The Golden Horns. John Burke

was a long pause. Logan tilted back again in his chair, teetering lazily to and fro.

      “What makes you so interested in it?” he demanded. “What makes you willing to spend money—perhaps a lot of money—on something that doesn’t really concern you.”

      Martin had been afraid of this question. He knew the answer would sound absurd. It sounded absurd to himself. But it was the only answer; the only true answer.

      He said: “It’s all due to the torment m a girl’s eyes. Don’t think I’m crazy. It’s just the way it is. I’m haunted by Inge Nielsen’s face. I wish I weren’t—I wish I could forget it. But I won’t have any peace until that ghost is exorcised.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      When, after some further discussion, Martin Slade had left, Logan turned to Carol Dane.

      “Think he’s on the level?”

      “Yes,” said Carol unhesitatingly.

      “So do I. But this is a pretty little problem he’s dropped in our laps.”

      She smiled. “Where do we start?”

      Logan reached for the telephone. “With Scotland Yard, I think.”

      Zoe Peters at the reception desk took five minutes to coax her way through to the appropriate department in Scotland Yard…only to find that Inspector Brisbane was out.

      “On the Clifford case,” murmured Carol in the background

      “I expect so,” said Logan. He left a message for Brisbane to ring him, and then sat back in absolute silence for half an hour.

      Absolute silence—save for the tapping of a cigarette against his thumbnail, and the intermittent flare of the lighter on his desk.

      At last he let his chair sag forward, and said: “No. No good. We’ve got to have more to go on.”

      The telephone shrilled abruptly.

      “Hello. Logan here. Yes. Ah, Brisbane....”

      The detective’s voice became as soothing as syrup. Yes, he quite understood that the hard-worked Brisbane must have been having a hell of a time. No, he didn’t expect to have favours done for him all the time. No, he wouldn’t dream of worrying his old friend unnecessarily….

      But he was curious about the Clifford murder.

      Carol, coming in with a sheaf of documents, perched on the edge of Logan’s desk and exchanged grimaces with him as the voice from the other end of the line crackled busily away.

      “All right, old chap,” said Logan eventually. “I know you’re curious, too. And if I learn anything about the murder, I’ll tell you. What? No, no angles at all. Why should I have?” He winked at Carol. “But how was this young fellow murdered? There don’t seem to be any real details in the morning papers.”

      He listened, and the friendly mockery went out of his face. There was a grim crease in his forehead that Carol had seen before—a harsh line that meant trouble for somebody.

      At last he said: “Anything stolen? Any—er—cases or boxes opened, or anything?”

      The telephone spat angry questions at him.

      “Never mind how I guessed,” said Logan. “I can’t tell you. Professional etiquette. All right, all right. Don’t bite my head off. It’s just that…well, anything you can tell me may help me to return the compliment at a later date. You know me by now.”

      Again he listened, and finally said: “Thanks. Thanks a lot. That’s what I wanted to know.”

      Carol sat waiting.

      “Well?” she demanded impatiently.

      “Clifford’s travelling cases had been ransacked. His musical instruments had been taken out of their cases—and he had quite a collection of rare freaks, apparently.”

      “No indication of what the murderer was looking for?”

      “None. If there was anything there, it’s gone now.”

      Carol sighed. “How did he die?” she asked.

      The stony look in Logan’s eyes was not pleasant to see.

      He said: “Clifford lived down in Kent. Stayed in town when he had a late concert, of course, but he could usually get back home. No parents. The house belonged to a deaf aunt. He seemed to like a solitary sort of existence. His aunt didn’t hear a thing when her nephew was killed. He was stunned and then dragged out into the wood behind the house…and spreadeagled.”

      “Spreadeagled?” echoed Carol.

      “An ancient tradition,” said Logan grimly. “The victim is slit down the middle from his chin downwards—and his ribs are pulled out and bent to each side.”

      Carol gagged. With trembling fingers she accepted the cigarette Logan jabbed towards her.

      “But who could have done that?” she whispered.

      “The Danes.”

      “Not in our branch of the family,” she said shakily.

      Logan smiled a wintry smile. “It’s an old Danish custom that used to be the terror of our East coast. It’s been out of fashion for hundreds of years. Only a fanatic would do such a thing If we get involved in this case, it looks as though we shall be dealing with a dangerous madman.”

      “There must he easier ways of earning a living. We could take on a few nice divorce cases, or—”

      “We’re taking this one on,” said Logan.

      “Where do we start?” asked Carol for the second time that day.

      “From Copenhagen. The spreadeagle could be a blind—it seems so monstrously melodramatic that it might be a put-up business—but somehow I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m convinced the trail begins in Copenhagen. I’ll ring Slade, and then Harry can see about getting some plane seats.”

      He slid open a drawer in his desk and drew out his Luger. His hand weighed it speculatively. “If we’re dealing with barbarians,” he said, “we’ve got to be prepared to match their methods with some real twentieth-century toughness.”