I leaned down to the microphone and said, ‘Farnell was short and dark. He had a long, serious face and wore thick-lensed glasses. The tip of the little finger of the left hand was missing.’
Jorgensen nodded and took the microphone. ‘Now what’s your information, Lovaas?’ he asked.
‘I speak English now.’ There was a fat chuckle over the loudspeaker. ‘She is not very good, my English. So please excuse. When I leave Bovaagen Hval two days before one of my men is sick. I take with me another man – a stranger. His name, he said, is Johan Hestad. He is very good to steer. But he has magnetise the compass and when I think I am near the whales I find I am off the Shetlands. He offered me many monies to go to the Shetlands. He says to me that he was with a man called Farnell seeking minerals on the Jostedal and that an English company will pay him money for his discoveries. I remember how this man Farnell is discovered dead on the Boya Glacier and I lock him in the cabin. When I search his clothes I have found papers showing his real name to be Hans Schreuder. Also some little pieces of rock.’
At the mention of the man’s real name, Jorgensen’s grip on the microphone tightened. ‘Lovaas,’ he interrupted. ‘Did you say – Schreuder?’
‘Ja, herr direktör.’
‘Put about at once and return to Bovaagen Hval at full speed,’ Jorgensen ordered.
Again there was the fat chuckle over the loudspeaker. ‘I have done this six hours before,’ Lovaas replied. ‘I thought you will be interested. See you tomorrow, herr direktör.’ The double whistle as he signed off was almost derisive. Silence settled on the chartroom. The fat, jovial voice with the sing-song intonation of Eastern Norway had left me with the impression of a big man – a big man who enjoyed life and was also a rogue. I was to get to know that voice too well in the days that followed. But I was never to revise my first impression.
‘Who was Schreuder?’ I asked Jorgensen.
He looked up at me. ‘I do not know,’ he said.
But he did know. Of that I was certain.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE WHALING STATION
That night I hardly slept at all. The voice of Captain Lovaas and the information he had broadcast dominated my mind. Why had he wanted a description of Farnell? Why had he spoken in English and not Norwegian? Above all who was Hans Schreuder? These questions kept hammering at my tired brain. Jorgensen had recognised the name Hans Schreuder. I was certain of it. And if he recognised the name – recognised the significance of it in the mystery of Farnell’s death – then he had shown that Farnell was not alone on the Jostedal. Had Farnell been murdered? Had this man Schreuder killed Farnell for the information he had? How else to explain those ‘little pieces of rock’ Lovaas had discovered among the man’s things. I had no doubts about what those little pieces of rock would prove to be. They would be samples of thorite. As soon as Jorgensen obtained those from his whaling captain, then he would know as much as I knew.
My watch took over at four in the morning. The ship was heeling to a warm sou’-westerly breeze. The moonlight showed a long, flat swell marching northwards and the surface of the sea ruffled and corrugated by the new direction of the wind. Dahler came up with us. He sat on the chartroom roof gazing out towards Norway. He sat there without moving, a little hunched-up figure, watching the moonlight fade and the dawn come up out of the east, waiting for the first sight of his homeland. Jill was silent. She, too, had her face turned to the east and I wondered again what Farnell had meant to her.
I began to feel a sense of excitement. It was a mood that increased as the pale, cold light strengthened. Jill put her hand on my sleeve. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Do you see it, Bill? It’s nearer than I expected.’
A low, dark line emerged on the edge of visibility. It grew rapidly sharper and blacker. From a vague blur it took shape and became small hills and rock-bound inlets. It was the islands of Norway about five miles away on our starboard beam. And then behind, in great serried lines, emerged the shape of Norway’s mountains. The light strengthened and then we saw that the huddled masses of the mountains were topped with snow.
The light grew from ghostly grey to cold blue and then changed to an orange glow. The hot rim of the sun rose and for a moment the mountains were a sharp black line like a cross-section marked on a map. Then the sun was up, the snow was pink, rimmed with crimson, and I could see the white-painted wooden houses on the islands.
I glanced at Dahler. He hadn’t moved. He sat perched there like a little troll, his gaze fixed on the coastline. In the early sunlight it seemed to me his face had softened. The lines were not so deep and the set of his mouth was kinder.
Curtis came on deck and stood for a while by the rail, gazing out towards the land. A ship was steaming along the coast – a little, painted thing, trailing a wisp of smoke. A fjord had opened up – a long rift between the islands. A small town gleamed fresh and clean on a headland. It was Solsvik. Beyond lay the Hjeltefjord and the way to Bergen. Curtis came aft. ‘First time I saw Norway,’ he said, ‘was from the deck of a destroyer.’
‘Where was that?’ I asked.
‘Farther north,’ he answered. ‘Andalsnes.’ He was gazing out again to the islands. He sighed and shook his head. ‘It was a bad business. The Norwegians had nothing. We weren’t properly equipped. Jerry had it all his own way in the air. They hadn’t a hope. But they kept on fighting. We were driven out. But they wouldn’t give up. We gave ’em help up in the north, in Finnmark, and they started to fight back. We got as far as Tromso, pushing Jerry back all the way, then the break-through in France came and we had to go. All that effort wasted.’ He was still staring out towards Norway. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘there were sixty thousand less Germans.’
‘You came back later – after the war, I mean – didn’t you?’ Jill asked.
He turned and looked at her steadily for a second. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was in Norway from the beginning of 1945 until the middle of the following year. In Bergen,’ he added.
They stared at one another for a moment. And then Jill looked away. She picked up the glasses and began sweeping the coast. Curtis turned to me. ‘When will this Captain Lovaas get in?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘Jorgensen said last night that he’d be able to get in touch again by radio at nine this morning.’
‘We’ll be at the whaling station by then, won’t we?’ Curtis said.
‘Just about,’ I replied.
‘What is this about Kaptein Lovaas?’ I turned. It was Dahler. He had got down from his perch on the chartroom roof and was standing over me where I sat in the cockpit. His hand was plucking agitatedly at the cloth of his jacket.
‘He’s the captain of one of the Bovaagen catchers,’ I said. ‘He has information for us that may have a bearing on Farnell’s death. Why – do you know him?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I know him.’ I watched his hand slowly clench into a fist. ‘Kaptein Lovaas!’ He hissed the name out between clenched teeth. Then suddenly he caught at my shoulder. ‘Be careful of him, Mr Gansert – he is dangerous, you know. He is a violent man, and he is not straight.’ He turned to Jill. ‘He worked for your father once, Miss Somers. But not for long. I remember your father saying at the time, “If there was not a skytter in all Norway, I would not employ Paal Lovaas.”’
‘Why?’ Jill asked.
‘For many reasons. But chiefly because he killed a man. Nothing was proved. His crew were all so frightened of him, they said the fellow was washed overboard. But your father was certain Lovaas had killed him. He had his sources of information. Lovaas had violent rages. Once, on a factory ship in the Antarctic, he was said to have chased a man with a flensing knife for bungling the winching up of one of his whales.’ He gripped my shoulder. ‘What does Lovaas know about Farnell’s death?’
There was no point in not telling him. ‘He says he’s got a man on board who was with Farnell at the time of his death. This fellow, Hans Schreuder, was trying to get to—’
‘Hans Schreuder?’
I looked up in surprise. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Was he a metallurgist?’ he asked.
‘Quite possibly,’ I replied, ‘if he was with Farnell.’ Actually I was thinking of the samples of ore Lovaas said he had found among the man’s possessions. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Who was he?’
I felt him stiffen. His hand relaxed on my shoulder. I looked up. Jorgensen was emerging from the main hatch. His face was tired and grey in the early sunlight and little pouches showed under his eyes. I wondered how long he’d lain awake during the night. ‘Well?’ I inquired, looking up at Dahler.
‘Ask Jorgensen,’ he replied with a violence that I did not understand. ‘Ask him who Hans Schreuder is.’
Jorgensen stopped at the name. Then he came slowly aft. His eyes were watching Dahler. With a sudden assumption of carelessness, he said, ‘Good-morning, gentlemen. Good-morning, Miss Somers. I see we’re off Solsvik. We’ll be at Bovaagen in time for breakfast.’ His eyes swept over our watchful faces and then gazed out towards the islands.
‘Who is this Hans Schreuder, Mr Jorgensen?’ I asked.
He swung round on me. ‘How should I know?’ His voice was angry. Then he turned to Dahler. ‘What do you know about Schreuder?’
The cripple smiled. ‘I would prefer you to tell them about him,’ he said. ‘He was your man.’
‘I have never heard of him. What are you talking about?’ Jorgensen’s voice had risen. It was trembling with anger.
‘I think you have heard of him, Knut.’
Jorgensen took a cigarette out of his case and lit it. ‘Knocking you out yesterday seems to have upset your mind. The name Hans Schreuder means nothing to me.’ He flicked the match overboard. The flame made a little hiss as it hit the water. ‘What speed are we making?’ he asked me.
‘About five knots,’ I answered. I was watching his face. ‘Jorgensen,’ I said. ‘I’d still like to know who Hans Schreuder is.’
‘I tell you I don’t know.’ He emphasised the point by striking the roof of the chartroom with his clenched fist. I waited, and in the silence he said, ‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘No,’ I said quietly. I turned to Dahler. ‘Who is Hans Schreuder?’ I asked.
‘A metallurgist employed by Det Norske Staalselskab,’ Dahler replied.
I looked at Jorgensen. He was watching Dahler, his body taut and his right hand clenched. Dahler stepped down into the cockpit and seated himself on the far side. He was smiling quietly. ‘Know anything about him?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Dahler said. ‘He was a German Jew. He left Germany in 1936 and settled in Norway. He became naturalised. When war broke out he was in the research department of D.N.S. After the invasion of Norway he worked for the Germans.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘At Finse.’
‘What was he doing there?’
‘He was an expert on metal alloys. He was engaged on certain low temperature tests in the German test sheds by Finsevatn.’
‘Did Farnell meet him up at Finse?’
Dahler shrugged his shoulders. ‘I do not know,’ he said. He looked up at Jorgensen. ‘What was Schreuder doing up on the Jostedal with Farnell?’ he asked.
But Jorgensen had recovered his ease of manner. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘And I must say, Mr Gansert, that I am surprised that you took the attitude you did just now. I have never heard of this man Schreuder until last night. He may have been a collaborator, as Dahler says. He may work for D.N.S. But you must remember that because I manage the affairs of the company, it does not mean that I know everyone who works in the laboratories, workshops and foundries.’ He turned towards the companionway. ‘Let me know when we are nearing Bovaagen Hval, please.’
I watched him go below with a feeling that I hadn’t handled him very well. It was quite possible for Schreuder to have worked for D.N.S. without Jorgensen knowing. And what reason had I to believe Dahler, a man branded as a traitor, in preference to one of the country’s industrial leaders? And then I began to wonder again why Schreuder should have been on the Jostedal when Farnell met his death.
One thing I was now determined to do – I must have a post-mortem carried out on Farnell’s body. I must know whether there was any evidence of a struggle. If Schreuder had killed Farnell … But why the message in that consignment of whale meat if he worked for D.N.S. – why the desire to get to England? It didn’t make sense.
I must have sat there lost in thought for a long time, for Curtis suddenly emerged from the chartroom and said, ‘Skipper – this looks like the gap we take for Bovaagen.’
I noticed then that we were close in to the islands. They were bare, salt-scored rock without sign of habitation. A narrow gap with sheer cliffs like the Corinth Canal cut through to Hjeltefjord. I checked with the chart and then ordered Carter, who was at the wheel, to alter course. As we glided into the gap the wind died away. I took the wheel and sent Carter below to start the engine.
The sea was smooth as glass. The gap was like a street paved with water. The rock cliffs on either side threw back the sound of our engine. We passed a brief inlet with a little vaag or wharf. Beside it lay the bones of a barge, weed-grown and slimy. Above, a white wooden cottage, perched precariously under the cliffs. The flag of Norway flew lazily from a flag-pole. Children waved to us, their shrill voices mingling with the sound of the engine. We glided out into the wide thoroughfare of Hjeltefjord. Here, too, the sea was a mirror, broken only by the long ripples of our wash trailing out on either side from the bows. And in the continued absence of any wind we lowered the sails. We turned north then, following the distant wake of a coastal steamer. Dahler touched my arm and pointed to the land over the stern. ‘That is Herdla,’ he said. ‘The Germans built nearly five hundred gun positions round the coast of Norway. The island of Herdla was one of the strongest – sunken batteries, torpedo positions, even an airfield.’
‘How do you know about Herdla?’ I asked him.
‘I worked there,’ he answered. ‘For three months I helped to dig one of the gun positions. Then we were moved to Finse.’ He nodded in the direction in which our bows were pointed. ‘Straight ahead of us is Fedje. That’s the island we were taken to after our escape from Finse. We waited there two weeks for the arrival of a British M.T.B.’
He fell silent again. Nobody spoke. The only sound was the throb of the engine and the swish of the water slipping past. The sun was warm in a clear blue sky and beyond the low, rocky islands the mountains stood cool and white in their cloak of snow. We slid diagonally across Hjeltefjord and ran up the coast of Nordhordland. Little landing stages showed here and there among the rock, and above them always a huddle of wooden houses, each with its inevitable flagstaff flying the red and blue of Norway. White-painted churches with tall, wooden steeples were visible for miles on the high ground on which they had been built. The tall chimneys of the fish canneries showed here and there in the narrow fjords. Up and down the coast motor fishing boats moved lazily, their hulls white and black and an ugly little wheelhouse aft. ‘Tock-a-tocks,’ Dahler said. ‘That’s what your Shetlanders called them.’ And tock-a-tocks exactly described the sound made by their little two-stroke engines.
We cleared the first northward pointing finger of Nordhordland and under Dahler’s direction I turned a point to starboard. We ran past tiny islets white with the droppings of the seabirds that wheeled constantly about us. A fjord opened up, leading, he said, to Bovaagen itself where there was a fish factory. Cairns, chequered black and white, indicated that it was a shipping route.
And then suddenly we saw the whaling station. It was half hidden in a fold of rock and protected from the north by low islands. The corrugated tin of its ugly factory buildings and the tall iron chimneys belching smoke were a black scar in the wild beauty of the islands, as ugly as a coal pit in a Welsh valley. Not another building was to be seen. The fjord leading to Bovaagen was astern of us now, the friendly black and whi
te shipping guides lost behind a jutting headland. We were in a world of rock and sea – not dark granite cliffs topped with grass as in the west of England, but a pale, golden rock worn smooth and sloping in rounded hillocks to the water. It reminded me of Sicily. These rocks had the same volcanic, sunbaked look. And they were bald – bald to the top of the highest headland – save for wisps of thin grass and big rock plants. And the seabirds wheeled incessantly.
A minute later and we had opened up the channel leading into Bovaagen Hval. I ordered half speed and we drifted quietly into the quay. The water became oily and streaked with a black, viscous excretion. Pieces of grey, half-decayed flesh slid by. The smell of the place closed in on us like a blanket. A Norwegian tock-a-tock moored to the quay was loading cases of whale meat. Beyond was the slipway leading to the flensing deck. The place was littered with the remains of the last whale. Long, straight-bladed steam saws were tearing through the gigantic backbone, slicing it into convenient sections. A little group of men stood at the end of the quay, watching us.
Jorgensen came on deck and stood by the starboard rail, gazing out towards the factory. I ran alongside the quay just beyond the meat boat and we tied up. An elderly man detached himself from the group of watchers and came towards us. He was tall and lean with a face that was the colour of mahogany below thick, white hair. ‘God dag, herr direktör,’ he called to Jorgensen. He had small, impish features that puckered into a smile and the corners of his eyes were lined with a thousand little crinkles.
I climbed over the rail and jumped on to the quay. ‘This is Mr Kielland, the station manager,’ Jorgensen said curtly by way of introduction. And then still speaking English, he said, ‘Well, Kielland, what have you found out about that consignment of whale meat for England? How did the message get into it?’
Kielland spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I have found out nothing. I cannot explain it at all.’
‘You’ve questioned all the men?’
The Blue Ice Page 8