The Wrecking Crew

Chapter Thirteen

IT TOOK us a while to get things straightened out. When he'd finally become reconciled to not dying heroically at my hands, the little man told me he was Sara Lundgren's fiancй, Raoul Carlsson, of the house of Carisson and LeClaire, women's clothing, Stockholm, Paris, London, Rome. He'd met Sara at her dress shop in the line of business, it seemed, and romance had flowered.

He'd been worried about his Sara lately, however. She'd seemed preoccupied and unhappy, he said. Finally, when she stood him up for lunch and then called up later the same day from a certain hotel to cancel their dinner engagement for reasons that didn't ring quite true, he'd taken it upon himself to go there and… well, to tell the truth, he'd spied on her. For her own good, of course, not because he was the least bit jealous. He merely wanted to know what was troubling her so that he could help.

Watching her surreptitiously as she waited in the hotel lobby, he'd soon realized that she, in turn, was busy watching for somebody else. He'd seen me come through the lobby with Lou Taylor. Sara had followed us, and he'd followed Sara. After dinner, he'd trailed us all back to the hotel. Then Sara had got her car and driven into the park. He'd been behind her until she stopped. She got away from him briefly while he was looking for a suitable place to

– leave his own car. When he got back to the parking lot on foot, her fancy Volkswagen was standing there empty.

He'd waited in the bushes for her to return. He'd seen her come back to the car with me. We'd had a long conversation, not as friendly as it might have been, he thought. I'd left abruptly, he thought in anger, and disappeared into the

– darkness. Almost immediately, as if dispatched by me, two men had come and dragged Sara out of her car and carried her off in the direction I'd taken. While he, Carisson, was still trying to make his way after her through the trees and darkness, there had been shots. He'd come to the edge of the clearing and seen me standing there, looking grim and terrible. At my feet was his beloved, his Sara, lying on the ground, brutally beaten and shot to death. He'd started forward, but the police had come.

"Why didn't you tell them about me?" I asked, when he stopped.

He shrugged his shoulders expressively. "They would have put you in prison where I could not reach you. I was crazy with grief and anger. I was going to punish you myself, not give you to some stupid policeman!" After a moment, he went on: "I slipped away. I learned your name at the hotel. When you left, in the morning, it was easy to determine your destination. I followed."

"With your little sword-cane," I said dryly.

He shrugged again. "Pistols are not so common here as they are in your country, Herr Helm. It was the only weapon I owned. I thought it would suffice. I did not expect to meet a swordsman with an American passport." He grimaced. "You are skillful, sir, but that little knife, I do not think that was quite fair." After a moment, he said, "You cannot tell business this secret business in which, you say, my Sara was engaged, that led to her death? You cannot tell me who killed her?"

I said, "No, but I can assure you the man will be taken care of."

That was big talk, for someone whose hands were tied by official orders, but I had to say something to get this little firebrand out of my hair. The situation was complex enough without being loused up further by vengeful amateurs. I finally got him to promise to go back to Stockholm and leave everything to me. I took his home address and telephone number, and promised to notify him when I had something to notify him about. I watched him get into his big American car and drive away. Then I got into my little Volvo, drove back to the hotel, stuck some bandaids on my fingers, and went to bed.

In the morning, I had my breakfast in a corner of the hotel dining room, which I shared, for the moment, only with a pair of railroad workers and a tourist couple from Norway-the language sounds like badly garbled Swedish, to a Swede. Outside the windows, it was a bright, clear fall day. I hoped it would stay that way, for photography's sake. I sipped my coffee, and nibbled at the stuff on my plate, and thought about Mr. Raoul Carlsson, which was a waste of time. If the little man was kidding me, I'd know more about it when Vance made his report, I hoped within the next day or two.

A shadow fell across the table. "Are you thinking deep thoughts?" Lou Taylor asked. "If so, I'll go away."

I rose and helped her with her chair. She was wearing the same rust-brown skirt and sweater as yesterday, with the same sturdy walking shoes. She had a trench coat with her, but she'd dropped it on a chair. As far as I'm con-

– cerned, a trench coat looks fine on Alan Ladd, and not bad on Marlene Dietrich, but she wasn't either one.

She smiled at me across the table, and stopped smiling abruptly. "What happened to your hand?"

I glanced at my bandaged fingers. "I cut it," I said. "I dropped a glass and cut myself picking up the pieces."

She said dryly, "I think you'd better get yourself another girl, Matt."

I frowned. "What does that mean? Are you bowing out?"

"Oh, I wasn't referring to myself," she said, laughing quickly. "I mean, your night girl, the one who plays so rough. A black eye yesterday, two cut fingers today-or did she bite you in an excess of passion?"

"Keep it clean, now."

"Well, what do you do nights, to get yourself all beat up like that, if it isn't a girl? The secret life of Matthew Helm… Helm?" she said. "Is that a Swedish name?"

"More or less," I said. "It used to be fancier, but Dad whittled it down to something even Yankees could pronounce."

"I thought you must have some Scandinavian blood, or you wouldn't be sitting there eating that stuff so calmly. Fish for breakfast, my God!" She glanced at her watch. "Well, we'd better hurry; they'll be here in ten minutes. Do you think I could possibly promote a simple cup of black coffee and some toast? Rostat brцd, they call it," she said. "That means, literally, roasted bread…"

It was hard to figure her. If she was on the other team, she was very good indeed. She'd have been told I knew Swedish perfectly well, yet here she was calmly instructing me in the language of my ancestors, as she'd taught me their system of measurement the day before. Well, it was always nice to deal with people who knew their business.

When the company car arrived, right on schedule, it turned out to be a long, black, dignified-looking old Chrysler limousine complete with one middle-aged gent in a chauffeur's cap to drive it, and one young guy named Lindstrom to answer our questions and keep us out of trouble. The two men helped me load my paraphernalia aboard; then we drove to the mine entrance, less than a mile from the hotel, and were passed through the gate with some formality. We took a road up the side of a mountain named Kirnnavaara-vaara means mountain in Finnish, Lou informed me. A great many of the local place names show the Finnish influence, she said, since the border is less than a hundred miles away.

It wasn't quite Pike's Peak, but it was a respectable hill nevertheless. Near the top, as high as the road went, we stopped and got out at a wide place, like one of the scenic-view parking areas you find along mountain roads back home. There was a cold wind up here, and the view was worth looking at in both directions. Outwards, to the east, we could see the arctic wilderness in gaudy autumn colors running clear to the horizon without much sign of civilization except for the town practically at our feet. Inwards, to the west, we were looking straight down a manmade canyon cut through the heart of the mountain itself.

They'd taken a slice right out of the middle of it, like a dentist preparing a tooth for a gold inlay; and the funny thing was, the place looked familiar. I knew a dozen canyons like it back home: the color and shape were just right. Except for the shacks and machines far down at the bottom, I could have been looking into a section of the canyon of the San Juan, or the Salt River, or even certain parts of the Rio Grande. It was quite a sight, when you considered that it. had practically been dug by hand.

I got to work, to the accompaniment of a running lecture by LindstrOm on the technical aspects of the operation, most of which I already knew from reading Lou's article. We photographed the ten-o'clock blast: they fire off about two hundred kilograms of dynamite morning and evening to knock the stuff loose so the power shovels can handle it. Two hundred kilograms, Lou informed me, is better than four hundred pounds. It made as much noise as you'd expect, and there was a satisfactory amount of dust and flying debris for the camera. After the fumes had cleared, we went below and spent the day taking pictures of tunnels and tracks and buildings and machines and magnetite ore in all shapes and manifestations.

Twice we were stopped by officious persons who came up to tell us that picture-taking was Jцrbjuden in these sacred precincts, but Lou had arranged for the proper tillstгnd, or permission, so the guardians of security were forced to retire in confusion. I had to hand it to the girl. She had the situation completely under control. She also knew exactly what she wanted, and she wasn't a bit bashful about telling me what it was. All I had to do was aim the box as ordered and push the button. It wasn't the way I was accustomed to working, but I let it go, contenting myself with taking an extra shot here and there when it looked as if she was passing up something nice and picturesque.

It was a hard day, and I was glad I was in reasonable condition; she didn't drag her feet much. In the evening, aside from a little dust here and there, and a run in one stocking due to an unfortunate encounter with some machinery-for which Herr Lindstrцm had apologized profusely- she looked as fresh as a peach on the tree.

"Well, we made a good start today," she said cheerfully, helping me gather up the equipment as the limousine drove away. "Another day should see us finished there, if the weather holds. Then one more day to cover some of the smaller mines in the area, and after that we'll start working our way back down along the railroad toward Luleв. There's a place called Stora Malmberget, which means The Great Ore Mountain-isn't that a wonderful name?-and then I want the docks at Luleв, of course. All the ore goes out that way in summer, and down through the Baltic by ship, but after the ice comes in the fall they have to send it over the mountains to Narvik, which stays open all year because of the Gulf Stream. We'll come back here and finish up the job with that end of the operation. I certainly hope the weather stays clear. It was fine today, wasn't it?"

She sounded enthusiastic and full of energy, as if she'd just got out of bed. She sounded as if this article really meant something to her. She was a hard kid to figure out.

"Yes," I said, "it was fine." We were outside my door now. I opened up and shoved the stuff I was carrying inside, and relieved her of her burdens. "Well, thanks for the helping hand. How about a drink?"

She shook her head. "No, thanks, and if you don't mind a little advice, you'd better not have one, either. We're due out for dinner in-" she glanced at her watch-"in twenty minutes, and unless you know your capacity and Swedish dinners better than I think you do, you won't want to get a head start. They won't serve us much in the way of cocktails, but that's about the only alcoholic beverage they'll skimp on in any way. So brace yourself, man, brace yourself."

"Yes, ma'am," I said meekly, and went in to clean myself up for the ordeal.