She took out a canvas bag with leather straps.
Harald opened the bag and took out a wrench with a cylindrical head on a swiveling joint, designed to operate around corners. “A universal spark plug spanner,” he said. “Captain de Havilland did something right.”
There were four spark plugs on the right side of the engine. Harald removed one and examined it. There was oil on the points. Karen took a lace-edged handkerchief from the pocket of her shorts and wiped the plug clean. She found a feeler gauge in the tool kit and checked the gap. Then Harald replaced the plug. They repeated the process with the other three.
“There are four more on the other side,” Karen said.
Although the engine had only four cylinders, there were two magnetos, each operating its own set of spark plugs-a safety measure, Harald presumed. The left side plugs were harder to get at, behind two cooling baffles which first had to be removed.
When all the plugs had been checked, Harald removed the Bakelite caps over the contact breakers and checked the points. Finally, he removed the distributor cap from each magneto in turn, and wiped out the inside with Karen’s handkerchief, which had now become a filthy rag.
“We’ve done all the obvious things,” he said. “If it doesn’t start now, we’ve got serious trouble.”
Karen primed the engine again then turned the propeller slowly three times. Harald opened the cabin door and threw the magneto switches. Karen gave the propeller a final heave and stepped back.
The engine turned over, barked, and hesitated. Harald, standing by the door with his head in the cabin, pushed the throttle forward. The engine roared to life.
Harald whooped with triumph as the propeller turned, but he could hardly hear his own voice over the noise. The sound of the engine bounced off the church walls and made a deafening racket. He saw Pinetop’s tail disappear though a window.
Karen came up to him, her hair blowing wildly in the slipstream from the propeller. In his exuberance, Harald hugged her. “We did it!” he yelled. She hugged him back, to his intense pleasure, then said something. He shook his head, to indicate that he could not hear her. She came delightfully close to him and spoke into his ear. He felt her lips brush his cheek. He could hardly think of anything except how easy it would be to kiss her now. “We should turn it off, before someone hears!” she shouted.
Harald remembered that this was not a game, and that the purpose of repairing the aircraft was to fly a dangerous secret mission. He put his head inside the cabin, moved the throttle back to the closed position, and switched off the magnetos. The engine stopped.
When the noise died away, the inside of the church should have been silent, but it was not. A strange sound came from outside. At first, Harald thought his ears were still registering the din of the engine, but gradually he realized it was something else. Still he could not credit what he heard, for it sounded like the tramp of marching feet.
Karen stared at him, bewilderment and fear showing on her face.
They both turned and ran to the windows. Harald leaped on the box he used for looking out over the high sills. He gave his hand to Karen, who jumped up beside him. They looked out together.
A troop of about thirty soldiers in German uniform were marching up the drive.
At first he assumed they were coming for him, but he quickly saw that they were in no shape for a manhunt. Most of them appeared to be unarmed. They had a heavy wagon drawn by four weary horses, loaded with what looked like camping gear. They marched past the monastery and continued up the drive. “What the hell is this?” he said.
“They mustn’t get in here!” Karen said.
They both looked around the interior of the church. The main entrance, at the western end, consisted of two enormous wooden doors. This was the way the Hornet Moth must have come in, with its wings folded back. Harald had also driven his bike through there. It had a huge old lock on the inside with a giant key, plus a wooden bar that rested in brackets.
There was only one other entrance, the small side door that led in from the cloisters. This was the one Harald normally used. It had a lock, but Harald had never seen a key. There was no bar.
“We could nail the small door shut, then come in and out through the windows like Pinetop,” Karen said.
“We have a hammer and nails. . we need a piece of wood.”
In a room full of junk it should have been easy to find a stout plank but, to Harald’s disappointment, there was nothing suitable. In the end he prized one of the shelves from the wall above the workbench. He placed it diagonally across the door and nailed it firmly to the door frame.
“A couple of men could break it down without much effort,” he said. “But at least no one can walk in casually and stumble over our secret.”
“They might look through the windows, though,” Karen said. “They would only have to find something to stand on.”
“Let’s conceal the propeller.” Harald grabbed the canvas cover they had removed from the Rolls-Royce. Together they draped it over the nose of the Hornet Moth. It reached far enough to cover the cabin.
They stood back. Karen said, “It still looks like an aircraft with its nose covered and its wings folded back.”
“To you, yes. But you already know what it is. Someone looking in through the window is just going to see a junk room.”
“Unless he happens to be an airman.”
“That wasn’t the Luftwaffe out there, was it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’d better go and find out.”
22
Hermia had lived more years in Denmark than England, but suddenly it was a foreign country. The familiar streets of Copenhagen had a hostile air, and she felt she stood out. She hurried like a fugitive down streets where she had walked as a child, hand-in-hand with her father, innocent and carefree. It was not just the checkpoints, the German uniforms, and the gray-green Mercedes cars. Even the Danish police made her jumpy.
She had friends here, but she did not contact them. She was afraid of bringing more people into danger. Poul had died, Jens had presumably been arrested, and she did not know what had happened to Arne. She felt cursed.
She was exhausted and stiff from her overnight ferry trip, and racked with worry about Arne. Excruciatingly aware of the hours ticking by toward the full moon, she forced herself to move with the utmost caution.
The home of Jens Toksvig in St. Paul’s Gade was one of a row, all single-story, with front doors that gave immediately onto the pavement. Number fifty-three appeared empty. No one went to the door except the postman. On the previous day, when Hermia telephoned from Bornholm, it had been occupied by at least one policeman, but the guard must have been withdrawn.
Hermia also observed the neighbors. On one side was a dilapidated house occupied by a young couple with a child-the kind of people who might be too absorbed in their own life to take an interest in their neighbors. But in the freshly painted and neatly curtained house on the other side was an older woman who looked out of the window frequently.
After watching for three hours, Hermia went to the neat house and knocked.
A plump woman of about sixty years came to the door in an apron. Looking at the little suitcase Hermia was carrying, she said, “I never buy anything on the doorstep.” She smiled in a superior way, as if her refusal was a mark of social distinction.
Hermia smiled back. “I’ve been told that number fifty-three might be available to rent.”
The neighbor’s attitude changed. “Oh?” she said with interest. “Looking for a place to live, are you?”
“Yes.” The woman was as nosy as Hermia had hoped. Indulging her, Hermia said, “I’m getting married.”
The woman’s glance went automatically to Hermia’s left hand, and Hermia showed her the engagement ring. “Very nice. Well, I must say, it would be a relief to have a respectable family next door, after the goings-on.”
“Goings-on?”
