The Copenhagen Affair - Oram John (лучшие бесплатные книги .txt) 📗

Mike always enjoyed the moment of arrival at Kastrup, surely the friendliest airport anywhere—the waving and smiling of the “reception committees” beyond the barrier as the passengers filed through passport inspection; the hugging and hand-shaking, the kissing and laughter (and not a few tears) as families were reunited. There was nobody to meet the girl, he noticed. Carrying only a sling-bag of the type they sell in airport gift shops, she pushed quickly through the crowd around the barrier. She did not reappear on the bus for the short trip to the city terminal. Sharing vicariously the excitement around him, Mike forgot about her. He walked out into the bustle of Vesterbrogade, Copenhagen’s main street, with a sense of homecoming.

He checked in at the Excelsior on the corner of Colbjornsensgade, a modest hotel where the food is excellent even by Copenhagen’s exacting standards and the rooms both comfortable and quiet.

“You will be with us for Christmas, Mr. Stanning?” the desk clerk asked.

“No, worse luck. I’ll make it someday, but this time it’s just a quick trip. I have to be in London in three days’ time.”

“A pity,” the clerk smiled. “There is so little to do here out of season.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mike said. “You can usually find a little action around if you care to look for it.”

That turned out to be the understatement of his life.

It was while walking through Stroget late the following afternoon that he saw the girl again.

You won’t find Stroget on any Copenhagen street map. It is not one street, but five—Ostergade, Amagertorv, Vimmelskatet, Nygade and Frederiksberggade—winding from Kongens Nytorv to the Town Hall Square, where in December the seventy-foot Christmas tree from Crib Skov towers like the presiding genius of the festival.

Think of Piccadilly, Bond Street and Fifth Avenue rolled into one. That’s Stroget. You can buy anything along its winding length: furs, trinkets, porcelain, gold and silver, furniture, pictures, antiques, or just a simple toy for a couple of kroner. And in December the sellers of Christmas trees and the Jul straw goats are out in force on the sidewalks, their colorful stalls adding to the general gaiety.

There is no traffic problem in Stroget. It has long been closed to all traffic on wheels except baby carriages. So you can stroll along at leisure, crossing from side to side of the street without risk to life or limb. Oddly, this security takes some getting used to. You can always pick out an Englishman or an American by the way he stays grimly on the sidewalk while the Danes parade happily along the middle of the road.

The girl was no exception. She was walking slowly, stopping every now and then to look at the superb window displays.

“Good evening,” Mike greeted her. “Just sightseeing, or is there something you want to buy? I know all the right places.”

She smiled up at him. “I’m just idling,” she admitted, “and I was getting a little bored with my own company. Would you like to buy me a coffee somewhere?”

“I’ll do better,” Mike said. “Ever tasted Yule punch? No? Then your education is going to start right now. It’s a hot, spiced nectar that every good Dane drinks at Christmas, and I know a little bar that’s got the recipe dead to rights.” He grinned. “By the way, do you realize I don’t even know your name?”

“I’m sorry. It’s Bland. Norah Bland.”

“Nice! And I’m Stanning. Mike Stanning. Like the song says: Lovely to know you.”

The next few hours were to live long in Mike’s memory.

They were lingering over coffee after a long, late dinner in the Japanese room at The Seven Nations when Norah said suddenly, “Will you take me to a place called The Linden Tree?”

He looked at her, astonished. “The Linden? I thought you said you didn’t know Copenhagen.”

“I don’t.”

“Then how do you know about the Linden? It’s not the sort of joint that attracts the tourist trade.”

“It doesn’t matter how I know. I just want to go there—now.”

He sighed. “Sweetheart,” he said, “it’s time you heard some of the facts of life. The Linden is a rough: tough joint in the heart of Nyhavn, and Nyhavn is the roughest, toughest part of Copenhagen. It’s the seamen’s quarter, and at this time of night—in case you’re not aware of the fact, it’s pushing midnight—it’s liable to be really jumping. Not that the Linden is a spot for well-brought up young women at any time of day. So let’s forget it. We’ll go to Vingaarden and hear some good jazz.”

She said: “Please, Mike—the Linden Tree. Now.”

He signaled to the waiter. “All right, if you’re set on it. But don’t blame me if you get your bag snatched—or,” he added thoughtfully, “if I get my skull cracked and you have to walk home.”

The glaring neons over the bars along Nyhavn were reflected in the black water of the harbor like blood. A party of carousing Swedes stumbled unsteadily along the sidewalk, arguing loudly. Somewhere away in the shadows a woman was shouting a stream of drunken abuse. As Mike paid off the taxi a sudden gust of cold wind made Norah shiver and pull her coat closer around her.

Mike said, “You’re sure you want to go through with it?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Then stick close. The boys may get wrong ideas.”

He pushed open the swinging doors of The Linden Tree and led the way down a flight of uncarpeted stairs. At the bottom a man sat wedged between the wall and a small table. His waistline must have been all of sixty inches and his moon face fell to his shabby shirt collar in a succession of flabby wattles. He tore two paper tickets from a roll and wheezed, “Four kroner.”

Norah said, “Let me pay, Mike. You’ve been shelling out for everything so far.”

In her haste to forestall him her finger slipped and her handbag fell to the floor. Lipstick, compact, and the dozen and one things women carry burst out like a shower. Mike knelt to retrieve them. “That Yule punch!” he said. “I warned you it was potent.”

They were turning from the table when the fat man called, “Miss, I think you forget something.” He held out a small, flat packet.

“Oh! Thanks,” Norah said. “I thought we had picked up everything. You’re very kind.”

He grunted “Velkom!” uninterestedly and returned to his study of the evening paper.

They went on into the club. Surprisingly, it was half empty. Four seamen stood talking over their drinks at the small bar counter. A few couples were dancing to the music of a three-piece combo. In a far corner of the long room a boy and girl who looked like students were being uninhibitedly romantic.

Mike chose a table. A waiter came over and lit the inevitable candle of welcome. Mike ordered two lagers.

Norah looked around. “I thought you said this was a rough place,” she said. “It looks pretty harmless to me.”

“It warms up,” he told her. “It’s still fairly early for Nyhavn.”

A girl came into the room alone. She wore a black, high-necked sweater and tight black trousers. She was tall and thin, with a pale face that looked undernourished. Her thick hair was blazing red. She walked across to their table and put a hand tentatively on the back of a chair. “May I sit?”

“Help yourself,” Mike said. “Would you like a drink?”

“Thank you, no. I buy my own.”

She fumbled in a shabby purse and produced three kroner. Without being told, the waiter brought her a Carlsberg. She poured it expertly in the Danish fashion, dropping the beer almost vertically into the glass. She raised the glass, nodded, stared at them with vivid blue eyes, said “Skaal!” then nodded again and drank.

After a few minutes she got up and went over to join the seamen at the bar. Curiously, Mike could have sworn that she gave Norah a glance of understanding as she left the table.