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.”
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