Chapter 7

"Well, as you realize, Miss Duncan," the balding older man behind the desk began, "I'd been expecting to see you yesterday at three. He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped them on his handkerchief, an unconscious nervous habit of his, all the while staring at her as if he expected her to provide some explanation.

If he does that again, I 'm going to scream, Jill thought. Although she'd not even noticed this mannerism of Professor Jorgensen's in her first meeting with the criminal law expert, the agitated young redhead was so distracted by his every movement today that the excuse she'd come up with to explain her absence fled from her mind. She could only stare at him in confusion as her brain groped for words to explain why she'd not been at her appointment yesterday, and why she'd not showed up today until nearly six o'clock in the evening.

"And I did inform you that my office hours are from three to five," the mild-mannered professor continued in a puzzled voice when it became evident that the curvaceous young woman seated before him was not going to reply to his unspoken question. "So I don't quite understand why you're here now."

Oh Lord, Jill thought, twisting her hands nervously in her mini- skirted lap. She'd quite forgotten what he'd said about his office hours; not that it would have made much difference anyway, since she'd not awoken today until almost five o'clock in the afternoon. In spite of the fact that she'd slept for nearly twelve hours, the young female law student did not feel at all alert or refreshed. Her sleep had been punctuated by a continuous stream of terrifying nightmares. Now she found herself having great difficulty concentrating on the awkward conversation with her professor.

There was a long pause. Jorgensen cleared his throat, then began to polish his glasses for the fourth time since the attractive young woman had entered his office. Oh God, there he goes again, Jill thought, lighting a cigarette before she realized that there was no ashtray. It was obviously her turn to speak, but she couldn't think of a thing to say. What does it matter what he thinks, anyway? she thought irritably. I've got real problems to worry about!

The gray-haired Danish law expert was being made nervous by the girl's strange behavior. What was the matter with her anyway? Last time he'd seen her, he'd been impressed with her confidence and ambition--but now she was staring at him for all the world as if she were deaf and dumb.

"Of course, I wish that I could devote more of my time to student interviews," he tried again, unable to bear the tense silence any longer. "I do believe in a close relationship between student and teacher, especially at the graduate level... but there's the problem of time..."

"Oh yes... of course..." Jill managed to say. "It's just that I... that I... I've been sick..."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the middle-aged man said. "What's the matter?"

'Oh... the flu... yes, the flu, I think," Jill hedged. An inch of dangling ash dropped from her cigarette onto his desk, and she stared at it in embarrassment.

"Well, I trust you're feeling better now," Jorgensen said, then glanced at his watch. "I'm very sorry, Miss Duncan, but I really haven't time to discuss your work with you just now. But perhaps you would like to come out to my home this evening? I was going to invite you yesterday, but you weren't here. My wife and I are having a hjemmeaften, a home evening, for the criminal law students to get to know each other better and to discuss our goals for this coming year. And we've invited Kirsten Nielsen, of whom you, of course, have read in the material I assigned you- --to give a short talk about the specific problems of women law-breakers. Do you think you'll be able to attend?"

For some reason, his invitation seemed to agitate Miss Duncan more than ever. Her hand twitched nervously, scattering more cigarette ashes over his desk, and beads of perspiration formed on her forehead.

"No... I'm sorry, but I... I have a date," she blurted out in a low voice.

"I'm so sorry," Jorgensen said, polishing his glasses one final time and then starting to gather up his papers. "Maybe another time." Too sick to work, but not too sick to find time to go out on dates he thought wearily. That was the trouble with so many of the American students who came over to study in Europe, but he'd had the impression from the earlier interview that Miss Duncan was different from the run-of-the-mill female student. Well, he'd apparently been wrong. "Sorry to have to run now," he said as he snapped his briefcase shut, "but Mrs. Jorgensen is expecting me home at seven. Perhaps you could stop by at four o'clock on Monday."

"Yes... of course..." Jill agreed. She rose from her uncomfortable chair and hurried from the room, relieved to have that embarrassing ordeal over with. But as soon as she reached the street her sense of liberation vanished. Now she had to face Lars Jensen, and she knew she'd prefer watching Professor Jorgensen clean his glasses from here till eternity if by doing so she could avoid confronting the manager of Club 33.

The troubled young redhead made her way slowly from the relative safety of the university building toward the Walking Street. Today she didn't hold her shoulders and head proudly or march in her usual brisk manner; instead, her feet dragged along the pavement as though she were wearing shackles. With every reluctant step she had to force herself from turning and running in the opposite direction from Club 33, but she knew that if she yielded to her temptation she would only make her situation more desperate. Jensen had been so furious last night that she had no doubt he'd make good his threat of retaliation if she didn't see him today. Besides, there was the matter of the money!

She'd gotten out of the taxi last night, still in a state of semi- shock, had blindly handed the driver the bill the irate club manager had thrust at her, then hurried toward the stairs. To her surprise the driver had come running after her, saying something in Danish that she couldn't understand. She'd stared at him so blankly that he switched to broken English.

"You have left the money which is yours," he said as he handed her a pile of bills.

She'd managed to thank him, realizing that Jensen must have been so angry he'd accidentally given her a hundred kroner bill instead of a ten kroner one. But when she reached her room and counted the money, she found that it had been a five hundred kroner note... almost a hundred dollars!

This was a vast sum of money to the scholarship student--nearly half of what she had to live on for a month, and she was certain that when the manager discovered his mistake he'd call the police if she didn't return the money today.

So Professor Jorgensen is having a speaker on women criminals, Jill thought bitterly. Well, I guess that s what I am now... a criminal! If anyone had told me that this would happen to me even last week, I'd have thought they were crazy. Now I think I'm going crazy!

She reached the Walking Street where she'd strolled with Erik that first happy day in Copenhagen. She'd do anything now to turn back the clock, but, of course, it was impossible. There was absolutely nothing for her to do but drag her reluctant body through the gay crowds of Danes and tourists toward the little side-street where Club 33 was located. It was hard to believe that she had once been as carefree as the people around her, Jill wondered if she'd ever be able to feel that way again.

At last the auburn-haired young woman found herself standing in front of the anonymous brick building housing the club. A discreet gold- lettered sign on the heavy door reading, "Club 33--Members Only" was the only thing that differentiated it from the other buildings on the block. Feeling as though she were issuing her own death sentence, the fear- haunted American student rang the bell. It was opened by an exotically clad young man whom she recognized as the bartender in the downstairs level of the club.

tars is waiting for you upstairs," he said, his eyes running over her curvaceous body with lewd insolence. "You know where his office is, of course."

Jill flushed beet-red with embarrassment. Apparently the manager had told this man, and probably lots of other people, too, about the corrupt things he'd discovered Erik and herself doing last night in his office. Without answering the leering long-haired youth, she began to climb the carpeted stairs, then knocked softly on the luxuriant mahogany door. Well, this was it--there was no way of escaping now. A protective fatalistic detachment blanketed Jill's brain, causing her to feel strangely detached from her surroundings and even from her own trembling body.

"Come in," a man's voice called out, and she did so, slowly closing the door behind her before turning to face the all-too-well remembered club manager. Much to her surprise, he had a smile on his handsome, lightly freckled face. "I'm glad you've come--you'd have been sorry if you hadn't," he said in a tone so calm that Jill hardly recognized it as the same invective-shouting voice she been hearing over and over in her mind all day long. "Sit down," he gestured toward one of the leather armchairs close to his desk. "And have a smoke--you look like you need it."

Blinking in disbelief, the bewildered redhead sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair with her body poised to flee from the expensively decorated office at the first possible moment. His unanticipated mild manner made Jill feel more ill at ease than if he'd ranted and raved, and there was an unsettling gleam in his steel-blue eyes. The last thing she wanted to do now was to accept the small hand-carved ivory pipe that he held out to her; every time she'd smoked hashish, she'd found herself doing things that she deeply regretted later, and today she already felt so far out of control that there was no telling how the drug would affect her.

"No, thanks," she replied, shaking her head at the pipe which he offered as casually as a cup of coffee.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I think you should."