Jack Higgins (14 page)

Which didn't make any kind of sense unless Da Gama was engaged in some sort of private vendetta. The man looking down at me gave no clue. In fact he replaced the hatch and went away again.

I sat down, my head in my hands, and tried some more deep breathing. It didn't work particularly well because suddenly the darkness and the pain and the stench of rotting fish all seemed to come together and I rolled over and vomited.

I felt a little better after that. According to my watch, which still seemed to be working, it was seven o'clock when the sailor went away. It was a good hour later when the hatch was removed and he reappeared.

This time Da Gama was with him. He squatted on his haunches and peered down at me, a cigar clenched between his teeth, the sort of expression on his face that a cat has with a mouse between its paws.

He turned and said something and a moment later a ladder came down. By that time I was too weak to feel
anything, even fear, and I scrambled up and collapsed on the deck, sucking in great lungfuls of damp sea air.

He crouched beside me, a look of concern on his face. “You don't look too good, Mr. Martin. How you feel?”

“Bloody awful,” I said weakly.

He nodded soberly and then took his cigar from between his teeth and quite deliberately touched the glowing end to my cheek. I yelled like a stuck pig, rolled away from him and scrambled to my feet.

The sailor took a knife from his belt and moved towards me and Da Gama laughed harshly. “Feel better now, Mr. Martin? That's good, eh? That sharpens you up a little?”

I looked around me wildly and the sailor prodded me in the back, the tip of the knife slicing through my clothes and drawing blood. Da Gama tossed off an order in Portuguese, turned and moved along the deck and the sailor pushed me after him.

We went down the schooner's stern companionway and Da Gama opened the door of the cabin at the bottom and stood to one side. He nodded to the sailor, obviously dismissing him, grabbed me by the shoulder and threw me inside so that I lost my balance and went sprawling.

I lay there for a moment, the darkness moving in on me again and then a familiar voice said, “I say, old chap, you are in a mess, aren't you?”

Ralph Stratton pulled me up from the floor and dumped me in a chair. When I managed to focus I found Vogel sitting on the other side of the table.

M
y cheek was on fire where Da Gama had burned me, but the pain in my head had eased into a kind of dull throbbing. My hands were shaking slightly, but that was reaction, I suppose, and I made a conscious effort to steady them. At least my brain was starting to function and I don't think I'd ever felt so frightened in my life before. If Desforge had been playing the part the scriptwriters would have given him something witty to say, or perhaps he'd have reached for the bottle of cognac and one of the glasses that stood on the table, helping himself with the sort of offhand bravado with which tough heroes always faced that kind of situation.

But this was me, Joe Martin, weak as a kitten and sick to my stomach because I had a strong suspicion that whatever happened now, I was going over the side somewhere out to sea with a weight around my feet. I might
come up again, or what was left of me, when the ice thawed next spring, but it was more than likely that no one would ever hear of me again.

Or perhaps I was just being melodramatic? I wiped sweat from my face with the back of one hand and said in a cracked voice, “I wish someone would tell me what this is about.”

“Don't be stupid,” Vogel said crisply. “You're well aware why you're here.”

There was a sudden unexpected diversion on deck, a shout of anger, a flurry of blows and drunken voices arguing fiercely. Da Gama went out without a word and I said to Vogel, “Where does he fit in?”

“A blunt instrument. If the price is right and I asked him to, he would dispose of you without the slightest hesitation. You would do well to remember that.”

The silence hung between us and he left it there for a while, probably for effect. “When we reached the Heron yesterday I expected to find something which belonged to me—something which had been carefully concealed. It was missing. Do you know what I'm talking about?”

I shook my head. “I haven't the slightest idea.”

“Then why did you keep quiet about your discovery that a ski plane had landed recently in the area?”

I tried to think of a suitable reply to that one and failed miserably. “Did I?”

Stratton sighed. “You're really being very stupid, old chap.”

I noticed that he was still wearing those black leather gloves of his which didn't make me feel any better, especially when he moved around behind me.

Vogel said: “There is only one ski plane operating on the coast at the moment, you told me that yourself.”

There was no point in denying it and I didn't try. “That's right.”

“Which would seem to indicate that Fassberg lied to us when he returned from his reconnaissance flight and announced that a landing was out of the question. Why would he do that?”

“Why not ask him?”

“I have done, but he wasn't in the mood for conversation. When I have your contribution to this mystery, we'll try again.” He poured himself a brandy and leaned back in the chair. “I'll ask you for the second time. Why did you conceal the fact that Fassberg had landed in the vicinity of the crash?”

I decided to try a little improvisation. “All right, I'll tell you. He's a friend of mine. I didn't know what his game was. On the other hand I didn't want to be the one to land him in any trouble so I decided to keep my mouth shut till I'd seen him.”

“And have you?”

“I haven't had the chance yet. I've been flying all day.”

Vogel sipped a little of his brandy, held up the glass to the light and shook his head. “No, Martin, it won't do. It won't do at all.” He put down his glass very deliberately and leaned forward. “You're lying—you're holding something back. Shall I tell you how I know? Because I've looked into your eyes, because I've watched your reactions, listened to what you have said and none of it makes sense—none of it!”

His last few words were shouted into my face and Stratton struck me across the back of the skull with his knuckles so that I cried out in pain. He yanked me back by the hair and clamped an arm across my throat.

“Let's try again,” Vogel said. “Fassberg landed in his ski plane, went to the Heron and removed what I came to Greenland to recover. Wouldn't you say that was a reasonable assumption?”

“Only if he knew what he was looking for,” I said.

The thought must have occurred to him before, because it just couldn't be avoided and he sat there staring at me. This time you could have sliced the silence with a knife and Stratton said slowly, “I'd say he's got a point there.”

“Of course he has, you fool.” Vogel leaned forward. “Who Martin? Who could have told him?”

“That's something you'll have to work out for yourself, but it would need someone who knew in the first place, wouldn't it? Someone close to you.” I looked up at Stratton. “What about our friend here? How long has he been around?”

Stratton's hand rose and fell, catching me across the side of the head and I almost lost my senses. I slumped forward, head in hands, fighting the pain, and Vogel said, “Bring him round, you fool. I haven't finished with him yet.”

There was the chink of the decanter, then Stratton wrenched back my head and poured half a glass of brandy into my mouth. As the nausea hit me there was the usual body-wrenching spasm and I vomited all over his neat grey suit. He gave a cry of disgust, sent me away
from him with a tremendous heave and the chair went over. I rolled to the wall and got up as Stratton started to unbutton his jacket. When he had it half off, I sucked in some air, grabbed for the door handle and plunged outside.

He almost had me on the companionway, but I kicked out and caught him full in the face. And then I had the door open and was out on the deck. Da Gama was standing no more than three or four feet away talking to a couple of his crew. As he swung round, I kept on going and vaulted the rail. The shock of the icy water was so terrible that for a moment, I thought the heart had stopped beating inside me, but then I surfaced and struck out wildly into the fog.

 

I knew they'd expect me to get out of that freezing water at the earliest possible moment, which meant they'd be strung out along the jetty waiting for me. I took a chance and headed through the fog to the other side of the harbour.

It took me no more than ten minutes, but towards the end I didn't think I was going to make it and then my knee banged against a submerged rock. A few moments later I crawled out of the water and fell face down on a shingle beach.

I was numb with cold, but I forced myself to my feet and stumbled across the beach to a broken line of massive concrete blocks which I recognised as being part of the defensive system laid down at the northern end of the airstrip against winter storms.

I checked my watch. It was almost nine, about three
hours since my meeting with Arnie on the other side of the fjord. He would have returned by now, probably not long after me in view of the deterioration in the weather.

I ran across the airstrip, flapping my arms vigorously to try and get some feeling back into them. There was no one about as far as I could see and the hangars were deserted, so I borrowed an old jeep that was kept for general use about the place. Whatever happened now I had to make Arnie realise the kind of people he was dealing with and I drove towards town as fast as the fog would let me.

I parked the jeep at the end of the narrow street and walked toward the house. As I reached the steps leading up to the veranda, the side gate banged and someone ran out of the fog wildly. I had a momentary glimpse of Gudrid Rasmussen's face, eyes wide and staring, and then she was gone.

I hammered on the front door. There was no reply, but the curtain was drawn and a chink of light showed through. I tried again, calling his name with no better success and went round the side of the house and tried the kitchen door.

I think I knew what I was going to find the moment I stepped inside. For one thing there was a special quality to the silence. It was as if the whole world had stopped breathing and the harsh distinctive odour of gunpowder hung on the air.

The living room was a shambles. The telephone had been ripped from the wall, drawers turned out, cushions torn apart, books scattered across the floor and blood—
fresh blood—splashed across the wall in a crimson curtain.

Arnie lay on his back on the other side of the couch, most of his face missing, his own shotgun lying across his body where the murderer had dropped it. Strange, but at times, the face of Death can be so appalling that it freezes the soul, cutting out all emotional response, preventing any normal reaction. I stood staring down at him, trapped in a kind of limbo where nothing was real any more and all that had happened seemed part of some crazy nightmare.

Somewhere a shutter banged, blown by the wind, bringing me back to reality like a slap in the face and I turned and ran as if all the devils in hell were at my heels.

 

I parked the jeep in the courtyard at the rear of the hotel and went up the back stairs to my room. When I opened the door Ilana was sitting by the window reading a book. It seemed as if I was still back there in the fog as her face jumped out to meet me, the smile of welcome fading into a look of astonishment and concern.

I'm not quite sure what happened after that. I only know that I was on my knees and her arms were tight around me. I don't think I've ever been so glad to see anyone in my life before.

 

I had a hot shower and changed and told her everything. When I'd finished, we did the obvious thing and went along to Gudrid's room. The door was locked, but I knocked several times and called her name and after a while it opened and she gazed out at us fearfully. Her
eyes were swollen from weeping and she was shaking as if she had a fever.

She looked at me and then at Ilana and pushed back a tendril of hair that had fallen across her eyes. “I'm sorry, Mr. Martin, I don't feel very well. I'm going to take the rest of the night off.”

I shoved her back into the room and Ilana followed me. “I saw you leaving, Gudrid,” I said.

She looked genuinely bewildered. “Leaving? I don't understand.”

“Outside Arnie Fassberg's place. You ran straight past me. I was on my way in.”

Her face crumpled and she turned and flung herself on the bed, her body racked by great sobs. I sat down and patted her on the shoulder. “There's no time for that, Gudrid. Have you told the police?”

She turned her tear-stained face to look up at me. “I didn't kill him, you must believe that. He was dead when I arrived.”

“I believe you,” I said. “You've nothing to worry about.”

“But you don't understand. Arnie and I often quarrelled—plenty of people knew that. Sergeant Simonsen knows it.”

“He also knows what's possible and what isn't and the idea that you could have let Arnie Fassberg have both barrels in the face at point-blank range is so preposterous that he wouldn't even waste his time considering it.” I took her hands and held them tight. “Now tell me what happened?”

“I got a phone call from Arnie about forty minutes
ago. He asked me to bring round a package I've been looking after for him. He said he knew that I was on duty, but that I must bring it. That it was a matter of life and death.”

“Did you know what was in the package?”

She nodded. “He told me they were ore specimens that had come into his possession, evidence of mineral deposits somewhere in the mountains that would make him a wealthy man. He told me to keep the package in the safest place I could find. He said our whole future depended on it.”

“What future?”

“We were to be married, Mr. Martin.”

She started to cry again, a handkerchief to her mouth and Ilana sat down and put an arm round her. I got to my feet and walked to the window. Poor little bitch. So much in love that she'd been willing to believe anything, even a story as shot full of holes as an old skein net.

After a while she seemed to regain some kind of control and I tried again. “So you took the package round?”

She shook her head. “I didn't have it to take. I know it's silly, but I was frightened to death—afraid I might lose it or that it might be stolen—there's been a lot of petty theft in the staff quarters lately. Another thing, you know what a terrible gambler Arnie was. He was always giving me money to look after for him one day and asking for it back the next. For the first time I seemed to have him pinned down. I wanted to keep it that way so I posted the package to myself and addressed it to my grandfather's farm at Sandvig. It went with the monthly supply boat first thing this morning.”

“What happened when you told Arnie that?”

“That was the strangest thing of all. He started to laugh and then the phone went dead.”

I nodded to Ilana. “Whoever was with him must have ripped it out then.”

“I was worried and anxious,” Gudrid carried on. “So I got my coat and slipped out the back way even though I was supposed to be on duty.”

“And he was dead when you got there.”