He planned the third interrogation carefully.
At four o’clock on Sunday morning he burst into Arne’s cell with two uniformed policemen. They woke Arne by shining a flashlight in his eyes and yelling, then pulled him out of bed and marched him along the corridor to the interrogation room.
Peter sat on the only chair, behind a cheap table, and lit a cigarette. Arne looked pale and frightened in his prison pajamas. His left leg was bandaged and strapped from mid-thigh to shin, but he could stand upright-Peter’s two bullets had damaged muscles but had not broken any bones.
Peter said, “Your friend Poul Kirke was a spy.”
“I didn’t know that,” Arne replied.
“Why did you go to Bornholm?”
“For a little holiday.”
“Why would an innocent man on holiday evade police surveillance?”
“He might dislike being followed around by a lot of nosy flatfoots.” Arne had more spirit than Peter had expected, despite the early hour and the rude awakening. “But, as it happens, I didn’t notice them. If, as you say, I evaded surveillance, I did it unintentionally. Perhaps your people are just bad at their job.”
“Rubbish. You deliberately shook off your tail. I know, I was part of the surveillance team.”
Arne shrugged. “That doesn’t surprise me, Peter. You were never very bright as a kid. We were at school together, remember? In fact we were best friends.”
“Until they sent you off to Jansborg, where you learned to disrespect the law.”
“No. We were friends until our families quarreled.”
“Because of your father’s malice.”
“I thought it was over your father’s tax fiddle.”
This was not going the way Peter planned it. He switched his line. “Whom did you meet on Bornholm?”
“No one.”
“You walked around for days and never spoke to anyone?”
“I picked up a girl.”
Arne had not mentioned this in previous interrogations. Peter felt sure it was untrue. Maybe he could catch Arne out. “What was her name?”
“Annika.”
“Surname?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“When you came back to Copenhagen, you went into hiding.”
“Hiding? I was staying with a friend.”
“Jens Toksvig-another spy.”
“He didn’t tell me that.” He added sarcastically, “These spies are a bit secretive.”
Peter was dismayed that Arne had not been more weakened by his time in the cells. He was sticking to his story, which was unlikely but not impossible. Peter began to fear that Arne might never talk. He told himself this was just a preliminary skirmish. He pressed on. “So you had no idea the police were searching for you?”
“No.”
“Not even when a policeman chased you in the Tivoli Garden?”
“That must have been someone else. I’ve never been chased by a policeman.”
Peter let the sarcasm sound in his voice. “You didn’t happen to see any of the one thousand posters of your face that have been put up around the city?”
“I must have missed them.”
“Then why did you change your appearance?”
“Did I change my appearance?”
“You shaved off your moustache.”
“Someone told me I looked like Hitler.”
“Who?”
“The girl I met on Bornholm, Anne.”
“You said her name was Annika.”
“I called her Anne for short.”
Tilde Jespersen came in with a tray. The smell of hot toast made Peter’s mouth water. He trusted it was having the same effect on Arne. Tilde poured tea. She smiled at Arne and said, “Would you like some?”
He nodded.
Peter said, “No.”
Tilde shrugged.
This little exchange was an act. Tilde was pretending to be nice in the hope that Arne would warm to her.
Tilde brought in another chair and sat down to drink her tea. Peter ate some buttered toast, taking his time. Arne had to stand and watch them.
When Peter had finished eating, he resumed the questioning. “In Poul Kirke’s office, I found a sketch of a military installation on the island of Sande.”
“I’m shocked,” Arne said.
“If he had not been killed, he would have sent those sketches to the British.”
“He might have had an innocent explanation for them, had he not been shot by a trigger-happy fool.”
“Did you make those drawings?”
“Certainly not.”
“Sande is your home. Your father is pastor of a church there.”
“It’s your home, too. Your father runs a hotel where off-duty Nazis get drunk on aquavit.”
Peter ignored that. “When I met you in St. Paul’s Gade, you ran away. Why?”
“You had a gun. If not for that, I would have punched your ugly head, the way I did behind the post office twelve years ago.”
“I knocked you down behind the post office.”
“But I got up again.” Arne turned to Tilde with a smile. “Peter’s family and mine have been at loggerheads for years. That’s the real reason he’s arrested me.”
Peter ignored that. “Four nights ago, there was a security alert at the base. Something disturbed the guard dogs. The sentries saw someone running across the dunes in the direction of your father’s church.” As Peter talked, he watched Arne’s face. So far, Arne did not look surprised. “Was that you running across the dunes?”
“No.”
Arne was telling the truth, Peter felt. He continued, “Your parents’ home was searched.” Peter saw a flicker of fear in Arne’s eyes: he had not known about this. “The guards were looking for a stranger. They found a young man asleep in bed, but the pastor said it was his son. Was that you?”
“No. I haven’t been home since Whitsun.”
Once again, Peter thought he was telling the truth.
“Two nights ago, your brother Harald returned to Jansborg Skole.”
“From which he was expelled because of your malice.”
“He was expelled because he disgraced the school!”
“By daubing a joke on a wall?” Once again Arne turned to Tilde. “The police superintendent had decided to release my brother without charges-but Peter went to his school and insisted they expel him. You see how much he hates my family?”
Peter said, “He broke into the chemistry lab and used the darkroom to develop a film.”
Arne’s eyes widened visibly. Clearly this was news to him. He was rattled, at last.
“Fortunately, he was discovered by another boy. I learned of this from the boy’s father, who happens to be a loyal citizen and a believer in law and order.”
“A Nazi?”
“Was it your film, Arne?”
“No.”
“The head teacher says the film consisted of photographs of naked women, and claims he confiscated it and
