‘My doctor would agree with you.’ I caught the smile on his face as he pushed his mask up, and there wasn’t much humour in it. ‘So would I.’
‘Twice daily injections?’
‘Twice,’ he nodded. ‘Before breakfast and in the evening.’
‘But don’t you carry a hypo and—’
‘Normally’ he interrupted. ‘But not this time. The Gander doctor gave me a jab and as I can usually carry on a few hours overdue without ill effects I thought I’d wait until we got to London.’ He tapped his breast pocket. ‘This card’s good anywhere.’
‘Except on the Greenland ice-cap,’ I said bitterly. ‘But then I don’t suppose you anticipated a stop-over here. What diet were you on?’
‘High protein, high starch.’
‘Hence the sugar?’ I looked down at the white crystals still clenched in my left mitten.
‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘But I know sugar used to be used for the treatment of coma. I thought maybe if I stuffed enough into myself … Well, anyway, you know now why I turned criminal.’
‘Yes, I know now. My apologies for the gun-waving act, Mr Mahler, but you must admit I had every justification. Why in the hell didn’t you tell me before now? I am supposed to be a doctor, you know.’
‘I would have had to tell you sooner or later, I suppose. But right now you’d plenty of troubles of your own without worrying about mine also. And I didn’t think there would be much chance of your carrying insulin among your medical stores.’
‘We don’t – we don’t have to. Everybody gets a thorough medical before going on an IGY station, and diabetes hardly develops overnight … You take it all very calmly, I must say, Mr Mahler. Come on, let’s get back to the tractor.’
We reached there inside a minute. I pulled back the canvas screen, and a thick white opaque cloud formed almost immediately as the relatively warm air inside met the far sub-zero arctic air outside. I waved my hand to dispel it, and peered inside. They were all still drinking coffee – it was the one thing we had in plenty. It seemed difficult to realise that we’d been gone only a few minutes.
‘Hurry up and finish off,’ I said abruptly. ‘We’re on our way within five minutes. Jackstraw, would you start the engine, please, before she chills right down?’
On our way!’ The protest, almost inevitably, came from Mrs Dansby-Gregg. ‘My dear man, we’ve hardly stopped. And you promised us three hours’ sleep only a few minutes ago.’
‘That was a few minutes ago. That was before I found out about Mr Mahler here.’ Quickly I told them all I thought they needed to know. ‘It sounds brutal to say it in Mr Mahler’s presence,’ I went on, ‘but the facts themselves are brutal. Whoever crashed that plane – and, to a lesser extent, stole the sugar – put Mr Mahler’s life in the greatest danger. Only two things, normally, could save Mr Mahler – a properly balanced high-calorie diet as a short term measure, insulin as a long term one. We have neither. All we can give Mr Mahler is the chance to get one or other of these things with all speed humanly possible. Between now and the coast that tractor engine is going to stop only if it packs in completely, if we run into an impassable blizzard – or if the last of the drivers collapses over the wheel. Are there any objections?’
It was a stupid, unnecessary, gratuitously truculent question to ask, but that’s just the way I felt at that moment. I suppose, really, that I was inviting protest so that I could have some victim for working off the accumulated rage inside me, the anger that could find its proper outlet only against those responsible for this fresh infliction of suffering, the anger at the near certainty that no matter what effort we made to save Mahler it would be completely nullified when the time came, as it inevitably must come, that the killers showed their hand. For one wild moment I considered the idea of tying them all up, lashing them inside the tractor body so that they couldn’t move, and had the conditions been right I believe I would have done just that. But the conditions couldn’t have been more hopeless: a bound person wouldn’t have lasted a couple of hours in that bitter cold.
There were no objections. For the most part, I suppose, they were too cold, too tired, too hungry and too thirsty – for with the rapid evaporation of moisture from the warm, relatively humid body thirst was always a problem in dry, intensely cold air – to raise any objections. To people unaccustomed to the Arctic, it must have seemed that they had reached the nadir of their sufferings, that things could get no worse than they were: I hoped as much time as possible would elapse before they found out how wrong they were.
There were no objections, but there were two suggestions. Both came from Nick Corazzini.
‘Look, Doc, about this diet Mr Mahler must have. Maybe we can’t balance it, but we can at least make sure that he gets a fair number of calories – not that I know how you count the damn’ things. Why don’t we double his rations -no, even that wouldn’t keep a decent sparrow alive. What say each of the rest of us docks a quarter of his rations and hands them over? That way Mr Mahler would have about four times his normal—’
‘No, no!’ Mahler protested. ‘Thank you, Mr Corazzini, but I cannot permit—’
‘An excellent idea,’ I interrupted. ‘I was thinking along the same lines myself.’
‘Good,’ Corazzini grinned. ‘Carried unanimously. I also suggest we’d get along farther and faster if, say, Mr Zagero and I were to spell you two on the tractor.’ He held up a hand as if to forestall protest. ‘Either of us may be the man you want, in fact, we might be the two men you want – if it is two men. But if I’m one of the killers, and I know nothing about the Arctic, navigation, the maintenance of this damned Citroën and wouldn’t as much as recognise a crevasse if I fell down one, it’s as plain as the nose on your face that I’m not going to make a break for it until I’m within shouting distance of the coast. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ I said. Even as I spoke, there came a coughing clattering roar as Jackstraw coaxed the still-warm Citroën back into life, and I looked up at Corazzini. ‘All right,’ I went on. ‘Come on down. You can have your first driving lesson now.’
We left at half-past seven that morning, in driving conditions that were just about perfect. Not the slightest breath of air stirred across the icecap and the deep blue-black vault of the sky was unmarred by even the tiniest wisp of cloud. The stars were strangely remote, pale and shimmering and unreal through the gossamer gauze of the glittering ice needles that filled the sky and sifted soundlessly down on the frozen snow, but even so visibility was all that could have been desired: the powerful headlights of the Citroën, striking a million sparkling diamond points of light off the ice spicules, reached a clear three hundred yards ahead into the darkness, leaving the ground to either side of the twin interlocking beams shrouded in impenetrable darkness. The cold was intense, and deepening by the hour: but the Citroën seemed to thrive on it that morning.
Luck was with us almost right away. Within fifteen minutes of starting off, Balto, ranging free as always, appeared out of the darkness to the south-west and ran alongside the dog-sledge, barking to attract Jackstraw’s attention. Jackstraw gave us the signal to stop – a rapid flickering of the red and green lights on the tractor dashboard – and in two or three minutes appeared out of the darkness, grinning, to tell us that Balto had picked up a standing trail flag. That was good news in itself, in that it meant that our navigation the previous night had been all that could have been wished for and that we were almost exactly on course: even more important, however, was the fact that if this flag was the first of a series we could dispense with the navigator on the dog-sledge and that Jackstraw and I could have some sleep – if sleep were possible in that miserably cold and lurching tractor body. And, indeed, that flag proved to be the first of an almost unbroken series that was to guide us all the length of that interminable day, so that from eight o’clock onwards Jackstraw, Zagero, Corazzini and I took it in turns to drive, with the Senator, the Reverend Smallwood or Solly Levin up front as lookout. Theirs was probably
the coldest, certainly the most unwelcome job of all: but all three bore up uncomplainingly, even to the extent of thawing out in silent agony at the end of their hour on duty.
Shortly after eight o’clock I left an obviously competent Corazzini to his own devices, dropped back to the shelter of the tractor body and asked the Senator to go up front. I then set about breaking the strictest rule of all, where these old tractors were concerned – that no fire should ever be lit inside when they were in motion. But even the most stringent rules are to be observed only until such time as the need for breaking them is paramount: and now both the need and the time were here. My concern was not for the warmth and comfort of the passengers, or even for the cooking of the food – we had little enough of that, heaven knew, though a constant supply of warm water would come in useful for dealing with the inevitable cases of frostbite – but purely and simply for the life of Theodore Mahler.
Even following Corazzini’s suggestion we couldn’t give him enough food, and what we could didn’t, and wouldn’t, even begin to resemble a balanced diet. His best chance of survival, and that was slender enough, lay in conserving his body reserves and his energy as far as lay within our power. To achieve that, work, or exercise of even the lightest kind, was out: he had to remain as immobile as possible, which was why I had him climb into a sleeping-bag and lie down on one of the bunks, wrapped in a pair of heavy blankets, as soon as I entered. But without work or exercise he would have no means to combat that numbing cold except by a constant shivering which would deplete his reserves just as quickly as the most violent exercise would. So he had to have heat: heat from the stove, heat from the warm fluids which I told Margaret Ross that he was to have at least every two hours. Mahler protested strongly against all these arrangements being made on his behalf, but at the same time he was sensible enough to realise that his only chance of survival depended on doing what I said: but I believe that the main factor which finally made him yield was not so much my medical explanations as the pressure of public opinion.
That all the passengers should suddenly, and so vehemently, be concerned with Theodore Mahler’s welfare seemed, on the face of it, inexplicable. But only on the face of it. It did not require a great deal of thought or probing beneath the surface to discover that the true motivating factor was not selflessness – though there may have been some of that, too – but selfishness. Mahler represented not so much a sufferer as a most welcome diversion from their own thoughts and suspicions, from the tension, from the never-ending constraint that had laid its chilling hand over the entire company for the past twelve hours.
This constraint, apart from its awkwardness and sheer unpleasantness, had the further effect of splitting up the passengers into tiny groups. Communal speech had ceased entirely, except where necessity and the barest demands of common politeness made it inevitable.
Marie LeGarde and Margaret Ross, each of whom knew that the other was not under suspicion, kept very much to themselves and talked only between themselves. So, too, did Zagero and Solly Levin, and also – though this would have seemed ridiculously improbable only twenty-four hours ago – Mrs Dansby-Gregg and her maid, Helene. Improbable then, but inevitable now: whether guilty or not, both knew exactly where the other stood, and, of all the passengers, each could only fully trust the other. They could, of course, as could all the others, trust Marie LeGarde and Margaret Ross: but the fact that they knew that Marie LeGarde and Margaret Ross couldn’t trust them was enough to prohibit any attempts to establish an easier relationship. As for Corazzini, the Rev. Smallwood, the Senator and Mahler, they kept very much to themselves.
In the circumstances, then, it was inevitable that they should welcome the introduction of an absolutely innocuous subject of interest and conversation, something that would ease, however slightly, the coldness and discomfort of the social atmosphere, something that would divert their unwelcome and suspicious thoughts into some more tolerable channel. Theodore Mahler promised to be the best looked after patient I had ever had.
I had just got the oil stove going to my satisfaction when Zagero called to me from his seat by the rear canvas screen.
‘There’s somethin’ funny goin’ on outside, Doc. Come and have a look.’
I had a look. Far off to the right – the northwest, that was – and high above the horizon a great diffuse formless volume of luminosity, spreading over almost a quarter of the dark dome of the sky, was beginning to pulse and fade, pulse and fade, strengthening, deepening, climbing with the passing of every moment. At first it was no more than a lightening in the sky, but already it was beginning to take form, and faint colours beginning to establish themselves in definite patterns.
‘The Aurora, Mr Zagero,’ I said. ‘The Northern Lights. First time you’ve seen it?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. Amazin’ spectacle, ain’t it?’
‘This? This is nothing. It’s just starting up. It’s going to be a curtain – you get all sorts, rays, bands, coronas, arcs and what have you, but this is a curtain. Best of the lot.’
‘Get this sort of thing often. Doc?’
‘Every day, for days on end, when the weather is like this – you know, cold and clear and still. Believe it or not, you can even get so used to it that you won’t bother looking.’
‘I don’t believe it. It’s amazin’,’ he repeated, ‘just amazin’. Tired of it, you say – I hope we see it every day.’ He grinned. ‘You don’t have to look, Doc’
‘For your own sake you’d better hope for something else,’ I said grimly.
‘Meanin’?’
‘Meaning that radio reception is hopeless when the aurora is on.’
‘Radio reception?’ He crinkled his brows. ‘What we gotta lose, with the radio set in the cabin smashed and your friends in the trail party gettin’ further away every minute? You couldn’t raise either of them anyway’
‘No, but we can raise our Uplavnik base when we get a bit nearer the coast,’ I said, and the next moment I could have bitten my tongue off. I had never even thought of the matter until then, but as soon as the words were out I realised that I should have kept this piece of knowledge to myself. The chances of Uplavnik listening in at the right time and on the right frequency were remote enough, but it was always a chance: we could have sent out a warning, summoned help long before the killers would have thought of making a break for it. But, now, if Zagero were one of the killers, he would make good and certain that the set would be smashed long before we got within radio range of the Uplavnik base.
I cursed myself for a blundering idiot, and stole a quick glance at Zagero. In the light streaming out from the gap in the curtain and in the fainter light of the aurora, his every feature was plain, but I could tell nothing from his expression. He was playing it casual, all right, but not too stupidly casual. The slow nod, the pursing of the lips, the thoughtful lifting of the eyebrows could not have been improved upon. Not even the best professional actor could have improved on it, and hard on the heels of that came the second thought that there were a couple of extraordinarily fine actors among us. But, then, if he hadn’t reacted at all, or had reacted too violently, I would have been doubly suspicious. Or would I? If Zagero were one of the guilty men, wouldn’t he have known that too much or too little reaction would have been the very thing to excite suspicion, and taken due precaution against registering either? I gave it up and turned away. But in my mind there was growing a vague but steadily strengthening suspicion against Johnny Zagero: and on the basis of the success and validity of my previous suspicions, I thought bitterly, that just about guaranteed Zagero’s innocence.
I turned and touched Margaret Ross on the shoulder.
‘I’d like to have a few words with you, Miss Ross, if you don’t mind the cold outside.’
She looked at me in surprise, hesitated for a moment, then nodded. I jumped down, reached up a hand to steady her, then helped her aboard the big sled as it passed by a few seconds later. For a short time we just sat there, side by side
on a petrol drum, watching the aurora while I wondered how to begin. I stared almost unseeingly at the tremendous sweep of the developing aurora, the great folded, fluted curtain of yellow-green with red-tipped feet that seemed almost to brush the surface of the ice-cap, a translucent transparent drapery – for even at its brightest the stars still shone faintly through – that waved and shimmered and pulsed and glowed, a pastel poem in insubstantiality, like the ethereal backdrop to some unimaginably beautiful fairyland. Margaret Ross sat there gazing at it like one lost in a trance. But she might have been looking at it with the same uncaring eyes as myself, lost not in wonder but in the memory of the man we had left behind in the ice-cap. And when she turned at the sound of my voice, and I saw the glow of the aurora reflected in the sad depths of the wide brown eyes, I knew I was right.
‘Well, Miss Ross, what do you think of the latest development?’
‘Mr Mahler?’ She’d slipped up her snow-mask – in her case just a gauze and cotton-wool pad with a central breathing aperture – and I had to lean forward to catch her soft voice. ‘What can one say about anything so – so dreadful. What chance does the poor man have, Dr Mason?’
‘I’ve honestly no idea. There are far too many unpredictable factors involved … Did you know that after I’d crossed you off I’d lined him up as number one on my list of suspects?’
‘No!’
‘But yes, I’m afraid. I fear I’m no sleuth, Miss Ross. I may be long on the empirical, trial and error method – and it at least has had the negative advantage of reducing the number of suspects by two – but I’m pretty short on the deductive.’ I told her what had happened between Mahler and myself during the brief stop we had made.
‘And now you’re as badly off as ever,’ she said, when I had finished. ‘I suppose all we can do now is to sit and wait to see what happens?’
‘Wait for the axe to fall, you mean?’ I said grimly. ‘Not quite. I haven’t much hope from it, but I thought I might try the deductive reasoning act for a change. But before we can deduce, we have to have some facts we can deduce from. And we’re very short on facts. That’s why I asked you out here – to see if you could help me.’
Night Without End Page 14