“Fine,” I said. “That’s what I think. In the circumstances I think we should refuse to reach any conclusions. This committee of enquiry has no legal standing. We should merely file the evidence and hand it over to assist the police in their investigations.”
Eide nodded. His gaunt, hatchet face was set in the lines beaten into it by years of violent weather. “Bland will not like it,” he said. “It is bad for the men that we do not reach some conclusion. But we cannot. I agree. So.” He pulled himself to his feet. “We had better go to the conference now.”
I gathered up the sheets of evidence I had so laboriously taken down, clipping them together and stuffing them into my pocket. Up on deck Eide paused, gazing south towards the ice blink. The white, mirrored on the undersurface of the low cloud, was streaked with wide, dark lines. “See,” he said. “There are many wide leads—and they all run south. That is good.” It was like looking at a map of the ice below.
The saloon was full of smoke when we entered. Bland was sitting in a big chair. The skippers of the catchers were grouped round him in a circle. Charts littered the floor. Erik Bland was also there. He was sitting close to his father. “Well, Captain Eide,” Bland said as we sat down, “the others agree with me—that we should go south through the pack. The Haakon has reached open sea 600 miles south of us. She reports plenty of whale.”
“Then we also must go south,” Eide said. “There are good leads and the weather is fine.”
“Good. Then it’s settled.” Bland rang for the messboy and ordered drinks. Then he got up and came over to me. “A word with you, Craig,” he said. I followed him out of the saloon and along the corridor to his cabin. “Now,” he said, as I closed the door. “What are your findings?” His voice was hard and his small eyes had narrowed.
I pulled the sheets of evidence out of my pocket and handed them to him. He put them down on the desk. “Your findings?” he repeated. “Come on, man,” he added impatiently as I hesitated. “You must have reached some conclusion.”
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t think you’ll like it. In our opinion Nordahl’s disappearance is a matter for police investigation.”
He blew his cheeks out like a grampus. It was as though he’d been holding his breath. “Why?” he asked sharply.
“There are two possibilities,” I said. “Either Nordahl committed suicide or he was—murdered.”
“Go on.”
“As this enquiry has no legal standing, we take the view that it would not be right for it to attempt to reach any conclusion. The evidence, which I have now passed on to you, should be handed over to the police on our return to port.”
“I see. You and Captain Eide and my daughter-in-law all take the view it is either suicide or murder.”
“That is my view and Captain Eide’s. Mrs. Bland was too upset to consider the findings.”
“And—is my son involved in any way?”
“Yes,” I said. “He was the last person to see Nordahl alive. In his first evidence he denied seeing Nordahl at all after the evening meal. Later he admitted that he had had a row with him up on the deck. That was shortly after midnight. At twelve thirty-five the fog cleared. It was only possible for Nordahl to have gone overboard unobserved during the intervening twenty minutes.”
“I see.” Bland slowly sank into a chair. “But it could be suicide.”
“His daughter doesn’t think so. She says he wasn’t a quitter, that suicide would never enter his head.”
“But you think it is a possibility. Why?”
“You should know,” I answered.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Weren’t you in on the Wyks Odensdaal Rust Development racket?” I countered.
Bland turned on me with a quick oath. “How do you know—” He stopped then. “Well?”
“Nordahl came to you and asked to be put on to something good in the financial world. He mortgaged all his holding in the South Antartic Company and invested everything he had in Wyks Odensdaal Rust Development.”
“If he did, then it’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Bland barked. “He never asked me for financial advice in his life. And I wouldn’t have given it to him if he had. He knew nothing about finance and I’m old enough to know that to give financial advice is the quickest way of making enemies.”
So it was Erik Bland who had advised Nordahl. “Well,” I said, “that’s what your son says.”
“I see.” He stood by the porthole a moment, drumming with his fingers on the top of the toilet cabinet. At length he turned and faced me. He looked tired and somehow older. He didn’t say anything, but sat down at the desk and began running through the sheets of evidence. Then for a long time he sat staring at one single page. At last he pushed the papers into a drawer and got to his feet. “Very well, Craig,” he said heavily. “I agree. It is a matter for the police. Some changes must be made now.” He went to the door and I followed him back to the saloon.
One of the skytters gave me a drink and I knocked it back. I needed it badly. Bland had sat down again. Something in his manner silenced the room. He watched them, his heavy brows dragged down, his face set in its solid, imperturbable rolls. “I have some changes in command to announce,” he said. “Nordahl’s death has left us without an experienced leader. As I am here, and intend to stay out during the whole season, I shall direct operations personally. Petersen, you will take over from my son as manager of the Southern Cross.” There was a murmur of surprise and a quickening of interest at this announcement. “Commander Craig, you are posted to command of Hval 4 in Petersen’s place.”
I saw the eldest of the whaling skippers stir in his seat and lean forward. “Excuse me, sir,” I said quickly, “I don’t wish to query your orders. But I would like to remind you that I’ve no experience as a gunner.”
“I’m well aware of that, Craig,” he answered. “But you will take command of Hval 4.” He rounded on Petersen before the old skytter could begin to argue. “I know what you’re going to say, Petersen. But I won’t have a girl in charge of a catcher. Not down here. Craig will command the boat. Your daughter will remain in her present position as mate. But in addition she will act as gunner. Some adjustment will be made financially in her terms of employment. Does that satisfy you?”
The old skytter relaxed. “Ja, hr. Bland. I am satisfied.”
“Good. Erik. You will take command of Tauer III. The ship is without deck officers at the moment. You can choose your own mates.” He turned to Petersen again. “I shall rely on you to see that there is no more trouble between the Sandefjord and Tönsberg men. More than six weeks have passsed and we’ve only just over a hundred whales. In the next two months the leeway has go to be—”
But I wasn’t listening. I was staring at Erik Bland. His face seemed to have crumpled up on hearing his father’s decision. But it wasn’t his face so much as his eyes that held my gaze. There was something violent, almost vicious, about those small blue slits between the creases of fat.
I was brought back to the conference again with a jolt. It was Captain Larvik. “Has the enquiry into Nordahl’s death been completed yet, hr. Bland?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the chairman, and glanced quickly at me.
“Can we have the findings of the committee then?”
“They have not been typed yet,” Bland answered. “They will be published tomorrow.”
Again I was conscious of a quick glance in my direction and then he was hurrying on into details of organisation for the journey through the pack. Finally he said, “Well, gentlemen, I think that’s all. We will start as soon as you have rejoined your ships.” He was as casual as if he were terminating a rather dull board meeting. The skytters got to their feet. There was no argument, no indication that only just over twenty-four hours before several of them had refused to operate. Bland sat, squat and solid in his chair, smiling genially, dominating them. There was something implacable in the calm assuredness of the man. I thought: Money is power and
he’s had that all his life. He’s had it because that’s what he’s fought for and in doing so he’s learned to beat down all opposition. They know that. They know it’s no good fighting him. So they do what he says. I didn’t like Bland. But I couldn’t help admiring him. Out of chaos and a tricky situation, he had produced order—and obedience.
The whalers were leaving now. Bland motioned me over to him. His son was still hunched angrily in his chair, waiting to speak to his father. “Craig,” Bland said quietly as I approached him, “I want you to understand that the interests of the expedition must come first. I am referring to the committee of enquiry. Your attitude in the matter is quite correct. But the safety of the Southern Cross and the catcher fleet depend on the morale of the men. For the moment that must be my sole consideration. But privately I wish you to know that the whole matter of Nordahl’s disappearance, together with the evidence you have taken, will be handed over to the police at the earliest opportunity. In the meantime, anything I may do in the matter will be done with Captain Eide’s full knowledge. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
As I turned to go his son rose from his seat. “Does that include posting me to command of a towing ship?” His tone was pitched a shade high. I got the impression that he was scared of his father. But something stronger was driving him now.
Bland looked at him. “It does,” he said.
“But Nordahl committed suicide. He must have done. It—it’s the only logical explanation. He was finished. He’d ruined himself in that mad gamble. That’s why he killed himself. I tried to make Craig understand that. He’d lost everything he had. He’d nothing to live for. Why didn’t you tell the skytters the truth—that Nordahl was a ruined man?”
“I’m doing what I think best, boy.” Bland’s voice was a deep, angry rumble.
“You’re being weak.” Erik Bland was trembling, his eyes fever-bright and his mouth twitching. “You’re discarding me like you do everyone when it suits you.”
“Talk to me like that again, Erik, and I’ll send you back to the Cape in irons.” Bland took off his glasses and wiped them carefully. He was trembling with anger. He had calmed down a little by the time he’d put his glasses on again. He took out his wallet and extracted a piece of paper. “Read that,” he said, passing it across to his son.
“Cargo unloaded as per instructions,” Erik Bland read aloud and his brow puckered.
“It’s a copy of a radio message received by Nordahl on Christmas Eve. It was sent by Howe from Capetown.”
“What’s it mean?”
“I’ll leave you to think about what it means for a moment.” Bland turned to me. “You’ll please regard what has passed between Erik and myself here as confidential, Craig. You have my assurance that, whatever I put out for the benefit of the men in present circumstances, all the evidence you have taken at the committee of enquiry will be handed to the police immediately on our return to port. Now I suggest you join your ship.”
I nodded and turned to go. But he stopped me. “I shall be sending Doctor Howe over to join you. I think it would be better if he didn’t remain on the factory ship. He is excitable and when drunk he might—” He shrugged his shoulders. “Bernt Nordahl,” he began, and then hesitated. He seemed to have difficulty in finding the right words, “Nordahl was his father,” he finished abruptly.
“His father?” I echoed in surprise. And I saw a shocked, almost dazed look on Erik Bland’s face.
“Yes,” Bland said. “He is Nordahl’s natural son by a Mrs. Howe of Newcastle. That is why I think it would be better if he were on one of the catchers.” He nodded for me to go and then added, “You will find Gerda Petersen not very beautiful, but a good first mate.”
That he should be capable of this little flash of dry humour at that moment made me wonder whether Nordahl’s death meant anything to him. I remember thinking that a man who was involved in the Wyks Odensdaal Rust business might not stop at other things. As I walked away from the saloon I heard the door opened and then closed. It was as though they had suspected me of listening in the corridor.
I went straight down to my cabin. Judie was there, sitting on my bunk. Howe was pacing up and down. They both turned to face me as I came in. “Shut the door, Craig,” Howe said. He was agitated, almost excited. Judie sat very tense, her eyes dark shadows in the tightness of her face. She was beyond tears—near the breaking point.
I shut the door. “Something happened?” I asked.
Judie nodded. “Tell him, Walter.” Her voice was barely audible.
“All right.” Howe swung round on me. “But understand this, Craig—not a word of what I’m going to tell you must be passed on to anyone. Understand?” I nodded. “Promise?”
“I promise,” I said.
He peered at me quickly. “I don’t know you well enough to be certain you can be trusted.” He hesitated and then shrugged his shoulders. “However, Judie wants me to tell you, so—” He started pacing the cabin again without finishing his sentence. There was a sort of incredible violence about the man. I sat very still, watching him. It was like waiting for an animal to make up its mind whether it regards you as a friend.
At length he stopped his pacing and came and stood right in front of me. “Erik Bland said Nordahl was ruined, didn’t he?”
I nodded.
“That’s the basis for thinking Nordahl’s death might be suicide?”
Again I nodded.
“The only basis?”
“Yes,” I said.
“If Nordahl weren’t ruined, it would mean that Erik Bland killed him?”
“On the evidence we have at the moment it would be reasonable to suppose that,” I said, cautiously, wondering what the hell he was driving at.
Howe nodded excitedly. “That’s what I told Judie. If Nordahl were a rich man then Erik Bland killed him, pushed him overboard in the fog.”
“What are you getting at?” I demanded.
“Why do you suppose I was left in Capetown?”
“I thought you’d been ill.”
“That was only an excuse, I stayed in Capetown to look after Nordahl’s interests. Erik Bland was quite right—as far as he went. Nordahl invested everything he had in Wyks Odensdaal Rust Development, even to mortgaging his interest in the South Antarctic Company. Erik Bland got the whole of his father’s plan for the boosting of these shares from his mother. He passed it on to Nordahl as a straight tip, forgetting to mention that it was a racket, that the mine was to be salted and at a certain moment Bland was going to go on the bear tack. Nordahl had never dabbled much in finance. But he was an astute man. He saw through the reason for Erik Bland giving him the tip and he saw in it a chance to prevent Erik Bland from becoming head of the firm on his father’s death. He got an introduction to one of the sharpest brokers in the business, and dealt through them. And when the Southern Cross sailed from Capetown I stayed behind with his power of attorney. On Christmas Eve I cabled the Southern Cross that I’d sold all the shares.”
“Cargo unloaded as per instructions,” I said. I was beginning to understand.
Howe looked at me sharply. “How did you know the wording?”
I told him about Bland handing the copy of the cable to his son.
“So the old man knows, eh?” He chuckled to himself. “It must have shaken him—reading the evidence and knowing that.” He caught hold of my arm. “Nordahl was a rich man when he died. A very rich man.”
I stared at him. I don’t think I made any comment. I only remember the shock of realising what must have happened, that Erik Bland had killed him.
“Don’t you see,” Howe rushed on. “Up there on the boat deck, Erik Bland told Nordahl what had happened, told him he was a ruined man. You can imagine how sympathetically he broke the news. And then Nordahl told him the truth—that he’d sold out, that he was rich. He probably told him that he’d see he never again set foot on one of the company’s ships. And then Bland pushed him.”
�
�It could have been an accident,” Judie whispered. “He may have struck Bernt without realising—in the fog—” Her voice trailed away.
Howe laughed. It was a derisive sound. “You don’t really believe that,” he said.
“Why didn’t you tell this to the committee of enquiry?” I asked him.
“Why? Because it would have given my hand away. And don’t forget your promise, Craig. Nothing I’ve told you must be repeated to anyone. I don’t think the old man knew what his son was up to. But he knows now. And he’s not the sort of man to regard justice as applicable to himself or his.” He stooped down suddenly. “I hear he refused to give the findings of the enquiry to the skytters—said they weren’t typed. Did he by any chance mention something to you about morale and the exigencies of the moment?”
I nodded. “But he has assured me that all the evidence will be handed to the police on our return to port.”
Howe gave that derisive, barking laugh again. “You wait. Vital witnesses will be sent home in another ship, Eide and the secretary will be persuaded that it’s not in the interest of the company to incur unprofitable publicity, and the whole thing will quietly fizzle out. That’s why I wasn’t coming out into the open. And I’ve still got something up my sleeve.”
But I wasn’t listening to him any longer. I was staring at Judie. I remember thinking: My God! She knows. And realising what hell it must be for her.
V
HALF AN HOUR later I was up on deck with my things packed. The wind had freshened and ugly whitecaps were beginning to fleck the marching lines of cold grey water. Howe was waiting for me at the head of the gangway. “Well, skipper,” he said, “all the problem children being evacuated.”
“Bland’s right all the same,” I said. “There’s two months of the season still to go.”
“I see you’re one of the reasonable sort.” He smiled at me crookedly. “You haven’t had much to do with the Blands of this world, have you?”
“How do you mean?”
The White South Page 12
