World War II Thriller Collection (111 page)

After fifteen minutes, Tilde made a surprised noise and said, “This is odd.”

Peter looked up from the exam results of a student called Keld Hansen who had failed his navigation test.

Tilde handed him a sheet of paper. Peter studied it, frowning. It bore a careful sketch of a piece of apparatus that Peter did not recognize: a large square aerial on a stand, surrounded by a wall. A second drawing of the same apparatus without the wall showed more details of the stand, which looked as if it might revolve.

Tilde looked over his shoulder. “What do you think it can be?”

He was intensely aware of how close she was. “I've never seen anything like it, but I'd bet the farm it's secret. Anything else in the file?”

“No.” She showed him a folder marked “Andersen, H.C.”

Peter grunted. “Hans Christian Andersen—that's suspicious in itself. He turned the sheet over. On its reverse was a sketch map of an island whose long, thin shape was as familiar to Peter as the map of Denmark itself. “This is Sande, where my father lives!” he said.

Looking more closely, he saw that the map showed the new German base and the area of the beach that was off limits.

“Bang,” he said softly.

Tilde's blue eyes were shining with excitement. “We've caught a spy, haven't we?”

“Not yet,” Peter said. “But we're about to.”

They went outside, followed by the silent Schwarz. The sun had set, but they could see clearly in the soft twilight of the long Scandinavian summer evening.

They walked onto the airfield and stood beside Conrad, near where the planes were parked. The aircraft were being put away for the night. One was being wheeled into the hangar, two airmen pushing its wings and a third lifting its tail off the ground.

Conrad pointed to an incoming aircraft downwind of the airfield and said, “I think this must be our man.”

It was another Tiger Moth. As it descended in a textbook circuit and turned into the wind for landing, Peter reflected that there was no doubt Poul Kirke was a spy. The evidence found in the filing cabinet would be enough to hang him. But before that happened, Peter had a lot of questions
to ask him. Was he simply a reporter, like Ingemar Gammel? Had Kirke traveled to Sande himself to check out the air base and sketch the mystery apparatus? Or did he play the more important role of coordinator, assembling information and transmitting it to England in coded messages? If Kirke was the central contact, who had gone to Sande and made the sketch? Could it have been Arne Olufsen? That was possible, but Arne had shown no sign of guilt an hour ago when Peter had arrived unexpectedly at the base. Still, it might be worthwhile to put Arne under surveillance.

As the aircraft touched down and bumped along the grass, one of the police Buicks came from the upwind end of the runway in a tearing hurry. It skidded to a stop, and Dresler jumped out, carrying something bright yellow.

Peter threw him a nervous look. He did not want a kerfuffle that might forewarn Poul Kirke. Glancing around, he realized that he had relaxed his guard for a moment, and failed to notice that the group at the edge of the runway appeared somewhat out of place: himself in a dark suit, Schwarz in German uniform smoking a cigar, a woman, and now a man jumping out of a car in an obvious hurry. They looked like a reception committee, and the setup might ring alarm bells in Kirke's mind.

Dresler came up to him excitedly waving the yellow object, a book with a brightly colored dust jacket. “This is his code book!” he said.

That meant Kirke
was
the key man. Peter looked at the little aircraft, which had turned off the runway before drawing level with the waiting group, and was now taxiing past them to the parking area. “Put the book under your coat, you damn fool,” he said to Dresler. “If he sees you waving that about, he'll know we're on to him!”

He looked again at the Tiger Moth. He could see Kirke in the open cockpit, but could not read the man's expression behind the goggles, scarf, and helmet.

However, there was no room to misinterpret what happened next.

The engine suddenly roared louder as the throttle was opened wide. The aircraft swung around, turning into the wind but also heading straight for the little group around Peter. “Damn, he's going to run for it!” Peter cried.

The plane picked up speed and came directly at them.

Peter drew his pistol.

He wanted to take Kirke alive, and interrogate him—but he would rather have him dead than let him get away. Holding the gun with both hands, he pointed it at the oncoming aircraft. It was virtually impossible to shoot down a plane with a handgun, but perhaps he might hit the pilot with a lucky shot.

The Tiger Moth's tail came up off the ground, leveling the fuselage and bringing Kirke's head and shoulders into view. Peter took careful aim at the flying helmet and pulled the trigger. The aircraft lifted off the ground, and Peter raised his aim, emptying the seven-shot magazine of the Walther PPK. He saw with bitter disappointment that he had shot too high, for a series of small holes like ink blots appeared in the fuel tank over the pilot's head, and petrol was spurting into the cockpit in small jets. The aircraft did not falter.

The others threw themselves flat.

A suicidal rage seized Peter as the spinning propeller approached him at sixty miles per hour. At the controls with Poul Kirke were all the criminals who had ever escaped justice, including Finn Jonk, the driver who had injured Inge. Peter was going to stop Kirke getting away if it killed him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Major Schwarz's cigar smoldering on the grass, and he was seized by inspiration.

As the biplane swept lethally toward him he stooped, picked up the burning cigar, and threw it at the pilot.

Then he flung himself sideways.

He felt the rush of wind as the lower wing passed within inches of his head.

He hit the ground, rolled over, and looked up.

The Tiger Moth was climbing. The bullets and the lighted cigar seemed to have had no effect. Peter had failed.

Would Kirke get away? The Luftwaffe would scramble the two Messerschmitts to chase him, but that would take a few minutes, by which time the Tiger Moth would be out of sight. Kirke's fuel tank was damaged, but the holes might not be at the lowest point of the tank, in which case he might retain sufficient petrol to get him across the water to Sweden, which was only twenty miles away. And darkness was falling.

Kirke had a chance, Peter concluded bitterly.

Then there was the whoosh of a sudden fire, and a single big flame rose from the cockpit.

It spread with ghastly speed all over the visible head and shoulders of the pilot, whose clothing must have been soaked with petrol. The flames licked back along the fuselage, rapidly consuming the linen fabric.

For a few seconds the aircraft continued to climb, although the head of the pilot had turned to a charred stump. Then Kirke's body slumped, apparently pushing the control stick forward, and the Tiger Moth turned nose-down and dived the short distance to earth, plunging like an arrow into the ground. The fuselage crumpled like a concertina.

There was a horrified silence. The flames continued to lick around the wings and the tail, stripping the fabric, eating into the wooden wing spars, and revealing the square steel tubes of the fuselage like the skeleton of a burned martyr.

Tilde said, “My God, how dreadful—the poor man.” She was shaking.

Peter put his arms around her. “Yes,” he said. “And the worst of it is, now he can't answer questions.”

The sign outside the building read “DANISH INSTITUTE OF FOLK SONG AND COUNTRY DANCING,” but that was just to fool the authorities. Down the steps, through the double curtain that served as a light trap, and inside the windowless basement, there was a jazz club.

The room was small and dim. The damp concrete floor was littered with cigarette ends, and sticky with spilled beer. There were a few rickety tables and some wooden chairs, but most of the audience was standing. There were sailors and dockers shoulder to shoulder with well-dressed young people and a sprinkling of German soldiers.

On the tiny stage, a young woman sat at the piano, crooning ballads into a microphone. Perhaps it was jazz, but it was not the music Harald was passionate about. He was waiting for Memphis Johnny Madison, who was colored, even though he had lived most of his life in Copenhagen and had probably never seen Memphis.

It was two o'clock in the morning. Earlier this evening, after lights-out at school, the Three Stooges—Harald, Mads, and Tik—had put their clothes back on, sneaked out of the dormitory building, and caught the last
train into the city. It was risky—they would be in deep trouble if they were found out—but it would be worth it to see Memphis Johnny.

The aquavit Harald was drinking with draft beer chasers was making him even more euphoric.

In the back of his mind was the thrilling memory of his conversation with Poul Kirke, and the frightening fact that he was now in the Resistance. He hardly dared to think about it, for it was something he could not share even with Mads and Tik. He had passed secret military information to a spy.

After Poul had admitted that there was a secret organization, Harald had said he would do anything else he could to help. Poul had promised to use Harald as one of his observers. His task would be to collect information on the occupying forces and give it to Poul for onward transmission to Britain. He was proud of himself, and eager for his first assignment. He was also frightened, but he tried not to think about what might happen if he were caught.

He still hated Poul for dating Karen Duchwitz. He had the sour taste of jealousy in the pit of his stomach every time he thought about it. But he suppressed the feeling for the sake of the Resistance.

He wished Karen were here now. She would appreciate the music.

Just as he was thinking that female company was lacking, he noticed a new arrival: a woman with curly dark hair, wearing a red dress, sitting on a stool at the bar. He could not see her too clearly—the air was smoky, or perhaps there was something wrong with his vision—but she seemed to be alone. “Hey, look,” he said to the others.

“Nice, if you like older women,” said Mads.

Harald peered at her, trying to focus better. “Why, how old is she?”

“She's got to be thirty at least.”

Harald shrugged. “That's not really
old.
I wonder if she'd like someone to talk to.”

Tik, who was not as drunk as the other two, said, “She'll talk to you.”

Harald was not sure why Tik was grinning like a fool. Ignoring him, Harald stood up and headed for the bar. As he got closer, he saw that the woman was quite plump, and her round face was heavily made up. “Hello, schoolboy,” she said, but her smile was friendly.

“I noticed that you were alone.”

“For the moment.”

“I thought you might want someone to talk to.”

“That's not really what I'm here for.”

“Ah—you prefer to listen to the music. I'm a great jazz fan, have been for years. What do you think of the singer? She's not American, of course, but—”

“I hate the music.”

Harald was nonplussed. “Then why—”

“I'm a working girl.”

She seemed to think that explained everything, but he was mystified. She continued to smile warmly at him, but he had the sense they were talking at cross-purposes. “A working girl,” he repeated.

“Yes. What did you think I was?”

He was inclined to be nice to her, so he said, “You look like a princess to me.”

She laughed.

He asked her, “What's your name?”

“Betsy.”

It was an unlikely name for a working-class Danish girl, and Harald guessed it was assumed.

A man appeared at Harald's elbow. Harald was taken aback by the newcomer's appearance: he was unshaven, he had rotten teeth, and one eye was half closed by a big bruise. He wore a stained tuxedo and a collarless shirt. Despite being short and skinny, he looked intimidating. He said, “Come on, sonny, make up your mind.”

Betsy said to Harald, “This is Luther. Leave the boy alone, Lou, he's not doing anything wrong.”

“He's driving other customers away.”

Harald realized he had no idea what was going on, and he decided he must be drunker than he had imagined.

Luther said, “Well—do you want to fuck her, or not?”

Harald was astonished. “I don't even know her!”

Betsy burst out laughing.

“It's ten crowns, you can pay me,” Luther said.

Enlightenment dawned. Harald turned to her and said in a voice loud with astonishment, “Are you a prostitute?”

“All right, don't shout,” she said with annoyance.

Luther grabbed Harald by the shirt front and pulled him forward. His grip was strong, and Harald staggered. “I know you educated types,” Luther spat. “You think this kind of thing is funny.”

Harald smelled the man's bad breath. “Don't get upset,” he said. “I just wanted to talk to her.”

A barman with a rag around his head leaned over the bar and said, “No trouble, please, Lou. The lad means no harm.”

“Doesn't he? I think he's laughing at me.”

Harald was beginning to wonder anxiously whether Luther had a knife, when the club manager picked up the microphone and announced Memphis Johnny Madison, and there was a burst of applause.

Luther pushed Harald away. “Get out of my sight, before I slit your fool throat,” he said.

Harald went back to the others. He knew he had been humiliated, but he was too drunk to care. “I made an error of etiquette,” he said.

Memphis Johnny walked on stage, and Harald instantly forgot Luther.

Johnny sat at the piano and leaned toward the microphone. Speaking perfect Danish with no trace of an accent, he said, “Thank you. I'd like to open with a composition by the greatest boogie-woogie pianist of them all, Clarence Pine Top Smith.”

There was renewed applause, and Harald shouted in English, “Play it, Johnny!”

Some kind of disturbance broke out near the door, but Harald took no notice. Johnny played four bars of introduction then stopped abruptly and said into the microphone, “Heil Hitler, baby.”

A German officer walked on stage.

Harald looked around, bewildered. A group of military police had come into the club. They were arresting the German soldiers, but not the Danish civilians.

The officer snatched the microphone from Johnny and said in Danish, “Entertainers of inferior race are not permitted. This club is closed.”

“No!” cried Harald in dismay. “You can't do that, you Nazi peasant!”

Fortunately, his voice was drowned in the general hubbub of protest.

“Let's get out before you make any more errors of etiquette,” said Tik. He took Harald's arm.

Harald resisted. “Come on!” he yelled. “Let Johnny play!”

The officer handcuffed Johnny and walked him out.

Harald was heartbroken. It had been his first chance to hear a real boogie pianist, and the Nazis had stopped the show after a few bars. “They have no right!” he shouted.

“Of course not,” Tik said soothingly, and steered him to the door.

The three young men made their way up the steps to the street. It was midsummer, and the short Scandinavian night was already over. Dawn had broken. The club was on the waterfront, and the broad channel of water gleamed in the half-light. Sleeping ships floated motionless at their moorings. A cool, salty breeze blew in from the sea. Harald breathed deeply then felt momentarily dizzy.

“We might as well go to the railway station and wait for the first train home,” Tik said. Their plan was to be in bed, pretending to sleep, before anyone at school got up.

They headed for the town center. At the main intersections, the Germans had erected concrete guard posts, octagonal in plan and about four feet high, with room in the middle for a soldier to stand, visible from the chest up. They were not manned at night. Harald was still furious about the closure of the club, and he was further enraged by these ugly symbols of Nazi domination. Passing one, he gave it a futile kick.

Mads said, “They say the sentries at these posts wear lederhosen, because no one can see their legs.” Harald and Tik laughed.

A moment later, they passed a pile of builder's rubble outside a shop that had been newly refitted, and Harald happened to notice a cluster of paint cans on top of the pile—whereupon he was struck by an idea. He leaned across the rubbish and picked up a can.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tik said.

There was a little black paint left in the bottom, still liquid. From among the odd bits of timber on the pile, Harald selected a piece of wooden slat an inch wide that would serve as a brush.

Ignoring bemused questions from Tik and Mads, he walked back to the guard post. He knelt in front of it with the paint and the stick. He heard Tik say something in a warning voice, but ignored him. With great care, he wrote in black paint on the concrete wall:

THIS NAZI
HAS NO
TROUSERS
ON

He stepped back to admire his work. The letters were large and the words could be read at a distance. Later this morning, thousands of Copenhageners on their way to work would see the joke and smile.

“What do you think of that?” he said. He looked around. Tik and Mads were nowhere to be seen, but two uniformed Danish policemen stood immediately behind him.

“Very amusing,” said one of them. “You're under arrest.”

He spent the rest of the night in the Politigaarden, in the drunk tank with an old man who had urinated in his trousers and a boy his own age who vomited on the floor. He was too disgusted with them and himself to sleep. As the hours went by, he developed a headache and a raging thirst.

But the hangover and the filth were not his worst worries. He was more concerned about being interrogated about the Resistance. What if he were turned over to the Gestapo and tortured? He did not know how much pain he could stand. Eventually he might betray Poul Kirke. And all for a stupid joke! He could not believe how childish he had been. He was bitterly ashamed.

At eight o'clock in the morning, a uniformed policeman brought a tray with three mugs of ersatz tea and a plate of black bread, thinly smeared with a butter substitute. Harald ignored the bread—he could not eat in a place like a toilet—but he drank the tea greedily.

Shortly afterward, he was taken from the cell to an interview room. He waited a few minutes, then a sergeant came in carrying a folder and a typed
sheet of paper. “Stand up!” the sergeant barked, and Harald leaped to his feet.