The Voice of 'Hval Ti'
Whether that gybe was intentional or an accident I didn't know. And I hadn't time to think about it then. Dahler's body was crumpled over the wheel, jamming it. The mainsail, still overweighted with canvas in the howling wind, was dragging at the mast. With the port backstay gone and the starboard backstay slack the massive timber of the mast was bending to each gust. I could hear it groaning above the thunder of the seas breaking inboard over the bows. I hauled Dahler's body off the wheel and thrust it into the cockpit. Then I put the helm hard to starb'd and brought the ship up into the wind. 'Haul in on the mainsheet, Jorgensen,' I shouted as the boom began to swing loosely inboardSomehow we got the boat close-hauled and the starboard backstay set up. Then I handed the wheel over to Jill and went for'ard with Jorgensen to get a reef in the mainsail and repair the port backstay. Curtis wasn't badly hurt, but he'd a nasty cut on his shoulder and I sent him below as soon as Wilson arrived on deck. 'Take Dahler with you,' I told him. And then suddenly remembering that he'd originally been at the wheel, I said, 'Why did you hand the wheel over to Dahler and not to Jill as I ordered?'
'Jill wasn't in the cockpit,' he said. 'I saw you were in a jam and as I got up from the wheel, Dahler stepped in right beside me. He'd been at the helm once during the day, so I thought it would be all right. It left Jill as a gash hand. I didn't realise-'
'All right,' I said. '.You get on below and see to that cut. Put Dahler on his bunk. I'll see him later.'
It took us the better part of an hour to get things sorted out and the boat properly trimmed. I took in two reefs to be on the safe side. The damage didn't appear great, but only daylight would reveal what had happened aloft. The strain as the full, weight of the mains'l had swung across had been terrific.
Masthead fittings might be torn out or loosened. When the ship was at last riding easily, I sent Jill below to fix Curtis's arm and put Jorgensen on the wheel. Dick and the two hands were stowing sails for'ard. I entered up the log and then checked our course on the compass. The binnacle light threw a faint glow on Jorgensen's face. 'Why did you hit Dahler?' I asked him. He didn't answer and I said, 'The man's a cripple. He should never have been allowed to take the wheel in this wind. He couldn't hold it.' Still Jorgensen said nothing. 'Do you think he did it on purpose?' I demanded.
'What do you think?' he asked.
I remember how Jorgensen had been standing on the hatch cover, reaching up for the jackyard. If I hadn't sensed the gybe coming and yelled a warning to him, the boom would have swept him overboard. It would have smashed his ribs and sent him hurtling over the life lines. If Dahler had wanted to get rid of Jorgensen… 'It was an accident,' I said angrily.
'An accident?' He laughed. 'Dahler has been sailing boats all his life. That was no accident, Mr Gansert. You heard what was said between us in the saloon just before we came on deck.'
'You were threatening to have him arrested,' I said. 'But that doesn't prove that he tried to — to involve you in an accident.'
To murder me I think you were going to say.' He shifted his grip on the wheel. 'Let us call things by their proper names,' he added. 'What Dahler did was attempted murder.' The way he said it, it sounded ugly.
'I'll go down and have a word with him,' I said, and left him sitting there at the wheel.
It seemed incredible that Dahler should have meant to kill him. And yet, sitting there at the wheel and seeing Jorgensen standing on that hatch, the means of killing was right there in his hands. He had only to turn the wheel and the gybe was bound to happen. An accident. Nobody would have been able to prove that it wasn't an accident. And there would have been no chance of picking Jorgensen up with the ship's tangle of sails and broken rigging. It was understandable if he were a novice. Only a little while before he took the wheel Curtis had almost done the same thing by accident. But if he'd been sailing boats all his life…
I pushed open the saloon door. Curtis was pulling on his jersey. Jill was in the galley sweeping up broken crockery. 'How's the shoulder?' I asked Curtis.
'All right,' he said. 'Bit stiff, that's all.'
'Dahler in his cabin?'
'Yes. He's come round. Cut lip and bruised cheekbone, that's all. What did Jorgensen want to go and hit him for? There's something funny about those two. They hate each other's guts.'
I went into Dahler's cabin. The light was on and he was sitting propped up in his bunk, dabbing at his lip, which was still bleeding. I shut the door. He turned at the sound, holding his handkerchief to his face. 'Well?' he asked. 'How much damage have I done?'
'Quite enough,' I said. 'Why did you take the wheel if you didn't know how to sail?'
'I was right beside Wright when you told him to give a hand for'ard,' he replied. 'I couldn't help. Jill Somers could. So I took Wright's place at the helm. And I do know how to sail, Mr Gansert. Unfortunately I haven't done any sailing since — since this happened.' He waved his withered arm at me. 'The ship heeled to a gust of wind and the wheel was torn out of my hand.'
'Jorgensen thinks you did it purposely,' I told him.
'I had gathered that.' He dabbed at his lip. 'Is that what you think?' His dark eyes were watching me. The cabin lights were reflected in the over-large pupils.
'I'm prepared to take your word for it,' I told him.
'I asked you, Mr Gansert, whether you thought I had done if purposely?'
I hesitated. 'I don't know,' I answered. 'He had just threatened to have you arrested. And you don't exactly conceal your hatred of him.'
'Why should I?' he answered. 'I do hate him.'
'But why?' I asked.
'Why?' His voice rose suddenly. 'Because of what he's done to me. Look at this.' He thrust the withered claw of his arm at me again. 'Jorgensen,' he snarled. 'Look at my face. Jorgensen. Before the war I was fit and happy. I had a wife and a business. I was on top of the world.' He sighed and sank back against his pillow. 'That was before the war. It seems a long time ago now. My interests were shipping. I had a fleet of coasters and four tankers that supplied Del Norske Staalselskab. Then Norway was invaded. The tankers I ordered to British ports. Some of the coasters were sunk and a few got away, but the bulk of the fleet continued to operate. And whilst Jorgensen was entertaining the German commanders in Oslo, I worked for the liberation of my country. My house at Alverstrummen was a refuge for British agents. My offices in Bergen became a clearing house for boys slipping out of the country. Then suddenly my house was raided. A British agent was captured. I was arrested and imprisoned in Bergen. That was not so bad. My wife could come and see me and I passed the time binding books. But then the Germans drafted us for forced labour. I was sent to Finse. The Germans planned to build an aerodrome on top of the Jokulen. Did you ever hear of that monumental piece of German folly?'
'Jorgensen mentioned it to me-' I began.
'Jorgensen!' he exclaimed. 'What does Jorgensen know about it? He was much too clever.'
He leaned out of his bunk and got a cigarette from his jacket pocket. I lit it for him. He took several quick puffs. His fingers shook. The man was wrought up. He was talking to steady himself. And I listened because this was the first time I'd got him talking and up there at Finse he had met George Farnell.
'So you didn't know about the Jokulen project? Nobody in England seems to have heard about it. So many strange things happen in a war and only a few people outside the countries where they happen ever hear about them. In Norway everybody knows about the Germans and the Jokulen. It is a big joke.' He paused and then added, 'But it was not a joke for those who had to work on it.' He leaned over towards me and grabbed at my arm. 'Do you know the height of the Jokulen?'
I shook my head.
'It is the highest point on the Hardangervidda. It is 1,876 metres high — a glacier, perpetually covered by snow. They were crazy. They thought they could make an airfield up there. The snow was blown into waves by the wind. They drove tractors with heavy iron rollers up to the top. And when they found circular rollers packed the snow up in front of them, they made octagonal rollers. There were crevasses. They tried filling them with sawdust. Oh, it is a hell of a fine joke. But we had to work up there and in the winter on the Jokulen there is sometimes as much as 50 degrees of frost.' He had been talking fast. Now he suddenly leaned back against the pillow and shut his eyes. 'Do you know how old I am, Mr Gansert?'
It was impossible to put an age on him. 'No,' I said.
'Just over sixty,' he said. 'I was fifty-four then. And I'd never have come down from Finse but for Bernt Olsen. He got six of us away. Packed us into aero engine crates — the Germans were testing engines under ice conditions up by Finse Lake. From Bergen the resistance people got us away to the island of Fedje by boat. And a few days later we were taken off by a British M.T.B.'
It was an incredible story. I suppose he noticed my surprise, for he said, 'This came later.' He indicated the withered arm. 'After I got to England. Delayed reaction. Paralysis. My wife died that year I was at Finse.' He struggled on to his elbow. 'All that, Mr Gansert, because Jorgensen wanted my shipping fleet. It was a family business started by my father. After my arrest the Germans confiscated it. Jorgensen formed a company and bought it from them. And you ask why do I hate the man.' He lay back as though exhausted, drawing on the cigarette. 'Remember what I told you? The only dangerous Norwegian is a Norwegian business man.'
'What about Farnell?' I asked. 'What was he doing up at Finse?'
His eyelids flickered open and he stared at me. 'Farnell?' He suddenly laughed. 'You English — you are like bulldogs. You never let go. You can ignore anything and concentrate on the one thing that matters to you. You don't care about what I have been telling you. It doesn't mean anything to you, eh?' His voice had risen to sudden passion. 'I tell you a story of injustice, of the destruction of one man by another. And all you think about is-' His voice dropped again. 'All right,' he said. 'I'll tell you. Farnell worked on the Bergen railway. He worked at the railway yards at Finse under the name of Bernt Olsen. He was working for the resistance. He risked his life to get us out. Now I would like to help him — if I can.'
'How can you help him when he's dead?' I asked.
'If he's dead — then that's that. But if he's not… My life's finished. I have no future — nothing. When you have reached that stage, Mr Gansert, you can afford to take a little risk here and there.'
'Such as — trying to kill somebody,' I suggested.
He smiled. 'You are still wondering whether that gybe was an accident or not — eh? Jorgensen thinks I did it on purpose, does he?' He chuckled. 'All his life now, until I'm dead, he'll he wondering — wondering what the noise at the window is, wondering whether he'll die a sudden death.' He began plucking nervously at the blankets. 'Farnell knew a lot about Jorgensen. If only I could find Farnell. Is Jorgensen sure Farnell is dead?' He closed his eyes.
The door opened then and Jill came in with a cup of beef tea. 'How is he?' she asked me.
Dahler sat up in his bunk. 'I'm quite well, thank you,' he said sharply.
She handed him the cup. 'Drink that,' she said. 'And then try to get some sleep.'
I followed her out and shut the door. 'We must always see that somebody else is with him when Jorgensen is about,' I said.
She nodded.
'Was it an accident or not?' I asked her.
'I don't know.' She turned quickly towards the galley.
I caught her arm. 'You saw what happened. Or Jorgensen thought you did. What was it — accident or — attempted murder?'
She winced at the ugliness of the word. 'I don't know,' she said again.
I let her go then. 'He seems to have reason enough for his hatred,' I said. 'Anyway, from now on I'm taking no chances.'
She went into the galley. I turned and climbed the companion-way to the deck. The weight of the wind hit me as soon as I hauled myself through the hatch. I staggered to the weather rail and looked out into the darkness. Broken wavetops hissed hungrily each time the ship lifted. The sea was a roaring waste of heaving water. Each wave was a tussle between ship and sea and sometimes the sea won, breaking inboard with a crash and seething out through the lee scuppers. Jorgensen was still at the wheel. Dick was huddled beside Curtis in the shelter of the cockpit. 'What are we making by the log?' I asked him.
'About seven,' he answered.
'Have you seen Dahler?' Jorgensen asked.
'Yes,' I said.
'What does he say?'
'He says it was an accident,' I replied. 'The wheel was too heavy for him.'
'He's lying.'
'Possibly,' I said. 'But you wouldn't convince a jury of it. The fact remains that the man's a cripple and only has one hand.' I turned to Dick. 'Time for my watch to take over,' I said.
Jorgensen handed over the wheel to me without a word. I watched him cross the green glow of the starb'd navigation light and disappear down the main hatch. 'Keep your eye on him, Dick,' I said. 'If we don't watch out we'll have one of them overboard.'
'They don't love each other, do they?' he said.
'Not so as you'd notice,' I answered. 'Would you mind bunking in the saloon for a couple of nights?'
'Watchdog, eh? Okay. But I warn you, Bill, when I close my eyes a regiment of killers could trample over me and I wouldn't bat an eyelid.'
He went below then and I was alone in the thundering, pitching night. Seated there at the wheel I could feel Diviner tearing forward through the water at the surge of each wave. Then she'd slip back, stern foremost, into the trough and wallow till the next wave lifted her and the wind drove her on into the darkness. It was a weird scene. The red and green navigation lights illuminated the canvas of the sails with an unearthly glow, a sort of demon phosphorescence. The music of The Damnation of Faust drifted through my mind. The weird descent into Hell… If Berlioz had included a scene with Charon crossing the Styx, then this was the lighting he'd have used. What a setting for something horrible! I thought of those two men — Jorgensen and Dahler — hating each other and fearing each other at the same time. I laughed out loud. And I'd been so damned pleased with myself when I'd bluffed Jorgensen into sailing down the Thames with us. And right now I'd have given a lot to be able to set him ashore at Greenwich.
The macabre turn my thoughts had taken was interrupted by the arrival of Jill. 'How's Dahler?' I asked her as she seated herself in the cockpit.
'Sleeping,' she said. 'He's quite exhausted.'
'And Jorgensen?' I asked.
'Gone to his cabin. And Dick has settled himself in the saloon.' She sighed and settled her back against the chartroom. I could just see the pale oval of her face in the light of the binnacle. The rest of her was a dark bundle of sweaters and oilskins. Every now and then a burst of spray swept across us, stinging my eyes with salt.
Tired?' I asked.
'A bit,' she answered drowsily.
'Why not go below?' I suggested. 'There'll be no more sail changing to do this watch.'
'I'd rather stay up here,' she answered, 'in the fresh air.'
Wilson came up shortly, after that with mugs of scalding coffee. After we'd drunk it the remaining three hours of the watch dragged. Once we sighted the navigation lights of a drifter. The rest of the time the boat was plunging through a void of utter darkness. Sleep weighed on our eyes. It was a constant fight to keep awake. At four in the morning we called the starboard watch. A faint grey light percolating the low cloud and the tumbled outline of the waves marching up behind us was just visible.
That was to be our last full day at sea. The wind lessened and the sea dropped. Daylight revealed no real damage aloft and we piled on sail again. By midday a watery sun came out and I was able to obtain a fix. This confirmed our position — about 30 miles due west of the Norwegian port of Stavanger. I altered course to north eleven east.
All that day Dahler kept to his cabin. Jill reported that he was in a state of nervous exhaustion and suffering from seasickness and lack of food. I went to see him just after the midday meal. The cabin smelt stale and airless. Dahler was lying with his eyes closed. His face looked grey under the dirty stubble except for a livid bruise on his cheek and the red line of his cut lip. I thought he was asleep, but as I turned to go he opened his eyes. 'When will we be in — Norway?' he asked.
'Dawn Tommorow,' I replied.
'Dawn Tommorow,' he replied slowly. The way he said it made me realise what it meant to him. He hadn't seen his country for a long time. And when he had last been there it had been as a prisoner, a slave labourer working for the Germans over 4,000 feet up in the mountains. And he had left it as a fugitive. I thought of the awful trip he must have had down the railway to Bergen hidden in a crate that was supposed to contain German aero engines. Then the trip out to the island and then the final journey by M.T.B. And now he was going back for the first time. And he was threatened with arrest. I suddenly felt sorry for him.
'There's a chance we may sight a steamer off Bergen, bound for Britain,' I said. 'If so, shall we signal it to take you on board?'
He sat up suddenly. 'No,' he said violently. 'No. I'm not afraid. I'm a Norwegian. Neither Jorgensen — nor anyone else — will stop me from going back to my country.' His eyes had a wild look. 'Where are you making for?' he asked.
'Fjaerland,' I said.
He nodded and sank back. 'Good! I must find Farnell. If I can find Farnell — he knows the truth, you see. There were records. The resistance people kept records of what went on between the Germans and suspected Norwegian civilians.'
I couldn't remind him that Farnell was dead. In his overwrought state it would have done no good. He had closed his eyes again and I went out, closing the door gently behind me.
I had told him that Fjaerland was our destination. But something happened that evening which altered things. We kept radio watch on ultra-short wave at seven in the morning and seven in the evening. We had from the hour to ten minutes after in which to transmit or receive and either Dick or myself, whoever was on watch at the time, turned in to our wavelength. Dick was on watch that evening and shortly after seven he burst into the saloon where Jill and I were having a quiet drink. 'Message for you, skipper,' he said excitedly.
'What is it?' I asked, taking the sheet of paper.
'They've traced the consignment of whale meat Farnell smuggled that message out in,' he answered. 'It came from a company called Bovaagen Hval.'
'Bovaagen Hval?' Jill exclaimed.
I glanced across at her, mentally cursing Dick for blurting out the contents of the message. 'What does Bovaagen Hval mean to you?' I asked.
'It's a whaling station out on the islands of Nordhordland, north of Bergen,' she answered quickly.
'Do you know it?' I asked her.
'No. But-' She hesitated. She seemed puzzled, and excited at the same time.
'Well?' I asked.
'That was the whaling station Mr Dahler was interested in.'
'Dahler?' I glanced down at the message. It began: Whale meat consignment traced Bovaagen Hvalstasjon, Bergen, Norway. Was that why Dahler had come on the trip? Was that why he'd queried Farnell's death? I suddenly remembered something. I looked across at Jill. 'Jorgensen bought up Dahler's shipping interests,' I said. 'Did he also acquire the interest in Bovaagen Hval?'
'I don't know,' she answered.
I turned to Dick, a sudden suspicion in my mind. 'Where was Jorgensen when you took this message?' I asked him.
His face fell. 'Good God!' he said. 'I never thought about it. He was sitting in the chartroom, right beside me.'
'And heard ever word that came over,' I said.
'Well, I couldn't throw him out, could I?' he demanded.
'I suppose not,' I answered resignedly.
He pushed the paper towards me again. 'Have a look at the dates,' he said. 'That's what's really interesting.'
I looked down at the sheet of paper. Date of dispatch March 9th. March 9th! And Farnell's body had been discovered on March 10th. Proceed Bovaagen and find out how Farnell was able to dispatch message from Hvalstasjon on 9th and be killed on Jostedal following day. Report by radio daily on arrival Bovaagen. Mann. 'Get the map of Norway,' I told Dick. When he had gone I read the message through again. He could, of course, have got someone else to smuggle the parcel into the consignment of meat. That seemed the only explanation. 'Bill.' Jill's voice interrupted my train of thought. 'What's the rest of the message say?'
I hesitated. Then I passed the message across to her. Jorgensen knew it. No harm in her knowing it too. Dick came back with the map and we spread it out on the table. Jill pointed Bovaagen out to us. It was on Nordhordland, one of the large islands about thirty-five miles up the coast from Bergen. Bovaagen Hval. There it was on the end of a long finger of land pointing northwards. And twenty miles away, at the southern end of the island, I saw the name Alverstrummen. 'Is that where Dahler had a house?' I asked Jill.
'Yes. Alverstrummen. That's the place.' She looked down at the message and then at the map again. 'Was the message you received from George smuggled out in a consignment of whale meat?' she asked.
'Yes,' I said. My eye was following the line of the Sognefjord up to Fjaerland.
'Whale meat for export has to be got away pretty quickly,' Jill said. 'If the consignment was dispatched to England on the 9th, it means that it was either packed that day or on the 8th. It couldn't possibly have been packed earlier.'
'Exactly,' I said. 'That doesn't leave Farnell much time to get up to the Jostedal.'
'He could do it by boat,' Dick said.
'Yes,' I agreed. 'But he'd have to be in an awful hurry to get there.' I traced the route with my finger. It would be north for twenty miles or so from Bovaagen and then east up the long cleft of Norway's largest fjord. The better part of a hundred miles to Balestrand and then another twenty up the tributary fjord to Fjaerland. 'It's a day's journey by boat,' I said. And after that he'd got to climb the 5,000 feet to the top of the Jostedal and then fall on to the Boya Glacier. He'd be running it a bit fine. I turned to Jill. 'There's a steamer service, is there?'
'Yes,' she said. 'But from Bergen. He'd have to pick the steamer up at Leirvik and then stay a night at Balestrand. He couldn't possibly reach Fjaerland till the evening of the 10th — not by the ordinary steamer service.'
'That's no good,' I said. 'He must have had a boat. If so we'll find out whose when we get to Fjaerland. The only other alternative is that he was never at Bovaagen. In which case we ought to be able to get hold of the man who sent the message for him.' I turned to Dick. 'What was the reaction from our friend Jorgensen when this message came through?' I asked.
'Can't say I noticed,' he replied. 'Afraid I wasn't thinking about Jorgensen.'
'Then I'll go up and find out,' I said.
Carter was at the wheel as I came out on deck. The wind was dying away and we were gliding over a long, oily swell. The sun had set and against the darkness of the eastern horizon was the darker line of Norway. 'Dinna think we'll get much wind the nicht,' Carter said to me.
I glanced at the speed of the water slipping past the lee rail. 'We're still doing about four knots.'
'Aye,' he replied. 'She's a fine boat in a light wind. Slips along easy as a swan.'
'Where's Mr Jorgensen?' I asked.
He nodded towards the chartroom. 'Doon there, sir,' he said.
I stepped down into the cockpit and entered the chartroom. Curtis was lounging on the chartroom bunk. Jorgensen was seated at the table. He looked up as I entered. 'Just been checking the distance,' he said, nodding towards the chart. 'If the wind holds we should be in by dawn.'
'In where?' I asked.
He smiled. 'I am presuming, Mr Gansert, that you are obeying orders and proceeding to Bovaagen.'
'You heard the message then?' I asked.
'I could not help it,' he answered. 'I was sitting right beside Mr Everard. I was very intrigued to know just how George Farnell had contacted you. As you said, his method was a shade unorthodox. Does that suggest anything to you?'
I said, 'Yes. It suggests he was scared to use the more normal postal methods.'
'I find it very hard to believe that a man who had made a vital mineral discovery should communicate his information by this means.' His voice betrayed his curiosity. 'Did he give any reason? How was he to know where his message would finish up?'
'I know only this, Mr Jorgensen,' I said. 'He was scared to use any normal method. And,' I added, speaking deliberately, 'he had a premonition he was going to die.'
His hand was on the heavy brass chart ruler. He began to roll it slowly back and forth across the table. His face was, as always, expressionless. But his eyes avoided mine and I sensed his agitation. In some way the information he had acquired was 'And you have it?' He laughed. 'No, Mr Gansert. If you had you wouldn't be chasing the ghost of dead Farnell. You'd be up in the mountains with metallurgical instruments, and the whole weight of the British Foreign Office would be supporting applications for concessions. But I do not wish to be regarded as discourteous to the representative of a big British industrial organisation. You may count on me to give you every assistance in your search, Mr Gansert. May I use your transmitter at eight this evening?'
'Why?' I asked.
'As Dahler may have told you I took over his interests after the war. One of them was Bovaagen Hval. I own a controlling interest in the company. At eight o'clock the catchers report back to the whaling station. I can contact the manager then and arrange for water and fuel for your ship and for him to make a preliminary investigation into who smuggled that message into the consignment of whale meat. That is what you want to know, isn't it?'
There was no point in refusing. I'd have Jill in the chartroom at the same time so that I'd know what he was saying. 'All right,' I said. And then I remembered the cripple lying in his bunk down below. 'What about Dahler?' I asked.
'What about him?' he inquired.
'You threatened to have him arrested,' I reminded him.
He was fiddling with the ruler again. 'I don't think there is much point,' he said slowly. 'The man is not quite right there, you know.' He tapped his forehead. 'Provided he causes no trouble, I shall do nothing. I suggest you try and persuade him to stay on board at Bovaagen Hval. His word was law there before the war. There is no knowing how it will affect him, seeing the place again now when he is — nothing.'
That queer way of his of emphasising words out of all proportion to their value. Now when he is — nothing. Nothing to Jorgensen was a man who had no power over other men. Power was what he loved more than anything. Power over men, possibly women, too. The sleek smoothness of the man! Even in borrowed clothes he achieved a sort of bourgeois respectability. And yet behind it all was this violent delight in power. It was there in his eyes, in the quick, down-drawn frown of his thick eyebrows. But never exposed, never revealed. The iron claw in the velvet gloves. I'd seen it all my life. This man belonged to the ranks of the controllers of the machine of grab.
I suddenly saw that he was watching me as though he knew what was in my mind. He smiled. 'You could make a lot of money out of this, Gansert,' he said, 'if you played your cards right.'
He got up and paused at the chartroom door with his hand on my shoulder. 'You've been in this game long enough to know what a scramble for new minerals means. And you're your own master. Think it over.'
'What's he mean by that?' Curtis asked as the Norwegian went for'ard.
I looked at him then and realised that as a regular army officer he was mentally incapable of thinking of himself in terms of a single unit. He was part of a team and as such never stepped outside the safe confines of the organisation. 'It means I've indirectly been offered a very large amount of money — if I deliver the goods.'
He looked surprised. 'Bribery — eh?'
'Well, shall we say, inducement,' I amended. I suddenly had an impish desire to shake his indifference. 'Any idea of the money involved in this metal business if it's big enough, as this may be?'
'None whatever, old boy,' he answered without interest.
I said, 'It could mean a few millions for somebody who handled it right.'
He laughed. 'It's no good talking to me about millions. My pay is about fifteen hundred a year. Oh, I realise that you really meant millions. But I just wouldn't know what to do with that sort of money if I had it. Nor would you,' he added. 'Here you are with a fine boat, the freedom of the seas and a reasonable amount of money. A few millions would just complicate your life.'
'It depends on what you want,' I said. 'At the moment this is the life I want — just sailing. But once you've known the thrill of opening up a mine — well, it gets you. It isn't the money. It's the sheer excitement of handling the thing. I did it once, out in Canada, where I struck lucky in nickel. It's the sense of power, the fun of seeing problems coming at you from every direction and mastering them.'
He nodded. 'Yes, I can understand that,' he said slowly. Then he frowned. 'What puzzles me,' he went on, 'is how Farnell was able to produce samples of ore. I can understand that a good metal diviner can locate a seam. But to produce samples — I should have thought that would have required machinery.'
It was a good point. 'That puzzled me at first,' I said.
'I can only suggest that the ore itself had been uncovered by ice erosion. His samples may even have been found in the rubble at the foot of a glacier.'
'I see,' he said. 'But it still seems to me that you and Jorgensen are placing too much reliance on discoveries that arc quite unproved.'
'No,' I said. 'No, I don't think so. Farnell was in a class by himself. Before dispatching samples he would have taken into account the geological nature of the ground as well as his own divining results. He won't have slipped up on anything. Jorgensen knows that. If we combined, he and I could clean up a lot of money.'
He looked at me with a lift of his eyebrows. 'You don't mean to say you're going to accept his offer?'
'No,' I said, laughing. 'But the choice is not as clear cut as it would be in your case. I don't owe allegiance to anyone. I'm my own master.'
'What will you do, then?'
'Oh, I'll play the hand in my own way — if my cards are good enough.' I got up and went out on deck. I'd let my thoughts run away with me. I stood by the rail and looked out across the darkening sea towards Norway. Go west, young man. Well, I'd been west and found nickel. Now I was looking east and wondering whether this cold, snow-clad country might not be the land of opportunity. Farnell had had that urge. He'd let nothing stand in his way — he'd stolen and deserted and fought because of the call of the minerals there under the mountains. The same urge was in me — the same thrill of excitement. And I had something more than Farnell — I had the ability to organise and develop the mineral when I found it.
I was still standing by the rail in this mood of elation when Jorgensen came up from below. 'It's eight o'clock,' he said. 'I'll get Bovaagen Hval now. Doubtless you'll want to have Miss Somers up to check on what I say.' He smiled and went down into the chartroom.
He was right. I certainly did want to know what he said. I called Jill up from below and we settled ourselves in the chartroom. Jorgensen had already tuned in and a voice was speaking what I presumed was Norwegian. But suddenly it concluded with 'Twa bloody baskets, an' that's all, Johnnie.'
'Scotch trawlers,' Jorgensen said. And then, 'Here we are.' A deep voice had suddenly broken in across the fainter voices of the trawlermen:' Ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo. Ul-lo Bovaagen Hval. Ul-lo Bovaagen Hval. Dette er Hval To. Ullo-ullo-ullo — Bovaagen Hval.' There followed a double whistle and then another voice came in: 'Ullo-ullo-ullo Hval To. Bovaagen Hval her.' The double whistle again and the first voice came back with a stream of Norwegian.
'Whale Two — that's one of the catchers — reporting a seventy-foot whale,' Jill whispered.
When he had finished another voice came in — Whale Five. 'He's seen nothing,' Jill murmured in my ear. 'He says the weather's still bad up there — that's about two hundred miles farther north, I think.'
As soon as Whale Five had signed off, Jorgensen switched on to the transmitting set and holding the mike close to his mouth said,' Ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo Bovaagen Hval. Del er direktor Jorgensen. Er stasjonmester Kielland der?' The double whistle and then a voice on the loudspeaker: 'Ullo-ullo-ullo diretor Jorgensen. Del er Kielland. Hvor er De na?'
'Jeg er embordpa den britiske yachten Diviner,' Jorgensen answered.' Vi ankrer opp utenfor Bovaagen Hval imorgen tidlig. Vaer sa snild a sdrgefor vann og dieselolje. Og na har jeg-'
'What's he saying?' I asked Jill.
'He's arranging for water and oil for the boat on our arrival,' she whispered back. 'Now he's explaining about the message in the consignment of whale meat. He's asking the station manager, Kielland, to make inquiries and report on how the message got into the whale meat when we arrive.'
'Javel, herr direktor,' replied the manager's voice. 'Jeg skal la meg ar saken.'
'Utmerket,' answered Jorgensen. He gave the signing-off whistle and then turned to us. Tomorrow we will know the answer to this little mystery — I hope,' he said.
And then our attention was called back to the radio with a voice calling, 'Ullo-ullo-ullo. Hval Ti anroper direktor Jorgensen.'
Jorgensen picked up the microphone again. 'Ja, Hval Ti. Dei er Jorgensen her.'
'Dette er kaptein Lovaas,' replied the voice.
Jill gripped my arm. 'It's the captain of the catcher, Whale Ten. I think he knows something.'
The conversation went on in Norwegian for a moment and then Jorgensen turned to me. 'Lovaas sounds as though he has some information. He wants a description of Farnell.' He thrust the microphone towards me. 'He understands English.'
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 man 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 direktor.'
'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 Tommorow, herr direktor.' 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.