it would go toward a memorial to his brothers, he bent and with all the strength of his large body brought the case to his arms and staggered toward the house.

He dragged the heavy box across the sill and closed the door behind him, allowing himself to fall in near exhaustion to the floor beside it, catching his breath, feeling the strain in his muscles from the arduous job. Then he came to his feet, closed the shutters and drew the curtains before lighting a lamp. In its light he made his way to the kitchen and poured himself a large glass of aquavit. He downed it as if it were water, shuddered a moment, and then went back to the living room, staring down at the case. Whatever was in it, he certainly hoped it had been worth the effort, not to mention the cost of a new anchor for the dory, because he knew he would never dive in that area again, for his lost anchor or for anything else. How long had the box been at the bottom of the sea? There was no way of knowing. He could not recall any ship sinking in that area in his lifetime. Possibly if he were to ask Jens Krag or the lighthouse keeper, who were far older than he, one of them might remember — but that would be stupid. If he was going to keep his discovery a secret, the last thing to do would be to go around asking questions.

He went through the house and out to the barn, keeping the lantern in his hand shuttered. Inside, in the lantern’s light, he found the tools he was seeking and returned to the house. With a cold chisel and a mall he carefully cut through the steel, making sure to make his entry large enough to bring out whatever was inside without cutting himself, or the contents, on the ragged edges. When he had removed a large enough panel he tried to see inside by the light of the lantern, but it was unsatisfactory. He reached in and felt around, and eventually brought out four wrapped packages.

He spread them on the floor at his side and began opening them, one by one. Each of the packages was wrapped in some type of suede leather, and inside, wrapped with equal care in tissue paper, were a huge number of beads and buttons and little circlets of wire, as well as oddly carved larger pieces made of some sort of metal he didn’t recognize. Knud sat and stared at his find, wondering what on earth it was supposed to be, or why it had been so carefully packaged in a steel box. He picked up one of the larger pieces, which seemed to be a childish attempt at a mask, stared at it a few moments and then put it down again. Like the other larger pieces it seemed to be flimsy, amateurish, and while Knud recognized that he was no expert he did know what he liked, and he didn’t particularly like any of the pieces. It seemed to him extremely doubtful that the things he had found could possibly have enough value to compensate him for his effort, or his lost anchor, or to leave enough for the most modest of memorials for his brothers. Most likely the stuff had a sentimental value for someone, to account for the care that had gone into wrapping and encasing the stuff. Still, they had gone to that trouble, so it seemed a bit early to give up all hope of eventually realizing at least a little value from his find.

But who could he ask regarding the odd material? Father Rasmussen? The father was by far the most highly educated in the village, but his education had been largely ecclesiastical, and that might or might not enable him to give a judgment as to the value of the beads, buttons, and the other larger pieces. Besides, Father Rasmussen was a noted gossip, and the chances of keeping the matter secret were the good father to be consulted were extremely remote. Per Baunsgaard, the blacksmith? The one who fixed most of the farm equipment as well as the fishing gear that required any metalwork? He might recognize what alloy the stuff was made of, but Per Baunsgaard was an even bigger gossip than Father Rasmussen. Showing him the pieces would be the same as advertising the affair in the Copenhagen newspapers, or putting it on the radio. Besides, Per Baunsgaard was a noted liar, so how could he be trusted no matter what opinion he gave?

It was a problem, and Knud Christensen had the habit of putting problems off awhile to see if possibly they might solve themselves. Certainly it wouldn’t do any harm to sleep on this one, at least. Sleep, he was sure, would not be hard to come by that night, or what little was left of the night. And if he had any dreams, he only hoped they might lead him to some idea of the value of what he had discovered. Satisfied with the temporary solution to the problem, he packed the stuff back into its box, pushed it into a closet for the time being, and went to bed.

Nor was Knud Christensen wrong, for when he woke at dawn the following day he knew exactly the man to help him solve his problem. It was a distant cousin; actually the son of one of his mother’s cousins. His name was Arne Nordberg and he was a professor or something of that nature at Copenhagen University. Certainly, Knud thought, mentally chastising himself for not having thought of it at once, Nordberg would be the exact man to help him in his dilemma. Satisfied, and refreshed by not having had any dreams at all, good or bad, he got up and began to dress. Uncharacteristically, he intended to go to Copenhagen without delay and ask the advice of his cousin. He had never met the man, but he was sure that would make no difference. His mother had mentioned his cousin often enough, usually to point out the difference in his own educational ambitions as compared to those of the other. Now those educational differences were going to work for his benefit.

Whistling, he completed dressing...

Chapter Nine

Copenhagen — April

From the window of his small office at Copenhagen University, overlooking the Frue Plads on one side and the Nørregade running into it, Associate Professor Arne Nordberg stared sourly at the pretty co-eds hurrying past, books in arms, their short skirts and lack of brassieres raising lewd thoughts in the professor’s mind. But they were useless thoughts, he knew. For some unknown reason he never seemed to be able to impress the pretty ones, and the ugly ones didn’t interest him, though he had never been able to impress them, either. His hints that favors might be returned in the form of better grades were invariably met with, at best, blank stares; at worst, by barely concealed smiles of derision.

If he had money, Nordberg assured himself, it would all be different; his shortness would be forgiven, as well as his tendency toward obesity, or the fact that at the young age of thirty-two he was rapidly losing his hair. Or if he had an international reputation like some members of the faculty, there would be, he was sure, no problem. Girls would be all over him like they were over that idiot Carl Becker, and for what? So the man won a so-called prestigious award once. It had been pure luck, those things mostly were. But the sad fact was that Arne Nordberg had very little money; he could barely afford the girls he visited over the sex shops in the Istedgade, beyond the railroad station, and then only the cheapest. And as for scholarly attainment, of the few papers he had managed to write all but one had been refused publication by the University Press, although they were constantly importuning the faculty for submissions, and seemed to print every piece of garbage sent in by anyone else. The world was against him, and that was a fact. The professor knew it was a fact, although just why the world should take this unfair attitude was beyond him.

So he was considered strict in class? Why shouldn’t he be strict in class? Who did anything for him that he should do anything for others? He had also heard it said, snidely, behind his back, that he was also unintelligible in class. That, simply, was a lie. If others couldn’t or wouldn’t recognize erudition when they saw it or heard it, it was just too bad. So he didn’t have any friends among the faculty? Why should he go out of his way to appear friendly to a bunch of louts who seemed to think friendship consisted solely of drinking another person’s liquor or eating another person’s food? The truth was he was as bright as anyone on the staff, although naturally nobody would admit it. He was also as educated, as intelligent, as personable. But what had it gotten him? Nothing! Take Carl Becker, for example. He would bet that Carl had been in the skirts of half the girls in his classes. And what did Becker have? Tell the truth — a laugh like a hyena, and little else!

He became aware that his intercom was buzzing and he glared at it. My God! A man couldn’t even take a few minutes to cogitate, to reflect, to relax after the grind of four hours of trying to pound some historical facts into the heads of a bunch of big-breasted, succulent-bottomed numbskulls, without being constantly interrupted. He considered disregarding the intercom, but he knew that his secretary — a dessicated, flat-chested widow ten years his senior he had once considered seducing — his face flushed at the memory although he still wondered how it might have been — would continue her racket until he answered. With a scowl he flipped the proper switch downward.

“Yes? Now what?”

“There’s someone here to see you, Professor.” She had a voice like a crane, as if there were something wrong with her throat. Why couldn’t she at least have sounded intriguing, even if she wasn’t?

“Professor?”

He brought his mind back to the matter at hand. “Who is it?”

“He says he’s a cousin of yours, Professor. Knud Christensen.”

Nordberg frowned at the telephone. Christensen? It seemed faintly familiar. A cousin? Some distant relative of his mother’s, as he recalled. Fishermen, weren’t they? From somewhere down in Nykøbing, or Korsør, or one of those other Godforsaken villages in the south. What on earth could a fisherman cousin — not even a real cousin, but one of those hundred-times removed cousins — want of him? The answer wasn’t even a problem. Money, of course. All these country yokels seemed to think if you lived in Copenhagen, you were rich. If you were a professor at the university, you were made of money. Well, little did they know! He stared at the intercom, seeing in his mind’s eye his middle-aged secretary at the other end of the line, leaning over to press the intercom buttons. He tried to picture the view down her gaping blouse, and then recalled that she was flat-chested, or so he had to suppose from the tight brassieres and buttoned-up blouses she wore. Why couldn’t he have had the luck to be assigned a good-looking secretary? Like Carl Becker—?

“Professor?”

He cleared his throat. “Tell him I can’t see him. I’m busy.”

“Yes, sir.” Nordberg’s hand went thankfully to push the intercom switch, but before he could do so his secretary’s voice came back. “Professor, Mr. Christensen says he’ll wait.”

Damn! Nordberg stared about the small office. There was no escape other than the one door leading past his secretary’s desk and the undoubtedly raw-boned and equally undoubtedly fish-smelling peasant outside. Nordberg thought a moment and then allowed himself a feeling of righteous anger. What did he owe this perfect stranger? Everyone was constantly trying to take advantage of him, and he wasn’t going to stand for it! Enough was enough! He would simply tell this oaf he was wasting his time, and that would be that. He didn’t have to explain the circumstances; he knew if he were the richest man in Denmark he would still refuse the man money. What did he owe the man, anyway? He steeled himself and glowered at the intercom.

“Tell him to come in.”

The door opened and Nordberg coldly considered the man who stood there. Christensen had dressed in his Sunday best, and did not appear particularly raw-boned, although he was certainly big. He also had a thick head of curly hair, and not for the first time Nordberg resented his father’s baldness that had apparently been transferred through genes to blight his son’s existence. Christensen also did not smell of fish, although this, Nordberg thought sourly, would not get him one penny. Christensen carried a small cloth bag with him and smiled with a bit of uncertainty at his distant cousin. Nor was any smile going to do the lout any good, Nordberg thought with an inner sneer, and did not even offer the man a chair.

“What can I do for you?”

“I thought—” Christensen paused and looked around, finally finding a chair and sitting in it. He edged it to the desk, his small bag held firmly in his lap. Here it comes, Nordberg thought, and waited, his face expressionless. Christensen studied the ranks of books on the shelves that enclosed the tiny office, and finally brought his attention back to his cousin. Rather than speak again, he opened his bag and brought out a piece of metal, placing it on the desk. “I thought you might be able to tell me if this had any value.”

Nordberg frowned. What was this? A new way to ask for money? Or an attempt to use the fiction of their relationship to peddle something? Or was it simply a case of thinking of him as one would of a pawnbroker, which was simply insulting? Or even simply asking his advice. Others on the faculty occasionally served as consultants, but they were paid for it. He picked the piece up and studied it without much interest, finally looking up at Christensen.

“Where did you get this? Do you have more?”

“I have a few more pieces with me. There’s lots more at home.” Christensen hastily brought out the rest of his samples and laid them on the desk. Nordberg looked at them, his interest at least piqued. They were undoubtedly old, very old. How had a mere fisherman come by them? He looked up again.

“Where did you say you found them?”

“You see—” Christensen began, and then paused. He was never very good with words. Maybe it would be better if he began at the beginning. “You see, my brothers were both drowned three months ago. There was a very bad storm—”

So he was going to ask for money after all! The pieces were just a lead-in; the sob-story was about to begin. Well, better to cut it off quickly.

“I’m afraid—” Nordberg began.

“I wanted to bring up the body of my youngest brother,” Christensen went on. He hadn’t heard the interruption; his mind was back in the icy water cutting Gustave’s body loose. “He was tangled in the shrouds. So I went down and found the wreckage of the boat, and brought up his body for decent burial.”

Despite himself, Nordberg was impressed. “You dove for his body — when?”

“Three months ago.”

“In January? Where was all this?”

“Off the Gedser lighthouse. Yes, it was January,” Christensen said simply. “It was cold, but it had to be done. But what I’m trying to say is that when I was down there I saw this box, this crate, made of steel. It must have come from the second boat I found, which must have been sunk a long time ago, because I never heard of the sinking, and it was less than a mile from my house. Anyway, when the weather got better — last night, in fact — I went out in my dory and I dove and brought the box up. And when I opened it I found these pieces. And a lot more.”

“How much more?”

Christensen shrugged. “Much, much more. Hundreds and hundreds of pieces. Oh, most of them were small, like beads and buttons and things like that. I didn’t count them. There were too many.” He looked down at his samples and then up to Nordberg’s face. “Do you think they have any value?”

Nordberg bent over the pieces once again, now studying them intently. There was something vaguely familiar with the piece he was looking at, a small slightly curved mask with open eyeholes, too small for an adult, probably for a child, or possibly a small woman. The material, he was sure, was gold, almost pure gold if he was not mistaken. He tried to recall where he had read about something like this. It seemed to him he had been reading or researching another matter, when he had run across something about some pieces... Still, he was sure it would come back to him in time. In the meantime, caution was clearly indicated in giving this peasant any information.

“Value?” He shook his head. “I doubt it. I would have to see the rest of the pieces you found to give you any idea at all. But if these pieces are representative—” He looked across the desk. “Are they representative?”

Christensen swallowed miserably. “The other pieces mostly are a lot smaller, but some are bigger. There’s a cup... I think it’s a cup... or maybe a bottle...”

“You see? No, I’m afraid you found something somebody probably threw away. You can see for yourself. They’re obviously made of some inferior alloy. See how easily it bends. And as for the workmanship — if you can call it workmanship — it’s simply childish. I doubt they would be worth more than their value as scrap. Still,” Nordberg added, as if trying to put the best face on the matter, “I won’t say they’re totally worthless. Or at least I won’t say it until I’ve had a chance to see the rest of what you found. Can you bring it to me?”

“I—”

“Or possibly it would be less trouble for you if I were to come over to your place?”

“You’d go to that much trouble?” Christensen asked anxiously. Nordberg shrugged modestly. “Could you come back with me? I live in Gedser, on Falster. It’s only a few hours by train.”

Don’t rush, Nordberg told himself sternly. No show of the slightest anxiety over this freak accident. Some of these country types are shrewder than they look. And you may have fallen into something just because you were smart enough to see this yokel. Others, like Carl Becker, for example, wouldn’t have wasted a minute on him.

“Today? I’m afraid not. In any event, I don’t believe it’s all that important,” Nordberg said, and forced himself to bite back a yawn. He reached over and flipped the pages of his appointment calendar, being careful that his visitor could not see the blank pages. “Ah! How about a week from Sunday?” Even as he said it he wondered if perhaps he was being just a bit too reckless; if given too much time the man might go to someone else for an opinion.

“Not before?” Christensen could not keep the disappointment from his voice.

Nordberg flipped the pages again, and then reached for a pencil. He crossed out something on a page. “I’ll postpone that,” he said, half to himself, and looked up. “Saturday next, then,” he said, making a great concession. “I’ll drive down to your place on Saturday.” He nudged the pieces on his desk. “If you wish you can leave these here with me. I can try to find out what alloy they’re made of. Or you can take them back with you, whichever you prefer.”

Christensen shrugged helplessly and came to his feet.

“You might as well keep them,” he said, and sighed. “Until Saturday, then. Anyone in Gedser can tell you where Knud Christensen lives.” He walked to the door and then paused, twisting the empty cloth bag in his hands. “And thank you,” he said sincerely, remembering his manners. “Thank you for your time.”

Nordberg waved the thanks away gracefully.

It came to Nordberg at three o’clock in the morning. He left his bed and padded to the front room of his small apartment, lighting a lamp, and then searching the bookshelves for the reference copy he wanted. He drew it down, the excitement in him growing, and flipped the pages until he reached the section he wanted. He found the part that had teased his memory, found the reference it made to another book, and hastily searched for the second book without bothering to replace the first. He almost tore the pages in his anxiety to find what he wanted. He thrust the page under the lamp. There it was! There it was! A picture of the very mask that was now locked in his desk at the university. And there! Look there! That diadem, with the owl’s head at the end of each of the hanging chains; the owl’s head of Athena! My God! Was it possible? He felt himself begin to tremble. The Schliemann treasure in the hands of a stupid fisherman from Gedser, when the entire world was convinced it was in Russia someplace, most probably at the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad? Was it possible?

He fell into a chair, eagerly reading a description of the treasure, and then fell back, his mind churning. He had suspected the pieces had value, but nothing like this! He forced himself to try and think clearly. Saturday was four long days away. Could he take the chance and wait that long to go to Gedser and verify that the treasure was, indeed, the Schliemann collection? Suppose the fisherman went to someone else for advice, or an opinion, in the meanwhile? Or suppose he had listened to his words and went and disposed of it for scrap to some metal dealer who, in all probability in that part of the country, wouldn’t know the difference and would bale it together with other scrap and sell it to some factory where it would all go into the furnace together, iron, steel, tin — and the Schliemann gold! The thought was too horrifying to contemplate. Or the metal dealer would recognize the material as gold, which was even worse!

But on the other hand, if he went down to Gedser any sooner than the following Saturday, wouldn’t the peasant wonder at his early arrival? Would the clod begin to suspect that possibly the pieces he had found were of greater value than mere scrap? What excuse could he give for hurrying down to Gedser that would not arouse suspicions on the part of this Knud Christensen?

It was a most difficult problem, and one that prevented him from sleeping the rest of the night. He sat and gnawed his nails, staring at nothing, trying to find a suitable answer. And then an even greater problem formed itself in his mind, relegating the one of a reason for an early appearance at Gedser to a very minor position. He sat a bit erect as he contemplated this new, and far more frightening, possibility. Eventually, no matter what he did with the treasure, word would get out! The world would know that the Schliemann treasure had been found! And Knud Christensen was part of that world! There would be newspaper articles. It would be marveled at in the magazines and on the radio! Pictures would be shown. Would it be possible that with all the attendant publicity, the clod would not hear of it? And if — or, rather, when — he did hear of it, what would his reaction be?

A cold, eerie feeling gripped Nordberg. There was only one solution...

He came to his feet, now moving almost marionettelike, as if his actions were being controlled by an Arne Nordberg he had never known. He went to his bookshelf again, but this time to bring down his pharmacopoeia, carrying it back to the lamp. He sat and pulled the heavy volume into his lap, leafing through its pages. He would require a poison that could be introduced in liquor, for he was sure that a man like Knud Christensen drank. The poison would have to be slow-acting, for Nordberg had no intention of watching the giant die, or be caught in those frightening hands should the oaf suspect what was happening to him. And then Nordberg paused, thinking, again as if his thoughts were those of a stranger, as if he were standing to one side watching Arne Nordberg think, and being able to read those thoughts. There were certain pills, drugs of some sort, which could not — or, rather, should not — be taken with alcohol. A strong dose of one of those drugs in a bottle of liquor... And if, for some reason, an autopsy should be ordered, the cause of the suicide, or accidental death, would be all too evident.

He sat and coldly made his plans for the following day, but one small part of his mind kept praising him for his courage, for his ability to recognize a situation and take the necessary steps to handle it. Another portion of his mind, though, kept hoping his nerve would not fail at the proper moment.

The pharmacist who furnished him with the sleeping tablets was careful to caution him not to drink anything alcoholic while using the pills, and Arne Nordberg assured him that he was quite aware of the consequences of doing so. He next stopped by his office, which was in the next block, to advise his secretary that he had been taken ill on the way to school and would not be able to take any classes that day — which was easily believed with his high color, his feverish eyes, and his shaking hands. He then drove to the bank and withdrew two thousand kroner, which left his balance woefully thin. But there was nothing to be done about it; this was no time to be niggardly.

His next stop was at a liquor store. Again he decided not to be cheap, and purchased a quite expensive bottle of whiskey. His coldly calculating brain, now directing him almost without his volition, told him that the drugs he had purchased might well cloud the otherwise water-clear aquavit, but they would be invisible in the amber color of scotch whiskey. Besides, scotch whiskey, at those prices, made a more prestigious present.

He then got into his car and started for Gedser. At a rest area he pulled from the road, and in a secluded area he carefully opened the bottle of whiskey and inserted the pills. He recapped the bottle and shook it to dissolve the pills, and then held it to the light; there was no sediment visible. He put the bottle into his handbag and pulled back onto the highway for Gedser, forcing himself not to think of the bottle by his side, concentrating instead on what he would do when he had his hands on the treasure.

There were two choices: one, should he turn the treasure in to the authorities? There was no doubt that if he did so, his fame would be great. He could see it in all the scholarly journals, every historical or archaeological publication: Professor Arne Nordberg, the man who discovered the long-lost Schliemann treasure! It could and probably would mean advancement. At the very least it would mean, it had to mean, the publication of a paper on how and where the treasure had been located. He would bring in the history of the treasure, a history of the Schliemanns, Heinrich and Sophie. No university press in the world would turn that paper down!

On the other hand, selflessness was fine, but here he would be with a fortune in his hands, if only he had the slightest idea as to how to exploit the situation. How on earth could he make a decent sum of money from his possession of the treasure? Assuming, of course, he managed to get his hands on it — but the thought of not getting his hands on it was just too terrible to consider, so he put it out of his mind. No, he would get the treasure one way or another. But what then? As far as he knew there had never been any reward offered for the recovery of the collection. Nobody had ever considered it lost, merely taken a bit illegally by the Russians and hidden away all these years. Possibly if he were to contact someone in the Russian Embassy? But if the Russians had managed to lose the treasure, if someone had managed to steal it from them, letting them know he had it could be suicidal.

And one could scarcely put an advertisement in the newspapers saying that one had the treasure for sale, could one? Obviously, one could not. Still, there simply had to be some way to get at least a portion of the great value of the treasure. With the amount of money he was considering — an amount that made his head spin just thinking about it — he tried to picture all the things he could do, all the places he could go, all the girls he could have. The thought of the pleasures that could be purchased with unlimited funds brought a twinge to his loins, but he put the sensuous thoughts aside for the time. First he had to get his hands on the treasure.

His palms were damp with sweat where they gripped the steering wheel, holding it as if to sustain himself. He pressed harder on the accelerator, hurrying to Gedser, forcing himself not to think of the bottle in the bag beside him.

It was late afternoon when Nordberg finally arrived at the Christensen home. He had hesitated several times before finally stopping at the post office as being the least noticeable place at which to ask directions. Knud Christensen was fixing a harness in the barn when Nordberg pulled into the driveway, turned off his noisy engine, and climbed out. The sound of the ancient car’s asthmatic wheezing brought Christensen to the doorway. He frowned and walked down to greet his unexpected guest.

“Professor Nordberg? But, I thought—”

Nordberg shrugged a bit self-deprecatingly.

“I found it was impossible for me to break my appointment for Saturday,” he said lightly. “A faculty tea, and I’m expected to address them, you know. And I’m busy every other day for the next several weeks. But since I had made a sort of promise to you” — he smiled — “and since it was a nice day for a drive, I thought—” He allowed the words to slide into silence. Fortunately for him, it did happen to be a nice day, although he had not noticed it until then.

“Good! Good!” Christensen said, pleased at the professor’s presence. It would save him from four more days of wondering at the possible value of his find. It did not occur to him to be suspicious in any way of this erudite man, a relative, even though a distant one. Knud Christensen was not by nature a suspicious person. He tilted his head in the direction of the house. “It’s — the things — are in there.”

He led the way, knowing the neighbors would think it strange for him to be having a guest who boasted a car, even an old one, but also knowing that a visit from a relative could easily be explained, especially after the tragedy he had suffered. Inside the house, the curtains drawn, Knud lit a lamp and dragged the heavy steel case from the closet. He reached in, fishing out the four packages, and carefully unwrapped them, placing their contents down in small piles. He then looked up at the professor anxiously.

“Well? What do you think?”

Nordberg could scarcely keep his hands from trembling as he reached for a small gold cup and brought it up to his eyes for closer inspection. He pursed his lips in his most professional manner, studying the cup with ill-concealed disinterest. Inside he was chortling, for he was positive he was actually looking at the missing Schliemann treasure; the night before, in Schliemann’s own book Ilios, he had seen that same cup in illustration. But there was no indication of his feelings in his expression of disdain. He put the cup down and picked up a necklace, sure as he did so that the quadrangular beads would be seventy in number, just as Schliemann had described it. The Schliemann treasure! And he had it in his hands, practically! He would have liked to ask the clod for more details as to how he had managed to come on the treasure, although with the collection in his hands he now knew he would never turn it over to any authorities for the puerile purpose of mere academic credit. It was worth a fortune, tons of money, mountains of money! He tossed the necklace down carelessly and with a final sigh made a sort of sweeping motion with one hand, a gesture that took in the entire collection, obviously condemning it to oblivion.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and actually managed to look a trifle chagrined. You should have been an actor, he said to himself, and drew his lips into a grimace of pity. “But it’s what I was afraid of. You see” — his voice took on the tones of confidentiality — “after you left yesterday, I had the pieces you brought me checked by our engineering laboratory. And discovered what I suspected, that they were an alloy of tin and white metal. The cheapest sort of costume jewelry, the sort of things servants buy in the cheap bazaars. And not particularly good examples of even that. I had hoped that some of the stuff you had here might be of better quality, but it all appears to be the same sort of... of—” He hesitated and then shrugged delicately, hating to hurt the other man’s feelings. “Well, to be frank, junk.”

Knud’s face had been slowly falling during this recitation. Although he had feared such a report, especially after his visit to Copenhagen the previous day, his disappointment was still visible. He looked at the pieces piled on the floor and shook his head disconsolately, not knowing what to say.

“I know,” Nordberg went on sympathetically. “I can understand how you feel. I’m disappointed too.” He looked at Christensen with what he hoped was a look of compassion. “Tell me — ah — cousin, what do you plan to do with this... this... these things?” His hand indicated the piles of pieces on the floor.

Knud raised his shoulders and tried to smile. “I have no idea. Try to sell them to the local bazaar, I suppose. Or for scrap.” He stared at the pieces, wondering what insane motive had driven him to dive for them. And to sacrifice a good anchor for them. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t. Maybe donate them to the church for their next raffle. They ought to be worth something.”

“Not very much, I’m afraid,” Nordberg said, and frowned as he considered the problem. A possible solution seemed to occur to him. “I can make a suggestion, if you should be interested. I have a collection of curiosities, of junk, if you will. Things without value, such as these. Conversation pieces, you know. If you would be interested in selling them to me, they might be amusing to some of my friends—” He hurriedly raised a hand. “I couldn’t pay very much, of course, but then the stuff isn’t worth very much, if anything. But I’m sure it would be more than the church would ever get trying to raffle such things off. Or more than you could get from the local bazaar...”

Christensen’s face began to clear. His eyes brightened a bit. “How much do you think—?”

Nordberg thought a moment and then shrugged, as if to say that after all it was only money, and money which he could easily afford, certainly more easily than his obviously poor cousin.

“Well,” he said, his voice deprecating his generosity, “after all, you went to a lot of trouble diving for this stuff, bringing it up from the bottom of the sea. That alone ought to be worth something. What about — say — a thousand kroner?”

Christensen took a deep breath of relief. A thousand kroner! It wasn’t, of course, what he had hoped for when he found the stuff, but it was far more, he knew, than what any bazaar would offer him for the stuff. And certainly far more than its value as scrap. It would buy a new anchor, and while what was left wouldn’t pay for any memorial for his brothers, it would at least make a down-payment on some sort of metal cross to replace the crude wooden one over Gustave’s grave.

“That’s very generous,” he said, and held out his big hand. Nordberg gripped it, his diffidence at the compliment apparent. Knud swallowed, as if ashamed, after such generosity, to be asking. “I don’t suppose—?”

“You mean, can I pay you now? Of course,” Nordberg said, disparagingly, as if he carried thousands of kroner with him every day. He brought out his wallet and separated a thousand kroner from the pile of bills there, allowing Christensen to note his affluence. It did strike him for a moment that it was a shame to be wasting a thousand kroner on a dead man, but he could see no other way to handle the affair. He certainly had no intention of waiting for Christensen to die and then recover the money from the body. He handed the money over. “There you are.”

“Thank you!” Christensen could not believe his good fortune. “Thank you!”

“There’s one thing, though,” Nordberg said, almost as an afterthought. It had struck him that he really didn’t know how fast the poison would work, and he didn’t want the oaf to go running to the neighbors and telling them of his good fortune before it took him to bed for the last time. “I should not like my colleagues at the university to think me a fool for spending that much money on an obviously worthless collection of cheap costume jewelry. So while they may be conversation pieces, there is no need for anyone to know I went overboard in paying for them. So I would appreciate it if we could keep this business — well, just between the two of us.”

“Of course! I haven’t told anyone that I ever found the box, and there’s no need for me to ever tell anyone.” Christensen tucked the money deep into a pocket and bent to wrap the pieces roughly in their original packages. Nordberg did not stoop to help him, but when the packages were ready, he did deign to carry two of them out to his car and store them, together with the two that Christensen carried, into the trunk. He closed the trunk lid and turned to look at his distant cousin. He steeled himself. This was the moment to prove if he had the nerve to murder or not. And he knew that he did.

“I say,” he said as if the thought had just occurred to him — and again it seemed to be a different Arne Nordberg speaking. His voice sounded different even to his ears. “Do you like whiskey?”

“Very much!” Christensen said, and then seemed to realize the lack of hospitality on his part the question seemed to imply. “I never offered you a drink! I’m sorry. Here, let me get you—”

“No, no!” Nordberg waved the offer away. “I brought a bottle for you. Actually” — he tapped his stomach and smiled regretfully — “doctor’s orders. No alcohol for a long, long time. But someone gave me this bottle, rather fine stuff, imported, and since I’m not allowed it, I thought you might care for it.” He reached into his handbag and brought out the bottle, handing it over. “Here you are. Have some now. To — well, to sort of seal our deal.”

Knud Christensen grinned as he looked at the label. “My Lord! I haven’t seen anything this fine for a long, long time. Somebody’s wedding, I forget whose.”

“Yes, it’s good stuff. Have some now.”

Christensen shook his head, still grinning. “Not anything this fine, this good. This will have to wait for a proper occasion.”

“No, no!” Nordberg said hurriedly, and cursed his stupidity in bringing an expensive brand. “It — I mean, it really isn’t all that fancy. Have some and tell me how it is, in case — I mean, so I’ll know when the day comes the doctor lets me drink again...”

“It’s good. I don’t need to prove that.” Christensen studied the label again and then looked up, smiling gratefully. “It won’t go to waste, I promise.” He held out his hand. “And I want to thank you for everything.”

Nordberg stood and stared, incapable of thinking of any way to get the clod to drink the whiskey. Then, unable to do anything else, he shook the outstretched hand briefly and climbed into the car as Christensen stepped back and raised his hand in a slight salute, the bottle dangling from his other fist. For a moment Nordberg thought of making one final effort, but he knew it would only look suspicious. With a frozen face he put the car into gear and drove from the yard.

But if the oaf didn’t drink the whiskey today, he would drink it one of these days, certainly before any possible news of the treasure or its disposition ever got out. Maybe it was just as well that Christensen hadn’t drunk the whiskey while he had been there. He had no idea of just how fast the combination of drugs and alcohol acted. And occasions as an excuse for opening a bottle of fine whiskey, Nordberg was sure, came up with a great regularity — birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, whatnot. And one nice thing about having spent that much money for an expensive brand was that it was doubtful the big man would share it with others. Not that it would have bothered Nordberg if others suffered the consequences as well. It was just the fact that sharing might dilute the strength of the combination, and that would not do at all.

And, of course, he had the idiot’s promise not to mention the deal to anyone. It wasn’t everything, but it was about as much as he could have hoped for — and the fact remained that in the trunk of his ancient car at that very moment as he headed back to Copenhagen, he had the famous Schliemann treasure.

That was a fact!

Chapter Ten

Other than the fact that Knud Christensen had not drunk the doctored liquor in his presence, and the fact that he would never know exactly when the clod did drink it since the deaths of unimportant people were not reported in the Copenhagen newspapers — and he certainly had no intention of returning to Gedser to verify the death — one might have thought Associate Professor Arne Nordberg would have been a happy man. Not only was he in possession of the Schliemann treasure, but in the week since he had brought the treasure back from Gedser and deposited the pieces trip-after-trip into two large safe-deposit boxes in his bank, he had lost ten pounds of weight. He had also saved at least a hundred kroner, since the girls in the Istedgade, for the first time since he could afford them, did not interest him in the least. His hairline, however, seemed to have receded even farther, and he wondered if worry alone could account for the fact.

What to do! What to do!

A fortune in his hands, a veritable king’s ransom, and all it apparently was going to mean were the added expenses of two large safe-deposit boxes, a complete loss of appetite, as well as the very possible loss of his job if he didn’t get his mind back onto the subject of Danish history and away from thoughts of the treasure sitting idle and for all purposes worthless in a box in a bank. He knew his lectures were suffering, but how was he supposed to be able to concentrate on the eighteenth century and the failure of Christian V in the Skåne War, or rejoice with his class over Frederick IV’s victory over the dukes of Holstein-Gottorp? The chances were if he didn’t find a solution to his problem soon, he would be forced by mere economic considerations to turn the treasure over to the authorities and attempt to glean what few tidbits of recognition he might from the whole affair. The thought was sickening. One morning he stared at his class without seeing them and then wordlessly left the rostrum and walked unsteadily into his office. He passed his secretary without a glance or a word, closed the door of his tiny sanctum sanctorum, fell into a chair, and pressed his head into his shaking hands.

What to do! What to do!

It was evident he was slowly going to pieces, or not even slowly. A solution had to be found and found quickly or he was going to suffer a complete nervous breakdown. Why had that fiendish fisherman come to him with the blasted treasure? Why couldn’t he have enticed someone else with its potential wealth? Or, better yet, left it at the bottom of the sea? Or had the fisherman been sent? Had someone — his colleagues, possibly Becker — arranged the whole thing, knowing it would drive him mad? But this thought in itself was madness, and he still had enough control to know it. He reached into a drawer and brought out a bottle of aquavit, bringing it unsteadily to his lips, upending it, aware as he did so that any sign of drunkenness, or smell of liquor on his breath during lecture hours, could mean instant dismissal. But he was past caring. He took another drink and could feel the alcohol begin to intoxicate him. Still, it was relaxing...

There had to be a solution. If only he had money! That was the answer, of course. Money begets money. With money he was sure any number of possible solutions would press themselves upon him. All that anything ever required was money. What was it Rousseau said? Money is the seed of money. Or Emerson, the American — sometimes they said something wise — The world is his who has money. Or Pulilius Syrus, who said the same thing earlier, before the birth of Christ: Money alone sets the world in motion. But Diogenes Laertius, three hundred years later, had put it the most elegantly. When a man asked him the right time for supper, Diogenes said: If you are a rich man you eat whenever you please; if you are a poor man, whenever you can. And he, Arne Nordberg, was a poor man, and he hadn’t even been eating at all lately, as a matter of fact. A classical education is fine, he told himself, feeling tears of self-pity welling behind his eyes, but what good is knowing what a lot of dead people said, or when they said it? It would never take the place of just plain, simple money.

He took another drink and yawned deeply, feeling the effects of the strong drink on his empty stomach. Then suddenly sat erect, his eyes widening dramatically, his mind snapping for a moment from its aquavit-induced torpor. He closed his eyes and shook his head violently, trying to force away the cobwebs, and instantly regretted it. He gripped the edge of his desk tightly, trying not to be sick, wondering what thought had come to bring on that ridiculous reaction, and then he remembered. Of course. Of course! The answer was simplicity itself. It was true that he, himself, had no money, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others in the world with money. Many, many, many! Hundreds! Thousands! Millions, probably! Undoubtedly! And sharing the great fortune that could be realized from the treasure with someone else was certainly better than having it sit in a bank idle and worthless — not to say a drain on his finances — and driving him half-insane in the bargain.

He leaned back, smiling, pleased with his brilliant solution, and not at all perturbed by the fact that at the moment he had no particular wealthy man in mind. That would be a matter of selection, careful selection. He would require someone, obviously, who would not be disturbed by the fact that the Schliemann gold had apparently been stolen from the Russians and somehow lost at sea, but Nordberg was sure that this in itself would present no problem. Rich men seldom accumulated their wealth by practicing excessive moral scruples. He would also have to find a man who would believe his story of how he had come into possession of the treasure, for he certainly had no intention of introducing the name of Knud Christensen into the narrative. This also seemed to be no great problem. He had all of history to select in fabricating a story of stolen material, and whatever else he was, he was definitely a scholar, not only of history, but of the classics. He would invent a story so logical that it would make the delivery of the Golden Fleece from the kingdom of Colchis seem like the normal arrival of the afternoon post; the stealing of Helen of Troy by Paris appear like picking up a girl in the Istedgade.

He realized that to a large extent it was the aquavit that was speaking in his boastful and swollen thoughts, and resolved to be sober when he did make up his story, and then to make it as simple and uncomplicated as possible. But basically, he knew his solution to the problem was right. He needed a partner; someone with money as well as contacts. And, of course, brains. Someone with nerve as well as a touch of the gambler in him. Someone, he told himself in the slowly evaporating stupor brought on by the alcohol, like himself. He smiled broadly at the idea. Not exactly like himself; someone with money. Someone who could complement his qualities, as well as duplicate them. Someone like Count Lindgren, for example.

Even as the thought came, he knew it had been a burst of pure genius. He had found the solution! Count Axel Poul Hemming-Westberg Lindgren was a trustee of the university, a man Nordberg had not only seen from a distance, but had even met on several occasions. Rich as Croesus, they said. Certainly Lindgren Castle on the outskirts of Ringsted seemed to bear that out. Nordberg had seen the castle several times. When the count was traveling he permitted the castle to be used for conducted tours with the monies, of course, going to charity. Set in two hundred rich acres, with its tessellated towers and its more than a hundred rooms filled with untold wealth in the form of paintings and statuary, the castle represented all that Nordberg had ever considered the finest in life. Just as the castle’s owner and tenant represented all that Nordberg had ever hoped for in himself.

Count Lindgren’s family held a revered place in Danish history. His father’s ancestors had fought with Harald Blaatand, the son of King Gorm, in the completion of Denmark’s unification and in the conquest of Norway. It was said another ancestor on his mother’s side had been the right-hand man of Sweyn I, Harald’s son, when he conquered England in 1013. No fisherman cousins in his line! No distant cousins living in little cottages in places like Gedser! And to make the man more attractive as a partner was the fact that Count Lindgren was a known gambler. The Copenhagen newspapers often mentioned his presence at Monte Carlo or Mar de Plata; at Las Vegas or Punta del Este. And the pictures in the society pages always showed the count visiting the casinos with a lovely lady on his arm, and always a different one. In fact, it was rumored that the reason Axel Lindgren had left the consular service was because he had been asked to. A matter, it was said, of an affair with the wife of a diplomat, a man so obsolete in his thinking as to act quite undiplomatically when he discovered the facts. So Count Lindgren had this love of the fleshly pleasures in common with Arne Nordberg, as well. Kindred souls, Nordberg thought — except, of course, for money. Yes, Count Lindgren was exactly the man to help him solve his problem. In fact, the count probably wouldn’t even want money for his help. With his wealth he didn’t need it. He’d probably do it just for the sport of it. Rumor had it he was just that kind of man. And according to the papers, Axel Lindgren was at home in Ringsted, which in itself could be considered a sort of favorable omen, since the count was known to travel widely.

Nordberg started to come to his feet, staggered, and sat down again. Better sober up, he told himself sternly. When you can walk a straight line, then go home, take a hot bath, get some rest, and tomorrow, when you have all your wits about you, go down to Lindgren Castle and start the ball rolling. It was such an attractive thought that he decided to have one more drink on it...

Ringsted — April

The following day, Count Axel Poul Hemming-Westberg Lindgren was, indeed, home. He was in conference with his lawyer, and while the two men could not be said to be arguing — Axel Lindgren had learned early in his diplomatic career that arguing was counterproductive — it could be said they were having a serious discussion. The lawyer, Erik Trosborg, considered himself an old friend and felt he could speak freely.

“Axel,” he was saying, his voice pleading, “why can’t you seem to realize that the estate is entailed? It is not yours to dispose of when and as you wish! You know that as well as I do. You simply cannot go around selling off pictures, or statuary, or anything else. Why do you continually put me in the embarrassing position of rounding up these things and getting them back? I’m supposed to be a lawyer, not someone on a perpetual sort of scavenger hunt. When are you going to stop these stupidities?”

Count Lindgren shrugged. He was a handsome man in his late forties, with the build of an athlete, sharp clean features, a cleft chin, icy blue eyes, and a white streak down one side of his light brown hair that women found most attractive. He flicked ash from his thin cigar and smiled at his friend. It was a cold smile, but most things about Axel Lindgren were cold.

“I needed the money,” he said simply. “Blame it on inflation. Everyone else does.”

“Or gambling. Or women.”

“Now there you are being unfair,” Lindgren said a bit reprovingly. “My women do not cost me a krone.”

“Not in hard cash. Only a Mercedes for this one, a dress shop for that one! I wish,” Trosborg said fervently, “you would be smart enough to buy your women as you buy anything else. Or not to buy anything at all for a while. Axel, you simply cannot keep this up!”

“My dear Erik,” Lindgren said with no attempt at apology, “I honestly have no idea where the money goes. It just goes.” He glanced about a moment before returning his gaze to Trosborg’s face. “Erik, do you have any idea of how much it costs just to run this place? On the veriest shoestring, I assure you. A valet who also does duty when needed as chauffeur, or even butler, a cook and an assistant, five maids and a housekeeper?”

“I have a perfect idea,” Trosborg said dryly, “since I handle the bills.”

“Oh. Of course.” Lindgren was not in the least nonplussed. “Well, then, do you have any idea of what, say, a few new suits of clothes cost? Just the trip to London, alone, to visit the tailor—”

Trosborg shook his head in almost amused resignation.

“Axel, Axel! You have an income from this estate that would enable the most extravagant man in the world — no, since that’s you let’s make it the second-most extravagant man in the world — to live in absolute and total comfort. You simply must learn to live within that income. To begin with, legally you have no right to touch any part of the estate. It’s entailed and you could get into serious trouble by doing so. And secondly, if you had your way, in ten years there would be no estate at all, and then, my spendthrift friend, you would really have something to complain about!”

“All right, all right.” Lindgren smiled with amusement at the lawyer. “Don’t spank. I’ll try to be a good boy in the future. Now, how about lunch with me?”

“No, I have to get back to town. Handling the affairs of Count Axel Lindgren is a full-time job, believe me.” Trosborg came to his feet and shook his head as he looked down at his friend. All the lectures in the world would not change Axel, he knew. He only hoped the excesses could be kept within reasonable limits. “You know, Axel,” he added thoughtfully, “you might even consider working...”

Lindgren looked up, honestly surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

Trosborg laughed. “It’s not a crime, you know.”

“Well, it should be,” Lindgren said, and smiled.

Trosborg became serious. “I mean it, Axel. Not that you need it — you’d have ample money if you didn’t throw it around the way you do. But I’m serious. You’re considered an expert on art, aren’t you? I’m sure you could get quite a few very well-paying commissions, purchasing commissions, if you were to let people know you were interested—”

“And have all my friends realize the depths of my degradation?” Lindgren laughed. “Have everyone from Cannes to Hollywood know I was reduced to... to... labor?” He shook his head mockingly, but there was a touch of seriousness in the gesture as well. “François would begin serving me leftovers for lunch; Wilten would let my shoes go unpolished for a month. The maids would be afraid they wouldn’t be paid next week.”

Trosborg laughed. “What you mean, of course, is that honest labor might interfere with your traveling or with your spending time on the yachts of your poorer, but more practical, friends.” He held out his hand. “I don’t agree with your philosophy, but it’s your life. Take care.”

“I have you for that,” Lindgren said with a wry smile, and shook hands. He watched his friend leave the room and leaned back, his smile gone, his cigar smoldering forgotten in the ashtray at his side. This money thing, or the lack of it, was the very devil! He supposed in a way Erik was right. The income from the estate was a fair sum, and he could imagine there were people who could live on it. But not the way he liked to live; not and travel to the places he enjoyed visiting, or dress the way he liked to dress, or be with the type women he liked being with. And the saddest part of the whole business was that when at last he died, as even he, Axel Lindgren, had to eventually, the lovely Lindgren estates that Trosborg was so intent upon keeping intact, would not go to another Lindgren as entailed estates were supposed to go, handed down in their entirety in the blood line from father to son, but would undoubtedly end up with the government. A government, incidentally, who had fired him most unjustly for the small matter of sleeping with a lady. Who was he supposed to sleep with, for heaven’s sake? His first secretary? The military attaché? The only reason he had ever gone into the consular service had been for the women he could meet...

But the sad fact was that two marriages had not only failed to provide Axel Lindgren with any particular satisfaction, they also had not provided him with any progeny. And Lindgren had no intention of risking a third marriage simply to furnish an heir to inherit Lindgren Castle and all it contained, or its estates, or anything else. It would be a dirty trick, he thought with a rather sour smile, to place the burden of landed poverty onto another, as it had been placed upon him.

He crushed out his cigar and was about to go in to lunch, when his butler appeared, standing discreetly at the door. He was a large man, with cold unexpressive eyes. Lindgren looked at him inquiringly. “Yes, Wilten?”

“A... a person to see you, sir.”

“A person? Does he or she have a name? Or a card?”

“He has no card, sir. But he said he was an acquaintance. A Professor Nordberg. Of the Copenhagen University, sir.”

Lindgren frowned. He seemed to remember Nordberg; they had met at a few university functions when the professor — assistant professor, wasn’t it, or even associate? — had managed to introduce himself. A rather disgusting example of the human animal, as the count recalled. Most unattractive. Fat, short, going bald, verbose and stupid, constantly ogling the women and scratching himself while talking. What on earth was he doing here? And coming at this most inconvenient time, when lunch was about to be served. François, the cook, would be most perturbed should his carefully prepared meal be delayed, and Count Lindgren could understand that perfectly. What he could not understand was why someone as obnoxious as Nordberg should be bothering him when he had sufficient problems without additional ones from assistant — or more likely, associate — professors.

Still, Count Lindgren prided himself on always being polite, particularly with his inferiors, and it would be impolite not to see a man who had, after all, traveled the whole forty miles from Copenhagen to Ringsted, and who undoubtedly considered he had gone to the ends of the earth to see him. To the professor, at least, the reason for his hegira from the capital probably seemed important; a request to take one of his classes through the castle without paying the usual fee? And if Erik Trosborg had any idea of how little of the collected fees ever found their way to charity...! The count put that thought aside and shrugged.

“Ask him in. And tell François that lunch will be delayed. But not very long. I don’t imagine this will take much time.”

“Sir,” said the butler and retired, rather surprised that the count would see a scruffy specimen like Nordberg at all.

Count Lindgren seated himself and brought out another small cigar, lighting it, inhaling deeply, waiting for his visitor. When Nordberg appeared, looking about in wonder, obviously impressed by the luxurious appointments of the room in which he found himself — he had never seen Count Lindgren’s private sitting room, which was off-limits on the guided tours — the count came to his feet smiling, as if he had lacked suitable company all morning and was pleased to find that of all people, Arne Nordberg had appeared to resolve that want. Count Lindgren had not spent years in the diplomatic service for nothing. Such dissembling had often proved profitable in the past, although the count, in all truth, could see little possibility of gain in the present circumstance.

“Ah, Professor. It’s good to see you again.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” Nordberg was positive now that he had been completely correct in choosing Count Lindgren to help him. What a fine gentleman! He gratefully accepted the chair the count waved him to and stared about him in awe. What beauty! What exquisite taste in everything in the room! He was brought back to earth by a polite cough from the other man. He turned to look at his host. Count Lindgren had also seated himself and was smiling at him.

“You wished to see me about—?”

For the first time a touch of doubt came to Arne Nordberg. He wondered if possibly it had been the aquavit he had drunk the previous day that had made him think Count Lindgren would help him. With all the money the count had, was it not possible — in fact, likely — that the man would not be interested in helping him dispose of the collection? What could he offer Count Lindgren that Count Lindgren did not already possess? Or could not buy if he so wanted? Still, he was here, and after so many days of terrifying indecision, there was nothing for it but to tell the whole story, or at least the concocted story, and see where it led. One thing was reassuring, and that was the gentle, friendly smile on the count’s face. Nordberg wet his lips, took a deep breath, and began.

“You know, I’m sure, of the Schliemann treasure, sir—?”

No muscle moved on Lindgren’s face. He remained the same smiling friendly man, but within his mind a slight wonder formed. Was he going to be forced to eat a delayed lunch just because this idiot wished to discuss art objects?

“Yes,” he said, anxious to terminate the pointless interview. “I’m quite familiar with the collection. Before the war I was fortunate enough to have seen it at the museum in Berlin. I was a child, but my father insisted upon my getting a very broad education. May I ask in what connection you asked about the treasure?”

Nordberg swallowed, and then to his own amazement heard the words come from his lips. He had meant to be far more circumspect in releasing the information.

“I... I have it...”

The smile disappeared from the count’s face, replaced by a slight frown. “I beg your pardon? You said—?”

“I said I have it. I have the Schliemann treasure. In my possession.” The very saying of the words seemed to bring renewed confidence to Nordberg. After all, he did have the treasure, and nobody else did, and that was a fact!

“Are you quite sure you know what you are saying?” Count Lindgren was now convinced he was dealing with a mentally unbalanced man. He promised himself to speak to Wilten about being more careful in whom he admitted. Wilten was usually excellent in this regard, having much experience, but — democracy was all right in its place, but letting insane people in to annoy him was quite another matter. He began to rise. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid—”

“Please!” Nordberg’s tone was pleading. Then he seemed to read something in the other man’s expression. He leaned forward. The count was forced to sink back in his chair to avoid a collision. “Look, sir, please! I’m quite serious. I’m not lying, and I’m not crazy. I said I have the Schliemann treasure, and I have!” He reached into a pocket; the count’s frown deepened. Was the maniac going for a gun? But before he could ring for Wilten to come and eject his unwelcome visitor, Nordberg had brought out a tissue-wrapped packet and was opening it. He reached over, handing the count a diadem. He had selected the most ornate, the most individual, for his presentation. “Have you ever seen this before, sir?”

Count Lindgren took the diadem carefully, examining it in detail. It certainly looked genuine. Was it possible that a lout like Nordberg actually had the entire collection? It seemed impossible. In fact, it seemed utterly ridiculous. Still, there was the diadem. He looked up, his interest now fully aroused. “Where did you get this piece?”

Nordberg now felt surer of himself. “It’s not just that piece. I have the entire collection. Thousands of pieces,” he said with confidence. “And I have them in a very safe place—”

“I asked where you got it.”

“Well, I’m sure you know the treasure has been in Russia all these years since the war—”

“And I thought it was still there. You still haven’t answered my question.” Count Lindgren’s tone was insistent, the tone of a man accustomed to being answered when he asked a question.

“Well, sir, it was stolen.” Nordberg raised a hand hastily. “Oh, not by me! I’ve never been in Russia. It was stolen by a man who worked in the museum — it was the Hermitage, in Leningrad — and he stole the collection and defected. He got as far as Copenhagen and he needed money desperately to continue his escape. He came to me at the university and offered it to me for sale. At first I was sure it was a hoax — he wouldn’t tell me how he got it out of the museum, or even how he got it out of Russia. But when I examined the pieces, and compared them with the records of the collection, the pictures and the detailed sketches in Schliemann’s own book, I knew it was genuine. So I... I bought it.”

Lindgren tried to comprehend the startling fact, if it was a fact, that Arne Nordberg — Nordberg, of all people! — should be in possession of the Schliemann treasure. It just did not seem possible. In fact, the more he thought about it the less possible it seemed. Still, the diadem was there. He supposed the professor’s story might be true; stranger things had happened in the world. But not many. He frowned at Nordberg.

“I see. And may I ask just why you’re telling me all this?”

This was the part that Nordberg had rehearsed in his mind when he first planned to present the case to the count. He had been sure it would be one of the first questions. But it really wasn’t so hard. All he had to do was tell the truth.

“Well, sir,” he said earnestly, “the fact is, I’m like the man who stole the treasure from the museum. He had it, but he didn’t know what to do with it. That’s the position I’m in. I’ve got it, but I don’t know what to do with it. It cost me all the money I had in the world—”

“And how much was that?”

“I know it won’t sound like very much to you, sir, but it cleaned out my bank account—” Nordberg hesitated as if ashamed to be mentioning such a minute sum to a man as rich as Lindgren. The count waited. “It was fifty thousand kroner, sir. But I thought it was worth it.”

“I’m sure,” Count Lindgren said dryly. Fifty thousand kroner for the Schliemann collection? The cost of a new Volvo for one of the greatest collections the world has ever seen? “And at the risk of being impolite and repeating myself, may I ask again, just why are you telling me this? Do you wish to resell it? I’d have to verify its authenticity—”

“No, no!” Nordberg said hastily, moving to the edge of his chair, wishing to correct this misunderstanding at once. “I had nothing like that in mind! I thought—” He hesitated. Lindgren waited. “I thought,” Nordberg said at last, in a subdued tone of voice, not looking at the count but staring at the thick rug instead, “that we could be sort of... of partners, sir. That you might be able to figure out how both of us could make some money from it...” There! It was out, it was said!

Lindgren contemplated the man before him with outer calm, but inwardly his mind was racing. So the man wasn’t as big a fool as he appeared. Nordberg was, however, still a lout, there was no doubt of that, but he was an educated lout, after a fashion, and he would scarcely have been foolish enough to pay whatever he paid — the count was positive it would not have been fifty thousand kroner or anywhere near it, but that was unimportant — for a hoax. Nor would he have been so foolish as to attempt to bring a hoax to Count Lindgren. It would have been far too dangerous to attempt anything like that with a trustee of the university where he worked. It would mean his job, if not worse. The count fully intended to verify the authenticity of the collection, but he was beginning to really believe that the miserable person facing him actually, through some weird accident of fate, had come into possession of the Schliemann treasure. The story of the Russian defector probably was the truth. It was the only way Lindgren could imagine Nordberg getting hold of it. Certainly not through his own weakling efforts.

And if Nordberg actually had the treasure, there was indeed a fortune to be made. Enough, in fact, to enable the count to return to the style of living he had unfortunately been forced to abandon for the time being. It was rather a good thing the man had not wanted to sell it; he might have been foolish enough to have given him something for it. Now, if it really existed, he was sure that somehow he could realize its value without sharing a bit of it. If, always if, it were real...

He became aware that Nordberg was speaking and looked up. “I’m sorry. I was thinking. You were saying—?”

Nordberg smiled nervously. “I was wondering what you were thinking, sir.”

Count Lindgren smiled genially. “If the collection is genuine,” he said, “and that, of course, I shall have to verify, then I think I might be interested.” He laughed. “Oh, not for the money, of course, but for the sport of it. I think it might be rather a lark, you know? Interesting, in a way.”

Nordberg was thrilled. He could feel the wave of emotion travel the length of his body, prickling him. He had been so right to contact Count Lindgren! So absolutely right! Not, of course, that the presence of the count automatically meant a solution to the problem, but he knew he felt better for just not being alone with the problem any longer.

“Do you have any idea, sir, of... of just how we... you... we might—?”

Lindgren waved the question away airily. “I’m sure there are many means of disposing of a collection that desirable,” he said absently, and smiled, the same intimate friendly smile that had greeted Nordberg when he first arrived, admitting the professor into the warm fraternity of the rich and privileged. The count swiveled his chair to face a cabinet and brought forth a bottle of rare brandy. He poured two glasses and held one out to the professor. Nordberg could hardly believe it; he was drinking cognac with Count Axel Lindgren! He tapped his glass against the one being held out by the count, raised it to correspond to Lindgren’s gesture of a toast, and sipped. My Lord, it was good! To think that with money one could drink this ambrosia of the Gods every day of the week! He finished his drink but refused a refill. It would not do to look greedy in front of his new partner. Besides, there was a more important matter to be discussed.

“How much money do you think—?”

“I shouldn’t worry about that, if I were you. The Schliemann treasure should bring in a fortune,” Lindgren said encouragingly, and offered Nordberg a cigar. Nordberg took it and put it to his lips; the count held a flame to it from a gold lighter. The professor did not smoke, but it would have been unthinkable to refuse an offering from the count. He smiled to hide a grimace at the unfamiliar acrid taste, and persisted.

“But, roughly, how much—?”

“Please don’t worry about that,” Lindgren said sincerely. “Whatever monies result from selling the treasure, I assure you will be yours. I have all the money I need. What I don’t have is some project to occupy my mind. And this sounds as if it might be good sport. But first, of course, I should not wish to even become involved unless the treasure is authentic. And when may I verify that?”

“Right now, if you wish.” Nordberg puffed out smoke, wondering if one could become accustomed to rich cigars. “It’s in several safe-deposit boxes at my bank, the Handelsbanken in the Østergade in Copenhagen. The bank is open, and it’s only an hour from here—”

“Shall we say tomorrow, instead? Suppose I meet you at the bank at eleven,” Lindgren said, and came to his feet. He did it in a reluctant manner, as if he would have liked to continue the scintillating conversation with the brilliant professor for hours, but unfortunately other matters prevented him from this pleasure. The truth was he had a lot of thinking to do and he wanted his mind clear when he saw the treasure the following day. If it should turn out to be authentic, he did not want to be confused about what had to be done. He walked his guest to the door, one friendly arm about the other’s shoulders, saw him properly taken over by Wilten, and made his way toward the dining room.

Professor Nordberg walked to his ancient car as if on air. It was real! It had happened! He had neither imagined it, nor dreamed it! Everything had come about exactly as he had hoped and prayed for. And what a pleasure to be associated with a gentleman like Count Lindgren! He had the count’s word for it — his word! — that he would never need for anything again! The money was all to be his! Ah, to be rich. Oh, not to live in a grandiose place like Lindgren Castle, but to have a larger apartment, with a servant — a combination maid and cook... He could picture the maid he would hire when money was no problem. With a low-cut uniform that would show off her full figure to the best, short skirts for her wonderful, enticing legs. A maid who would understand the needs of a passionate man, and who would share that passion.

He climbed into his car in euphoria, started it, and listening to the engine promised himself that even before the new apartment, even before the maid, he would get himself a new car. One that would attract the attention of the girls who had refused to share his ten-year-old, battered, limping automobile...

In the dining room, for once Count Lindgren’s mind was not on the food. The overdone introductory omelette, François’ answer to tardy diners, barely was noticed. The soup, made a trifle bitter by unnecessary boiling, was consumed with equal lack of complaint. The chop, toughened by a purposeful long tenure in the pan, was merely dallied with. Count Lindgren had more important things on his mind.

Barely on the fringes of his mind, however, was the matter of Arne Nordberg, or any claim he might have to share in whatever the Schliemann collection would bring. Count Lindgren had killed in the Korean War. He had once killed in an unpublicized duel — a duel in which Wilten had acted as his second and had been in charge of seeing that the pistols were properly loaded, or at least one of them. In his youth Count Lindgren had volunteered as a mercenary in Africa just for the adventure. Count Lindgren would not have the slightest compunction about eliminating a person as distasteful as Arne Nordberg should the need arise, and Count Lindgren realized without the faintest regret that the need might very well arise. And even had Arne Nordberg not been distasteful, the count’s compunction would have been no less. Axel Lindgren and his desires came first; all else was secondary.

No, Nordberg would present no problem. Nor, for that matter, would disposing of the treasure. An auction, conducted between the top museums of the world, without, obviously, revealing his identity or anything else not necessary to the negotiations. With his contacts throughout the world, it should be no problem. It would take a bit of planning, of course, but it certainly could be done. Oh, the museums would all claim, as he would have done himself, that they couldn’t touch anything the slightest bit doubtful as to ownership, but they’d all manage to bid anyway, one way or another. And not only the ones brought in to bid, but others, advised of the auction by the undoubted publicity the affair would garner in the world press. Yes, it actually would be a lark, in addition, of course, to bringing his reduced finances from the pit in which they found themselves.

But all this was a bit premature. First, of course, there was the matter of getting the treasure transferred from the insecurity of bank safe-deposit boxes to the true security of Lindgren Castle’s vaults. After all, safe-deposit boxes could be opened with court orders. Robbers had been known to be able to open safe-deposit boxes not only in banks but in hotels, as well. No, the proper place for the treasure was at Lindgren Castle. After all, in the more than five hundred years since the castle had been built, its security had never been breached. And it carried in its halls and on its walls a fortune in art objects as great if not greater than the Schliemann gold, not to mention the plate and other valuables in its vaults. So what better place to insure the safety of the valuable collection? And he and the lout Nordberg were, after all, partners, were they not? With the mutual interest of seeing to the treasure’s safety until it could be properly and advantageously disposed of?

The count smiled coldly and reached for the trifle, heavily oversugared by an irked François...