Хэммонд Иннес - Calling the Southern Cross!

“Was Colonel Bland over in Norway during the war?”

“No, London. But Erik’s mother remained at Sandefjord. She’d plenty of money, so it didn’t make much difference to Erik.” She hesitated, and then said, “We began to have rows. I refused to go out with him. There were Germans at most of the parties he went to. He took them skiing, even out on his yacht. He just couldn’t see my point of view. Then the Resistance got going. I kept at him until at last he agreed to join. They thought he might be useful because of his German contacts. We forgot that the Germans might think him useful because of his Norwegian contacts. He went up into the hills for one of the drops. A week later the same dropping ground was used. The Resistance group collecting on that drop was practically wiped out. Nobody suspected.”

“Except you,” I said, as she stopped, her teeth biting into her lip.

She nodded slowly. “Yes. I got it out of him one night when he was drunk. He actually — he actually boasted about it. Said it served them right; that they were on the wrong side anyway. It was horrible. I hadn’t the nerve to tell the Resistance. He knew that and he—” She glanced up at me quickly. “Nobody knows what I have just told you,” she said. “So please—” She tossed the request aside as unnecessary. “It doesn’t matter, though.” Her tone was suddenly bitter. “No one would believe it. He’s so devilishly charming. That’s the hell of it — to know what he is and see him keeping up his front of popularity. His father—” She spread her hands helplessly and sighed.

“You’ve never told him about the Resistance business, of course?” I said.

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to tell any father that about his son — not unless I had to.”

There was a long silence after that. There was nothing I could say. She stared past me, her mind far away, out there in the white wastes of the Antarctic where she was going. “I can hear dance music,” she said with a sudden, hard brightness. “Let’s go and dance.” As I rose, she put her hand on mine. “Thank you,” she said, “for being... so nice.”

I don’t know how she managed it, but we had a lovely evening. Perhaps it was reaction. Maybe it was sheer effort of will. But her gaiety, which was forced and brittle as we went on to the floor, became quite natural as we danced. She danced with her body very close to mine. She seemed to want to dance with complete abandon, and she danced divinely. Once she murmured, “You said we’d never meet again.” Her lips were almost touching my ear. In the taxi going back to the airport, she snuggled up close to me and let me kiss her.

But when the taxi swung in through the gates of the airport she straightened up. As she made up her face, I saw the worried look was back in her eyes. She caught my glance and made a wry face. “Cinderella’s home again,” she said, and her voice was flat. Then, with a sudden rush of warmth, she took my hand in hers. “It’s been a wonderful evening,” she said softly. “Perhaps if I’d met somebody like you—” She stopped there. “But there’d have to have been a war first, wouldn’t there? You see I was a spoilt little wench myself.”

It was just on eleven. The others were waiting for us. We went straight out to the plane. Ten minutes later the lights of Cairo were vanishing below us.

It must have been about four in the morning that Tim came through from the cockpit. The sound of the door sliding back woke me up. He had a slip of paper in his hand. He went past me and stopped at Bland, shaking him awake.

“Urgent message for you. Colonel Bland,” he said, speaking softly.

Bland grunted and there was a rustle of paper.

I turned in my seat. Bland’s face was white and puffy. He was staring down at the slip of paper that trembled in his hand. He swallowed twice and then glanced at Judie, who was fast asleep.

“Sorry to bring you bad news at this time of the morning.” Tim went back to the cockpit.

I tried to get back to sleep. But I couldn’t. I kept on wondering what was in that message. Somehow I was certain it had some connection with Judie. Twice I turned round. Each time Bland failed to notice my movement. He wasn’t asleep. He was sitting there, slumped in his seat, his eyes open and staring at the message.

Dawn came, and with it a glimpse of Mount Elgon on the starboard beam. Shortly afterward the snow-covered peak of Kilimanjaro was above the horizon and we were landing at Nairobi for breakfast. We all sat at the same table. Bland didn’t eat anything. I saw he kept glancing at Judie. He looked almost scared.

Bonomi, who was sitting next to me, suddenly leaned closer and said, “What is the trouble with Colonel Bland? He looks very seek about somethings.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But he got a message during the night.”

When we got up from the meal, I saw Bland motion for Judie to join him outside. He wasn’t gone long, and when he came back he was alone. “Where’s Mrs. Bland?” I asked. “Is anything wrong?

“No,” he answered. “Nothing.” His tone made it clear it was none of my business.

I lit a cigarette and went outside. I thought maybe Judie had gone to powder her nose. But as I turned the comer of the building I saw her walking alone across the airfield. She was walking aimlessly, as though she’d no idea where she was going and didn’t care anyway.

I called to her. But she didn’t answer. She just kept on walking, following her feet, changing her course like a ship without a rudder.

I ran after her then. “Judie!” I called. “Judie!” She stopped then and half turned, waiting for me to come up with her. Her face was quite blank. “What’s happened?” I asked. Her eyes were empty, her whole being withdrawn inside itself. She didn’t answer. I caught hold of her hand. It was cold as ice. “Come on,” I said. “Tell me. It’s the message your father-in-law received during the night, isn’t it?” She nodded bleakly. “What did it say?” For answer, she opened her other hand. I took the crumpled ball of paper and spread it out.

It was from the South Antarctic Company, dispatched at 2130 hours. It read:

EIDE REPORTS MANAGER NORDAHL LOST OVERBOARD FROM FACTORY SHIP. FURTHER INFORMATION LATER.

SIGNED JENSSEN.

Her father dead! I read the message through again, wondering what I could possibly say to her. She’d worshiped him. I knew that from the way she had talked about him in Cairo. The message didn’t say how it had happened; it just said, “Lost overboard.”

“Who is Eide?” I asked.

“The captain of the Southern Cross.” Her voice sounded numbed.

I took her arm and we walked on slowly for a while in silence. Then suddenly the pent-up emotion inside her broke out. “How did it happen?” she cried wildly. “He couldn’t have just fallen overboard! He’s been on ships all his life! Something is wrong down there! Something is wrong! I know there is!”

She began to cry then, her whole body shaking, her head buried against me like a puppy that’s lost its mother. I remember thinking then that if Erik Bland had had any decency, he’d have cabled her himself.

It was summer in Cape Town. My stomach felt hollow inside me. Somewhere down there my future was waiting for me, if I could find it. It was the start of a new life. As we touched down I glanced across at Judie. She was slumped in her seat, staring tensely out the window the way she had been all the way from Mombasa. I wished there was something I could do. But there wasn’t.

At the airport buildings I thanked Bland for the trip. He shook my hand. His grip was like iron, but his face was white. “Glad we could give you a lift.” He mumbled conventional good wishes automatically and then went out with Weiner at his heels. I said good-by to Tim Bartlett, and then Bonomi popped up like a jack-in-the-box, smiling and shaking my hand.