Peter had pursued the investigation with his usual energy and determination. He had questioned Poul’s commanding officer, the supercilious Squadron Leader Renthe. He had interviewed Poul’s parents, his friends, and even his cousin Mads, and had got nothing from any of them. He had detectives tailing Poul’s girlfriend, Karen Duchwitz, but so far she appeared to be no more than a hardworking student at the ballet school. Peter also had Poul’s best friend, Arne Olufsen, under surveillance. Arne was the best prospect, for he could easily have drawn the sketches of the military base on Sande. But Arne had spent the week blamelessly going about his duties. Tonight, Friday, he had taken the train into Copenhagen, but there was nothing unusual about that.
After a brilliant start, the case seemed to have dead-ended.
The week’s minor triumph had been the humiliation of Arne’s brother, Harald. However, Peter felt sure Harald was not involved in espionage. A man who was risking his life as a spy did not daub silly slogans.
Peter was wondering where to go next with the investigation when there was a knock at the door.
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was ten-thirty, not outrageously late but still an unusual time for an unexpected visit. The caller certainly could not be surprised to find him in pajamas. He stepped into the hallway and opened the door. Tilde Jespersen stood there, a sky blue beret perched on her fair curly hair.
“There’s been a development,” she said. “I thought we should discuss it.”
“Of course. Come in. You’ll have to excuse my appearance.”
She glanced at the pattern on his pajamas with a grin. “Elephants,” she said as she walked into the living room. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
He felt embarrassed and wished he had put on a robe, although it was too warm.
Tilde sat down. “Where’s Inge?”
“In bed. Would you like some aquavit?”
“Thank you.”
He got a fresh glass and poured for both of them.
She crossed her legs. Her knees were round and her calves plump, quite different from Inge’s slender legs. She said, “Arne Olufsen bought a ticket for tomorrow’s ferry to Bornholm.”
Peter froze with the glass halfway to his lips. “Bornholm,” he said softly. The Danish holiday island was tantalizingly close to the Swedish coast. Could this be the break he was waiting for?
She took out a cigarette and he lit it. Blowing out smoke, she said, “Of course, he might simply be due for some leave, and have decided to take a vacation. .”
“Quite so. On the other hand, he may be planning to escape to Sweden.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Peter swallowed his drink with a satisfying gulp. “Who’s with him now?”
“Dresler. He relieved me fifteen minutes ago. I came straight here.”
Peter forced himself to be skeptical. It was too easy, in an investigation, to let wishful thinking mislead you. “Why would Olufsen want to leave the country?”
“He might have been scared by what happened to Poul Kirke.”
“He hasn’t been acting scared. Until today he’s been doing his job, apparently happily.”
“Maybe he’s just noticed the surveillance.”
Peter nodded. “They always do, sooner or later.”
“Alternatively, he might be going to Bornholm to spy. The British could have ordered him there.”
Peter made a doubtful face. “What’s on Bornholm?”
Tilde shrugged. “Maybe that’s the question they want answered. Or perhaps it’s a rendezvous. Remember, if he can get from Bornholm to Sweden, the journey the other way is probably just as easy.”
“Good point.” Tilde was very clear-thinking, he reflected. She kept all possibilities in view. He looked at her intelligent face and clear blue eyes. He watched her mouth as she spoke.
She seemed unaware of his scrutiny. “The death of Kirke probably broke their normal line of communication. This could be an emergency fallback plan.”
“I’m not convinced-but there’s only one way to find out.”
“Continue to shadow Olufsen?”
“Yes. Tell Dresler to get on the ferry with him.”
“Olufsen has a bicycle with him. Shall I tell Dresler to take one?”
“Yes. Then book yourself and me on tomorrow’s flight to Bornholm. We’ll get there first.”
Tilde stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. “Right.”
Peter did not want her to go. The aquavit was warm in his belly, he felt relaxed, and he was enjoying having an attractive woman to talk to. But he could not think of an excuse to detain her.
He followed her into the hallway. She said, “I’ll see you at the airport.”
“Yes.” He put his hand on the doorknob but did not open it. “Tilde. .”
She looked at him with a neutral expression. “Yes?”
“Thanks for this. Good work.”
She touched his cheek. “Sleep well,” she said, but she did not move away.
He looked at her. The trace of a smile touched the corners of her mouth, but he could not tell whether it was inviting or mocking. He leaned forward, and suddenly he was kissing her.
She kissed him back with fierce passion. He was taken by surprise. She pulled his head to hers, thrust her tongue into his mouth. After a moment of shock he responded. He grabbed her soft breast and squeezed roughly. She made a noise deep in her throat, and thrust her hips against his body.
He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He broke the kiss and turned his head.
Inge stood in the bedroom doorway, like a ghost in her pale nightdress. Her face wore its perpetual blank expression, but she was looking straight at them. Peter heard himself make a sound like a sob.
Tilde slipped from his embrace. He turned to speak to her, but no words came. She opened the apartment door and stepped outside. She was gone in a breath.
The door slammed shut.
The daily flight from Copenhagen to Bornholm was operated by the Danish airline, DDL. It departed at nine A.M. and took an hour. The plane landed at an airstrip a mile or so outside Bornholm’s main town, Ronne. Peter and Tilde were met by the local police chief, who gave them the loan of a car as if entrusting them with royal jewels.
They drove into the town. It was a sleepy place, with more horses than cars. The half-timbered houses were painted in striking deep colors: dark mustard, terracotta pink, forest green, and rust red. Two German soldiers stood in the central square, smoking and chatting to passers-by. From the square, a cobbled street led downhill to the harbor. There was a Kriegsmarine torpedo boat in the dock, with a group of small boys clustered on the quayside staring at it. Peter located the ferry port, across from the brick custom house, the largest building in town.
Peter and Tilde drove around to familiarize themselves with the streets, then returned to the port in the afternoon to meet the ferry. Neither mentioned last night’s kiss, but Peter was intensely aware of her physical presence: that elusive flowery perfume, her alert blue eyes, the mouth that had kissed him with such urgent passion. At the same time, he kept remembering Inge standing in the bedroom doorway, her expressionless white face a more agonizing reproach than any explicit accusation.
As the ship came into the harbor, Tilde said, “I hope we’re right, and Arne is a spy.”
“You haven’t lost your enthusiasm for this work?”
Her reply was sharp. “Whatever makes you say that?”
“Our discussion about Jews.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugged it off. “You were right, weren’t you? You proved it. We raided the synagogue and it led us to Gammel.”
“Then, I wondered if the death of Kirke might have been too gruesome. .”
“My husband died,” she said crisply. “I don’t mind seeing criminals die.”
She was even tougher than he had thought. He hid a pleased smile. “So you’ll stay in the police.”
“I don’t see any other future. Besides, I might be the first woman to get promotion to sergeant.”
Peter doubted that would ever happen. It would involve men taking orders from a woman, and that seemed beyond the bounds of possibility. But he did not say so. “Braun virtually promised me promotion if I can round up
