In the hotel? he suggested.
Its too nice a day to be inside. Well go into the Studenterlunden. She waved her arm past a passing articulated tramcar towards the gay umbrellas in the gardens on the other side of the street.
Denison felt trapped as he escorted her across the street, but he also realized that if he was to learn anything about Meyrick then this was too good a chance to pass up. He had once been accosted in the street by a woman who obviously knew him but he did not have the faintest idea of who she was. There is a point of no return in that type of conversation after which one cannot, in decency, admit ignorance. On that occasion Denison had fumbled it, had suffered half an hour of devious conversation, and they had parted amicably without him finding out who she was. He still did not know. Grimly he thought that it was good practice for todays exercise.
As they crossed the street she said, I saw Jack Kidder this morning. He was asking about you.
How is he?
She laughed. Fine, as always. You know Jack.
Of course, said Denison deadpan. Good old Jack.
They went into the outdoor café and found an empty table with difficulty. Under other circumstances Denison would have found it pleasant to have a drink with a pretty woman in surroundings like this, but his mind was beleaguered by his present problems. They sat down and he put his parcel of maps on the table.
One of them slipped out of the packet and his main problem prodded at it with a well-manicured forefinger. What are these?
Maps, said Denison succinctly.
Maps of where?
Of the city.
Oslo! She seemed amused. Why do you want maps of Oslo? Isnt it your boast that you know Oslo better than London?
Theyre for a friend.
Denison chalked up a mental note. Meyrick knows Oslo well; probably a frequent visitor. Steer clear of local conditions or gossip. Might run into more problems like this.
Oh! She appeared to lose interest.
Denison realized he was faced with a peculiar difficulty. He did not know this womans name and, as people do not commonly refer to themselves by name in conversation, he did not see how he was going to get it, short of somehow prying into her handbag and looking for identification.
Give me a cigarette, darling, she said.
He patted his pockets and found he had left the cigarette case and lighter in the room. Not being a smoker it had not occurred to him to put them in his pocket along with the rest of Meyricks personal gear. Im sorry, he said. I dont have any with me.
My! she said. Dont tell me the great Professor Meyrick has stopped smoking. Now I will believe in cancer.
Professor!
He used the pretext of illness again. The one I tried this morning tasted like straw. Maybe I will stop smoking. He held his hand over the table. Look at those nicotine stains. Imagine what my lungs must be like.
She shook her head in mock sorrow. Its like pulling down a national monument. To imagine Harry Meyrick without a cigarette is like trying to imagine Paris without the Eiffel Tower.
A Nordic waitress came to the table; she looked rather like Jeanette MacDonald dressed for an appearance in White Horse Inn. Denison raised his eyebrows at his companion. What will you have?
The usual, she said indifferently, delving into her handbag.
He took refuge in a paroxysm of coughing pulling out his handkerchief and only emerging when he heard her giving the order. He waited until the waitress left before putting away the handkerchief. The woman opposite him said, Harry, thats a really bad cough. Im not surprised youre thinking of giving up the cancer sticks. Are you feeling all right, darling? Maybe youd be better off in bed, after all.
Im all right, he said.
Are you sure? she asked solicitously.
Perfectly sure.
Spoken like the old Professor Meyrick, she said mockingly. Always sure of everything.
Dont call me Professor, he said testily. It was a safe enough thing to say regardless of whether Meyrick was really a professor or whether she was pulling his leg in a heavy-handed manner. The British have never been keen on the over-use of professional titles. And it might provoke her into dropping useful information.
All he got was a light and inconsequential, When on the Continent do as the Continentals do.
He went on the attack. I dont like it.
Youre so British, Harry. He thought he detected a cutting edge to her voice. But then, of course, you would be.
What do you mean by that?
Oh, come off it. Theres nobody more British than an outsider who has bored his way in. Where were you born, Harry? Somewhere in Mittel Europa? She suddenly looked a little ashamed. Im sorry; I shouldnt have said that. Im being bitchy, but youre behaving a bit oddly, too.
The effect of the pills. Barbiturates have never agreed with me. I have a headache.
She opened her handbag. I have aspirin.
The waitress, Valkyrie-like, bore down on them. Denison looked at the bottles on the tray, and said, I doubt if aspirin goes with beer. That was the last thing he would have thought of as the usual; she did not look the beery type.
She shrugged and closed the bag with a click. Please yourself.
The waitress put down two glasses, two bottles of beer and a packet of cigarettes, said something rapid and incomprehensible, and waited expectantly. Denison took out his wallet and selected a 100-kroner note. Surely two beers and a packet of cigarettes could not cost more than a hundred kroner. My God, he did not even know the value of the currency! This was like walking through a minefield blindfolded.
He was relieved when the waitress made no comment but made change from a leather bag concealed under her apron. He laid the money on the table intending to check it surreptitiously. The redhead said, Youve no need to buy my cigarettes, Harry.
He smiled at her. Be my guest, he said, and stretched out his hand to pour her beer.
Youve given it up yourself but youre quite prepared to pay for other peoples poison. She laughed. Not a very moral attitude.
Im not a moral philosopher, he said, hoping it was true.
No, youre not, she agreed. Ive always wondered where you stood in that general direction. What would you call yourself, Harry? Atheist? Agnostic? Humanist?
At last he was getting something of the quality of Meyrick. Those were questions but they were leading questions, and he was quite prepared to discuss philosophy with her a nice safe subject. Not an atheist, he said. Its always seemed to me that to believe in the non-existence of something is somewhat harder than to believe in its existence. Id put myself down as an agnostic one of the dont know majority. And that doesnt conflict with humanism.
He fingered the notes and coins on the table, counted them mentally, subtracted the price of two beers based on what he had paid for a beer in the hotel, and arrived at the price of a packet of cigarettes. Roughly, that is. He had an idea that the price of a beer in a luxury hotel would be far higher than in an open-air café.
I went to church last Sunday, she said pensively. To the English church you know the one on Møllergata. He nodded as though he did know. I didnt get much out of it. I think next time Ill try the American church. She frowned. Where is the American church, Harry?
He had to say something, so he took a chance. Isnt it near the Embassy?
Her brow cleared. Of course. Between Bygdøy Alle and Drammens Veien. Its funny, isnt it? The American church being practically next door to the British Embassy. Youd expect it to be near the American Embassy.
He gulped. Yes, you would, he said, and forbore to mention that that was what he had meant. Even a quasi-theological conversation was strewn with pitfalls. He had to get out of this before he really dropped a clanger.
And an alarming suspicion had just sprung to mind, fully armed and spiky. Whoever had planted him in that hotel room and provided him with money and the means to provide all the necessities of life and a lot of the luxuries, too was unlikely to leave him unobserved. Someone would be keeping tabs on him, otherwise the whole operation was a nonsense. Could it be this redhead who apparently had qualms about her immortal soul? What could be better than to plant someone right next to him for closer observation?
She opened the packet of cigarettes and offered him one. Youre sure you wont?
He shook his head. Quite sure.
It must be marvellous to have will power.
He wanted peace and not this continuous exploration of a maze where every corner turned could be more dangerous than the last. He started to cough again, and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. Im sorry, he said in a muffled voice. I think youre right; Id be better off in bed. Do you mind if I leave you?
Of course not. Her voice was filled with concern. Do you want a doctor?
Thats not necessary, he said. Ill be all right tomorrow I know how these turns take me. He stood up and she also rose. Dont bother to come with me. The hotel is only across the road.
He picked up the packet and thrust the maps back into it, and put the handkerchief into his pocket. She looked down at his feet. Youve dropped something, she said, and stooped to pick it up. Why, its a Spiralen Doll.
A what? he asked incautiously. It must have been pulled from his pocket when he took out the handkerchief.
She regarded him oddly. You pointed these out at the Spiralen when we were there last week. You laughed at them and called them tourist junk. Dont you remember?
Of course, he said. Its just this damned headache.
She laughed. I didnt expect to see you carrying one. You didnt buy this when we were there where did you get it?
He told the truth. I found it in the car I hired.
You cant trust anyone to do a good job these days, she said, smiling. Those cars are supposed to be cleaned and checked. She held it out. Do you want it?
I may be a bit light-headed, he said, but I think I do. He took it from her. Ill be going now.
Have a hot toddy and a good nights sleep, she advised. And ring me as soon as youre better.
That would be difficult, to say the least, with neither telephone number nor name. Why dont you give me a ring tomorrow, he said. I think Ill be well enough to have dinner. I promise not to stand you up again.
Ill ring you tomorrow afternoon.
Promise, he insisted, not wanting to lose her.
Promise.
He put the rope doll into his pocket and left her with a wave, and went out of the garden, across the road and into the hotel, feeling relieved that he was well out of a difficult situation. Information, he thought, as he walked across the hotel lobby; thats what I need Im hamstrung without it.
He paused at the porters desk and the porter looked up with a quick smile. Your key, sir? He swung around and unhooked it.
On impulse Denison held out the doll. Whats that?
The porters smile broadened. Thats a Spiralen Doll, sir.
Where does it come from?
From the Spiralen, sir in Drammen. If youre interested, I have a pamphlet.
Im very much interested, said Denison.
The porter looked through papers on a shelf and came up with a leaflet printed in blue ink. You must be an engineer, sir.
Denison did not know what the hell Meyrick was. Its in my general field of interest, he said guardedly, took the key and the leaflet, and walked towards the lifts. He did not notice the man who had been hovering behind him and who regarded him speculatively until the lift door closed.
Once in his room Denison tossed the maps and the leaflet on to the dressing-table and picked up the telephone. Id like to make a long distance call, please to England. He took out his wallet.
What is the number, sir?
Theres a little difficulty about that. I dont have a number only an address. He opened the wallet with one hand and extracted one of Meyricks cards.
The telephonist was dubious. That may take some time, sir.
It doesnt matter Ill be in my room for the rest of the day.
What is the address sir?
Denison said clearly, Lippscott House, near Brackley, Buckinghamshire, England. He repeated it three times to make sure it had got across.
And the name?
Denison opened his mouth and then closed it, having suddenly acquired a dazed look. He would appear to be a damned fool if he gave the name of Meyrick no one in his right mind rings up himself, especially after having admitted he did not know his own telephone number. He swallowed, and said shortly, The name is not known.
The telephone sighed in his ear. Ill do my best, sir.
Denison put down the telephone and settled in a chair to find out about the Spiralen. The front of the leaflet was headed: DRAMMEN. There was an illustration of a Spiralen Doll which did not look any better for being printed in blue. The leaflet was in four languages.
The Spiralen was described as being a truly unique attraction, as well as a superb piece of engineering. Apparently there had been a quarry at the foot of Bragernesasen, a hill near Drammen, which had become an eyesore until the City Fathers decided to do something about it. Instead of quarrying the face of the hill the operation had been extended into the interior.
A tunnel had been driven into the hill, thirty feet wide, fifteen feet high and a mile long. But not in a straight line. It turned back on itself six complete times in a spiral drilled into the mountain, climbing five hundred feet until it came out on top of Bragernesasen where the Spiraltoppen Restaurant was open all the year round. The views were said to be excellent.
Denison picked up the doll; its body was formed of six complete turns of rope. He grinned weakly.
Consultation of the maps revealed that Drammen was a small town forty kilometres west of Oslo. That would be a nice morning drive, and he could get back in the afternoon well in time for any call from the redhead. It was not much to go on, but it was all he had.
He spent the rest of the afternoon searching through Meyricks possessions but found nothing that could be said to be a clue. He ordered dinner to be sent to his room because he suspected that the hotel restaurant might be full of unexploded human mines like the redhead he had met, and there was a limit to what he could get away with.