It took me just on an hour and a half to cover less than a mile and arrive at a vantage point of a height of about five hundred feet that enabled me to see into the next bay—the Evjebukta. This wide U-shaped bay, stretching from Kapp Malmgren in the north-east to Kap Kolthoff in the south-west, was just over a mile in length and perhaps half of that in width: the entire coastline of the bay consisted of vertical cliffs, a bleak, forbidding and repellent stretch of grey water and precipitous limestone that offered no haven to those in peril on the sea.
I stretched out gratefully on the snow and, when the thumping of my heart and the rasping of my breathing had quietened sufficiently for me to hold a pair of binoculars steady, I used them to quarter the Evjebukta. It was completely bereft of life. The sun was up now, low over the southeastern horizon, but even although it was in my eyes, visibility was good enough and the resolution of the binoculars such that I could have picked up a sea-gull floating on the waters. There were some little islands to the north of the bay and, of course, there were the cliffs immediately below me that blocked off all view of what might be happening at their feet: but if the boat was concealed either behind an island or under the cliffs, it was most unlikely that Heissman would remain in such positions long for there would be nothing to detain him.
I looked south beyond the tip of Kapp Kolthoff and there, beyond the protection of the headland, the sun glinted off the broken tops of white water. I was as certain as one could be without absolute proof that they would not have ventured beyond the protection of the point: Heissman’s unseamanlike qualities apart, Goin was far too prudent a man to step unheedingly into anything that would even smack of danger.
How long I lay there waiting for the boat to appear either from behind an island or out from under the concealment of the nearest cliffs I didn’t know: what I did know was that I suddenly became aware of the fact that I was shaking with the cold and that both hands and feet were almost completely benumbed. And I became aware of something else. For several minutes now I’d had the binoculars trained not on the north end of the bay but at the foot of the cliffs to the south on a spot where, about three hundred yards north-west of the tip of Kapp Kolthoff, there was a peculiar indentation in the cliff walls. Partly because of the fact that it appeared to bear to the right and out of sight behind one of the cliff-faces guarding the entrance, and partly because, due to the height of the cliffs and the fact that the sun was almost directly behind, the shadows cast were very deep, I was unable to make out any details beyond this narrow entrance. But that it was an entrance to some cove beyond I didn’t doubt. Of any place within the reach of my binoculars it was the only one where the boat could have lain concealed: why anyone should wish to lie there at all was another matter altogether, a reason for which I couldn’t even guess at. One thing was for certain, a landward investigation from where I lay was out of the question: even if I didn’t break my neck in the minimum of the two-hour journey it would take me to get there, nothing would be achieved by making such a trip anyway, for not only did the descent of those beetling black cliffs seem quite suicidal but, even if it were impossibly accomplished, what lay at the end of it removed any uncertainty about the permanency of the awaiting reception: for there was no foreshore whatever, just the precipitous plunge of those limestone walls into the dark and icy seas.
Stiffly, clumsily, I rose and headed back towards the cabin. The trip back was easier than the outwards one for it was downhill, and by following my own tracks I was able to avoid most of the involuntary descents into the sunken snow-drifts that had punctuated my climb. Even so, it was nearer one o’clock than noon when I approached the cabin.
I was only a few paces distant when the main door opened and Mary Stuart appeared. One look at her and my heart turned over and something cold and leaden seemed to settle in the pit of my stomach. Dishevelled hair, a white and shocked face, eyes wild and full of fear, I’d have had to be blind not to know that somewhere, close, death had walked by again.
‘Thank God!’ Her voice was husky and full of tears. ‘Thank God you’re here! Please come quickly. Something terrible has happened.’
I didn’t waste time asking her what, clearly I’d find out soon enough, just followed her running footsteps into the cabin and along the passage to Judith Haynes’s opened door. Something terrible had indeed happened, but there had been no need for haste. Judith Haynes had fallen from her cot and was lying sideways on the floor, half-covered by her blanket which she’d apparently dragged down along with her. On the bed lay an opened and three parts empty bottle of barbiturate tablets, a few scattered over the bed: on the floor, its neck still clutched in her hand, lay a bottle of gin, also three-parts empty. I stooped and touched the marble forehead: even allowing for the icy atmosphere in the cubicle, she must have been dead for hours. Make it a long sleep, she’d said to me: make it a long sleep.
‘Is she—is she—?’ The dead make people speak in whispers.
‘Can’t you tell a dead person when you see one?’ It was brutal of me but I felt flooding into me that cold anger that was to remain with me until we’d left the island.
‘I—I didn’t touch her. I—’
‘When did you find her?’
‘A minute ago. Two. I’d just made some food and coffee and I came to see—’
‘Where are the others? Lonnie, Sandy, Eddie?’
‘Where are—I don’t know. They left a little while ago—said they were going for a walk.’
A likely tale. There was only one reason that would make at least two of the three walk as far as the front door. I said: ‘Get them. You’ll find them in the provisions shed.’
‘Provisions shed? Why would they be there?’
‘Because that’s where Otto keeps his scotch.’
She left. I put the gin bottle and barbiturate bottle to one side, then I lifted Judith Haynes on to the bed for no better reason than that it seemed cruel to leave her lying on the wooden floor. I looked quickly around the cubicle, but I could see nothing that could be regarded as untoward or amiss. The window was still screwed in its closed position, the few clothes that she had unpacked neatly folded on a small chair. My eye kept returning to the gin bottle. Stryker had told me and I’d overheard her telling Lonnie that she never drank, had not drunk alcohol for many years: an abstainer does not habitually carry around a bottle of gin just on the off-chance that he or she may just suddenly feel thirsty.
Lonnie, Eddie and Sandy came in, trailing with them the redolence of a Highland distillery, but that was the only evidence of their sojourn in the provision shed; whatever they’d been like when Mary had found them, they were shocked cold sober now. They just stood there, staring at the dead woman and saying nothing: understandably, I suppose, they thought there was nothing they could usefully say.
I said: ‘Mr Gerran must be informed that his daughter is dead. He’s gone north to the next bay. He’ll be easy to find—you’ve only got to follow the Sno-Cat’s tracks. I think you should go together.’
‘God love us all.’ Lonnie spoke in a hushed and anguished reverence. ‘The poor girl. The poor, poor lassie. First her man—and now this. Where’s it all going to end, Doctor?’
‘I don’t know, Lonnie. Life’s not always so kind, is it? No need to kill yourselves looking for Mr Gerran. A heart attack on top of this we can do without.’
‘Poor little Judith,’ Lonnie said. ‘And what do we tell Otto she died of? Alcohol and sleeping tablets—it’s a pretty lethal combination, isn’t it?’
‘Frequently.’
They looked at each other uncertainly, then turned and left. Mary Stuart said: ‘What can I do?’
‘Stay there.’ The harshness in my voice surprised me almost as much as it clearly surprised her. ‘I want to talk to you.’
I found a towel and a handkerchief, wrapped the gin bottle in the former and the barbiturate bottle in the latter. I had a glimpse of Mary watching me, wide-eyed, in what could have been wonder or fear or both, then crossed t
o examine the dead woman, to see whether there were any visible marks on her. There wasn’t much to examine—although she’d been in bed with blankets over her, she’d been fully clothed in parka and some kind of fur trousers. I didn’t have to look long. I beckoned Mary across and pointed to a tiny puncture exposed by pushing back the hair on Judith Haynes’s neck. Mary ran the tip of her tongue across dry lips and looked at me with sick eyes.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Murdered. How do you feel about that, Mary dear?’ The term was affectionate, the tone not.
‘Murdered!’ she whispered. ‘Murdered!’ She looked at the wrapped bottles, licked her lips again, made as if to speak and seemingly couldn’t.
‘There may be some gin inside her,’ I conceded. ‘Possibly even some barbiturate. I’d doubt it though—it’s very hard to make people swallow anything when they’re unconscious. Maybe there are no other fingerprints on the bottles—they could have been wiped off. But if we find only her forefinger and thumb round the neck—well, you don’t drink three-quarters of a bottle of gin holding it by the finger and thumb.’ She stared in fascinated horror at the pin-prick in the neck and then I let the hair fall back. ‘I don’t know, but I think an injection of an overdose of morphine killed her. How do you feel about it, Mary dear?’
She looked at me pitifully but I wasn’t wasting my pity on the living. She said: ‘That’s the second time you said that. Why did you say that?’
‘Because it’s partly your fault—and it may be a very large part—that she’s dead. Oh, and very cleverly dead, I assure you. I’m very good at finding those things out—when it’s too damn late. Rigged for suicide—only, I knew she never drank. Well?’
‘I didn’t kill her! Oh, God, I didn’t kill her! I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t!’
‘And I hope to God you’re not responsible for killing Smithy too,’ I said savagely. ‘If he doesn’t come back, you’re first in line as accessory. After murder.’
‘Mr Smith!’ Her bewilderment was total and totally pathetic. And I was totally unmoved. She said: ‘Before God, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Of course not. And you won’t know what I’m talking about when I ask you what’s going on between Gerran and Heissman. How could you—a sweet and innocent child like you? Or you wouldn’t know what’s going on between you and your dear loveable Uncle Johann?’
She stared at me in a dumb animal-like misery and shook her head. I struck her. Even although I was aware that the anger that was in me was directed more against myself than at her, still it could not be contained and I struck her, and when she looked at me the way a favourite pet would look at a person who has shot it but not quite killed it, I lifted my hand again but this time when she closed her eyes and flinched away, turning her head to one side, I let my hand drop helplessly to my side, then did what I should have done in the first place, I put my arms around her and held her tight. She didn’t try to fight or struggle, just stood quite still. She had nothing left to fight with any more.
‘Poor Mary dear,’ I said. ‘You’ve got no place left to run to, have you?’ She made no answer, her eyes were still closed. ‘Uncle Johann is no more your uncle than I am. Your immigration papers state that your father and mother are dead. It is my belief that they are still alive and that Heissman is no more your mother’s brother than he is your uncle. It is my belief that he is holding them as hostage for your good conduct and that he is holding you as hostage for theirs. I don’t just think that Heissman is up to no good, I know he is, for I don’t just think he’s a criminal operating on an international scale, I know that too. I know that you’re not Latvian but strictly of German ancestry. I know too that your father ranked very highly in the Berlin councils of war.’ I didn’t know that at all, but it had become an increasingly safe guess. ‘And I know too that there’s a great deal of money involved, not in hard cash but in negotiable securities. All this is true, is it not?’
There was a silence then she said dully. ‘If you know so much, what’s the good in pretending any more.’ She pushed back a little and looked at me through defeated eyes. ‘You’re not a real doctor?’
‘I’m real enough, but not in the ordinary way of things, for which any patients I might have had would probably feel very thankful as I haven’t practised these past good few years. I’m just a civil servant working for the British Government, nothing glamorous or romantic like Intelligence or counter-intelligence, just the Treasury, which is why I’m here because we’ve been interested in Heissman’s shenanigans for quite some time. I didn’t expect to run into this other bus-load of trouble though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Too long to explain, even if I could. I can’t, yet. And I’ve things to do.’
‘Mr Smith?’ She hesitated. ‘From the Treasury too?’ I nodded and she went on: ‘I’ve been thinking that.’ She hesitated again. ‘My father commanded submarine groups during the war. He was also a high Party official, very high, I think. Then he disappeared—’
‘Where was his command?’
‘For the last year, the north—Tromso, Trondheim, Narvik, places like that, I’m not sure.’ I was, all of a sudden I was, I knew it had to be true.
I said: ‘Then disappearance. A war criminal?’ She nodded. ‘And now an old man?’ Another nod. ‘And amnestied because of age?’
‘Yes, just over two years ago. Then he came back to us—Mr Heissman brought us all together, I don’t know how.’
I could have explained Heissman’s special background qualifications for this very job, but it was hardly the moment. I said: ‘Your father’s not only a war criminal, he’s also a civil criminal—probably an embezzler on a grand scale. Yet you do all this for him?’
‘For my mother.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry too. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve given you. Do you think my mother will be all right?’
‘I think so,’ I said, which, considering my recent disastrous record in keeping people alive, was a pretty rash statement on my part.
‘But what can we do? What on earth can we do with all those terrible things happening?’
‘It’s not what we can do. I know what to do. It’s what you are going to do.’
‘I’ll do anything. Anything you say. I promise.’
‘Then do nothing. Behave exactly as you’ve been behaving. Especially towards Uncle Johann. But never a word of our talk to him, never a word to anyone.’
‘Not even to Charles?’
‘Conrad? Least of all to him.’
‘But I thought you liked—’
‘Sure I do. But not half as much as our Charles likes you. He’d just up and clobber Heissman on the spot. I haven’t,’ I said bitterly, ‘been displaying very much cleverness or finesse to date. Give me this one last chance.’ I thought a bit about being clever, then said: ‘One thing you can do. Let me know if you see anyone returning here. I’m going to look around a bit.’
Otto had almost as many locks as I had keys. As befitted the chairman of Olympus Productions, the producer of the film and the de facto leader of the expedition he carried a great number of bits and pieces of equipment with him. Most of the belongings were personal and most of these clothes, for although Otto, because of his spherical shape, was automatically excluded from the list of the top ten best-dressed men, his sartorial aspirations were of the most soaring, and he carried at least a dozen suits with him although what he intended to do with them on Bear Island was a matter for conjecture. More interestingly, he had two small squat brown suitcases that served merely as cover for two metal deed-boxes.
Those were hasp-bound with imposing brass padlocks that a blind and palsied pick-lock could have opened in under a minute, and it didn’t take me much longer. The first contained nothing of importance, that was, to anyone except Otto: they consisted of hundreds of press clippings, no doubt carefully selected for the laudatory nature of their contents, and going back for twenty-odd years, all of them
unanimous in extolling Otto’s cinematic genius: precisely the sort of ego-feeding nourishment that Otto would carry around with him. The second deed-box contained papers of a purely financial nature, recorded Otto’s transactions, incomes and outgoes over a number of years, and would have proved, I felt certain, fascinating reading for any Inland Revenue Inspector or law- abiding accountant, if there were any such around, but my interest in them was minimal: what did interest me though, and powerfully, was a collection of cancelled cheque-books, and as I couldn’t see that those were going to be of any use to Otto in the Arctic I pocketed them, checked that everything was as I had found it, and left.
Goin, as befitted the firm’s accountant, was also much given to keeping things under lock and key, but because the total of his impediments didn’t come to much more than a quarter of Otto’s, the search took correspondingly less time. Again as befitted an accountant, Goin’s main concern was clearly with matters financial, and as this coincided with my own current interest I took with me three items that I judged likely to be handsomely rewarding of more leisured study. Those were the Olympus Productions salary lists, Goin’s splendidly-padded private bank-book and a morocco diary that was full of items in some sort of private code but was nonetheless clearly concerned with money, for Goin hadn’t bothered to construct a code for the columns of pounds and pence. There was nothing necessarily sinister about this: concern for privacy, especially other people’s privacy, could be an admirable trait in an accountant.
In the next half-hour I went through four cubicles. In Heissman’s I found what I had expected to find, nothing. A man with his background and experience would have discovered many years ago that the only safe place to file his records was inside his head. But he did have some innocuous items—I supposed he had used them in the production of the Olympus manifesto for the film—which were of interest to me, several large-scale charts of Bear Island. One of those I took.
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