The Copenhagen Affair - Oram John - Страница 19

She felt horribly sick and her body was shaking with a trembling she could not control.

“This is Sister Ingrid’s domain,” Garbridge said. “Fodselstuen, ‘the labor ward,’ is her own affectionate name for it. Perhaps I should have explained to you earlier that she was once in charge of the special interrogation unit of one of the more unpleasant concentration camps. She took a genuine delight in her work, and it was with great difficulty that Thrush kept her out of Allied hands. She is, of course, quite hopelessly insane.”

Karen’s legs were giving way. She felt his arm go around her, heard him say quite gently, “You have seen enough.” Then she fainted.

When she opened her eyes she was in a room she had never seen. She was lying on a white-enameled iron cot and brandy was trickling down her chin as Garbridge tried to force it between her teeth.

She pushed the glass away and attempted to sit up, but the effort was too much for her. Her head fell back onto the pillow and her eyes closed again. She felt as if she had just come through the crisis of a severe illness. Garbridge let her rest for a few minutes; then he spoke urgently, harshly. “Karen, be sensible. You have seen the room. You can imagine what the she-devil would do to you. For the last time—speak to Solo.”

She turned her head and looked straight into his yellow, white-lashed eyes. Somehow she even managed a smile. She said very slowly and distinctly, “Go to hell.”

His expression hardened.

“Very well. You have had your chance. Now, you had better pray.”

He walked out of the room. The key turned in the lock.

Karen lay staring at the ceiling. She did not feel heroic. She was drained of emotion. She tried to put out of her mind the horror that she knew she must face in a few short hours. She had no illusion that death would come quickly. The ghastly creature with the twinkling, merry blue eyes would not be robbed of one moment of her fun.

Wearily, she turned on her side. Something hard stabbed against her ribs. She tried to ease her position.

The pain persisted.

Then she remembered…and thanked the guardian angel who had made Garbridge, in his overconfidence, forget to search her. Her hand went under her sweater and came out clutching the little black transmitter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE OLD-FASHIONED clock was striking three when Illya and Sorensen walked into the farmhouse living room and took off their heavy jackets.

The two men sitting at the table looked up moodily. Illya said, “The bombs are disarmed. We placed a couple of charges and blew in enough of the mine entrance to keep out intruders. Any news of Karen?”

Solo spread his hands hopelessly. “We’ve moved heaven and earth to trace Garbridge’s call. No dice. The truck—or what might have been the truck—was seen once, heading toward Silkeborg. And the man who saw it, a farm-hand, was more than half-drunk. He can’t tell us a thing. Every policeman and every agent between Aalborg, Esbjerg and Sonderborg is on the job. We’ve alerted the airports and the harbormasters and coast guard. And nobody’s come up with a whisper. I don’t have to tell you that Jorgensen’s fit to be tied.”

“There must be something we can still do,” Viggo muttered. “Something we have overlooked.”

Illya looked at his watch. “Five after three. Only four hours left. You think he’s told her?”

“That’s a bet you can play on the nose. He wouldn’t—” High-pitched bleeping stopped him suddenly. He snatched the two-way transmitter from his pocket and tuned in.

A voice came faintly through the amplifier: “Come in, Solo. Come in, Solo.”

“Karen!” They yelled it simultaneously. Viggo slapped Knud so hard across the shoulder that the little man almost fell.

Solo turned the tuner to full volume. “Are you all right? Where are you?”

They heard her say, “I’m fine—for the moment. I’m in a phony maternity home, the SOLLYS, just inside Horsens. It’s on the right, off the main road. I don’t know the street.”

“Garbridge?”

“He’s here.” Her voice faltered. “He’s got plans for my future.”

“I know. How many more in the place?”

“I’ve only seen two—a kind of butler and a female homicidal maniac. But there must be others. Send the Seventh Cavalry. The Indians are hostile.”

Solo said briskly, “We’re coming—at a gallop. Tune your transmitter onto the homing beam and leave the rest to us.”

Illya, Viggo and Knud were ready and waiting. Illya was slipping a fresh magazine into his Luger and humming some kind of Russian war-song. Solo grabbed up his anorak and headed for the door.

They piled into Viggo’s big Volvo, Solo beside the driver and Knud and Illya in the rear seats. Solo put the little transmitter in the glove compartment in front of him. The continuous note of the homing signal sounded loud and clear.

“That,” said Viggo, as he let in the clutch, “is the sweetest Christmas carol I ever did hear.”

Illya warned soberly, “Don’t cheer too soon. We’ve got a long way to go.”

The big headlights cut tunnels of light in the blackness. Snowflakes danced in the beams like a hundred million fireflies and drove against the windshield to make little hillocks at the base. Viggo started the wipers swinging. The engine crooned sweetly, eating up the miles of highway.

Karen felt considerably happier. The talk with Solo had brought back all her confidence. She set the dials to homing, got off the bed and slipped the transmitter between the mattress and the box spring. She tucked the edge of the dyne back inside the raised frame of the bedstead and smoothed the surface neatly.

For the first time she was able to examine the room thoroughly. Besides the bed it contained no furniture but a white chest of drawers, a straight-backed chair and a washbasin with chrome-plated taps. There was one big window, set high in the cream-washed wall and draped with bright chintz curtains.

She set the chair below the window, climbed up and looked out. She could see nothing but the darkness of the night and her own dim reflection in the pane. She tried the catch, and to her surprise, it gave. Very gently, she eased the window open. Wind blew cold on her face. She looked down. The ground, illuminated by light from other windows, was a sheer drop far below. She was on the top floor of the house. There was no possible escape in that direction; the best she could hope to get was a broken neck.

Even that, she reflected, would be better and more merciful than the fate that waited her in the “labor ward”. If Solo failed to get through, a dive might be the answer. The end at least would be quick and clean.

If this had been the United States, she might have made a rope with blankets and got away. But Danish sleeping habits are different. You can’t do much with eiderdown and a sheet in the way of fixing an escape route.

She climbed down from the chair and went over to look at the door. The lock was of the ordinary ward type. She knelt and squinted through the keyhole. The light from the passage shone through clearly. The key had been removed. She felt a sudden hope.

The bulb that hung from the ceiling fixture had a conical parchment shade. With the aid of the chair she detached it and removed the wire stiffener from the rim. She straightened the wire and twisted it back and forward between her fingers until she had succeeded in breaking off a piece about six inches long. She bent it to the right shape and went back to the door. After several attempts the tongue of the lock snapped back. Karen opened the door cautiously and listened. In a few seconds, reassured, she slipped through into an empty corridor. The floor, to her relief, was carpeted. She made her way silently to the head of a stairway and started down.