"I can see both points of view."

"Can you? You are a remarkable young woman. And Christian Rosenberg is a remarkable young idiot. Good evening, Miss Elizabeth. I hope we meet again."

It took them twenty minutes to find a taxi, and this unremarkable occurrence, which Christian would have taken for granted in Manhattan at rush hour, made him even angrier than he was already.

"I'm going to rent a car, d.a.m.n it. Should have done it this morning."

Elizabeth made soothing noises. She would have enjoyed the walk if it had not been for Christian's bad humor. The Radhuspladsen, enclosed by handsome old hotels and offices, and faced by the handsome red brick Court House, delighted her tourist's soul. Grundtvig had convinced her there was no need to worry about Margaret, and she was fully prepared to dismiss Christian as a neurotic, domineering son.

In the interests of peace she tried to refrain from references to the interview, but Christian's grumbling finally wore her down and she succ.u.mbed to the temptation to needle him.

"Why didn't you tell me about those escapades of Margaret's?"

"You're as big a fool as Grundtvig," Christian said. "This one is different."

"Oh? I suppose masculine intuition tells you so."

But by the time they reached the hotel, Elizabeth was regretting the exchange. Christian was behaving like an idiot, but he was genuinely upset; it was cruel of her to tease him. As they crossed the street she sought for a harmless topic of conversation that would restore them to speaking terms.

"The beggar is gone," she remarked. "I guess he works regular hours like everybody else."

"What beggar?"

"The one you almost knocked down this morning. Didn't you see him? He was right here-"

"There aren't any beggars in Denmark."

"That's silly."

"Well, hardly any." Christian stared intently at the empty spot on the pavement, as if he expected the beggar to rematerialize. "I do vaguely remember someone. It wasn't one of those caterwauling student types?"

"No, he was an older man. Short, shabby, blind."

"There aren't any beggars," Christian repeated. "Social services in Denmark are extensive. They have one of the most advanced . . . Never mind that. Anyhow, this neighborhood is not the sort of place where a beggar would hang out, if there were any beggars."

Elizabeth had no difficulty in following his train of thought.

"For heaven's sake, you're still seeing plots and conspirators," she said in exasperation. "I give up."

Still, she was at Christian's elbow listening more intently than she would have admitted when he asked if there had been any messages. Marie shook her head. She looked tired and hara.s.sed.

"I am sorry. It has been such a day-we are a little confused here. Half the staff down with some form of food poisoning, and good workers so hard to find, especially at short notice. I am afraid the kitchen is closed until we locate the source of the trouble."

"What a shame," Elizabeth said sympathetically. "Can we do anything to help?"

Marie laughed. "You would make your own bed, perhaps?"

"I wouldn't mind."

"That is what Margaret would say. Thank you, but I hope we will not have to descend to that."

"Speaking of Margaret," Christian began.

"No, she has not yet returned. But wait, I will see if there is a message. Our receptionist, who is also the telephone operator, was one of those stricken, and the new girl has not yet adjusted to the work. But I will see."

She opened the door in the paneling behind her, and Elizabeth caught a glimpse of an efficient modern office. The blond girl at the switchboard looked up when her employer entered. She did not appear very industrious; though the board in front of her was bright with lights, her hands remained idle as her eyes wandered toward the door, inspecting Christian and Elizabeth with open curiosity.

After taking a few papers from one of the boxes on the wall beside the switchboard, Marie returned, stopping long enough to speak to the girl.

"There were two messages. One was an overseas call-"

"Oh, Lord," Christian muttered. "I'll bet it's Sue. I forgot all about her, and poor old whatever-her-name is, languis.h.i.+ng in the hospital. I'd better go see her this evening."

"I'll go with you. I'm ashamed, I should have . . . What's the matter?" For Christian was staring fixedly at the second message. It was a square white envelope without stamp or postmark. The only inscription was his name, Christian Rosenberg, in heavy black block capitals.

"It was delivered by messenger half an hour ago," Marie said. "Is there something wrong, Christian?"

"No." Christian continued to stare at the envelope. "No. Thanks, Marie. No."

She returned to the office. When she had closed the door, Christian ripped the envelope apart. It contained a single sheet of paper. Christian held it in such a way that Elizabeth was unable to read it, but she had a premonition of its import when she saw the blood drain from Christian's face, leaving it as white as the paper he held.

"Oh, no," she whispered. "It can't be-"

"Ah, but it is." Christian's lips turned up in a horrible parody of a smile. "The long-awaited, anxiously antic.i.p.ated ransom note."

HE STOOD like Lot's wife, staring blankly, until Elizabeth took his arm and led him into the parlor. She took the note from his hand.

It contained two paragraphs of writing, in the same anonymous printed capitals. Elizabeth read it. She read it again. Then she raised incredulous eyes to Christian's face.

"This is crazy."

The note read as follows: "The parcel you have misplaced is in our hands. It will be returned to you in exchange for Margaret's bathrobe. Place it or information leading to its whereabouts in a suitcase and leave it on the central bench behind the carousel at Tivoli at a quarter before midnight tonight.

"Do not go to the police. Your visit to them today almost resulted in damage to the parcel. Failure to comply with these instructions will certainly have that effect."

Christian dropped into a chair and held out his hand. "Let me see it again. I was so stunned the first time. ..." He took his time reading it. "You're right for once," he muttered. "It is crazy. What the h.e.l.l would anyone want with Margaret's bathrobe?"

"Maybe it's a joke. Would she-"

"Good G.o.d, no. She's goofy, but she wouldn't do a cruel thing like this. Let's have a look at that bathrobe."

They crowded into the lift and raced one another through the suite to the armoire in Margaret's room.

"Let me," Elizabeth panted, pus.h.i.+ng Christian aside. "I think I remember. . . . Yes, here it is."

It was a negligee of sh.e.l.l pink, ten yards of flowing silk chiffon trimmed lavishly with maribou feathers. The feathers were molting. They made a dribbling trail across the room as Elizabeth carried the garment to the bed. She ran inquiring hands over it. There were no pockets. The rolled hems on the sleeves and skirt were too narrow to contain even the most minuscule objects. Elizabeth proceeded to squash handful after handful of feathers between her fingers, hoping for a crackle of paper or the feel of something hard. She was left empty-handed except for a coating of feathers that clung maddeningly to her fingers.

"Would you call that a bathrobe?" Christian asked doubtfully.

"I would call it a negligee. But a man might think of it as a bathrobe. I suppose a man wrote that note?"

"That's a s.e.xist remark."

"There are more male criminals than female."

"Oh, who gives a d.a.m.n? Look again. I've never seen her wear that ridiculous thing; she must have some other robe."

There was another robe-an ancient terry-cloth garment sadly snagged and carefully mended at the pockets and sleeve. It had once been white.

Elizabeth held it out at arm's length. "It's miles too big for her. It could be a man's robe."

"My father's," Christian said curtly.

"Oh." Elizabeth studied the garment with new respect. "She's mended it, over and over." There were other comments she might have made, but Christian's stony face silenced her. He did not want to wallow in sentimental memories of his father or his mother's fidelity.

"That is most definitely a bathrobe," he said. "And it has more possibilities than the other one. Check the pockets."

Elizabeth did more. She ran her hands over every inch of the robe, inspecting the doubled fabric of collar and cuffs with particular care. The pockets contained two sticks of chewing gum, a handful of tissues, the top off a ball-point pen, and a coupon ent.i.tling the possessor to fifteen cents off on a brand of popular instant coffee.

"No luck," she reported.

Christian grunted. Rising, he came to the bed and repeated the inspection. He took an inordinate amount of time doing it. Elizabeth was not offended. She shared his frustration. There had to be something about that robe. . . . Suddenly she was struck with an idea.

"Christian. Your father-was he a hero of the Resistance or some such thing?"

"You could call him that." Christian flung the robe aside. His search, like hers, had produced nothing. "But he was no professional spy or secret agent-nothing like that. Everybody in Denmark was in the Resistance. He couldn't have been involved in anything that would still be active forty years later."

"Schmidt is a German name."

Christian sputtered. "That is the most-I never heard of such a wild, farfetched. . . . Where do you get ideas like that, from Secret Service Comics?"

"I was just grasping at straws," Elizabeth said humbly.

"I'd grasp at one if I could find one." Christian ran frantic fingers through his hair. "What are we going to do?"

"Give them the robe. What else can we do?"

"Which robe?"

"Both of them. They can have mine too. Maybe they collect bathrobes. Some kind of fetish."

She regretted the feeble witticism as soon as she had uttered it. However, it produced a faint smile from Christian.

"Maybe I should throw mine in as well. Sorry I got so dramatic. It was a shock at first; but now I'm inclined to agree that it must be someone's weird idea of a joke."

"Are you going to do what they ask?"

"Might as well. It can't do any harm." Christian consulted his watch. "But I must go to the hospital; that can't be put off any longer."

"Do you want me to come?"

"I'd rather you stayed here, in case Margaret calls or there are any more messages from psychopaths. Maybe they got their ransom notes mixed up and will send a correction."

Christian returned an hour later, looking ruffled and disgruntled. "What a whining little wimp that girl is," he growled.

"That's a terrible thing to say."

"I know, I know. But d.a.m.n it, she's got the best room in the hospital and round-the-clock nurses; the doctor says it's a clean break and should heal well; and all she can do is cry and say she wants her mother. Which reminds me-I had better call Sue. Have you packed the robes?"

Elizabeth took the hint and retired to her room. She did not particularly want to listen to Christian placating an overprotective mother.

She had already packed the robes, in a brown overnight bag. She had also examined them a third time, using a needle to poke into every possible crevice. She sat down and picked up her guidebook, but found it impossible to concentrate on the splendors of Copenhagen; she was still staring at the first page, seeing nothing of the print, when Christian banged on her door and flung it open without waiting for a response. If there are degrees of disgruntlement, his had risen.

"Ready? Let's go."

"It's not even nine o'clock."

"Do you want to sit around here for three hours chewing your nails? I presume you expect to be fed sometime this evening; we may as well go to one of the restaurants at Tivoli."

When they got downstairs Christian turned aside and opened the door to the office. No one was there except the switchboard operator. She was reading a magazine. Christian's abrupt appearance made her start, but when she saw who it was she relaxed and smiled at him in, Elizabeth thought, a decidedly unbusinesslike fas.h.i.+on.

"Oh, Mr. Rosenberg. You sure made me jump!"

"Any messages?" Christian asked.

"No." The girl shook her head. Bleached blond curls danced and dangling earrings clashed. Elizabeth wondered how she could operate the switchboard without getting things tangled in the wires.

"You did get the other messages, didn't you?" the girl asked.

"Yes, thanks." Christian reached for his wallet. "I'm expecting an important call. You will be especially careful, won't you, to note down any messages that may come for me?"

"Oh, sir, you don't need to do that" But her plump little hand, its nails enameled a nauseating shade of purple, was quick to take the bill he offered. She dimpled and smiled. "I'll be reely careful, I promise."

"What an awful accent," Elizabeth said, as they left the lobby. "c.o.c.kney or worse. I thought she was Danish."

"They would need someone who spoke English to operate a hotel switchboard," Christian said disinterestedly. "Maybe she was an au pair in England. . . . d.a.m.n. I should have had her call for a cab."

"Let's walk. We have plenty of time, and it's a nice night."

It was not a nice night. The sky was overcast, and a chilly breeze made Elizabeth grateful for her white sweater. However, Christian a.s.sented with an ill-tempered grunt, and for a while they walked on in silence. Christian kept glancing from side to side, and finally Elizabeth asked, "Are we being followed?"

She meant it as a joke-half a joke, at any rate-but Christian replied seriously, "I'm not sure. Too many people on the street. But I have a feeling. . . ."

"A p.r.i.c.kling sensation between the shoulder blades?"