Found Wanting (17 page)

‘I had the pleasure and honour of attending her eightieth birthday party, in June 1981, and her very last birthday party, two years later. There never was a doubt in my mind she was who she said she was. You know true royalty when you meet it.’ (Eusden idly wondered how extensive Regina’s experience of true royalty actually was.) ‘I had my suspicions about the whole DNA thing right from the start, let me tell you. The Martha Jefferson Hospital finds a sample in a jar of Anastasia’s intestine they’d supposedly had standing on a shelf in a cupboard since an operation back in 1979. We don’t have any way of knowing how securely it’d been stored over the intervening decade and then some, but there surely were strange things going on in Charlottesville in the fall of 1992, when the hospital came out and said they had no sample, then changed their mind and said they did after all. I dug out a report in the
Daily Progress
of a janitor at the hospital being knocked cold by an intruder one night in November of that year, a few weeks before the change of mind. Now, what do you make of that, Richard?’

‘That’s the
Charlottesville Daily Progress
,’ Straub smilingly clarified.

‘Poor cousin Jack was dead by then, thank the Good Lord,’ Regina proceeded, sparing Eusden the need to say what he made of anything. ‘If he hadn’t been, I reckon the rank injustice of that whole proceeding would have finished him. The Romanovs saw their chance to foist that Polish peasant identity on Anastasia and they grabbed it. You can’t deny their thoroughness. They must have thought they had her right where they wanted her for all time. But now we
might
be able to turn the tables on them.
If
we can find your friend Marty Hewitson, Richard.’

‘You’ve no idea where he is?’ pressed Straub.

‘None at all, I’m afraid. I’ll just have to . . . keep looking.’

‘He didn’t happen to open the case in front of you, did he?’ asked Regina.

‘No such luck. I actually know less about the contents of the case than I imagine you two do.’

‘There will come a time to put that right if you can locate it,’ said Straub, holding Eusden’s gaze.

‘Amen to that,’ said Regina, gulping some wine. ‘It could be the answer to our prayers.’

Regina ordered a dessert after the main courses were cleared, then adjourned to powder her nose. It was a moment Eusden had been preparing himself for, when he and Straub could drop the pretences they had both been maintaining. And Straub had obviously been preparing for it as well. The second the door leading to the loo had closed behind her, he launched in.

‘Are you about to repay me the ten thousand euros, Richard?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Marty did not leave the money at my mother’s apartment. Therefore he accepted it. But he did not deliver his side of the bargain. Where is the
real
attaché case?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘Not really. But it
is
true. He told me the real case would be waiting for him in Amsterdam and he encouraged me to go back to London, just like I told you. But I’d been put through so much by then, thanks to the tricks the pair of you were playing on each other, that I decided, after setting off for the airport, to go back and demand a slice of whatever the contents of the case were worth. I reckoned I was owed that.’ Straub’s expression suggested he found this credible. Eusden was gambling that a confession of greed on his part would be more convincing than anything else. ‘I’ve been ripped off by Marty a good few times over the years. The ten thou is obviously nothing to what he and you think the letters will fetch. So, why shouldn’t I get a cut of the action?’

‘It is a . . . an understandable point of view, I would have to admit.’ Straub’s tone hinted at relief. He was comfortable with venality. He knew how to deal with it.

‘I thought I’d be able to catch up with Marty at the station, but he wasn’t waiting for the Amsterdam train. It was pure luck I was in the right place at the right moment to see him leaving for Copenhagen.’

‘And where was that place, Richard?’ The question, apparently trivial, was actually a vital piece of fact-checking. Straub knew Hamburg central station as well as a native of the city would.

‘I was on the walkway above the platforms. The train had pulled out before I could get down there. I came after him by the next train. I think it’s pretty clear he had the case sent here, not Amsterdam, don’t you?’

‘It would seem so, certainly.’

‘If I can find him, I’m sure I can persuade him to rope me in. But into what? He’s a dying man, Werner. I doubt he has the energy, the resources or the contacts that you do. In other words, I doubt he can get such a good price as you can.’

A smile flickered around Straub’s mouth. ‘Are you proposing some kind of deal, Richard?’

‘I’ll track him down sooner or later. When I do, I’ll contact you. After all, you’re the one with the buyer in place, aren’t you?’

‘True. And here she comes.’ Straub dropped his voice to add: ‘Very well, Richard. We are agreed. But find Marty soon, no? The quicker the better, for all of us.’

‘You two are looking kinda conspiratorial,’ said Regina, as she shimmied back into her seat. ‘Should I be worried?’

‘Not at all,’ Straub replied. ‘Though perhaps disappointed. Richard has decided he cannot visit Hvidøre with us. He must continue his search for Marty.’

‘That’s a real shame. But . . . I guess I understand. Lord knows, we want you to find him.’

‘We do,’ Straub glanced intently at Eusden. ‘Indeed we do.’

TWENTY-TWO

Eusden woke early the following morning. He made some coffee and drank it gazing out at the roofs of Copenhagen, wondering whether it was better to wait for Marty to call, or try his luck again with the Århus Kommunehospital switchboard. There was a lot Marty had to know before he arrived in Copenhagen.
If
he arrived in Copenhagen. The news that Straub was lying in wait for him might put him off the idea altogether.

In the event, Marty rang before Eusden had finished his coffee. ‘I’m getting out of here today whatever the sawbones says,’ he announced. ‘I spoke to Kjeldsen yesterday. He’s expecting you at eleven o’clock. I also spoke to Bernie. He’s going to insist Vicky returns to London. When he snaps his fingers, his daughters jump, so that’s a problem solved. I guess it’ll be mid- to late afternoon before I make it to Copenhagen. No need to come to the station. I’ll meet you at the Phoenix.’

But that was not a good idea, as Eusden set about explaining. And Straub’s presence in the city was not the only cause of concern. Eusden also had to report Burgaard’s fatal so-called accident. Marty was singularly unfazed, however.

‘You’re getting better at this, Richard. You seem to have played Werner like a fish on a line. Well, you’re right, of course. The Phoenix is obviously out. I’ll tell you what. There’s a Hilton at Copenhagen airport. I’ll book myself in there. It’s only a quarter of an hour from the centre and it’s the last place Werner would think of looking; he knows I won’t be coming or going by plane. He’ll be out at Klampenborg with Regina when you collect the case and you can take a taxi to the Hilton later. I’ll call you when I know what time I’ll be arriving. As for Burgaard, good riddance. It’s bloody lucky you weren’t in the car. But don’t overreact. It sounds like it was an accident to me: cocky Karsten putting his foot down when he should’ve been watching out for black ice. Serves the treacherous little bastard right. No sense getting paranoid at this stage, hey?’

‘There’s a big difference between paranoia and commonsense cautiousness.’ Marty’s unquenchable optimism was beginning to worry Eusden. Did the doctors have him on happy pills? ‘What about Straub’s hired heavy? Shouldn’t we be asking ourselves if he might start tailing me now his boss knows I’m in town?’

‘He was Hamburg muscle, Richard. Werner will have paid him off long since.’

‘You’re sure of that, are you?’

‘OK, OK. Keep a look out for a bald-headed seven-footer built like a wardrobe. You see what I’m saying? He was taken on for enforcement, not surveillance. You’d spot him a mile off. Werner would have to buy in local talent and he can’t do that while he’s got his hands full with the widow Celeste. Everything’s going to be fine. I’m feeling heaps better and Kjeldsen’s going to give you the name of a reliable and discreet translator. We’ve got this in the bag, Richard. All we have to do is hold our nerve.’

It sounded simple and straightforward as Marty put it. Eusden could not decide whether it was merely the pessimistic nature Marty had always attributed to him that accounted for his suspicion that the day would somehow turn out otherwise.

Marty would certainly not have been surprised that he arrived absurdly early for his appointment with Kjeldsen – and without a single glimpse of a mountainous German dogging his footsteps. Jorcks Passage was an old, narrow arcade of shops, with offices on the floors above, linking Strøget with Skindergade. A board at the Strøget end listed the occupants, among them Anders Kjeldsen,
advokat
. Eusden whiled away half an hour in a nearby coffee shop, then went up in a tiny wheezing lift to the lawyer’s third-floor lair.

The door was ajar. Eusden tapped and pushed it further open. A heavily built man clad in a baggy grey suit was standing by the window of a disorderly, paper-strewn office, smoking a cigarette and gazing down into the arcade. He had long hair matching the colour of his suit tied back in a ponytail and a doleful, jowly, pockmarked face. The creak of the door seemed to catch his attention where the tap had not.

‘Mr Eusden?’ His voice was gravel mixed with treacle.

‘Yes. Hr Kjeldsen?’

‘Yes. I am Kjeldsen. Come in.’ He moved to a desk piled high with paperwork, propped his cigarette in an ashtray and turned to offer his hand. They shook. ‘Sit down. Please.’

Eusden sat as directed. Kjeldsen flopped into the chair on the other side of the desk and shaped an awkward smile. His manner suggested they were meeting to discuss a divorce or the death of a close relative. Eusden smiled himself, seeking to lighten the mood. ‘Marty spoke to you yesterday?’

‘Yes.’ Kjeldsen gave an exaggerated, donkeyish nod. ‘He did.’

‘So, can I have the case, please?’

‘Do you have ID?’

‘Sure.’ Eusden pulled out his passport.

‘
Tak
.’ Kjeldsen examined it briefly. Then his face crumpled into an apologetic grimace. ‘There is a problem, Mr Eusden.’

‘What kind of problem?’

‘A serious one. I do not have the case.’

‘Sorry?’

‘
I
am sorry.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Last night . . .’ Kjeldsen broke off for a drag on his cigarette, then began again. ‘Last night, someone came in here, opened the safe’ – he waved a hand towards the safe in question, which stood, stout and apparently secure, in a corner – ‘and stole some money, some jewellery I was storing for another client . . . and Mr Hewitson’s case.’

Eusden was at first too shocked to respond. Apart from anything else, there was no sign of a break-in or of any damage to the safe. For this at least Kjeldsen was swift to supply an explanation.

‘As I told the police, it is obvious who is responsible. I had to dismiss my secretary last week. She had become . . . unreliable. She knew the combination of the safe. She must have made a copy of the keys. So, she stole the money and the jewellery and took the case . . . hoping it contained something valuable. I did not mention the case to the police. I wanted to speak to you or Mr Hewitson first. Did it, in fact, contain something valuable – something easily converted into cash, I mean?’

‘Not easily, no.’ Eusden shook his head at the thought of how he was going to break this to Marty.

‘Then, she will probably get rid of it. She has probably already got rid of it. She knows I will send the police after her. Do you want me to tell them about it?’

‘Why not?’ Eusden threw the question at Kjeldsen like an accusation, though technically the only thing he could accuse him of was poor choice of secretarial staff.

‘There are sometimes reasons why people do not wish such things to be told to the authorities. But I will make sure the police know about the case, now that you have . . . cleared up the matter.’ Kjeldsen shrugged helplessly. ‘Though, as I say, she will almost certainly have thrown it away by this time. A canal; a skip: anywhere. There is nothing to say who owns it, so—’

‘How do you know that?’ The Foreign Office had honed Eusden’s analytical nature even if it had stifled his soul. There was a flaw in Kjeldsen’s logic. And he sensed it might be significant.

‘Know what . . . Mr Eusden?’ Kjeldsen asked, blatantly prevaricating.

‘How do you know there’s nothing to say who owns the case? Your former secretary will have broken it open before discarding it, won’t she? How do you know Marty’s name and address aren’t inside?’

‘I believe . . .’ Kjeldsen resorted to his cigarette to win further thinking time, but it had burned down nearly to the filter and he was obliged to content himself with a protracted stubbing-out. Then: ‘I believe Mr Hewitson said so. Or perhaps it was . . . Ms Shadbolt.’

The man was lying. That was clear. But just how big was the lie? ‘Where does your ex-secretary live, Hr Kjeldsen?’

‘I cannot tell you that, Mr Eusden. It is . . . a police matter. But they have promised to be in touch. And I will contact you as soon as I hear from them. You are staying at the Phoenix, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, wait for news, then, Mr Eusden. I am sorry. I am . . . professionally embarrassed. For such a thing to happen is . . . awful. I blame drugs. I suspect my secretary had . . . an expensive habit. Employing the right people . . . is so difficult.’

‘That’s certainly true.’ Eusden looked Kjeldsen in the eye, letting him understand exactly what he meant.

‘Please give my . . . personal apologies . . . to Mr Hewitson. All we can do now is . . . hope the police get lucky.’