She got a room at a cheap hotel near the waterfront. It was a sleazy place, but her bedroom door had a stout lock. At about midnight, a slurred voice outside asked if she would like a little drink, and she got up to jam the door with a tilted chair.
She spent most of the night awake, wondering if Arne had been the man shot in St. Paul’s Gade. If so, how badly was he hurt? If not, had he been arrested with the others, or was he still at large? Whom could she ask? She could contact Arne’s family, but they probably would not know, and it would scare them to death to be asked whether he had been shot. She knew many of his friends, but the ones who were likely to know what had happened were dead, or in custody, or in hiding.
In the early hours of the morning, it occurred to her that there was one person who was almost certain to know if Arne had been arrested: his commanding officer.
At first light, she went to the railway station and caught a train to Vodal.
As the train crawled south, stopping at every sleepy village, she thought of Digby. By now he would be in back in Sweden, waiting impatiently on the quay at Kalvsby for her to arrive with Arne and the film. The fisherman would come back alone, and tell Digby that Hermia had not appeared at their rendezvous. Digby would not know whether she had been captured or merely delayed. He would be as distraught about her as she was about Arne.
The flying school had a desolate feel. There were no aircraft on the field and none in the sky. A few machines were being serviced and, in one of the hangars, some trainees were being shown the innards of an engine. She was directed to the headquarters building.
She had to give her real name, for there were people here who knew her. She asked to see the base commander, adding, “Tell him I’m a friend of Arne Olufsen’s.”
She knew she was taking a risk. She had met Squadron Leader Renthe, and remembered him as a tall, thin man with a moustache. She had no idea what his politics were. If he happened to be pro-Nazi, she could be in trouble. He might phone the police and report an Englishwoman asking questions. But he was fond of Arne, as so many people were, so she was hoping that for Arne’s sake he would not betray her. Anyway, she was going to take the chance. She had to find out what had happened.
She was admitted immediately, and Renthe recognized her. “My God-you’re Arne’s fiancee!” he said. “I thought you’d gone back to England.” He hurried to close the door behind her-a good sign, she thought, for if he wanted privacy that suggested he was not going to alert the police, at least not immediately.
She decided to offer no explanation of why she was in Denmark. Let him draw his own conclusions. “I’m trying to find out where Arne is,” she said. “I fear he may be in trouble.”
“It’s worse than that,” said Renthe. “You’d better sit down.”
Hermia remained standing. “Why?” she cried. “Why sit down? What’s happened?”
“He was arrested last Wednesday.”
“Is that all?”
“He was shot and wounded while trying to escape from the police.”
“So it was him.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A neighbor told me one of them had been shot. How is he?”
“Please do sit down, my dear.”
Hermia sat down. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Renthe hesitated. Then, in a low voice, he said slowly, “I’m dreadfully sorry to have to tell you that I’m afraid Arne is dead.”
She cried out in anguish. In her heart she had known this might be so, but the possibility of losing him had been too dreadful to think about. Now that it had come, she felt as if she had been struck by a train. “No,” she said. “It’s not true.”
“He died in police custody.”
“What?” With an effort, she made herself listen.
“He died at police headquarters.”
A terrible possibility entered her mind. “Did they torture him?”
“I don’t think so. It seems that, in order to avoid revealing information under torture, he took his own life.”
“Oh, God!”
“He sacrificed himself to protect his friends, I’d guess.”
Renthe looked blurred, and Hermia realized she was seeing him through tears which were streaming down her face. She fumbled for a handkerchief, and Renthe passed her his own. She wiped her face, but the tears kept coming.
Renthe said, “I’ve only just heard. I’ve got to phone Arne’s parents and tell them.”
Hermia knew them well. She found the steely pastor difficult to deal with: it seemed he could relate to people only by dominating them, and subservience did not come easily to Hermia. He loved his sons, but expressed his love by laying down rules. What Hermia remembered most vividly about Arne’s mother was that her hands were always chapped from being in water too much, washing clothes and preparing vegetables and scrubbing floors. Thinking of them drew Hermia’s thoughts away from her own loss, and she felt a surge of compassion. They would be distraught. “How dreadful for you to be the bearer of such news,” she said to Renthe.
“Indeed. Their firstborn son.”
That made her think of the other son, Harald. He was fair where Arne was dark, and they were different in other ways: Harald was more serious, somewhat intellectual, with little of Arne’s easy charm, but likeable in his own way. Arne had said he was going to talk to Harald about ways to sneak into the base on Sande. How much did Harald know? Had he gotten involved?
Her mind was turning to practical matters, but she felt hollow. The state of shock she was in would permit her to carry on with her life, but she felt as if she would never be whole again. “What else did the police tell you?” she asked Renthe.
“Officially, they would say only that he had died while giving information, and that ‘No other person is thought to have been involved,’ which is their euphemism for suicide. But a friend at the Politigaarden told me Arne did it to avoid being turned over to the Gestapo.”
“Did they find anything in his possession?”
“What do you mean?”
“Such as photographs?”
Renthe stiffened. “My friend didn’t say so, and it’s dangerous for you and me to even discuss such a possibility. Miss Mount, I was fond of Arne, and for his sake I would like to do anything I can for you, but please remember that as an officer I have sworn loyalty to the King, whose orders to me are to cooperate with the occupying power. Whatever my personal opinions might be, I can’t countenance espionage-and, if I thought someone was involved in such activity, it would be my duty to report the facts.”
Hermia nodded. It was a clear warning. “I appreciate your frankness, Squadron Leader.” She stood up, wiping her face. She remembered that the handkerchief was his, and said, “I’ll launder this, and send it back to you.”
“Don’t even think about it.” He came around his desk and put his hands on her shoulders. “I really am most dreadfully sorry. Please accept my deepest sympathy.”
“Thank you,” she said, and she left.
As soon as she was out of the building, the tears came again. Renthe’s handkerchief was a wet rag. She would not have thought she had so much fluid in her. Seeing everything through a watery screen, she made her way somehow to the railway station.
The hollow calm came back as she considered where to go next. The mission that had killed Poul and Arne was not done. She still had to get photographs of the radar equipment on Sande before the next full moon. But now she had an additional motive: revenge. Completion of the task would be the most painful retribution she could inflict upon the men who had driven Arne to his death. And she found a new asset to help her. She no longer cared for her own safety. She felt ready to take any risk. She would walk down the streets of Copenhagen with her head held high, and woe betide anyone who tried to stop her.
But what, exactly, would she do?
Arne’s brother might be the key. Harald would probably know whether Arne had returned to Sande before the police got him, and he might even know whether Arne had had photographs in his possession when he was arrested. Furthermore, she thought she knew where to find Harald.