The Blue Ice

by Innes, Hammond;

  Sir Clinton smiled and got to his feet. ‘He’s dead,’ he said. ‘And that’s all there is to it. But before he died he discovered something. When he went to the Jostedal he knew his life was in danger – hence the thorite sample and the note. Somewhere in England there’s somebody who’s expecting that sample.’ He folded the newspaper cutting and thrust the wooden box with the thorite sample back into the pocket of his coat. ‘What we need to know is what he had discovered before he died.’ He paused. ‘See – today’s Monday. I’ll have Ulvik – that’s our Norwegian representative – up at Fjaerland from Friday onwards. Find out all you can about how Farnell died – why he was on the Jostedal – and above all where that thorite sample came from. Needless to say, you’ll find our representative has authority to meet all expenses you may incur in Norway. And we shan’t forget that you’ll be acting for the company as a freelance in this matter.’

  He seemed to take it for granted that I’d switch my plans. That got me angry. ‘Look, Sir Clinton,’ I said. ‘I’m not in need of money, and you seem to have forgotten that I’m leaving for the Mediterranean tomorrow.’

  He turned in the doorway of the cabin. ‘The Mediterranean or Norway – what’s it matter to you, Gansert?’ He gripped my arm. ‘We need somebody over there we can trust,’ he said. ‘Somebody who knew Farnell and who’s an expert in this sort of metal. Above all, we need somebody who understands the urgency of the matter. Farnell is dead. I want to know what he discovered before he died. I’m offering you a purpose for your trip – and the necessary foreign exchange.’ He nodded and turned again towards the door. ‘Think it over,’ he said.

  I hesitated. He was climbing the companion. ‘You’ve left your paper,’ I said.

  ‘You might like to read it,’ he answered.

  I followed him up on to the deck. ‘Good luck!’ he said. Then he climbed the iron ladder to the wharf. I stood and watched his tall, stooping figure till it disappeared between the warehouses. Damn the man! Why did he have to interfere with my plans? To hell with him – I was going down into the sunshine where there was warmth and colour. And then I thought of Farnell and how he’d discovered that seam of copper when everyone else had thought the mine worked out. Why in the world should he go and get himself killed on a glacier?

  ‘What did the old boy want?’ Dick’s voice brought me back to the present.

  Briefly I told him what had happened. ‘Well?’ he asked when I had finished. ‘What is it to be – the Med or Norway?’ There was a bitter note in his voice as though he were resigned to disappointment. Norway was to him a cold, dark country. He wanted the sun and opportunity.

  ‘The Mediterranean,’ I said with sudden decision. ‘I’m through with the scramble for metals.’ The wind howled joyfully in the rigging. Then we’d lie out on the deck and swim and laze and drink wine. ‘Go and check that that water tender’s coming alongside before the tide leaves us on the mud,’ I said, and turned and went back to the saloon. I crossed over to the porthole and stood there idly watching a barge drift down with the outgoing tide. But why had Farnell died on the Jostedal? That’s what I couldn’t get out of my mind. During the war he’d probably lived up in the mountains. He knew all the glaciers. I glanced down at the table. The paper that Sir Clinton had left was still there. I read the headlines without recording them. I was thinking of Farnell’s note: If I should die … Why quote that?

  A story ringed in blue pencil caught my eye. It was headed – METAL EXPERT TO VISIT CONVICT’S GRAVE. I picked up the paper. The story was quite short. It read:

  Recent reports of mineral discoveries in Central Norway have aroused fresh interest in the death of convict hero, George Farnell, whose body was discovered a month ago on the Jostedal Glacier in Norway. Farnell was an expert on Norwegian minerals. Castlet Steel and Base Metals & Industries are the firms chiefly interested. Sir Clinton Mann, chairman of B.M. & I., said yesterday, ‘It is possible that Farnell may have discovered something. We intend to investigate.’

  ‘Big’ Bill Gansert, until recently production chief at B.M. & I.’s metal alloy plant at Birmingham, is the man chosen for the job. He leaves for Norway tomorrow, sailing his own yacht, Diviner, and postponing a planned Mediterranean cruise. If anyone has any information that may assist Gansert in his investigations, they are asked to get in touch with him on board his yacht which is moored at the wharf of Messrs. Crouch and Crouch, Herring-Pickle Street, London, close by Tower Bridge.

  I threw the paper down angrily. What right had he to put out a story like that? – trying to force my hand? I thought of all I’d read about the ruins of Greece and Italy, the pyramids, the primitive islands of the Aegean, the hill towns of Sicily. I suppose I’ve been almost everywhere in the world. But I’ve seen nothing of it. I’ve always been chasing some damned metal, rushing from place to place, a little cog in the big machine of grab. I’ve never had a chance to stop off where I like and laze in the sun and look around me. All I knew of the world was cities and mining camps. I picked up the paper and read the story through again. Then I went up on deck. ‘Dick!’ I shouted. ‘Any reason why we can’t slip out on this tide?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, surprised. ‘We’ve just grounded. Why?’

  ‘Read that,’ I said and handed him the paper.

  He read it through. Then he said, ‘It looks like Norway doesn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘No, it doesn’t. I’m damned if I’ll be thrust into the thing like this.’

  ‘What about Farnell?’ he murmured.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You want to know how he managed to kill himself on that glacier, don’t you?’ he suggested.

  I nodded. He was right. I did want to know that. ‘I wonder if anyone will come forward with information,’ I murmured.

  ‘Four million people take the Morning Record,’ Dick said. ‘Some of them will come to see you.’

  He was right there. Within the next hour I had three journalists, several cranks, an insurance salesman and two fellows wanting to come as crew. In the end I got fed up. I wanted to see the Customs and there were other calls I had to make. ‘See you for lunch at the Duke’s Head,’ I told Dick and left him to handle any more visitors himself.

  When he joined me for lunch he handed me a large envelope. ‘A B.M. & I. messenger brought it,’ he said. ‘It’s from Sir Clinton Mann.’

  ‘Anybody else been pestering you?’ I asked as I slit open the envelope.

  ‘A couple of reporters. That’s all. Oh, and Miss Somers here.’ He turned and I saw a girl standing close behind him. She was tall and fair haired. ‘Miss Somers, this is Bill Gansert.’

  Her grip was firm as she shook my hand. She had grey eyes and there was a curious tenseness about her that communicated itself even in that atmosphere of a crowded bar. ‘What are you having?’ I asked her.

  ‘A light ale, please,’ she said. Her voice was soft, almost subdued.

  ‘Well,’ I said when I had given the order, ‘what can we do for you, Miss Somers?’

  ‘I want you to take me to Norway with you.’ The tenseness was in her voice now.

  ‘To Norway? But we’re not going to Norway. Dick should have warned you. We’re going to the Mediterranean. I suppose you’ve been reading that damned newspaper story?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen any newspaper story. Sir Clinton Mann phoned me this morning. He told me to come along and see you. He said you were sailing for Norway, tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, he’s wrong.’ The sharpness of my voice seemed to jolt her. ‘Why do you want to get to Norway?’ I asked in a gentler tone.

  ‘Sir Clinton said you were going over to investigate the death of – of George Farnell.’ Her eyes had an expression of pain in them. ‘I wanted to come, too. I wanted to see his grave and – know how he died.’

  I was watching her face as I passed over her beer. ‘You knew Farnell?’

  She nodded her head. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Be
fore or after he went on the Malöy raid?’

  ‘Before.’ She gulped at her drink. ‘I was working for the Kompani Linge.’

  ‘Have you heard from him since?’

  She seemed to hesitate. ‘No.’

  I didn’t press the point. ‘Did you know him as George Farnell, or as Bernt Olsen?’ I asked.

  ‘Both,’ she answered. Then suddenly, as though she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, she said. ‘Please, Mr Gansert – I must get to Norway. This is the only way I can do it. I want to know what happened. And I want to – see where he’s buried. Please – help me, won’t you? Sir Clinton said you were going to Norway. Please, take me. I won’t be in the way. I promise. I’ve done quite a lot of sailing. I’ll work on deck, cook – anything. Only let me come.’

  I didn’t say anything for the moment. I was wondering what was behind her plea. There was something driving her – something that she hadn’t stated. Had Farnell been her lover? But that alone wouldn’t account for the urgency of her tone. ‘Why did Sir Clinton phone you this morning?’ I asked her.

  ‘I told you – to tell me to get in touch with you.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I meant, how did he come to know you were interested?’

  ‘Oh. He put an advertisement in The Times some time back. I answered it. I went up and saw him. He thought I might know something of George’s activities since the war.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you know he was a metallurgist and an expert on Norway?’

  ‘Yes. I knew that.’

  ‘But you didn’t know whether he might have made some important discovery in Norway during the last few months?’

  Again that momentary hesitation. ‘No.’

  A silence followed. Then Dick suddenly said, ‘Bill – I suggest we make for Norway when we leave the Thames tomorrow.’ I glanced at him. He must have guessed what was in my mind, for he said quickly, ‘I mean, I’m getting curious about this man Farnell.’

  So was I. I glanced at the girl. Her features were on the long side with straight nose and determined chin. It was a strong face. She met my gaze in a quick movement of the eyes and then looked away again. I picked up the envelope and shook the contents out on to the bar. There was a little gasp from the girl. Photographs of George Farnell stared up at me from the bar top. I shuffled quickly through them. There was one of him in an open-necked khaki shirt, looking just as I’d known him out in Rhodesia. There were full-length pictures of him looking very awkward in a business suit, copies of passport photographs and one of him at work with a divining rod. I turned to the passport photographs. They showed a strangely tense face – long, almost aesthetic features, short, clipped moustache, thin, dark hair, rather prominent ears and eyes that glinted behind horn-rimmed glasses. The date on the back – 10 Jan., 1936. Then there were police records, full-face and side-face studies of him after his conviction, and pictures of his fingerprints. Sir Clinton had certainly been thorough.

  Clipped to the photographs was a note. These may be of use. I have telephoned two people who answered my Times advertisement. They both want to go with you. The girl could be helpful if you gained her confidence. A Norwegian has been in touch with me this morning. He knew Farnell in Norway during the war. I told him to see you about six this evening. Also I have seen Jorgensen again. I said I must have detailed information before presenting his proposals to my board. He talked of nickel – and uranium! He gave me twenty-four hours to make up my mind. He flies to America on Saturday. Please keep me informed of all developments. It was signed – Clinton Mann.

  I passed the note across to Dick and finished my beer. Then I swept the pictures of Farnell back into the envelope and stuffed it in the pocket of my jacket. ‘See you later,’ I told Dick. ‘And keep Miss Somers with you.’ I started to move for the door and then stopped. ‘Miss Somers,’ I said, ‘were you by any chance at Farnell’s trial?’

  ‘No,’ she answered. ‘I didn’t know him then.’ Her tone was genuinely surprised.

  I nodded and left them there. I took a taxi to the offices of the Morning Record. There I got the inquiry people to dig out from the library the file of the Record for the month of August, 1939. The trial of George Farnell was covered very fully. There were pictures of Farnell and of his partner, Vincent Clegg, a picture of Farnell with his father and one of Farnell working with a divining rod – the same picture that Sir Clinton had included in the batch he’d sent me.

  But though I searched through every paragraph of the report I could get no line that could conceivably have a bearing on his death. No extraneous characters had appeared as witnesses on either side. It was a simple, straightforward story. Farnell and Clegg had set up as mining consultants in 1936. They had operated successfully for three years. Then Clegg, who handled the business side, found that certain cheques had been cashed of which he had no knowledge. The signature on the cheques appeared to be his. The amount involved was nearly £10,000. Farnell pleaded guilty to the forging of his partner’s signature. In evidence he stated that prospecting work in Norway, not on behalf of the firm, had involved him in considerable expenditure. He was convinced that valuable minerals did, in fact, exist in the mountains of Central Norway. His partner had refused to finance him. He had, therefore, acted on his own in the matter. In mitigation, his counsel said that he honestly regarded the money spent as being in the form of an investment. Apart from Farnell and Clegg, the only witnesses called were members of the office staff and Pritchard, who was called in as a metallurgist to give his views on Norway’s mineral potentialities. The judge in his summing up described Farnell as a ‘man obsessed with an idea’. Farnell was sentenced to six years.

  That was all. I closed the file and went out into the chill bustle of Fleet Street. I jumped on a bus going west and as we moved along the Strand I wasn’t thinking about the trial. I was thinking about the girl. Could be helpful if you gained her confidence. Maybe Sir Clinton was right. Maybe she did know something. I got off at Trafalgar Square. At the offices of the Bergen Steamship Company, I talked with a man I’d met several times at public functions. He gave me introductions to men in Bergen and in the Norwegian Government which might prove useful. Then I went out and got a complete set of Admiralty charts and sailing directions for the Norwegian coast.

  It was late afternoon before I took a bus up to the City and walked across Tower Bridge. I paused for a moment by the parapet and looked down at Diviner. The tide was in now and she lay with her decks almost flush with the wharf. To me she looked very beautiful with her tall masts and blue hull. I could understand how all the City people had felt who stood where I was standing, gazing down at her. Up the river the light was fading and the sun, setting in a livid streak, gave an orange glow to the cold, damp air. Lights were still on in some of the big office blocks. Clocks began to strike and I looked at my watch. It was six o’clock. I hurried on then.

  As I turned in between the tall warehouses, a taxi passed me and stopped at the wharf. A man got out and paid the driver off. As I came up he was looking uncertainly about him. ‘Excuse me, please,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me if that is the yacht, Diviner?’ And he nodded towards the slender clutter of spars that towered above the wharf. He was a slim, neatly dressed man. He looked like an American business man. And he spoke like one, except for a peculiar preciseness and the trace of what seemed to be a Welsh accent.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Mr Gansert,’ he answered.

  ‘I’m Gansert,’ I told him.

  His rather heavy eyebrows rose slightly, but his leathery features remained entirely expressionless. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘My name is Jorgensen. You have heard of me, perhaps?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, and held out my hand.

  His grip was limp and perfunctory. ‘I wish to talk with you,’ he said.

  ‘Come on board, then,’ I invited.

  Carter poked his head up out of the engine-room hatch as I st
epped down on to the deck. His face was smeared with grease. ‘Where’s Mr Everard?’ I asked.

  ‘Doon in the saloon, sir,’ he answered. ‘There’s Miss Somers an’ a man wi’ him. The man came aboord wi’ a suitcase as though he were planning to stay for the weekend.’

  I nodded and dived down the main companionway. ‘Mind your head,’ I warned Jorgensen. When I entered the saloon I found the girl seated opposite Dick in the half light. Beside her stood a heavily-built man with red hair. I knew him at once. ‘Curtis Wright, isn’t it?’ I asked.

  ‘So you remember me, eh?’ He sounded pleased. ‘You know you were one of the few industrialists I enjoyed visiting,’ he added, seizing my hand in a powerful grip. ‘You knew what we wanted and got things moving.’ At one time he’d been responsible for testing our artillery equipment. He’d been in and out of the works quite a bit. He was regular army.

  ‘Is this a social call?’ I asked. ‘Or are you here about Farnell?’

  ‘I’m here about Farnell,’ he answered. ‘Sir Clinton Mann telephoned me this morning.’

  ‘You knew Farnell?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes. Met him during the war.’

  I suddenly remembered Jorgensen. I introduced him and asked Dick to get Carter to give us some light. What was puzzling me was the reason for Jorgensen’s visit. ‘Did you come to discuss Farnell too, Mr Jorgensen?’ I asked.

  He smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I came to discuss rather more important matters – privately.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  Dick came in again at that moment. ‘There’s a rather strange-looking specimen up top,’ he said. ‘Says he has an appointment.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ I asked.

  ‘My name is Dahler.’ The voice came from the doorway. It was low pitched and foreign. I saw Jorgensen jerk round as though somebody had pressed something into the small of his back. A small, awkward-looking person stood in the saloon doorway. I hadn’t noticed him enter. He just seemed to have materialised. His dark suit merged into the shadows. Only his face showed, a white blur under his iron grey hair. He came forward and I saw that he had a withered arm. The lighting plant started with a shrill whirr and the saloon lights came on. Dahler stopped then. He had seen Jorgensen. The lines on his face deepened. His eyes flared with sudden and violent hatred. Then he smiled and a chill ran through me. It was such a crooked, twisted smile. ‘God dag, Knut,’ he said and I realised he was speaking Norwegian.