The Elephant Keepers' Children (26 page)

“Can we zoom in?”

Leonora obliges and the man's back fills the screen. On his white jacket is a large V with something resembling a little treble clef.

We resume on fast-forward and the white men jump like fleas, the light dims, and then it's night. Leonora selects another file, the room fills with light, the men are little sparks. Tilte lifts her hand for Leonora to stop the film.

Something, which at first seems to be a mirror, has been placed on the dark mat on the floor.

“It's a round table,” says Leonora.

“It's an exhibition case,” says Tilte, “which stands on the mat.”

“It's not a mat,” I say. “It's a hole in the floor.”

Leonora's fingers dance the jitterbug and then we're eighteen hours back in time and all of us can see that what we took to be a mat is, in fact, a circular hole in the floor. It's even roped off with a cord on thin poles. We hadn't noticed.

“Fast-forward,” says Tilte.

Leonora obliges again, and a new team of workers are busy with what looks like a big sewage pipe.

“Is it a lift shaft?” Leonora wonders.

Tilte and I say nothing. We get to our feet.

“What's it all about?” says Leonora. “Where was all this taken?”

“Is it not the case,” Tilte replies, “that in Buddhism the individual strives to achieve neutral balance in life, and that regardless of what should come in the way, one must always let it pass with an unworried smile?”

“In Finø Buddhism,” Leonora says, “the individual has surplus to worry about her madcap friends. And their lunatic children.”

This is a new outlook for Leonora, who has always addressed us with a measure of deference. I know that at this moment Tilte is thinking the same thing as me, namely, that the risk in helping people toward enhanced self-esteem and improved finances is that one day they will rise up and turn against you.

“Leonora,” I say, “the less you know, the fewer lies you'll need to tell in court.”

We close the door behind us. The last thing I see is the reproachful look on Leonora's paling face.

We are back in our cabin
, wiser than when we left it but with fewer hopes of our childhood being blessed with a happy ending.

“There'll be exhibition cases in the other rooms as well,” says Tilte. “But the real jewels will be in the round one. It's like when we went on that school trip to London and saw the Crown Jewels in the Tower, and it's the same at Rosenborg Castle in Copenhagen. The most valuable treasures are all in the same place, and if the alarm goes off, the whole case automatically descends into the hole.”

We think about that for a while, all three of us. And I don't consider myself to be overstepping the bounds of our usual modesty when I say that when Tilte and Basker and I put our heads together, not a stone will remain unturned.

“Why did they want the footage?” Tilte asks. “And where did they get it from?”

I allow her second question to hang in the air. So as to afford the first my undivided care and attention.

“They'll have wanted to make sure no one discovered them.”

“Then their plan, whatever it might be, involves an installation visible to workers, security guards, and anyone else,” says Tilte.

“They must have been there themselves,” I venture. “Mother was away for one night. Do you remember? They got Bermuda to do the flowers in the church.”

A recollection brushes by, and from my pocket I produce the folded piece of paper with the scribbled notes in pencil. I unfold it and turn it over. The blue heading says
Voice Security
. The V is emphasized. And inside the V is a little swirl of a treble clef.

Tilte and Basker and I exchange glances.

“She must have been doing some work for them,” Tilte ventures. “For
Voice Security
. That must be it. She'll have been there as a security consultant.”

We know nothing about a company called Voice Security. But our hearts go out to them, whoever they are. They'll have wanted to make such a good impression. And yet they brought a wolf into the henhouse. Or rather: an elephant.

We peruse the newspaper
clippings again. And I can tell you they're given our rigorous attention.

The most recent is from last Monday, the day before Mother and Father disappeared. It concerns some sort of sneak preview of the exhibition whereby journalists and invited guests were allowed in to see the treasures. It's clearly an invitation
they've taken seriously, because all of them are done up to the nines so you'd think it was the end-of-term dance for the pupils of Ifigenia Bruhn's Dancing School.

There's about a kilometer of exhibition cases, and gold and jewels glitter and sparkle behind the glass. It's hard to make out anything in detail, but one gets the clear impression that if only you could get your long fingers inside just a single one of those exhibition cases and secure a long-term agreement with your conscience, then all liquidity problems would be solved once and for all and your cash flow ensured for the next three or four centuries.

One of the photos is from the room where the seven days of footage was taken. The exhibition case now contains items on display, though it's impossible to see what's in it, only that it shines in a way that is at once intense and fluid, like a neon tube submerged in water. People are standing around it, their faces illuminated because of the light reflected from all the precious stones, and for that reason their features are unclear. But one face is darker than the rest. A dark, pensive face beneath a green turban.

“If we had a feather, you could knock me down with it,” says Tilte. “That's Ashanti, from BlÃ¥gÃ¥rds Plads!”

And indeed it is, and behind her stand two men. Both are in suits and their faces are hidden, but not enough to disguise the two bodyguards with the BMW and the impressive sprinting abilities.

We sink back into the sofa. The pieces of the puzzle seem to be falling into place. Only the most important remains. Basker growls quietly.

“Basker wants to say something,” says Tilte. “He wants to point out that a lot may certainly be said about Mother and Father. They have their weaknesses, their soft spots, and their holes in the head. But they have also demonstrated cunning and guile. It would be unlike them to lay a plan that would put everything they own in jeopardy: their liberty, their children, their dog, their jobs, their good names and reputations. Only then to leave a big fat clue in a safe-deposit box they forget to pay for.”

“And then go off like this,” I add, “in a rush.”

We think about that for a while, all three of us. The room quivers.

“It was spur of the moment,” says Tilte.

“There was something they realized,” I say. “Something they hadn't thought of.”

Now Tilte and I are playing together.

“It must have been something important,” says Tilte.

I repeat her words slowly, partly because Basker is a dog and on occasion rather slow-witted compared to us, and partly because it all sounds so odd it needs to be said again.

“Mother and Father plan a heist from the exhibition that's being put on alongside the Grand Synod. Everything's ready. And then they realize something. Whatever it is, it's something they realize only at the last minute. It means they have to leave right away. And it's so important they forget to cover their tracks, or else they couldn't care less.”

There are those who might consider
that after all the work Tilte and I have done this past hour we might deserve a break. We ourselves would, certainly. But there's nothing quite as dangerous as leaning back into a comfy chair after a grueling first half, with a second half ahead that's going to be even tougher, because before you know it you're out of steam and there's nothing left in reserve, and Tilte and Basker and I know this only too well.

“There are two things we need to do,” says Tilte. “We need to get Maria back in the coffin. And we need to speak to Rickardt.”

At that moment we rise from our chairs as though a miracle suddenly were happening in front of our eyes, the name of the miracle being bilocation, which is known in all religions and means that certain highly developed individuals allegedly are able to manifest themselves out of thin air, thereby to impart the joy of their presence in two different places all at once. And the reason we rise up like this is that beside us we hear a voice that belongs to Svend Sewerman's wife, Bullimilla Madsen.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says. “It is my pleasure to announce that dinner will now be served in the aftermost saloon.”

With all due respect for Bullimilla Madsen, she is by no means the first person one might suspect to be capable of bilocation, but it becomes immediately clear to us that her voice in this instance issues from a public address system of such quality you would think that she had put her lips to your ear.

Tilte and Basker and I are on our feet. Not only on account of our stomachs being empty and our throats parched, but because the aftermost saloon is the one through which we passed earlier, at which time it was deserted, and in the cold store of its galley we have parked Maria from Maribo.

We're there in seconds
, initially to heave a sigh of relief. We're the first, apart from Bullimilla herself and a waitress who stand ready to serve mountains of what looks like cold
smørrebrød
, which allows us the hope that the galley might be empty and that we'll be able to sneak in and bring Maria out. And sure enough, there's no one there, and no one has seen us either, because we peeped ever so cautiously from our hiding place behind the door, and now we're down on all fours, crawling under cover of tables and chairs, and around the back of the high serving counter that separates the galley from the saloon, and now we are out of sight.

What we envisage is a commando raid into the cold store to snatch Maria, then to await an unguarded moment for our getaway, and for Tilte and me this would be much like plucking ripe fruit in the gardens of Finø Town. But now a series of
events occurs that makes us understand why Eckhart and the Zen patriarchs and the Vedic prophets and the Sufi sheikhs would seem to be in such complete agreement about one thing at least, that when asked to describe the world in one word, they all say:
unstable
.

The first thing that happens is that Count Rickardt Three Lions suddenly enters the saloon. He is carrying his archlute and gives Bullimilla such a start that a suspicion of mine is confirmed, which is that she is the one responsible for trying to conceal the instrument from Rickardt, almost certainly for fear that he might begin to perform during dinner.

“Ladies,” says the Count, “I have been encouraged into providing diners with some musical accompaniment. The piece is from
The Merry Widow
.”

Bullimilla's protest is surprisingly lame: “We're having canapés. They're not suited to music.”

We hear the count's spurs jingle across the floor. He considers the buffet.

“Little piles like that need to be digested with music,” he says.

At this point, Tilte pops her head out from our hiding place and beckons Rickardt toward us, putting a finger to her lips before ducking back behind the counter. The count changes tack.

“Allow me to test the acoustics,” he says to Bullimilla.

And then he's around the other side of the counter to where we're hiding, and we drag him through the galley and out into the cold store and remove the bags from Maria.

“We need to put her back,” says Tilte. “Before it's too late. Where's the coffin?”

Rickardt is not over the moon about seeing Maria again.

“In my cabin,” he says.

At this moment, the door of the cold store opens. We cover Maria up again and the three of us dive behind her wheelchair.

The person who now enters the cold store is arguably the person we least would have expected: Alexander Flounderblood. He stands motionless for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Then he comes straight toward the wheelchair.

He stops half a meter away. Had he taken one more step, he would have seen us, and a situation would then have ensued from which we would have had more than a little difficulty extricating ourselves.

But he doesn't notice. All his attention is focused on a shelf containing a number of what look like, and indeed probably are, vacuum-packed sheep's brains, most likely of the highly praised Finø breed, and next to them stand two bottles of champagne. Flounderblood picks these up and investigates their touch. Then, less than satisfied, he puts them back, turns, and is gone.

We heave a sigh of relief, and when you heave a sigh of relief in a cold store your breath is white steam in the air. We open the door, and the galley is empty. The count wheels Maria out while Tilte and Basker and I lie prone at the corner of the counter, peeping to see if the coast is clear.

Unfortunately, it isn't. The table closest to the kitchen is now occupied by Vera the Secretary, Professor Thorkild
Thorlacius and his wife, and Anaflabia Borderrud, and this intense little group has been joined by Alexander Flounderblood and our two officers of the Police Intelligence Service, Lars and Katinka.

Tilte and I have no need to resort to verbal communication, because we each know what the other is thinking. What does the ministerial envoy to Finø have to do with Anaflabia and Thorkild?

The answer soon transpires.

“Five minutes more,” says Alexander Flounderblood with proud authority. “Champagne must never be served above ten degrees Celsius. Certainly not on an occasion such as the present. And here comes our delightful hostess with the crystal!”

Bullimilla places the glasses on the table. When she has gone, Anaflabia leans forward. She speaks softly, which means that every word would be audible from the foredeck.