Алистер Маклин - Bear Island

I was as certain as could be that Halliday’s absence had so far gone unnoticed by everyone except myself and the person responsible for his death, and there was not even certainty about that last point, it was quite possible that he knew nothing of Halliday’s brief visit to the saloon. True, Halliday had not appeared for breakfast but as a few others had done the same and those who had come had done so intermittently over the best part of a couple of hours, his absence had gone unremarked. His cabin-mate, Sandy, was still feeling under the weather to the extent that Halliday’s presence or absence was a matter of total indifference to him: and as Halliday had been very much a solitary there was no one who would be sufficiently concerned to inquire anxiously as to his whereabouts. I hoped that his absence remained undiscovered as long as possible: although the signed guarantee given to Captain Imrie that morning had contained no specific reference as to the action to be taken in the event of someone going missing, he was quite capable of seizing upon this as a pretext to abandon the trip and make with all speed for Hammerfest.

The match I’d left jammed between the foot of my cabin door and the sill had no longer been in position when I’d returned to my cabin early in the morning. The coins I’d left in the linen pockets of the lids of my suitcases had shifted position from the front to the back of the pockets, sure evidence that my cases had been opened in my absence. It says much for my frame of mind that the discovery occasioned me no particular surprise – which was in itself surprising, for although someone aboard was aware that the good doctor had been boning up on aconitine and so had more than a fair idea that the poisoning had not been accidental, that in itself was hardly reason to start examining the doctor’s hand luggage. More than ever, it behooved me to watch my back.

I heard a sound behind my back. My instinctive reaction was to take a couple of rapid steps forward, who knew what hard or sharp implement might be coming at my occiput or shoulder-blades, then whirl round, but a simultaneous reasoning told me that it was unlikely that anyone would propose to do me in on the upper deck in daylight under the interested gaze of watchers on the bridge, so I turned round leisurely and saw Charles Conrad moving into what little shelter was offered in the lee of the bulk deck cargo.

‘What’s this, then?’ I said. ‘The morning constitutional at all costs? Or don’t you fancy Captain Imrie’s scotch?’

‘Neither.’ He smiled. ‘Curiosity is all.’ He tapped the tarpaulin-covered bulk beside us. It was close on ten feet in height, semi-cylindrical – the base was flat – and was lashed in position by at least a dozen steel cables. ‘Do you know what this is?’

‘Is this a clever question?’

‘Yes.’

‘Prefabricated Articized huts. Or so the word went in Wick. Six of them, designed to fit one inside the other for ease of transportation.’

‘That’s it. Made of bonded ply, kapok insulation, asbestos and aluminium.’ He pointed to another bulky item of deck cargo immediately for’ard of the one behind which we were sheltering. This peculiarly shaped object appeared to be roughly oval along its length, perhaps six feet high. ‘And this?’

‘Another clever question?’

‘Of course.’

‘And my answer will be wrong? Again?’

‘If you still believe what you were told in Wick, yes. Those aren’t huts because we don’t need huts. We’re heading for an area called the Sor-hamna – the South Haven – where there already are huts, and perfectly usable ones. Bloke called Lerner came there seventy years ago, prospecting for coal – which he found, by the way: a bit of an odd-ball who painted the rocks on the shore in the German colours to indicate that this was private property. He built huts – he even built a road across the headland to the nearest bay, the Kvalross Bukta or Walrus Bay. After him a German fishing company based themselves here – and they built huts. More importantly, a Norwegian scientific expedition spent nine months here during the most recent International Geophysical Year – and they built huts. Whatever else is lacking at South Haven it’s not accommodation.’

‘You’re very well informed.’

‘I don’t forget something that I finished reading only half an hour ago. Comin’ and Goin’s been making the rounds this morning handing out copies of the prospectus of what’s going to be the greatest film ever made. Didn’t you get one from him?’

‘Yes. He forgot to give me a dictionary, though.’

‘A dictionary would have helped.’ He tapped the tarpaulin beside us. ‘This is a mock-up of the central section of a submarine – just a shell, nothing inside it. When I say it’s a mock-up, I don’t mean it’s made of cardboard – it’s made of steel and weighs ten tons, including four tons of cast-iron ballast. That other item in front is a conning-tower which is to be bolted on to this once it’s in the water.’

‘Ah!’ I said because I couldn’t think of any other comment. ‘And those alleged tractors and drums of fuel on the after deck – they’ll be tanks and anti-aircraft guns?’

‘Tractors and fuel, as stated.’ He paused. ‘Do you know there’s only one copy of the screen-play for this film and that’s locked up in the Bank of England or some such?’

‘I went to sleep about that bit.’

‘They haven’t even got a shooting script for the scenes to be shot on the island. Just a series of unrelated incidents which, taken together, make no sense at all. Sure, there must be connecting links to make sense of it all: but they’re all in the vaults in Threadneedle Street or whatever this damned bank is. No part of it makes sense.’

‘Maybe it’s not meant to make sense.’ I was conscious that my feet were slowly turning into blocks of ice. ‘Not at this stage. There may be excellent reasons for the secretiveness. Besides, don’t some producers encourage directors who play it off the cuff, who improvise as they go along and as the mood takes them?’

‘Not Neal Divine. He’s never shot an off-the-cuff scene in his life.’ Not much of Conrad’s forehead was to be seen beneath the thick brown hair that the snow and wind had brought down almost to eyebrow level, but what little was visible was very heavily corrugated indeed. ‘If a Divine shooting script calls for you to be wearing a bowler hat and doing the can-can in Scene 289, then you’re doing a bowler-hatted can-can in 289. As for Otto, he never moves until everything’s calculated out to the last matchstick and the last penny. Especially the last penny.’

‘He has the reputation for being careful.’

‘Careful!’ Conrad shivered. ‘Doesn’t the whole set-up strike you as being crazy.’

‘The entire film world,’ I said candidly, ‘strikes me as being crazy, but as an ordinary human being exposed to it for the first time I wouldn’t know whether this current particular brand of craziness differs from the norm or not. What do your fellow actors think of it?’

‘What fellow actors?’ Conrad said glumly. ‘Judith Haynes is still closeted with those two pooches of hers. Mary Stuart is writing letters in her cabin, at least she says it’s letters, it’s probably her last will and testament. And if Gunther Jungbeck and Jon Heyter have any opinion on everything they’re carefully keeping it to themselves. Anyway, they are a couple of odd-balls themselves.’

‘Even for actors?’

‘Touché.’ He smiled, but he wasn’t trying too hard. ‘Sea burials bring out the misanthrope in me. No, it’s just that they know so little about the film world, at least the British film world, understandable enough I suppose, Heyter’s done all his acting in California, Jungbeck in Germany. They’re not odd, really, it’s just that we have nothing in common to talk about, no points of reference.’