Алистер Маклин - Night Without End

He was wearing two overcoats, a jacket, several sweaters and scarves, two pairs of trousers and layer upon layer of underclothes: searching him was easier said than done. It took me a full minute to convince myself that he wasn’t carrying a weapon of any kind. I stepped back, and he came slowly round to face me.

‘I hope you’re quite satisfied now, Dr Mason?’

‘We’ll see what we find in your case. As for the rest, I’m satisfied enough. I have all the proof I want.’ I dipped the torch beam to illuminate the handful of sugar I’d taken from the pocket of his inner overcoat – there had been well over a pound in either pocket. ‘You might care to explain where you got this from, Mr Mahler?’

‘I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’ His voice was very low. ‘I stole it, Dr Mason.’

‘You did indeed. A remarkably small-time activity for a person who operates on the scale you do. It was just your bad luck, Mahler, that I happened to be looking directly at you when the theft of the sugar was mentioned back in the cabin. It was just your bad luck that when we had our coffee just now it was dark enough for me to have a swig from your cup without your knowledge: it was so stiff with sugar that I couldn’t even drink the damn’ stuff. Curious, isn’t it, Mahler, that such a tiny thing as giving way to a momentary impulse of greed should ruin everything? But I believe it’s always the way: the big slip-up never brings the big criminal to book, because he never makes any. If you’d left that sugar alone when you were smashing up the valves, I’d never have known. Incidentally, what did you do with the rest of the sugar? In your grip? Or just thrown away?’

‘You’re making a very grave mistake, Dr Mason.’ Mahler’s voice was steady now, and if it held any trace of worry or guilt I couldn’t detect it. But I was now far beyond the naïve stage of expecting to detect anything of the sort. ‘I didn’t touch those valves. And, apart from the few handfuls I took, the sugar bag was quite intact when I left it.’

‘Of course, of course.’ I waved the Beretta. ‘Back to the tractor, my friend, and let’s have a look at this case of yours.’

‘No!’

‘Don’t be crazy,’ I snapped. ‘I have a gun, Mahler. Believe me, I won’t hesitate to use it.’

‘I believe you. I think you would be quite ruthless if the need arose. Oh, I don’t doubt you’re tough, Doctor, as well as being headstrong, impulsive and not very subtle, but because I rather respect your efficient and selfless handling of an awkward and ugly situation for which you were in no way responsible, I don’t want to see you make a complete fool of yourself in public’ He lifted his right hand towards the lapel of his coat. ‘Let me show you something.’

I jerked the Beretta forward, but the gesture was quite needless. As he pushed his hand under his topcoats, Mahler’s gestures were smooth and unhurried, just as smooth and unhurried when he brought his hand out again and passed over to me a leather-covered card. I stepped back a few feet, flipped open the card and glanced down at it.

That one glance was enough – or should have been enough. I’d seen these cards scores of times before, but I stared down at this one as if I’d never seen one in my life. This was a completely new factor, it knocked all my preconceived notions on the head, and I needed time, time for reorientation, for understanding, for quelling the professional fear that came hard on the heels of that understanding. Then, slowly, I folded the card, pulled down my snow-mask, stepped close to Mahler and pulled his down also. In the harsh glare of the torch, his face was blue and white with the cold, and I could see the jutting of the jaw muscles as he clamped his teeth together to keep them from chattering uncontrollably.

‘Breathe out,’ I said.

He did as I asked, and there was no mistaking it, none at all: the sweet acetone breath of the advanced and untreated diabetic can’t possibly be confused with anything else. Wordlessly, I handed him back the card and thrust the automatic into my parka pocket.

At last I said quietly: ‘How long have you had this, Mr Mahler?’

‘Thirty years.’

‘A pretty advanced condition?’ When it came to discussing a man’s illness with him, I had little time for the professional reticence of many of my colleagues: besides, the average elderly diabetic had survived to that age simply because he was intelligent about the dietary and medical treatment of his trouble, and usually knew all about it.

‘My doctor would agree with you.’ I caught the smile on his face as he pushed his mask up, and there wasn’t much humour in it. ‘So would I.’

‘Twice daily injections?’

‘Twice,’ he nodded. ‘Before breakfast and in the evening.’

‘But don’t you carry a hypo and–’

‘Normally’ he interrupted. ‘But not this time. The Gander doctor gave me a jab and as I can usually carry on a few hours overdue without ill effects I thought I’d wait until we got to London.’ He tapped his breast pocket. ‘This card’s good anywhere.’

‘Except on the Greenland ice-cap,’ I said bitterly. ‘But then I don’t suppose you anticipated a stop-over here. What diet were you on?’

‘High protein, high starch.’

‘Hence the sugar?’ I looked down at the white crystals still clenched in my left mitten.

‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘But I know sugar used to be used for the treatment of coma. I thought maybe if I stuffed enough into myself … Well, anyway, you know now why I turned criminal.’

‘Yes, I know now. My apologies for the gun-waving act, Mr Mahler, but you must admit I had every justification. Why in the hell didn’t you tell me before now? I am supposed to be a doctor, you know.’

‘I would have had to tell you sooner or later, I suppose. But right now you’d plenty of troubles of your own without worrying about mine also. And I didn’t think there would be much chance of your carrying insulin among your medical stores.’

‘We don’t – we don’t have to. Everybody gets a thorough medical before going on an IGY station, and diabetes hardly develops overnight … You take it all very calmly, I must say, Mr Mahler. Come on, let’s get back to the tractor.’

We reached there inside a minute. I pulled back the canvas screen, and a thick white opaque cloud formed almost immediately as the relatively warm air inside met the far sub-zero arctic air outside. I waved my hand to dispel it, and peered inside. They were all still drinking coffee – it was the one thing we had in plenty. It seemed difficult to realise that we’d been gone only a few minutes.

‘Hurry up and finish off,’ I said abruptly. ‘We’re on our way within five minutes. Jackstraw, would you start the engine, please, before she chills right down?’

‘On our way!’ The protest, almost inevitably, came from Mrs Dansby-Gregg. ‘My dear man, we’ve hardly stopped. And you promised us three hours’ sleep only a few minutes ago.’

‘That was a few minutes ago. That was before I found out about Mr Mahler here.’ Quickly I told them all I thought they needed to know. ‘It sounds brutal to say it in Mr Mahler’s presence,’ I went on, ‘but the facts themselves are brutal. Whoever crashed that plane – and, to a lesser extent, stole the sugar – put Mr Mahler’s life in the greatest danger. Only two things, normally, could save Mr Mahler – a properly balanced high-calorie diet as a short term measure, insulin as a long term one. We have neither. All we can give Mr Mahler is the chance to get one or other of these things with all speed humanly possible. Between now and the coast that tractor engine is going to stop only if it packs in completely, if we run into an impassable blizzard – or if the last of the drivers collapses over the wheel. Are there any objections?’