Fru Riber grabbed a candlestick from the coffee table, tipped her head as if pondering it, then spun to the window. “Of course, I think the world of you and Laila.”
“Thank you.” Else’s voice came out thin, and she gripped the teacup hard.
Fru Riber shoved the curtains open, set the candlestick on the windowsill, and peered down into the street. Then she stepped back. “That looks nice, doesn’t it?”
The candlestick barely fit on the sill. It didn’t look nice. It looked like ... a signal.
Else’s mouth went dry. Who was she signaling? The Gestapo?
That was why she was stalling Else.
The Gestapo. The Gestapo was coming for her.
She had to leave. Now!
Else set down the teacup with a clatter. “Oh, these shoes. They’re too tight. They’ve been bothering me all day. I need to change them.”
Fru Riber wiggled her hands in a tiny wave. “No, no. First have your tea.”
“After I change.” Else shot to the door over the landlady’s protests, limping for effect.
She ran upstairs and grabbed her suitcase, right where she’d left it.
No. She’d left it with the handle facing the bureau. Now the handle faced the window. And the papers on her desk no longer sat in a neat stack.
Had Fru Riber been in here? Spying on her?
Her breath hopped around, erratic and hot. What had she found? Else had been careful—she didn’t have anything incriminating.
She dashed out with her suitcase, then slammed to a stop in the hall.
Hemming! Fru Riber had always suspected him. He said he had things the Gestapo shouldn’t see. He wouldn’t pack until tomorrow.
“Oh no.” But how long did she have? Fru Riber had sent a signal, it seemed. But she’d also said Else was early and had tried to stall her. Maybe Else had a little time.
On the landing, she glanced over the banister. No sound or movement. For Hemming’s sake, she had to take a chance.
As quietly as possible, she climbed to the garret and entered his room.
It smelled of him, and she drank it in.
But his trunk stood open—he always locked it.
On the bed, a book lay open, filled with Hemming’s handwriting. A journal? Had Fru Riber seen it?
“Oh, Hemming.” Else’s voice choked. She opened her briefcase—stuffed full. She tossed out her notebooks and slid Hemming’s journal inside.
Anything else? Inside the trunk sat a stack of clothes in disorder, his Bible, and a cloth bag with an open drawstring.
The Bible—he said it had belonged to his mother. It might have her name inside, and Else added it to the briefcase.
The cloth bag clunked as she picked it up—Hemming’s carving tools and figurines. If only she could take them all, let them join the little pup in her coat pocket.
The figurine on top—the man who looked like Hemming. He sat on a rock. And his legs—were fins.
He’d carved himself as a merman. The Havmand.
“Oh no.” Else shoved it deep into her briefcase.
