Henrik waved one hand. He didn’t want to talk about it. And he had to figure out Far’s instructions. Far couldn’t have told him in front of the Gestapo. He would have used code.
What was it he’d said about Svend and Henrik rowing at the Østergaard villa?Rowat thevilla—he’d emphasized those words.
Had Far told him to go to Lyd-af-Lys and row across the Sound? The Gestapo would look for him there. Or did Far mean for Henrik to go to the Østergaard villa? They didn’t own a boat Henrik could use. That didn’t make sense either.
The barber whisked off the apron, and Henrik stared at his reflection. He’d forgotten how much he disliked his chin. And his face looked haggard, old.
The barber dumped his tools into the sink. “After your bath, my daughter will apply makeup. You won’t look so...”
“So much like a sailor with scurvy?”
Mikkel raised one eyebrow, not disagreeing. “Take your bath, rinse out the hair dye, and get dressed.”
“And fast,” Koppel said. “You need to get out of here for everyone’s sake.”
“Yes, sir.” Henrik pushed himself out of the chair and limped upstairs. In the bathroom, soapy water filled a tub, and a navy-blue suit lay on the clothes rack. Henrik’s own suit, and he fingered the fine cloth.
He stripped off his filthy, bloody clothes, and he lowered himself into the tub. He groaned with pain and pleasure. If only he could soak his wounds and relax away the tension. Instead, he scrubbed his bruised body and watched the water darken.
Far’s plan wouldn’t work. Henrik would be better off stealing a boat or bribing a fisherman. If there was ever a time to rebel against his father, it was now.
He gently washed his swollen foot in hues of red and blue and purple, and he winced. No, he was finished rebelling. He had to show respect for his father by trusting him.
Henrik unplugged the drain and toweled off. Far had sent a complete set of clothing—underwear, dress shirt, tie, three-piece suit, socks and shoes, gloves, overcoat, and homburg. And Henrik dressed himself as a gentleman once again.
Inside the inner pocket of the jacket he found a wallet stuffed with kroner—ten thousand kroner! And his own wristwatch fromLyd-af-Lys. He strapped it on, even though it rubbed the sores on his wrist.
The shoes. He glared at them. But he’d endured agony over the last few weeks. He could inflict pain on himself for the sake of escaping. And he did so.
Woozy from that pain, he straightened to standing. How could he get to the Østergaard villa in Skodsborg when he could barely walk?
He limped out of the bathroom.
Rasmussen pointed to the woodstove. “Burn the old clothes.”
Gladly. Henrik tossed in the bundle.
“Hold still, sir.” Mikkel’s daughter opened a little glass jar and dabbed makeup onto his face. Then she combed something into his hair above the ears. “A touch of silver.”
“One more thing.” Koppel held out a mahogany walking stick tipped with brass. “Your father sent this. It belonged to your grandfather.”
It had, and Henrik’s throat swelled yet again.
Koppel studied him. “Now you look less like an escaped prisoner and more like a gentleman with gout.”
All these people had helped him. People he wouldn’t have noticed in the past, now people he treasured. “Thank you.” His voice came out husky. “Thank you, all of you. Thank the others and my father—”
“Go.” Koppel gestured to the door. “Get out of here before you get us all killed.”
“I’ll show the way,” Mikkel said.
Henrik said goodbye and followed Mikkel, the walking stick easing the pressure on his foot.
Mikkel led him to a door out to the street. “There’s a tram stop two blocks to your left.”
Henrik thanked him again and stepped outside.
Police whistles blew, and men ran down the street and threw rocks at German security police.
