Текст книги "The Copenhagen Affair"

Автор книги: John Oram

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The first fringe of beeches loomed ahead. Mike plunged in among the great trees, running blindly. He had no hope now of finding the path; his one thought was to put as much distance as he could between himself and his pursuers. He had no illusion about what would happen if he fell into the major’s hands again.

Low branches whipped at his face as he stumbled along, and he felt the salt taste of blood in his mouth. Once he fell, and the sharp pain that stabbed at his ankle made him cry out. He limped on desperately, and then suddenly he was on the highway.

Car headlights blazed in his face. He heard a girl call, “Stanning! Here!”

He found the open door and fell into the seat beside the driver. The motor accelerated smoothly.

The same voice said, “Now, soon, friend Mike, you shall buy the drink you promised me in the Linden Tree.”

It was the girl with the red hair.

CHAPTER THREE

NAPOLEON SOLO and Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin entered Del Floria’s tailoring shop together. The old man looked up, smiled fleetingly and pushed a small button on the side of his pressing machine.

The two men walked into the third of the “try-on” cubicles at the rear of the shop. Solo drew the curtain while Illya turned the hook on the back wall. The wall swung open and they walked through to the agents’ admissions desk of U.N.C.L.E. The girl on the desk had watched their progress on her closed-circuit television screen. She had the two white badges ready to pin to their lapels. A chemical on her fingers set up a reaction in each badge as she pinned it into place.

It is one of the safeguards of the U.N.C.L.E. setup that any person passing through certain areas of the building will trip an alarm unless he is wearing a badge that has been properly activated. On every desk in the building a small red light begins to flash and a signal is heard beating in a repeating tempo of alarm. Steel doors slide shut throughout the enclave, forming self-contained cells in which to trap the intruder. Therefore it is highly…uncomfortable…to stray from the prescribed limits within which one’s badge is valid.

White badge territory is the third floor. Here are the Policy and Operations offices, interrogation rooms, the armory, and the cubicles occupied by the enforcement agents, the elite of the organization, during their infrequent visits to the home base.

Here, too, is the office of Alexander Waverly, one of the five men of different nationalities who comprise the Policy department of U.N.C.L.E.’s Section I. The only window in the entire U.N.C.L.E. fortress is in Waverly’s office. It lends itself to a panoramic view of the East River with the United Nations building centered in the frame. It is not known how Waverly enters or leaves his office. He is either there or not there. Some say there is a fifth entrance to the building reserved for the five Policy directors alone. If there is, nobody has ever found it

Waverly is a lean, dry, pedantic man in his early fifties. He looks and talks like a university professor of the old school. He wears seedy tweed jackets with leather-patched arms, baggy flannel trousers and much-darned sweaters. While he talks he handles pipes incessantly, but he has never been seen to smoke one.

In discussions with his enforcement agents he could be lecturing backward students. He talks around points, hesitating, pausing and often “harrumphing” when he comes to a name. Sometimes he will appear even to forget the name of the man he is talking with. There are many things he appears to forget. Somehow, none of them are important. He may forget the name of an agent, but he won’t forget the dangers of the situation into which he is sending him. He may seem to be understating the assignment—but he will have analyzed every aspect very thoroughly before selecting the right man or woman for the job.

When Solo and Illya Kuryakin walked into his office Waverly was sitting alone at the great teak revolving table shaped like a hollow O. Without speaking he motioned them to chairs. Then he flipped a switch and spoke briefly into an inter-office transmitter.

The red-haired girl came into the room with Mike Stanning. She was no longer in the worn black turtleneck and trousers. She wore a brown deerskin jacket, a Danish ski sweater in bright colored wools and white non-stretch slacks. Her feet were shod in light brogues that looked handmade.

Waverly did not get up to greet her. He asked, “Well, Karen?”

The girl said, “I don’t know that I can add anything to my report. Except that he can keep his mouth shut. I’ve worked on him all the way from Copenhagen. Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Good!”

There was silence for a moment. Then Mr. Waverly said, “All right, Mr. Stanning. Wait in the next room, will you? There are one or two things I want to discuss with these people.”

Mike’s long-tried patience gave away.

 “Look, what the hell’s going on?” he burst out. “Who are you? I’m a businessman and I ought to be in London. Instead of that I’ve been shanghaied to New York in an army bomber without even being allowed to make a phone call to my boss. For all I know I’m out of a job already. I’ve got a right to know what it’s all about.

“You have, indeed, my dear fellow.” Waverly stood up and ushered him to the door. “And so you shall…in just a few moments.” He opened the door with Old World courtesy but he shut it as firmly as a jailer.

Mike sat down in the small anteroom and began to turn the pages of a magazine he found on a table. It would have made more sense if it had not been printed in Russian. Still, the pictures were interesting.

Karen put her head around the door. “You can come back now.”

The party had rearranged itself in his absence. Waverly was still in the same chair but now Solo and Illya sat on either side of him. Karen took her place beside Solo. She lit a torpedo-shaped cigar that looked as out of place as a hayfork in the hand of Venus.

Waverly went straight to the point. “The girl you knew as Norah Bland gave you a package to bring to me,” he told Mike.

“Yes.”

“You have it with you?”

Mike took the package from his breast pocket and put it on the table. The teak circle revolved smoothly, bringing the white-wrapped package to Waverly’s hand.

He said, “Have you any idea what is in it?”

“A pack of North State cigarettes.”

“And in the cigarettes?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t touched them,” Mike said. “They could be reefers, for all of mine.”

“Then let’s find out.”

Waverly expertly broke open the cellophane and carefully unfolded the blue North State pack. Twenty white tubes rolled gently onto the table. They looked like any other cigarettes.

Waverly picked one up. He slit the cigarette paper vertically with a blade like a scalpel. Mike saw a tiny container nestling between two short cylinders of tobacco. There was a similar container in each of the nineteen remaining cigarettes.

Waverly swept cellophane, paper and tobacco into a wastebasket. He took one of the metal containers between first finger and thumb and held it up.

“These,” he said soberly, “are what Norah Bland died for. You cannot be aware of it, Mr.—er, Stanning—but by completing her mission you have done an incalculable service not only to your country but to the world. I am afraid my inadequate thanks are all you will get for it. When you leave this room you must put the matter out of your mind and never speak of it again.

“And now”—he stood up—“transportation is waiting to take you back to Denmark. You will be in Copenhagen in good time to catch the S.A.S. flight to London on which you booked.”

He put out his hand, smiling for the first time. “And by the way, don’t worry about losing your job. Your firm has just acquired a contract worth a quarter of a million pounds. That will account for your lost time. The appropriate papers are in your briefcase. You can read them on your journey. I can—er—assure you they are quite genuine.”

“But—” Mike began.

Waverly shook his head. “I know, I know. You are going to tell me you have an account to settle with a man called Garbridge. Believe me, that is quite impossible…and unnecessary.” His tone was final.

Karen stubbed her cigar in a blue glass ashtray, and rose to her feet. “Come on, Mike. I’ll see you out of the building.”

When they had gone Solo said, “And what, to quote our late guest, was that all about?”

Waverly walked over to a console near the big picture window. He pressed two buttons on the panel and a motion picture projector and a beaded white screen slid quietly into view. The projector measured not more than five by three by one inches. It could have been a child s toy. The spools on the arms were no larger than a silver dollar.

He broke open one of the containers, removed a roll of sub-miniature film, threaded it on to the spools and into the projector. “Watch!”

The room went dark. The projector motor whirred. Something that looked like a dustbin lid shot rapidly across the bright oblong of the screen. There was what appeared to be an explosion or a direct hit from a shell. Then the screen was blank again.

The room lights went on again. Waverly opened a second container, threaded a second length of film.

This time it showed a stretch of deserted, wooded countryside that might have been in the English Lake District. Again a dustbin-lid object came into sight. It hovered briefly above a group of birches, then dropped vertically and disappeared. This time there was no explosion.

The third film, taken in slow motion with a telephoto lens, was practically a repetition of the second. But in close-up it could be seen that the “handle” of the lid-like object was a turret or cockpit. What looked like portholes were clearly visible around the “rim”.

Solo said unbelievingly, “UFOs! Flying saucers!”

“Exactly.” Waverly was pleased. “And where, do you suppose?”

Illya said, “Since the film came from Denmark, I should think Jutland. The scenery looked typical.”

“Exactly,” Waverly said again. “No doubt the remainder of the films will give us further data.”

He led the way back to the table, pressed the button on the intercom and said, “Bring me File AID/976.”

A pretty Negress hurried in with a bulky dossier, flashed a smile at the two agents, and departed. Waverly adopted his favorite lecturer stance, took a briar pipe from his pocket and began to twist the bowl between knobby fingers.

He said, “There is nothing new in the flying saucer legend. Twelfth-century monks left a record of some great ‘fiery ship’ which appeared in the skies of France and terrified the peasantry. There have been many such stories through the ages. Wars always result in a bumper crop. For instance—”

He turned the pages of the file.

“—here’s a clipping from a Welsh newspaper just after the Boer War. It speaks of ‘balls of fire’ that appeared in many places in South Wales and, apparently, dropped in persistently at the meetings of the noted evangelist Mrs. Mary Jones. One is even said to have followed her car for miles along winding roads.

“Here’s another cutting. It seems that walking along a road near Caerphilly on the night of May 18, 1909, a Mr. Lithbridge, of Roland Street, Cardiff, saw on the grass a huge tube-shaped craft carrying two men in fur overcoats. When he came in sight they jabbered together in some unknown tongue, and the machine took off swiftly into the blue.”

Solo nodded.

“There were many similar yarns after World War II,” he said. “Wasn’t a flock of flying saucers supposed to have massed over the Pentagon one night?”

Illya said, “I remember that. A couple of pursuit planes went up after them. They crashed and both pilots were killed.”

Waverly polished his briar thoughtfully. “Most of the tales can be dismissed as sheer fantasy—the aftermath of a turkey dinner or a drink too many,” he said. “But some of the sightings simply can’t be explained away so easily.

“Quite recently a party of Danish scientists were returning by air from viewing an eclipse of the sun in Africa. Suddenly—in broad daylight—some huge flying object appeared out of nowhere and kept pace with their aircraft for miles. They had time to film it with a 16mm camera and to take a series of still photographs before it disappeared as mysteriously as it had come. They saw something outside of normal experience. Their statements are here.” He tapped the file on the table. “But what did they see, and where did it come from?”

He went to a locker and produced a misshapen lump of something that might have been dirty glass.

“What, gentlemen, do you make of that?”

The two agents examined it. It was quite smooth, dark—almost black—and weighed around ten pounds.

Solo said, “Whatever it is, it’s been under intense heat. Some kind of volcanic rock, maybe.”

Waverly said, “A Copenhagen newspaperman, not given to sensationalism, got a tip that strange things were happening on Jutland. He went to the island to investigate and heard stories of weird, silent machines which flew at incredible speed and could rise and drop vertically. A farmer took him to the place where he swore he had seen one of the monsters actually taking off. The reporter saw a great circular patch of scorched ground where the very boulders had fused like lava. He brought this piece away as evidence.

“We put our people in Copenhagen onto the matter. Now—well, you have seen the films…”

“And Norah Bland died getting them to us,” Illya said. “There’s not much fantasy about that.”

There was a short silence. Then Solo said, “This man Garbridge—who is he?”

Waverly picked up the file and thumbed through it. “You’ll find him in here. He is an Irishman, the black sheep of a fine old army family. A professional soldier, cashiered following an unpleasant business involving the daughter of one of his sergeants. The girl died. That happened in 1938. When he was thrown out of the army he went to live in Denmark and he has been there ever since.

“During the occupation his Irish passport saved him from internment. The Danes suspected him of collaboration with the Germans, but they could never prove it. Oddly, the Germans suspected him of working with the Resistance. They couldn’t prove it either. But they were both right. He was a ruthless and diabolically clever double agent, owing allegiance to only one power.”

Illya said softly, “Thrush!”

Spin a globe of the world. Examine every inch of it. You will never find the name of Thrush engraved there. Yet time and again, as you pass your hand over country after country, you will be touching unwittingly on territories dominated by that sinister nation. Those territories are designated by Thrush as Satraps.

Thrush has no geographical boundaries as we understand them. There are self-contained units in various sections of many countries—and these units, these Satraps, owe their allegiance to Thrush alone.

A Satrap may take the form of a manufacturing complex, or a school, or a hospital, or a maze of underground tunnels and caverns, or a department store in the heart of a big city. The Satraps exist as functional parts of the society in which they have been set down. But they have a shadow existence all their own, a secret life in which they dedicate their fanatic loyalty to Thrush.

For Thrush, like other nations, has a national purpose. Thrush’s purpose is to dominate the earth.

Thrush has its own structure of authority. At the top is the Council—a group of men and women, all leaders in their various fields and almost universally super-intellects and scientists. They all hold positions of importance in their own countries. But no matter where they live, no matter what their race, creed or color, they pledge their loyalty to Thrush.

They are a renegade handful of brilliant intellects seeing themselves as super-beings whose mission is to dominate the earth. Beneath them, scattered among the Satraps, are their minions…the lesser men and women who execute the Council’s commands.

At regular intervals the members of the Council meet in the capital city of the organization. The capital city is called Thrush and the entire organization takes its name from it. Like the different Satraps, the capital city is concealed under a specific “cover”. But unlike the Satraps, the City of Thrush is mobile. It is shifted constantly from place to place, from country to country, from underground to land to sea to air and back again. It is never allowed to stay in any one place long enough for an enemy to find and destroy it.

The capital city contains all the requisites of government. It has its army, its civil service, its departments and echelons of leadership. Most importantly, it contains the Ultimate Computer. All decisions of the Council are made by this machine, a marvelous, almost infallible organism developed by the brightest minds of Thrush. The Council will collect all information on any subject or project, feed the information to the Ultimate Computer, then follow the plan of action it develops. When Thrush fails it is not through any flaw in the computer. It is through human error or superior force of the enemy.

With fantastic brains, resources, money and power at its command, Thrush is the most deadly threat the world has ever known. It has great armies equipped with the most modem weapons. It has the most advanced methods of communication, transportation, factories, laboratories, and it has an enormous treasury constantly replenished and fattened by legitimate and illegitimate enterprises.

Thrush is not an organization of criminals like the Mafia or Cosa Nostra. It is not a secret agency for any of the powers of the world. It is a supra-nation, led by super intellects under the guidance of the Ultimate Computer—and it is constantly at war. Thrush has no allies. It has only enemies. Good men or evil men, if you are not a member of Thrush, you are marked to be ruled or destroyed.

Waverly said, “Garbridge is Thrush’s Council man directing the Danish and Swedish satraps. There is no doubt at all that his units are behind this ‘flying saucer’ business. You can imagine what an asset a machine like that would be to Thrush.”

“I can see the panic there’d be if a flock of those things suddenly appeared in the sky over New York or London,” Solo agreed. “Everybody would think that the Martians were landing.”

“Exactly! Defenses would be thrown into chaos for those first few vital hours. We must stop that happening—by destroying the things now, while they are still in the experimental stage.”

Waverly’s rubbery face lightened. “So far, our reports show, not one machine has been completely successful. Every flight traced has ended in a crash and usually a totally destructive explosion. But that will not necessarily continue. Thrush has some of the best aeronautical brains in the world at its disposal. And they are persistent.

“But where are they making the things?” Solo asked. “A project like that would need a vast factory. Where would they hide it on a small island like Jutland?”

“That,” said Waverly, “is what you are going to find out.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE SEA-WASHED WIND of early morning was blowing on Solos face as he walked through the Gammel Strand fish market. There was more than a touch of frost in the clean air. He turned into a tall, old-fashioned building and climbed to the third floor.

It took a few minutes to locate the office of Paramount Products A/S, and when he found it there was nobody in the reception room but a blonde girl at the switchboard. She said, “Good day. Did you want somebody?” and rolled big eyes.

Solo said, “We’ll take it up after office hours, but right now I want to talk to Mr. Jorgensen. The name’s Solo.”

The girl said, “Solo,” as if it tasted sour. “Have you an appointment?”

“You tell him,” Solo said, “I need to see him so badly I came out without my morning coffee. We were at school together and I just remembered about it.”

“You went to school?” she asked incredulously. She knocked on an inner door and went in. Reappearing, she held the door wide. She said, “Mr. Solo, Mr. Jorgensen will see you.” It sounded like a big favor.

Mr. Jorgensen was the kind of man who spends his time in garden suburbs fiddling with rose trees and crazy paving. He was small and skimpy and short on hair. He wore a black jacket and gray pants. His collar gave his Adam’s apple plenty of air and it was fastened with a dark gray tie. He said, “Good day, good day. How can I help you?” He was smiling, but his eyes were cautious.

Solo said, “Mr. Waverly, of your New York branch, asked me to contact you.”

The cautious look went out of his eyes. “I heard you might call,” he admitted. “What can I do for you?”

Solo said, “I thought I might call on a mutual friend at the Rodehus.”

He shook his head. “You would be wasting your time, my friend. The birds have taken flight.”

“Where?”

“That we do not know—yet.” He smiled again. “There is something else?”

“Yes,” Solo said. “I want an armpit gun, somewhere about .32 caliber, and if you have such a thing, a shoulder holster to match. I’ve got a Luger but it spoils the fit of my clothes and your Copenhagen police are apt to be curious.”

“Of course.” He pressed a bell on his desk and the switchboard girl appeared.

Mr. Jorgensen said, “A universal wrench, please, Gütte. Size two, with five hundred bolts to match. Oh! and Gütte”—he measured Solo with an expert eye—“an adjustable brassiere for the gentleman. I think he takes a size forty.”

Gütte’s blue eyes opened wide. “Oh, Mr. Solo, she said reproachfully, “and you look so virile.”

She came back with several boxes and dumped them on the desk. The wrench turned out to be a Mauser 7.65mm, World War I type but in new condition. The bolts were chrome nickel flat nose shells. The soft leather shoulder rig fitted Solo as if it had been custom-tailored. “Thanks a lot,” he said. “I feel fully dressed again.”

Gütte said, “Come again for your summer outfit—if you live that long.”

Solo walked across town to the Vesterbrogade. In a side street near the skyscraper Royal Hotel he pushed open the door of the Maritza Bar. The noise hit his ears like a physical blow. The blue haze that passed for air was scented with cigar smoke and Jul punch. Solo pushed his way through the crowd to the back of the room where an elderly man, immersed in the sports page of Politiken, sat alone at a table.

He was a medium-sized, round-faced man with a convex upper lip and the bridge of his nose flattened like a plank. He wore an olive-green anorak and a misused black Homburg was pushed far back on his bald skull.

Jens Johannes O’Flaherty was the son of a Danish farm girl and a wandering Irish horse-coper. He called himself an agent, which covered a multitude of jobs from booth fighting to acting as power behind the throne in a two-bit Central American republic. Filibustering came as natural to him as patent-medicine faking, and his favorite literature was lives of the saints. The bad boys of two continents called him by his first name but according to his lights he was as straight as a billiard cue. One with a slight warp.

When he saw Solo he registered amazement theatrically.

“Napoleon, me errin’ son! I thought you was in New York.”

“I got in last night,” Solo said.

The barman brought two Carlsbergs in long glasses and Solo paid.

O’Flaherty looked at the beer.

“’Tis a commentary on the decadence of civilization,” he soliloquized, “that when I was no older than you a man could go out with five kroner in his pocket and be a monarch of the night. A few ore would buy him an ounce of tobacco the like of which ye would not find in Amalienborg Palace this day, and for no more there was lager like the gods drink on Olympia. Now”—he sighed gustily—“they rob you of three kroner the small bottle.” He nodded, looked Solo in the eye in the Danish fashion, nodded again, tilted back his head and the Carlsberg vanished. He put the glass back on the table and licked his lips.

Solo called the barman. “Same again,” he ordered.

“Barrin’ miracles, that settles it,” said O’Flaherty. “For nothin’ less would make you pay for drinks twice runnin’ and you shoutin’ the first round. Napoleon, you’re in trouble.”

The lager came and he swirled the bottom of the tall glass delicately.

“Now,” he said, settling back comfortably, “perhaps you’ll be so accommodatin’ as to inform me of the reasons for this peripatetic perambulation around our civic sidewalks, and you just fresh from a weary flight across the oceans of the western world.”

Solo said, “Remember the night at Todos los Santos, Jens?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he grinned. “And I with one foot in the grave and the other tryin’ to kick the daylights out of them misconcepted Focacci brothers, to say nothin’ of me two guns empty and half an inch of Porky Romero’s shiv atwixt me fifth and sixth ribs? Sure, Napoleon, when you came through that saloon door and got to work with as pretty a bit of boot work as I ever had the pleasure of witnessin’ I give you my word I had begun to misdoubt would Mrs. O’Flaherty’s boy see the risin’ of another sun. ’Twas my life you gave me without a doubt.”

“Fine. Now here’s where you can start squaring up.”

O’Flaherty said, “Is there a murder in it, then, or just a nice fancy piece of robbery with violence?”

“Neither. All I want is information.”

“As to that,” he said, “’tis well known from Callao to Crooked Corners, Wisconsin, that in the matter of disseminatin’ elucidation and verbiage Jens Johannes O’Flaherty is in a class with himself. Would it be Epstein’s Theory that’s troublin’ you, now, or was you wishful of considerin’ the finer divagations of the higher pragmatism, with a side glance at the influence of the moon upon the tides at Langelinie?”

Solo cut straight through the Irish. “Where does Garbridge’s mob hang out?”

His bald dome creased like corrugated sheeting. “Garbridge,” he repeated. “There was a Lefty Garstein runnin’ a cleaners and pressers protection racket in Akron, Ohio, in ’29, and Honky Garside was a torpedo for Hymie Weiss in Chicago, but—”

“Cut it,” Solo said. “I’m talking about the top-drawer thug called Garbridge with a swank layout in Holte. He’s got a hideout around here and you know where it is.”

The creases ironed out and O’Flaherty’s face went dead. He gazed over Solo’s shoulder into the swirling tobacco haze. He said woodenly, “I never heard of any Garbridge.”

“And I never heard of L. B. Johnson. What’s the matter? Scared?”

A full minute passed before he answered, and then his voice was cold sober.

“Napoleon,” he said, “I have the reputation of being a tough boyo and it’s yourself knows the truth of it. In sixty years of roamin’ the far comers of the earth I never yet knew what it felt like to drink water and—God between us and harm—I never will.

“I’ve taken me chances with spiggotty insurrectionists and I’ve been town marshal of Concho, Arizona, and durin’ the late unpleasantness I did me small stint here with Holger Danske to make the Hun feel unwelcome. But I know me limitations. And I’m tellin’ you, Napoleon, they consists of drawin’ the line at tanglin’ with the crazy man you speak of.

“Sure, I’m scared, and ye can make the most of it, but it’s yourself I’m scared for. A poor misservice I’d be doin’ for the life I owe ye to help you out with the information ye’re after. Bad men is one thing, and you and me can handle ’em, but madmen are another. And mad they are, not barrin’ Garbridge himself, the blackest hearted devil that ever disgraced the mother that bore him. No, Napoleon, I’ll not help ye.”

Solo tried to smile, but he didn’t feel so good.

“My flesh is creeping like a laddered nylon,” he said, “and the icebergs in my bloodstream are giving me sciatica. The trouble is, Jens, I’ve got to mix it with these boys because the only alternative is a lifetime of slavery for all of us, and I don’t seem to have the temperament.”

O’Flaherty’s glass crashed on the table like a bursting shell, showering lager over his anorak. “By the holy!” he exclaimed. “There’s commies in it.”

“Worse,” Solo confirmed.

“Now why the devil didn’t ye say so in the first place?” he demanded. “And I thinkin’ you was just bent on a little hell-raisin’ for the pure delight of it. Is it tryin’ to keep me out of the fun you are? Me that made Ireland ring with me desperate deeds while you was no more than a baby in diapers? I take it unkindly of ye, Napoleon, to treat an old man so. Come on, now, and let’s be flayin’ the hide off of the crazy hellions would side the enemies of the true democracy.”

He was on his feet, all set to lead a frontal attack on the hosts of Mideon.

Solo shook his head. “Sorry, Jens. It’s a private fight. If you want to help, give me the dope and I swear I’ll let you in if I get the okay from the higher-ups.”

“That’s a promise, mind.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He sighed. “You can do no more. Now I’ll just see can the bartender find us a drop of whisky to take the taste of sedition from your mouth whilst I give ye the lowdown.”

The address O’Flaherty gave Solo was a narrow-gutted house in a tangle of streets behind Nyhavn. It stood in a cul-de-sac. There was a seamen’s slop shop on one corner of the cul-de-sac with a cheap cafe facing it. Solo went into the cafe and bought a beer and a smoked eel on rye bread open sandwich. Sitting at a table by the window, he had a grandstand view of the house he was interested in.

It was a two-story building dating from the early nineteenth century, when they had views about how the poor ought to live. In its first youth it must have been pretty much of an architectural nightmare, and the years had not improved it. One only had to look at the frontage to get a mental picture of peeling wallpaper, louse-infested plaster work and a colony of man-eating rats in the basement. Solo hoped Jens was right. If the major were living there, he would find it a deserved change from the Rodehus.

Solo watched the blistered door for about twenty minutes, which was as long as he could linger over one piece of smorrebrod without the cafe owner becoming suspicious. Nobody went in or out and there was no clue to be had from the long-uncleaned windows. Solo paid his bill and went out.