Karen Duchwitz to come out.
Tilde was pretending to read today’s newspaper. The front-page headline said: “LENINGRAD AFLAME.” Even the Nazis were surprised at how well the Russian campaign was going, saying their success “baffled the imagination.”
Peter was talking to release tension. So far, his plan was a complete failure. Karen had been under surveillance all day and had done nothing but go to school. But fruitless anxiety was debilitating, and led to mistakes, so he tried to relax. He said, “Do you think architects deliberately make theaters and opera houses intimidating, to discourage ordinary people from going in?”
“Do you consider yourself an ordinary person?”
“Of course.” The entrance was flanked by two green statues of sitting figures, larger than life-size. “Who are those two?”
“Holberg and Oehlenschlager.”
He recognized the names. They were both great Danish playwrights. “I don’t much like drama-too many speeches. I’d rather see a movie, something to make me laugh, Buster Keaton or Laurel and Hardy. Did you see the one where these guys are whitewashing a room, and someone comes in carrying a plank on his shoulder?” He chuckled at the recollection. “I nearly fell on the damn floor laughing.”
She gave him one of her enigmatic looks. “Now you have surprised me. I wouldn’t have put you down as a lover of slapstick.”
“What did you imagine I would like?”
“Western movies, where gunplay ensures that justice is triumphant.”
“You’re right, I like those, too. What about you? Do you enjoy theater? Copenhageners approve of culture in theory, but most of them have never been inside that building.”
“I like opera-do you?”
“Well. . the tunes are okay but the stories are silly.”
She smiled. “I’ve never thought of it that way, but you’re right. How about ballet?”
“I don’t really see the point. And the costumes are peculiar. To tell the truth, I find the men’s tights a bit embarrassing.”
She laughed again. “Oh, Peter, you’re so funny, but I like you all the same.”
He had not intended to be amusing, but he accepted the compliment cheerfully. He glanced down at the photograph in his hand. He had taken it from Poul Kirke’s bedroom. It showed Poul sitting on a bicycle with Karen perched on the crossbar. They were both wearing shorts. Karen had wonderful long legs. They looked such a happy couple, full of energy and fun, that for a moment Peter felt sad that Poul had died. He had to remind himself sternly that Poul had chosen to be a spy and to flout the law.
The purpose of the photo was to help him identify Karen. She was attractive, with a big smile and masses of curly hair. She seemed the antithesis of Tilde, who had small, neat features in a round face. Some of the men said Tilde was frigid, because she repelled their advances-but I know better, Peter thought.
They had not talked about the fiasco in the hotel on Bornholm. Peter was too embarrassed to raise it. He was not going to apologize-that would just be further humiliation. But a plan was forming in his mind, something so dramatic he preferred to think about it only vaguely.
“Here she comes,” said Tilde.
Peter looked across the square and saw a group of young people emerging from the theater. He picked out Karen immediately. She was wearing a straw boater at a jaunty angle and a mustard yellow summer dress with a flared skirt that danced enticingly around her knees. The black-and-white photograph had not shown her white skin and flaming red hair, nor had it done justice to the spirited air that was obvious to Peter even at a distance. She looked as if she were making an entrance on the stage of the theater, rather than merely walking down the steps outside.
She crossed the square and turned into the main drag, the Stroget.
Peter and Tilde stood up.
“Before we go,” Peter said.
“What?”
“Will you come to my apartment this evening?”
“Any special reason?”
“Yes, but I’d rather not explain.”
“All right.”
“Thanks.” He said no more, but hurried after Karen. Tilde followed him at a distance, by prearrangement.
The Stroget was a narrow street crowded with shoppers and buses, frequently blocked by illegally parked cars. Double the fines and ticket every car and the problem would go away, Peter felt sure. He kept Karen’s straw hat in sight. He prayed she was not simply heading for home.
At the end of the Stroget was the town hall square. Here the group of students dispersed. Karen walked on with just one of the girls, chatting animatedly. Peter drew closer. They passed the Tivoli Garden and stopped, as if about to part company, but continued their conversation. They looked pretty and carefree in the afternoon sunshine. Peter wondered impatiently how much more two girls could have to say to each other after having spent all day together.
At last Karen’s friend walked toward the main railway station and Karen went the opposite way. Peter’s hopes rose. Did she have a rendezvous with one of the circle of spies? He followed her, but to his dismay she approached Vesterport, a suburban railway station from which she could catch a train to her home village of Kirstenslot.
This was no good. He had only a few hours left. Clearly she was not going to lead him to one of the circle. He would have to force the situation.
He caught up with her at the entrance to the station. “Excuse me,” he said. “I must speak to you.”
She gave him a level look and kept walking. “What is it?” she said with cool politeness.
“Could we talk for just a minute?”
She passed through the entrance and started down the steps to the platform. “We’re talking.”
He pretended to be nervous. “I’m taking a terrible risk just speaking to you.”
That got to her. She stopped on the platform and glanced around nervously. “What’s this about?”
She had wonderful eyes, he noticed: a striking clear green. “It’s about Arne Olufsen.” He saw fear in those eyes, and was gratified. His instinct had been right. She knew something.
“What about him?” She managed to keep her voice low and even.
“Aren’t you a friend of his?”
“No. I’ve met him-I used to go out with a friend of his. But I don’t really know him. Why are you asking me?”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
She spoke firmly, and he thought with dismay that she looked as if she was telling the truth.
But he was not yet ready to give up. “Could you get a message to him?”
She hesitated, and Peter’s heart leaped with hope. He guessed she was wondering whether to lie or not. “Possibly,” she said after a moment. “I can’t be sure. What sort of message?”
“I’m with the police.”
She took a frightened step back.
“It’s all right, I’m on your side.” He could tell that she did not know whether to believe him. “I’m nothing to do with the Security Department, I do road accidents. But our office is next to theirs, and sometimes I hear what’s going on.”
“What have you heard?”
“Arne is in great danger. The Security Department know where he’s hiding.”
“My God.”
Peter noted that she did not ask what the Security Department was, or what crime Arne was supposed to have committed, and she showed no surprise about his being in hiding. She must therefore know what Arne was up to, he concluded with a sense of triumph.
