“Good enough,” he said.
They drove to a street called Krystalgade. The yellow-brick synagogue stood side-on to the street, as if hunching a shoulder against a hostile world. Peter stationed Ellegard at the gate to make sure no one could sneak out.
An elderly man in a yarmulke appeared from the Jewish old people’s home next door. “May I help you?” he said politely.
“We’re police officers,” Peter said. “Who are you?”
The man’s face took on a look of such abject fear that Peter almost felt sorry for him. “Gorm Rasmussen, I’m the day manager of the home,” he said in a shaky voice.
“You have keys to the synagogue?”
“Yes.”
“Let us in.”
The man took a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened a door.
Most of the building was taken up by the main hall, a richly decorated room with gilded Egyptian columns supporting galleries over the side aisles. “These Jews have plenty of money,” Conrad muttered.
Peter said to Rasmussen, “Show me your membership list.”
“Membership? What do you mean?”
“You must have the names and addresses of your congregation.”
“No-all Jews are welcome.”
Peter’s instinct told him the man was telling the truth, but he would search the place anyway. “Are there any offices here?”
“No. Just small robing rooms for the rabbi and other officials, and a cloakroom for the congregation to hang their coats.”
Peter nodded to Dresler and Conrad. “Check them out.” He walked up the center of the room to the pulpit end and climbed a short flight of steps to a raised dais. Behind a curtain he found a concealed niche. “What have we here?”
“The Torah scrolls,” said Rasmussen.
There were six large, heavy-looking scrolls lovingly wrapped in velvet cloth, providing perfect hiding places for secret documents. “Unwrap them all,” he said. “Spread them out on the floor so I can see there’s nothing else inside.”
“Yes, right away.”
While Rasmussen was doing his bidding, Peter walked a short distance away with Tilde, and talked to her while keeping a suspicious eye on the manager. “Are you okay?”
“I told you.”
“If we find something, will you admit I was right?”
She smiled. “If we don’t, will you admit you were wrong?”
He nodded, pleased that she was not angry with him.
Rasmussen spread out the scrolls, covered with Hebrew script. Peter saw nothing suspicious. He supposed it was possible they had no register of members. More likely, they used to have one but destroyed it as a precaution the day the Germans invaded. He felt frustrated. He had gone to a lot of trouble for this raid, and had made himself even more unpopular with his boss. It would be maddening if it came to nothing.
Dresler and Conrad returned from opposite ends of the building. Dresler was empty-handed, but Conrad was carrying a copy of the newspaper
Peter took the newspaper and showed it to Rasmussen. “This is illegal.”
“I’m sorry,” the man said. He looked as if he might cry. “They push them through the letter box.”
The people who printed the newspaper were not being sought by the police, so those who merely read it were in no danger at all-but Rasmussen did not know that, and Peter pushed his moral advantage. “You must write to your people sometimes,” he said.
“Well, of course, to leading members of the Jewish community. But we don’t have a list. We know who they are.” He tried a weak smile. “So do you, I imagine.”
It was true. Peter knew the names of a dozen or more prominent Jews: a couple of bankers, a judge, several professors at the university, some political figures, a painter. They were not who he was after: they were too well known to be spies. Such people could not stand at the dockside counting ships without being noticed. “Don’t you send letters to the ordinary people, asking them to donate to charities, telling them of events you’re organizing, celebrations, picnics, concerts?”
“No,” said the man. “We just put up a notice at the community center.”
“Ah,” said Peter with a satisfied smile. “The community center. And where is that?”
“Near Christiansborg, in Ny Kongensgade.”
It was about a mile away. “Dresler,” said Peter. “Keep this guy here for fifteen minutes and make sure he doesn’t warn anyone.”
They drove to the street called Ny Kongensgade. The Jewish community center was a large eighteenth- century building with an internal courtyard and an elegant staircase, though it needed redecorating. The cafeteria was closed, and there was no one playing Ping-Pong in the basement. A well-dressed young man with a disdainful air was in charge of the office. He said they had no list of names and addresses, but the detectives searched the place anyway.
The young man’s name was Ingemar Gammel, and something about him made Peter thoughtful. What was it? Unlike Rasmussen, Gammel was not frightened; but whereas Peter had felt Rasmussen was scared but innocent, Gammel gave him the opposite impression.
Gammel sat at a desk, wearing a waistcoat with a watch chain, and looked on coolly while his office was ransacked. His clothes seemed expensive. Why was a wealthy young man acting as secretary here? This kind of work was normally done by underpaid girls, or middle-class housewives whose children had flown the nest.
“I think this is what we’re looking for, Boss,” said Conrad, passing Peter a black ring binder. “A list of rat holes.”
Peter looked inside and saw page after page of names and addresses, several hundred of them. “Bang,” he said. “Well done.” But instinct told him there was more to find here. “Keep looking, everyone, in case something else turns up.”
He flicked through the pages, looking for anything odd, or familiar, or. . something. He had that dissatisfied feeling. But nothing caught his eye.
Gammel’s jacket hung from a hook behind the door. Peter read the tailor’s label. The suit had been made by Anderson amp; Sheppard of Savile Row, London, in 1938. Peter was jealous. He bought his clothes from the best shops in Copenhagen, but he could never afford an English suit. There was a silk handkerchief in the outside breast pocket. He found a well-stuffed money clip in the left side pocket. In the right pocket was a train ticket to Aarhus, return, with a neat hole made by a ticket inspector’s punch. “Why did you go to Aarhus?”
“To visit friends.”
The decoded message had included the name of the German regiment stationed at Aarhus, Peter recalled. However, Aarhus was Denmark’s largest town after Copenhagen, and hundreds of people traveled between the two cities every day.
In the inside pocket of the jacket was a slim diary. Peter opened it.
Gammel said with contempt, “Do you enjoy your work?”
Peter looked up with a smile. He did enjoy infuriating pompous rich men who thought they were superior to ordinary people. But what he said was, “Like a plumber, I see a lot of shit.” He pointedly returned his gaze to Gammel’s diary.
Gammel’s handwriting was stylish, like his suit, with big capitals and full loops. The entries in the diary all looked normal: lunch dates, theater, Mother’s birthday, phone Jorgen about Wilder. “Who is Jorgen?” Peter asked.
“My cousin, Jorgen Lumpe. We exchange books.”
“And Wilder?”
“Thornton Wilder.”
“And he is. .?”
