‘Accordingly, my colleagues and I have decided that, subject, of course, to taking every possible precaution, we should proceed with the business in hand—the reason why we came to this island at all—in as normal a fashion as possible. I am sure you will all agree with me that it is much better to have our time and attention taken up—I will not say gainfully employed—by working steadily at something purposive and constructive rather than sit idly by and have those awful things prey upon our minds. I do not suggest that we can pretend that those things never happened: I do suggest that it will benefit all of us if we act as if they hadn’t.
‘Weather permitting, we will have three crews in the field tomorrow.’ Otto wasn’t consulting, he was telling: I’d have done the same in his place. ‘The main group, under Mr Divine here, will go north up Lerner’s Way—a road built through to the next bay about the turn of the century, although I don’t suppose there are many traces left of it now. The Count, Allen and Cecil here will, of course, accompany him. I intend to go along myself and I’ll want you there too, Charles.’ This to Conrad.
‘You’ll require me along, Mr Gerran?’ This from Mary Darling, her hand upraised like a little girl in class.
‘Well, it’ll be nearly all background—’ He broke off, glanced at Allen’s battered face, then looked again at Mary with what I took to be a roguish smile. ‘If you wish to, certainly. Mr Hendriks, with Luke, Mark and John here, will try to capture for us all the sounds of the island—the winds on the fells, the birds on the cliffs, the waves breaking against the shore. Mr Heissman here is taking a hand-camera out in the boat to seek out some suitable seaward locations—Mr Jungbeck and Mr Heyter, who have nothing on tomorrow, have kindly volunteered to accompany him.
‘These, then, are our decisions for tomorrow’s programme. But the most important decision of all, which I have left to the last, is in no way connected with our work. We have decided that it is essential that we seek help with all possible speed. By help I mean the law, police or some such recognized authority. It is not only our duty, it may well be essential for our own self-preservation, to have a thorough and expert investigation made as quickly as is humanly possible. To call for help we need a radio and the nearest is at the Norwegian Meteorological Station in Tunheim.’ I carefully refrained from looking at Smithy and was confident that he would reciprocate. ‘Mr Smith, your presence here may prove to be a blessing—you are the only professional seaman amongst us. What would be the chances of reaching Tunheim by boat?’
Smithy was silent for a few seconds to lend weight to his observations, then said: ‘In the present conditions so poor that I wouldn’t even consider trying it, not even in these desperate circumstances. We’ve had very heavy weather recently, Mr Gerran, and the seas won’t subside for quite some time. The drawback with those work-boats is that if one does encounter rough seas ahead you can’t do what you would normally do, that is, turn and run before the sea: those boats are completely open at the back and would almost certainly be pooped—that is, they’d fill up with water and sink. So you’d have to be pretty certain of your weather before you set out.’
‘I see. Too dangerous for the moment. When the sea moderates, Mr Smith?’
‘Depends upon the wind. It’s backing to the west right now and if it were to stay in that quarter—well, it’s feasible. If it moves round to the northwest or beyond, no. Not on.’ Smithy smiled. ‘I wouldn’t say that an overland trip would be all that easier, but at least you wouldn’t be swamped in heavy seas.’
‘Ah! So you think that it is at least possible to reach Tunheim on foot?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I’m no expert on Arctic travel. I’m sure Mr Heissman here—I’m told he’s been giving a lecture about this already—is much more qualified to speak about it than I am.’
‘No, no.’ Heissman waved a deprecating hand. ‘Let’s hear what you think, Mr Smith.’
So Smithy let them hear what he thought, which was more or less a verbatim repetition of what I’d said to him in our cubicle earlier. When he’d finished, Heissman, who probably knew as much about winter travel in Arctic regions as I did about the back side of the moon, nodded sagely and said: ‘Succinctly and admirably put. I agree entirely with Mr Smith.’
There was a thoughtful silence eventually broken by Smithy who said diffidently: ‘I’m the supernumerary here. If the weather eases, I don’t mind trying.’
‘And now I have to disagree with you,’ Heissman said promptly. ‘Suicidal, just suicidal, my boy.’
‘Not to be thought of for an instant,’ Otto said firmly. ‘For safety—for mutual safety—nothing short of an expedition would do.’
‘I wouldn’t want an expedition,’ Smithy said mildly. ‘I don’t see that the blind leading the blind would help much.’
‘Mr Gerran.’ It was Jon Heyter speaking. ‘Perhaps I could be of help here.’
‘You?’ Otto looked at him in momentary perplexity, then his face cleared. ‘Of course. I’d forgotten about that.’ He said in explanation: ‘Jon here was my stuntman in The High Sierra. A climbing picture. He doubled for the actors who were terrified or too valuable for the climbing sequences. A really first-class alpinist, I assure you. How about that then, eh, Mr Smith?’
I was about to wonder how Smithy would field that one when he answered immediately. ‘That’s about the size of the expedition I’d have in mind. I’d be very glad to have Mr Heyter along—he’d probably have to carry me most of the way there.’
‘Well, that’s settled then,’ Otto said. ‘Very grateful to you both. But only, of course, if the weather improves. Well, I think that covers everything.’ He smiled at me. ‘As co-opted board member, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘Except with your assumption that everyone will be here in the morning to play the parts you have assigned to them.’
‘Ah!’ Otto said.
‘Precisely,’ I said. ‘You weren’t seriously contemplating that we should all retire for the night, were you? For certain people with certain purposes in mind there is no time like the still small hours. When I say “people”, I’m not going out- with the bounds of this cabin: when I say “purposes”, I refer to homicidal ones.’
‘My colleagues and I have, in fact, discussed this,’ Otto said. ‘You propose we set watches?’
‘It might help some of us to live a little longer,’ I said. I moved two or three steps until I was in the centre of the cabin. ‘From here I can see into all five corridors. It would be impossible for any person to leave or enter any of the cubicles without being observed by a person standing here.’
‘Going to call for a rather special type of person, isn’t it?’ Conrad said. ‘Someone with his neck mounted on swivels.’
‘Not if we have two on watch at the same time,’ I said. ‘And as the time’s long gone when anybody’s hurt feelings are a matter of any importance, two people on watch who are not only watching the corridors but watching each other. A suspect, shall we say, and a non-suspect. Among the non- suspects, I think we might gallantly exclude the two Marys. And I think that Allen too could do with a full night’s sleep. That would leave Mr Gerran, Mr Goin, Mr Smith, Cecil and myself. Five of us, which would work out rather well for two-hour watches between, say, 10 p.m. and 8 a.m.’
‘An excellent suggestion,’ Otto said. ‘Well, then, five volunteers.’
There were thirteen potential volunteers and all thirteen immediately offered their services. Eventually it was agreed that Goin and Hendriks should share the ten to midnight watch, Smith and Conrad the midnight to two, myself and Luke the two to four, Otto and Jungbeck the four to six, and Cecil and Eddie the six to eight. Some of the others, notably the Count and Heissman, protested, not too strongly, that they were being discriminated against: the reminder that there would be still another twenty-one nights after this one was sufficient to ensure that the protest was no more than a token one.
The decision not to linger around in small talk and socializing w
as reached with a far from surprising unanimity. There was, really, only one thing to talk about and nobody wished to talk about it in case he had picked the wrong person to talk to. In ones and twos, and within a very few minutes, almost everybody had moved off to their cubicles. Apart from Smithy and myself, only Conrad remained and I knew that he wished to talk to me. Smithy glanced briefly at me, then left for our cubicle.
‘How did you know?’ Conrad said. ‘About Lonnie and his family?’
‘I didn’t. I guessed. He’s talked to you?’
‘A little. Not much. He had a family.’
‘Had?’
‘Had. Wife and two daughters. Two grown-up girls. A car crash. I don’t know if they hit another car, I don’t know who was driving. Lonnie just clammed up as if he had already said too much. He wouldn’t even say whether he had been in the car himself, whether anyone else had been present, not even when it had taken place.’
And that was all that Conrad had learnt. We talked in a desultory fashion for some little time, and when Goin and Hendriks appeared to begin the first watch I left for my cubicle. Smithy was not in his camp-bed. Fully clothed, he was just removing the last of the screws I’d used to secure the window frame: he’d the flame of the little oil lamp turned so low that the cubicle was in semi-darkness.
‘Leaving?’ I said,
‘Somebody out there.’ Smithy reached for his anorak and I did the same. ‘I thought maybe we shouldn’t use the front door.’
‘Who is it?’
‘No idea. He looked in here but his face was just a white blur. He doesn’t know I saw him, I’m sure of that, for he went from here and shone a torch through Judith Haynes’s window, and he wouldn’t have done that if he thought anyone was watching.’ Smithy was already clambering through the window. ‘He put his torch out but not before I saw where he was heading. Down to the jetty, I’m sure.’
I followed Smithy and jammed the window shut as I had done before. The weather was very much as it had been earlier, still that driving snow, the deepening cold, the darkness and that bitter wind which was still boxing the compass and had moved around to the south-west. We moved across to Judith Haynes’s window, hooded our torches to give thin pencil beams of light, picked up tracks in the snow that led off in the direction of the jetty, and were about to follow them when it occurred to me that it might be instructive to see where they came from. But we couldn’t find where they came from: whoever the unknown was he’d walked, keeping very close to the walls, at least twice round the cabin, obviously dragging his feet as he had gone, so that it was quite impossible to discover which cubicle window he’d used as an exit route from the cabin. That he should have so effectively covered his tracks was annoying: that he should have thought to do it at all was disconcerting for it plainly demonstrated at least the awareness that such late-night sorties might be expected.
We made our way quickly but cautiously down to the jetty, giving the unknown’s tracks a prudently wide berth. At the head of the jetty I risked a quick flash with the narrowed beam of my torch: a single line of tracks led outwards.
‘Well, now,’ Smithy said softly. ‘Our lad’s down at the boats or the sub. If we go to investigate we might bump into him. If we go down to the end of the jetty for a quick look-see and don’t bump into him he’s still bound to see our tracks on his return trip. We want to make our presence known?’
‘No. No law against a man taking a stroll when he feels like it, even though it is in a blizzard. And if we declare ourselves you can be damn sure he’ll never put another foot wrong as long as we remain on Bear Island.’
We withdrew to the shelter of some rocks only a few yards distant along the beach, an almost wholly superfluous precaution in that close to zero visibility.
‘What do you think he’s up to?’ Smithy said.
‘Specifically, no idea. Generally, anything between the felonious and the villainous. We’ll check down there when he’s gone.’
Whatever purpose he’d had in mind, it hadn’t taken him long to achieve it for he was gone within two minutes. The snow was so thick, the darkness so nearly absolute, that he might well have passed by both unseen and unheard had it not been for the erratic movement of the small torch he held in his hand. We waited for some seconds then straightened.
‘Was he carrying anything?’ I said.
‘Same thought here,’ Smithy said. ‘He could have been. But I couldn’t swear to it.’
We followed the double tracks in the snow down to the end of the jetty, where they ended at the head of the iron ladder leading down to the submarine mock-up. No question but this was where he’d gone, for apart from the fact that there was nowhere else where he could have been his footprints were all over the hull and, when we’d climbed into it, the platform in the conning-tower. We dropped down into the hull of the submarine.
Nothing was changed, nothing appeared to be missing from our earlier visit. Smithy said: ‘I’ve taken a sudden dislike to this place. Last time we were here I called it an iron tomb. I wouldn’t want it to be our tomb.’
‘You feel it might?’
‘Our friend seemingly didn’t take anything away. But he must have had some purpose in coming here so I assume he brought something. On the track record to date that purpose wouldn’t be anything I’d like and neither would be that something he brought. How would it be if he’d planted something to blow the damn thing up?’
‘Why would he want to do a crazy thing like that?’ I didn’t feel as disbelieving as I sounded.
‘Why has he done any of the crazy things he’s done? Right now, I don’t want a reason. I just want to know whether, as of now, and here and now, he’s just done another crazy thing. What I mean is, I’m nervous.’
He wasn’t the only one. I said: ‘Assuming you’re right, he couldn’t blow this thing up with a little itsy-bitsy piece of plastic explosive. It would have to be something big enough to make a big bang. So, a delayed-action fuse.’
‘To give him time to be asleep in his innocent bed when the explosion goes off? I’m more nervous than ever. I wonder how long he figured it would take him to get back to his bed.’
‘He could do it in a minute.’
‘God’s sake, why are we standing here talking?’ Smithy flashed his torch around. ‘Where the hell would a man put a device like that?’
‘Against a bulkhead, I’d say. Or on the bottom.’
We examined the deck first but all the bars of iron ballast and their securing wooden battens appeared to be undisturbed and firmly in place. There was just no room there for even the smallest explosive device. We turned to the rest of the hull, looked behind the mushroom anchors, among the chains, under the compressor unit and the windlass and behind the plastic models of periscope and guns. We found nothing. We even peered at the cleaning plates on the ballast tanks to see if any of those could have been unscrewed but there were no marks on them. And there was certainly no place where such a device could have been attached to the bulkheads themselves without being instantly detectable.
Smithy looked at me. It was difficult to say whether he was perplexed or, like me, increasingly and uncomfortably conscious of the fact that if such a time device did exist time might be swiftly running out. He looked towards the fore end of the hull and said: ‘Or he might just have dropped it in one of those lockers. Easiest and quickest place to hide anything, after all.’
‘Most unlikely,’ I said, but I reached there before he did. I ran the beam of the torch over the paint locker and then the light steadied on a wooden batten close by the floor of the locker. I kept the light where it was and said to Smithy: ‘You see it too?’
‘A giveaway piece of fresh and unmelted snow. From a boot.’ He reached for the lid of the locker. ‘Well, time’s a-wasting. Better open the damn thing.’
‘Better not.’ I’d caught his arm. ‘How do you know it’s not booby-trapped?’
‘There’s that.’ He’d snatched back his hand like a man seeing a tiger’s ja
ws closing on it. ‘It would save the cost of a time-fuse. How do we open it then?’
‘Gradually. It’s unlikely that he had the time to rig up anything so elaborate as an electrical trigger, but if he did there’ll be contacts in the lid. More likely, if anything, a simple pull cord. In either event nothing can operate in the first two inches of lift for he must have left at least that space to withdraw his hand.’
So we gingerly opened the lid those two inches, examined the rim and what we could see of the interior of the locker and found nothing. I pushed the locker lid right back. There was no sign of any explosive. Nothing had been put inside. But something had been removed—two cans of the quick- dry paint and two brushes.
Smithy looked at me and shook his head. Neither of us said anything. The reasons for removing a couple of paint cans were so wholly inconceivable that, clearly, there was nothing that could be gainfully said. We closed the locker, climbed up the conning-tower and regained the pier. I said: ‘It’s very unlikely that he would have taken them back to the cabin with him. After all, they’re large cans and not easy things to hide in a tiny cubicle, especially if any of your friends should chance to come calling.’
‘He doesn’t have to hide them there. As I said earlier, there are a thousand snowdrifts where you can hide practically anything.’
But if he’d hidden anything he hadn’t hidden them in any of the snowdrifts between the jetty and the cabin, for his tracks led straight back to the latter without any deviation to either side. We followed the footprints right back close up to the cabin walls and there they were lost in the smudged line of tracks that led right round the cabin’s perimeter. Smithy hooded his torch and examined the tracks for some seconds.
He said: ‘I think that track’s wider and deeper than it was before. I think that someone—and it doesn’t have to be the same person—has been making another grand tour of the cabin.’
Bear Island Page 26
