The Blue Ice

by Innes, Hammond;

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘I dunno. ’E says ’e wants ter get ter Olsen so’s ’e can disprove the charges wot’ve bin made against ’im. But Olsen can’t disprove them charges. They’re true.’

  ‘But I thought Olsen got him and five others away in aero engine cases.’

  ‘That’s roight. So ’e did. But ’ow did Dahler fix fer the guard to be relaxed? Oi dunno. But it looks sort o’ fishy ter me.’ His gaze wandered again to the catcher, now disappearing round the headland which I was cutting fine. ‘As fer Lovaas,’ he murmured. ‘If the war were still on and Oi ’ad a tommy-gun—’ He made a motion of mowing an enemy down.

  ‘Did Lovaas work for the Germans?’ I asked.

  ‘’Course ’e did,’ he replied. ‘Lovaas goes where the money is. Why d’yer s’pose ’e’s a’ter Olsen now?’

  The catcher had disappeared. ‘I suppose he is bound for Aurland,’ I said.

  ‘Why else would ’e be racin’ up the Sognefjord?’ Sunde answered. ‘Ain’t no whales in the Sogne. An’ every minutes ’e’s away from the whaling gra’nds, is money lost. That means there’s bigger money up ’ere – an’ from wot Oi’ve gathered, that means ’e’s a’ter Bernt Olsen. ’Course ’e’s makin’ fer Aurland.’

  As we rounded the headland, the catcher came in sight again. But she was stern on and fast disappearing into a light haze. The best Diviner could do was eight knots. Hval Ti was doing a good twelve.

  I stayed on at the wheel, wondering why Dahler had phoned Lovaas. What did he hope to gain? What was going on in that warped mind of his? I’d have stopped and dumped him ashore at Leikanger or Hermansvaerk if I could have spared the time. But I felt that every moment was vital. The hours passed slowly. Jill came up on deck as we reached Solsnes and turned south into Aurlandsfjord. Her face was a white mask. She didn’t say anything. She just stood gripping the rail for a long time and then went below again. Clouds had gathered. The sun had vanished and the day was cold. The mountains in Aurslandsfjord were different. There were no tree-clad slopes and deep gullies full of water roaring down from the melting snows. The mountains were a wall of rock, rising sheer for 5,000 feet on either side of us. Their tops were bald and rounded, the ice-worn rock smooth and grey. And behind, the snow piled up like sugar icing.

  Aurland was kinder than Fjaerland. It wasn’t so wild. No vast ice fields stood over the little wooden town and it was set at the bottom of a fertile valley. But all round it were the mountains, a gloomy background of black rock and cold, grey-looking snow. It was raining and the clouds swept down like a curtain across the fjord. It was just short of midday as I picked up the glasses and focused them on the town. A steamer was moving in to the quay. A plume of steam showed at the funnel top and the sound of her siren echoed and re-echoed through the mountains till it died away in the stillness of distance. For a moment I thought Lovaas wasn’t there. Then I saw the grey lines of the catcher, barely visible in the mist, emerge from behind the steamer.

  I left Dick to run Diviner in to the quay farthest away from Hval Ti. Sunde was with me in the bows and as we slid into the wooden piles, I jumped. He followed me. ‘Which way?’ I asked. I knew we were too late. But I was still in a hurry to get there.

  ‘Up there,’ he said and led me through a cutting between wooden warehouses.

  We reached the main street and turned right into a small square with an old stone church. We crossed it and reached a bridge spanning a wide river, that sucked and eddied round the wooden piles of the bridge. The water was a cold green and very clear. The bed of the river was all boulders torn down from the mountains and the water curled in a thousand little whitecaps as it bubbled over the rocks. Our feet made a hollow, wooden sound as we hurried across the bridge plankings. Sunde turned in at the gate of the second house on the right past the bridge. Two kittens, one white and one ginger, stopped their play and watched us out of wide, interested eyes. They ran mewing towards us as we knocked on the door.

  ‘Who lives here?’ I asked.

  ‘Peer’s sister,’ Sunde replied. ‘She’s married to an Aurland man.’ He pushed the kittens away with his boot and knocked again. The iron knocker made an empty sound on the wooden door. He looked down at the kittens who were sitting, mewing at him. ‘They’re hungry,’ he said and beat violently on the door.

  ‘Hva vil De?’ called a voice. A fat woman with a white apron had come out of the neighbouring house. ‘Men det er jo hr. Sunde,’ she said.

  ‘Hvar er?’ he asked.

  There followed a quick conversation in Norwegian. Finally Sunde broke a pane of glass and climbed in through the window, taking the two kittens with him. I followed. ‘Where are they?’ I asked.

  ‘They left early this morning,’ he answered. ‘Gerda, her husband, Peer and a stranger.’

  ‘Farnell?’

  He nodded, and led the way through to the kitchen. The kittens followed him, mewing plaintively. He poured some milk into a saucer and placed it on the wooden floor. ‘They all had heavy packs and skis.’ He opened the door of the food store and put a plate of fish on the floor for the kittens, together with the remains of the milk in a bowl. ‘Gerda would never have left the kittens with nothing to eat unless she was upset.’

  ‘But why did she go with them?’ I asked.

  ‘Why?’ He laughed. ‘You ain’t got much idea of wot the mountings is like, eh? Olsen goes inter ’idin’, see. Maybe ’e’s makin’ fer one of the turisthytten, maybe fer one o’ the old saeters – that’s our summer farms. Well, there ain’t nobody up there this time of the year. It’s all snow. So every bit o’ food’s got ter be taken up. That’s ’ow we lived durin’ the war. We lived in the mountings and people like the Gundersens next door and Gerda – yes, women as well as men – brought food up to us.’ He went over to the kitchen range and put his hand up the chimney.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I asked.

  ‘War souvenirs,’ he answered. ‘Gerda’s husband kep’ ’em up the chimney. But they’re gone now.’

  ‘What sort of war souvenirs?’

  ‘Pistols. Two Lugers we took off some Jerries.’

  ‘So Farnell is armed?’

  ‘That’s roight. An’ lucky ’e is, too – ’cos they only got aba’t four hours’ start.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Lovaas was ’ere only an ’our an’ a ’alf back. ’E’ll be on is way up inter the mountings by now.’ He went to the window and peered out. The rain was little more than a light mist. ‘If it’s snowin’ up in the valley they’ll be orl roight. But if it ain’t snowin’.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Listen, Mr Gansert. Oi’m goin’ after Peer. Can you ski?’

  I nodded. ‘I’m pretty fair,’ I said.

  ‘Okay. I’ll be at the ship in half an hour. I’ll ’ave rucksacks, skis, food – everyfink. What size boots do you take?’

  It told him. His air of command had taken me by surprise. Before the next few hours were out Alf Sunde was to give me several surprises. ‘We gotter move fast,’ he said as he went through the front door and turned back towards the bridge. ‘Yer’ll want light oilskins and warm clo’ves,’ he said. ‘Got a gun?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got two Smith and Wesson three-eights.’

  ‘Bring ’em bo’f.’

  ‘Good God!’ I said. ‘Lovaas wouldn’t risk a shooting.’

  ‘Wouldn’t ’e?’ He laughed. ‘Not normally ’e wouldn’t. But this is different. From wot I’ve gavvered o’ this business it’s big enough fer ’im ter go a’tside the law and get away wiv it. Wot’s the deaf of a few men when a new industry’s at stake, you just tell me that?’

  I remembered the scene that night in the whaling factory. Sunde was right. Lovaas, knowing what the prize was, would stick at nothing. ‘I’ll bring the guns,’ I said.

  We parted in the square and I hurried back to the ship. Jill was leaning against the rail with Curtis as I stepped on board. ‘Where is he?’ she asked. ‘Captain Lovaas left over an hour a
go with Halvorsen, his mate, and one of his men – a man named Gaarder. They had rucksacks and skis. What’s happened, Bill?’

  ‘Farnell’s gone up into the mountains,’ I said. I glanced round the deck. ‘Where’s Dahler?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Curtis answered. ‘He caught the steamer.’

  ‘Back to Bergen?’ I asked.

  ‘No. It went up the fjord towards Flamm.’

  ‘Flamm?’ The name meant something to me. I dived into the chartroom and looked at the map. Jill and Curtis crowded round me. Flamm was at the head of Aurlandsfjord. And from Flamn there was a mountain railway which had joined the main Bergen–Oslo line at Myrdal. From Myrdal he was within an hour’s run of Finse. I swung round. ‘Can you two ski?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jill.

  ‘A bit,’ Curtis replied.

  ‘Right. As soon as I’ve got my things together, Dick will run you up to Flamm. You may catch up with Dahler there. If so, don’t let him see you. If he’s gone, take the next train to Myrdal and from there catch the Oslo train to Finse. If my guess is right, you’ll pick up Dahler’s train there – or if not Dahler’s, Jorgensen’s. Wait at Finse for them. Understand?’

  Curtis nodded. But I saw an obstinate look come into Jill’s face. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Sunde and I are going up into the mountains.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ She began to argue, but I stopped her. ‘You’ll only slow us up. We’ve got to move fast. We’ve got to catch Lovaas up before he gets to Farnell. Oh, for God’s sake!’ I cried as she started to argue again. ‘Do as I say. Follow Dahler. I know what Lovaas is up to. But I don’t understand Dahler’s game. For all I know he may be the more dangerous of the two.’ I went down to my cabin then, calling for Dick. ‘Dick,’ I said. ‘You’ll stay with the boat. Run Jill and Curtis up to Flamm and then return here. Lie off in the fjord and keep watches. Wilson and Carter will remain with you. Don’t move from here for any message whatever.’

  I reached down into the bottom drawer of a locker and brought out the two service revolvers. I saw his eyebrows lift. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You’ll find me lying off wherever the water’s shallow enough to take my hook. If you want to come aboard at night flick me G-E-O-R-G-E on a torch.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. I opened my wallet. ‘Here’s fifty thousand kroner. Give Curtis twenty and Jill ten. Keep the rest yourself. If you want Ulvik, his number is Bergen 155 102.’

  I was running through drawers, taking out things I needed – socks, sweaters, gloves, oilskins. ‘Get me some cigarettes, matches, chocolate and a half bottle of whisky,’ I told Dick. ‘And a couple of candles. They’re in the galley. There’s a small torch there, too.’

  In five minutes I was ready with everything jumbled into an old kitbag. I dumped it over the side on to the quay. ‘Let go for’ard,’ Dick ordered. Wilson ran to the warps. Jill came towards me. ‘Good luck!’ she said. Her grey eyes were clouded as though with pain. ‘Please God you reach him in time,’ she whispered. Then suddenly she leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly and turned quickly away.

  ‘Let go aft,’ Dick called to Wilson. The engine came to life with a roar. I turned to Curtis. ‘I’m relying on you to catch up with Dahler,’ I said. ‘Don’t follow him if he goes to Bergen. Go on to Finse. I want you there, between us and Jorgensen.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll get in touch with you at the hotel at Finse just as soon as I can.’

  He nodded and I jumped down on to the quay as the ship went slowly astern. In the thin drizzle I stood and watched Diviner swing gracefully on the flat surface of the water. The propellers frothed at her stern and she glided away up the fjord, her slender spars devoid of sail, but her brasswork gleaming proudly even in that dull light. I watched her until she was no more than a ghostly shape in the thickening curtain of mist.

  An open tourer swung into the quay, hooting furiously. Sunde jumped out from the seat beside the driver as the drosje came to a standstill. The back was littered with rucksacks and skis. ‘You jump in the back,’ he said, grabbing the kitbag. ‘You can get yer rucksack packed then.’ He opened the door and threw the kitbag on top of the rucksacks. I climbed in and the car started off before he was back in his seat. ‘We can go as far as Vassbygden by car,’ he said, as we tore up into the square and turned left along the bank of the river.

  That was one of the wildest drives I have ever had. The driver was one of Sunde’s resistance friends and evidently he knew something of the urgency of the matter, for he drove as though the devil was behind us. The road was little more than a stone track. We bumped and swayed up the valley. The mountains ahead were a grey-white world of snow half obscured by mist. On either side they closed in on us till we were winding along under beetling cliffs that looked as though they would rain boulders down on us at any minute, so cracked was the rock by the ice of countless winters.

  Sunde turned in his seat as I was struggling to pack my rucksack and still prevent myself from being jolted out of the car. ‘Lovaas is exactly an hour ahead of us,’ he said. ‘Harald here’ – he nodded towards the driver – ‘had only just returned from driving him up to Vassbygden when I sent for him.’

  An hour! If we went really fast we could still catch up with him. I thought of Lovaas’s big girth. Then I remembered how quick he had been on his feet. An hour was quite a lot to make up. But we had one advantage. We knew he was ahead of us. He did not know that we were behind him. ‘Who was with him?’ I asked.

  ‘His mate and another man,’ was the reply.

  The cliffs above us flattened back to pine-clad slopes. A long sheet of water filled the valley. ‘Vassbygdi,’ Sunde shouted. Houses huddled at the farther end, their reflections clearcut in the soft green water.

  We skirted the lake and went on for another mile up the valley to the village of Vassbygden. There the drosje stopped. It was the end of the road. We piled out and got our rucksacks on to bur shoulders. They were incredibly heavy. Apart from clothing, we carried food – cheese and chocolate mainly. The skis were tied across the top. Harald and the drosje disappeared down the track and we turned our faces to the mountains. The air was cold and damp. The rucksack dragged at my unaccustomed shoulders. My borrowed ski boots were too big. I cursed Farnell and began to sweat.

  For all that he was a skinny little man about half my size, it was Sunde who set the pace. And when I asked him whether he thought to catch Lovaas up that afternoon, he said. ‘We gotter get to Osterbo turisthytte by nightfall. That is unless yer want ter sleep in one of the old disused saeters.’

  ‘There’s a moon,’ I panted in reply. ‘We’ll push on by moonlight.’

  ‘Per’aps,’ he said. ‘But wait and see ’ow yer feelin’ by then. Osterbo’s quite a way – over two Norwegian miles; an’ there’s seven English miles to each Norwegian.’

  We climbed in silence after that. We were moving up into the mist, climbing along the side of a valley. Below us the river thundered by narrow gorges down to Vassbygdi. Every now and then the track flattened out and the river rose to meet us. We trudged through a narrow gorge where the water ran deep and swift. Damp-blackened rock rose sheer on either side, its summit lost in a cloud so that it seemed as though it might go up and up into infinity. Ahead of us was the thunder of water. It grew louder and louder until the white froth of a fall emerged like a broad grey ribbon out of the mist. Speech was impossible as we climbed beside the live, swirling water. The river was full of the early melting of the snows and the water curved over the rock ledges in thick green waves. The whole rock-walled valley seemed to shake to the weight of the water thrusting down it to the fjord.

  At the top of the fall the rock fell back a little and slopes of lush spring grass ran up to black buttresses that had no summit. Lone rocks as big as houses lay scattered up this valley. In the shelter of an up-ended slab stood the broken remains of a wooden hut. ‘Almen Saeter,�
� Sunde shouted in my ear. ‘It’s over two hundred years old, this saeter. A long time ago an old fellow used ter live ’ere winter and summer. An ’e killed every soul wot come along this valley. Proper myffylogical, ’e was.’

  The hut was old and broken. Its walls were made of great beams axe-cut to dove-tail into each other, the ends protruding at the corners like a pile of sticks. The roof was turf on a layer of birch bark. The huge, upended slab of rock protected the building from rock falling from the cliff buttresses high above us. I paused to get my breath and ease the suffocating beating of my heart. ‘Come on nah, Mr Gansert,’ Sunde called. ‘You ain’t started yet.’ He turned and continued up the defile. His small body seemed dominated by the heavy pack. He was like a snail with his house on his back. And he didn’t seem to hurry any more than a snail. Yet there was a rhythm about the steady movement of his legs. Unhurriedly, steadily he covered the ground. His bare legs above the white ankle socks were hard with muscle at each forward thrust. Those muscles were the legacy of a youth spent in the mountains on foot and on ski.

  I started after him again, trying not to hurry, trying to catch the swing of his easy movement. But my legs ached and my heart pounded. The sweat was pouring down my face, oozing from every pore, soaking my clothes. I thought of Farnell out ahead, not knowing that he was being followed, and I pressed on. I had to reach him before Lovaas. I had that to drive me. If I was out of condition for this sort of thing then my willpower would have to see me through.

  The valley widened and split in two. We took the left fork, crossed a flimsy wooden bridge and worked our way over the shoulder of a hill to the other fork of the valley. Here we saw our first snow – a long, white streak lying in a gully across the river. This and the fact that we were in one of the brief descents raised my spirits. I increased my pace and caught up with Sunde. I pointed to the snow. ‘We’ll be on ski soon,’ I panted. I was thinking of the relief to my aching limbs of gliding across snow.