“The F.B.I. or police come up with anything?”
“Zero. Conditions are bad, Mr Brady.”
“I can see that.” Brady spoke with feeling and shivered. “I suppose you’ll have to wait for daylight before you can carry out a proper search?”
“Tomorrow will be too late. Even now it’s too late. Anyway, even if he is around, the chances are we won’t find him. We might not find him until warmer weather comes and the snow goes.”
“Drifting, you mean?” This was Mackenzie.
“Yes. He could be in a gully or by the roadside—our roads are built five feet high on gravel—and he could be lying at the bottom of a ditch with not even a mound to show where he is.” Houston gave a shrug.
“What a way to die,” Mackenzie said.
“I’m accepting the fact that he is gone,” Houston said, “and though it sounds callous, maybe, it’s not such a bad way to go. Perhaps the easiest way to go. No suffering: you just go to sleep and never wake up again.”
Dermott said: “You make it sound almost pleasant. How’s Bronowski?”
“No fracture. Heavy contusions. Dr Blake reckons the concussion is only slight. He was stirring and seeming to make an effort to surface when I left the camp.”
“No further progress in that direction?”
“Nothing. Very much doubt whether there will be either. Sam was the only person who could have told us anything or identified his assailant. It’s a thousand to one that he was attacked from behind and never caught a glimpse of his attacker. If he had, the attacker would probably have silenced him for keeps. After you’ve killed two people, what’s a third?”
“The same people, you reckon?”
Houston stared. “It’s too much of a coincidence to be different people, Mr Brady!”
“I suppose. This telex from Edmonton?”
Houston scratched his head. “Told us to close down the line for a week. Says they’re going to check in forty-eight hours.”
“And in your own company code, you said?” Dermott asked him.
“They didn’t give a damn about letting us see it was an inside job. Damned arrogance. And the telex was addressed to Mr Black. Only someone working on the pipeline would know that he was up here. He spends nearly all his time in Anchorage.”
Dermott said: “How’s Black taking this?”
“Difficult to say. Bit of a cold fish; not much given to showing his feelings. I know how I’d feel in his shoes. He’s the general manager, Alaska, and the buck stops with him.”
Houston was doing Black a degree less than justice. When they arrived at his office in the operations centre, he had a distinctly unhappy and distrait air about him. He said: “Good of you to come, Mr Brady. Must have been a highly unpleasant trip—and in the depths of a winter’s night.” He turned to a tall tanned man with iron-grey hair. This is Mr Morrison. FBI.”
Morrison shook hands with all three. “Know of you, of course, Mr Brady. I’ll bet you don’t get too much of this sort of thing out in the Gulf States.”
“Never. Don’t get any of this damnable snow and cold either. Mr Houston here tells me that you’re all up against a blank wall. Finlayson’s just vanished.”
Morrison said: “We were hoping that a fresh mind might be of use.”
“I’m afraid your hopes are misplaced. I leave detection to the professionals. I’m merely, as are my colleagues here, a sabotage investigator, although in this case it’s clear that sabotage and crimes of violence have a common ground. You’ve had Mr Finlayson’s office fingerprinted, of course.”
“From top to bottom. Hundreds of prints, and not one seems to be any use. No prints there that shouldn’t have been there.”
“You mean that the owners of those prints all had regular and legitimate access to the office?”
Morrison nodded. “Just that.”
Brady scowled. “And since we’re convinced that this character is someone working on the pipeline, any one of those fingerprints might be his.”
Mackenzie asked the FBI man: “Any sign of the weapon used on Bronowski?”
“Nothing. Dr Blake believes the blow was administered by the butt of a gun.”
Dermott asked: “Where’s the doctor?”
“In the sick bay, with Bronowski, who’s just recovered consciousness. He’s still dazed and incoherent, but it seems he’ll be okay.”
“Can we see the two of them?”
“I don’t know,” Black said. “The doctor, certainly. I don’t know whether he’ll allow you to talk to Bronowski.”
“He can’t be all that bad if he’s conscious,” said Dermott. “It’s a matter of urgency. He’s the only person who might be able to give us a clue about what happened to Finlayson.”
When they arrived in the sick bay, Bronowski was speaking coherently enough to Dr Blake. He was very pale; the right-hand side of his head had been shaved, and a huge plaster, stretching from the top of his skull to the lobe of the ear, covered the right temple. Dermott looked at the doctor, a tall, swarthy man with an almost cadaverous face and a hooked nose.
“How’s the patient?”
“Coming on. The wound’s not too bad. He’s just been soundly stunned, which is apt to addle anyone’s brains a bit. Headache for a couple of days.”
“A couple of brief questions for Bronowski.”
“Well, brief.” Dr Blake nodded at Dermott’s companions.
Dermott asked: “Did you see the guy who knocked you down?”
“See him?” Bronowski exclaimed. “Didn’t even hear him. First thing I knew of anything was when I woke up in this bed here.”
“Did you know Finlayson was missing?”
“No. How long’s he been gone?”
“Some hours. Must have gone missing before you were clobbered. Did you see him at all? Speak to him?”
“I did. I was working on those reports you asked me to get for you. He asked about the conversation I had with you, then left.” Bronowski thought about it. “That was the last I saw of him.” He looked at Black. “Those papers I was working on. Are they still on the table?”
“I saw them.”
“Can you have them put back in the safe, please? They’re confidential.”
“I’ll do that,” Black said.
Dermott asked: “May I see you a minute, doctor?”
“You’re seeing me now.” The doctor looked quizzically at Dermott down his long nose.
Dermott smiled heavily: “Do you want me to discuss my chilblains and gout in public?”
In the consulting room Dr Blake said: “You look in pretty good shape to me.”
“Advancing years, is all. Have you been up to Pump Station Four?”
“Ah, so it’s that business! What stopped you discussing it out there?”
“Because I’m naturally cagey, distrustful and suspicious.”
“I went up with Finlayson.” Blake made a grimace at the memory. “Place was a ghastly mess. So were the two murdered men.”
“They were all that,” Dermott agreed. “Did you carry out an autopsy on them?”
There was a pause. “Have you the right to be asking me these questions?”
Dermott nodded. “I think so, Doctor. We’re all interested in justice. I’m trying to find out who killed those two men. May be three, by now, if Finlayson stays missing.”
“Very well,” Blake said. “I carried out an autopsy. It was fairly perfunctory, I admit. When men have been shot through the forehead, it’s pointless to try to establish the possibility that they died of heart failure instead. Although, mind you, from the mangled state of their bodies, it’s clear that the blast effect of the explosion would in itself have been enough to kill them.”
“The bullets were still lodged in the bead?”
“They were and are. A low-velocity pistol. I know they’ll have to be recovered, but that’s a job for the police surgeon, not for me.”
“Did you search them?”
Blake lifted a saturnine eyebr
ow. “My dear fellow, I’m a doctor, not a detective. Why should I search them? I did see that one had some papers in an inside coat pocket, but I didn’t examine them. That was all.”
“No gun? No holster?”
“I can testify to that. I had to remove coat and shirt. Nothing of that nature.”
“One last question,” Dermott said. “Did you notice the index ringer on the same man’s right hand?”
“Fractured just below the knuckle bone? Odd sort of break in a way, but it could have resulted from a variety of causes. Don’t forget the blast flung both of them heavily against some machinery.”
“Thank you for your patience.” Dermott made for the door, then turned. “The dead men are still at Pump Station Four?”
“No. We brought them back here. I understand their families want them buried in Anchorage, and that they’ll be flown down there tomorrow.”
Dermott looked round Finlayson’s office and said to Black: “Anything been altered since Bronowski was discovered here?”
“You’d have to ask Mr Finlayson. At the time, I was across seeing my opposite number in ARCO and didn’t get here for twenty minutes.”
The F.B.I. man asked: “Some things have been touched, naturally. My men had to when they were carrying out their fingerprinting.”
Mackenzie nodded to the buff folders on Finlayson’s desk. “Are those the reports on the security men? The ones that Bronowski said he was studying when he was clobbered?”
Black looked at Houston, and the security man said: “Yes.”
“There were fingerprints, too.” Mackenzie raised an eyebrow.
“Those will be in the safe,” Houston said.
“We’d like to see those and the records,” Dermott said. “In fact, we’d like to see everything in that safe.”
Black intervened. “But that’s where all our company confidential information is kept.”
“That’s precisely why we’d like to examine it.”
Black compressed his lips. “That’s a very large order, Mr Dermott.”
“If our hands are to be tied, we might as well go back to Houston. Or have you something to hide?”
“I consider that remark offensive.”
“I don’t.” Brady had spoken from the depths of the only armchair in the room. “If you have something to hide, we’d like to know what it is. If you haven’t, open up your safe. You may be the senior man in Alaska, but the people in London are the ones that matter, and they’ve promised me we would be afforded every co-operation. You are showing distinct signs of lack of co-operation. I must say that gives me food for thought.”
Black’s lips were very pale now. “That could be construed as a veiled threat, Mr Brady.”
“Construe it any damned way you like. We’ve been through this up here once before, earlier. And John Finlayson has gone walk-about or somewhere even less attractive. Co-operate or we leave—and leave you with the task of explaining to London the reason for your secretiveness.”
“I am not being secretive. In the best interests of the company—”
“The best interest of your company is to keep that oil flowing and head off these killers. If you don’t let us examine that safe, we can only conclude that for some reason you choose to obstruct the best interest of your company.” Brady poured himself a daiquiri as if to indicate that his part of the discussion was over.
Black surrendered: “Very well.” The lips had now thinned almost to nothing. “Under protest and under, I may say, duress, I agree to what I regard as an outrageous request. The keys are in Mr Finlayson’s desk. I will bid you goodnight.”
“One moment.” Dermott didn’t sound any more friendly than Black. “Do you have records of all your employees on the pipeline?”
It was clear that Black was considering some further opposition, and then decided against it. “We do. But very concise. Couldn’t call them reports, just brief notes of, mainly, previous jobs held.”
“Where are they? Here?”
“No. Only reports on security personnel are kept here, and that’s because Bronowski regards this as his base. The rest are kept in Anchorage.”
“We’d like to see them. Perhaps you can arrange for them to be made available?”
“I can arrange it.”
“I understand from Dr Blake that you have a flight to Anchorage tomorrow. Is it a big plane?”
“Too big,” said Black the accountant. “A 737. Only one available tomorrow. Why?”
“One or more of us might want to hitch a lift,” Dermott answered. “We could, among other things, pick up those reports. Seats would be available?”
Black said: “Yes. No more questions, I trust?”
“One. You received this threatening telex message from Edmonton today, telling you to close down the line or else. What do you propose to do?”
“Carry on production, of course.” Black tried to smile sardonically, but the moment was wrong. “Assuming, of course, that the criminals have been apprehended?”
“Where’s the telex?”
“Bronowski had it. It may be on his person. Or in his desk.”
“I’ll find it,” Dermott said.
“I don’t think Bronowski would like you rummaging about his desk.”
“He’s not here, is he? Besides, he’s a security man. He would understand.” Dermott shook his head. “I don’t think you ever will.”
“No,” Black said. “Goodnight.” He turned on his heel and left. No-one said “goodnight” to him.
“Well, well.” Brady exclaimed. “A friend for life in three minutes flat. Don’t know how you do it, George. Pity he acts so suspiciously—otherwise he’d have made a splendid suspect.”
“Badly ruffled feathers,” Morrison said. “To put it in a restrained fashion, ruffling other people’s feathers is his speciality. A martinet of the first order, they say, but an extraordinarily able man.”
Dermott said: “Not, I gather, universally popular. Does he have friends?”
“Professional business contacts, that’s all. Socially, nothing. If he has any friends, he hides them well.” He tried to conceal a yawn. “My normal bedtime lies well behind me. In the F.B.I., we try to get to bed by ten p.m. Can I be of any assistance before I go?”
“Two things,” Dermott said. “The maintenance crew at Pump Station Four. Fellow called Poulson in charge. Could you have their backgrounds investigated as rigorously as possible?”
“You have a reason for asking?” The F.B.I. man sounded hopeful.
“Nothing really. Just that they happened to be there when the sabotage occurred. I’m clutching at straws. We have damn little else to clutch at.” Dermott smiled wryly.
“I think we can do that,” Morrison said. “And the other?”
“Dr Blake tells me that the two dead engineers were brought back here today. Do you know where they were put?”
Morrison knew and told them, said his good-nights and left.
Brady said: “I think I shall go and rest lightly in my room. Notify me if the heavens fall in. But not after the first half hour or so. I take it you two are about to indulge your morbid curiosity in viewing the departed.”
Dermott and Mackenzie looked down at the two murdered engineers. They had been covered in white sheets. No attempt had been made to clean them up since they last saw them at Pump Station Four. Perhaps it had been impossible. Perhaps no-one had had a strong enough stomach for the task. Mackenzie said: “I hope they’re going to be sewn up in canvas or something before being taken to Anchorage tomorrow, or their relatives are going to have the screaming heebie-jeebies. Whatever you’re looking for, George, look for it quick. I’m not enjoying myself.”
Nor was Dermott. Not only was the sight revolting, but the smell was nauseating. He lifted the hand of the man he’d briefly examined before and said: “How would you say that fore-finger got that way?”
Mackenzie bent, wrinkled his nose and said: “It sounds crazy, but it could have been broken by a pair of
pliers. The trouble is that charring’s obliterated any marks that might have been made on the skin.”
Dermott went to a wash-basin, soaked his handkerchief and cleaned up the charred area as best he could. The black carbon came off surprisingly easily. It didn’t leave the skin clean—the pitting was too deep for that—but clean enough to permit a closer examination.
“No pliers,” Mackenzie said. “To break the bone, pliers would have had to close right into the flesh and would have been bound to leave saw-tooth marks. No saw-tooth marks, so no pliers. But I agree with you. I’m sure that bone was deliberately broken.”
Dermott rubbed some carbon off the charred clothing and smeared it on the cleaned area so that it did not look as if it had been wiped. He opened the jacket and slid his hand into the inside pocket: it came out empty. Mackenzie said: “The papers and cards have taken wing and flown. With assistance, of course.”
“Indeed. Could have been Poulson or one of his pals. Could have been Bronowski when he was out there yesterday. Could have been the kindly healer himself.”
“Blake? He does look like a first cousin of Dracula,” Mackenzie said.
Dermott raised the damp handkerchief again and started to clear the area round the bullet hole in the forehead. He peered closely at the wound and said to Mackenzie: “Can you see what I imagine I see?”
Mackenzie stooped low and peered closely. Still stooped, he said softly: “With the hawk eyes of my youth gone forever, I could do with a powerful magnifying glass.” He straightened. “What I imagine I see is the brown scorch marks of burnt powder.”
As before, Dermott smeared some carbon back on the cleaned area. “Funny—my imagination runs the same way. This guy was shot at point-blank range. The scenario reads that it was a very close thing indeed. The killer had a gun on this engineer and was probably searching him. What he didn’t know was that the engineer not only had a gun of his own, but had it out. However it was, he must have seen it just in time and shot to kill—there could have been no time to indulge in any fancier gun-work. The engineer’s gun-hand must have gone into muscular spasm—irreversible contraction; not unknown at the time of violent death. To free the gun, the killer had to wrench it so violently that he snapped the trigger finger. Don’t you think that fits in with the peculiar angle at which the finger was broken?”
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