Hammond Innes: Blue Ice

I nodded. He was right. I did want to know that. ‘I wonder if anyone will come forward with information,’ I murmured.

‘Four million people take the Morning Record,’ Dick said. ‘Some of them will come to see you.’

He was right there. Within the next hour I had three journalists, several cranks, an insurance salesman and two fellows wanting to come as crew. In the end I got fed up. I wanted to see the Customs and there were other calls I had to make. ‘See you for lunch at the Duke’s Head,’ I told Dick and left him to handle any more visitors himself.

When he joined me for lunch he handed me a large envelope. ‘A B.M. amp; I. messenger brought it,’ he said. ‘It’s from Sir Clinton Mann.’

‘Anybody else been pestering you?’ I asked as I slit open the envelope.

‘A couple of reporters. That’s all. Oh, and Miss Somers here.’ He turned and I saw a girl standing close behind him. She was tall and fair haired. ‘Miss Somers, this is Bill Gansert.’

Her grip was firm as she shook my hand. She had grey eyes and there was a curious tenseness about her that communicated itself even in that atmosphere of a crowded bar. ‘What are you having?’ I asked her.

‘A light ale, please,’ she said. Her voice was soft, almost subdued.

‘Well,’ I said when I had given the order, ‘what can we do for you, Miss Somers?’

‘I want you to take me to Norway with you.’ The tenseness was in her voice now.

‘To Norway? But we’re not going to Norway. Dick should have warned you. We’re going to the Mediterranean. I suppose you’ve been reading that damned newspaper story?’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I haven’t see any newspaper story. Sir Clinton Mann phoned me this morning. He told me so come along and see you. He said you were sailing for Norway Tommorow.’

‘Well, he’s wrong.’ The sharpness of my voice seemed to wit her. ‘Why do you want to get to Norway?’ I asked in a gentler tone.

‘Sir Clinton said you were going over to investigate the death of — of George Farnell.’ Her eyes had an expression of pain in them. ‘I wanted to come, too. I wanted to see his grave and — know how he died.’

I was watching her face as I passed over her beer. ‘You knew Farnell?’

She nodded her head. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Before or after he went on the Maloy raid?’

‘Before.’ She gulped at her drink. ‘I was working for the Kompani Linge.’

‘Have you heard from him since?’

She seemed to hesitate. ‘No.’

I didn’t press the point. ‘Did you know him as George Farnell, or as Bernt Olsen?’ I asked.

‘Both,’ she answered. Then suddenly, as though she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, she said. ‘Please, Mr Gansert I must get to Norway. This is the only way I can do it. I want to know what happened. And I want to — see where he’s buried. Please — help me, won’t you? Sir Clinton said you were going to Norway. Please, take me. I won’t be in the way. I promise. I’ve done quite a lot of sailing. I’ll work on deck, cook — anything. Only let me come.’

I didn’t say anything for the moment. I was wondering what was behind her plea. There was something driving her — something that she hadn’t stated. Had Farnell been her lover? But that alone wouldn’t account for the urgency of her tone. ‘Why did Sir Clinton phone you this morning?’ I asked her.

‘I told you — to tell me to get in touch with you.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I mean’t, how did he come to know you were interested?’

‘Oh. He put an advertisement in The Times some time back. I answered it. I went up and saw him. He thought I might know something of George’s activities since the war.’

‘And do you?’

‘No.’

‘Did you know he was a metallurgist and an expert on Norway?’

‘Yes. I knew that.’

‘But you didn’t know whether he might have made some important discovery in Norway during the last few months?’

Again that momentary hesitation. ‘No.’

A silence followed. Then Dick suddenly said, ‘Bill — I suggest we make for Norway when we leave the Thames Tommorow.’ I glanced at him. He must have guessed what was in my mind, for he said quickly, ‘I mean, I’m getting curious about this man Farnell.’

So was I. I glanced at the girl. Her features were on the long side with straight nose and determined chin. It was a strong face. She met my gaze in a quick movement of the eyes and then looked away again. I picked up the envelope and shook the contents out on to the bar. There was a little gasp from the girl. Photographs of George Farnell stared up at me from the bar top. I shuffled quickly through them. There was one of him in an open-necked khaki shirt, looking just as I’d known him out in Rhodesia. There were full-length pictures of him looking very awkward in a business suit, copies of passport photographs and one of him at work with a divining rod. I turned to the passport photographs. They showed a strangely tense face — long, almost aesthetic features, short, clipped moustache, thin, dark hair, rather prominent ears and eyes that glinted behind horn-rimmed glasses. The date on the back — 10 Jan., 1936. Then there were police records, full-face and side-face studies of him after his conviction, and pictures of his fingerprints. Sir Clinton had certainly been thorough.

Clipped to the photographs was a note. These may be of use. I have telephoned two people who answered my Times advertisement. They both want to go with you. The girl could be helpful if you gained her confidence. A Norwegian has been in touch with me this morning. He knew Farnell in Norway during the war. I told him to see you about six this evening. Also I have seen Jorgensen again. I said I must have detailed information before presenting his proposals to my board. He talked of nickel — and uranium! He gave me twenty-four hours to make up my mind. He flies to America on Saturday. Please keep me informed of all developments. It was signed — Clinton Mann.

I passed the note across to Dick and finished my beer. Then I swept the pictures of Farnell back into the envelope and stuffed it in the pocket of my jacket. ‘See you later,’ I told Dick. ‘And keep Miss Somers with you.’ I started to move for the door and then stopped. ‘Miss Somers,’ I said, ‘were you by any chance at Farnell’s trial?’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘I didn’t know him then.’ Her tone was genuinely surprised.

I nodded and left them there. I took a taxi to the offices of the Morning Record. There I got the inquiry people to dig out from the library the file of the Record for the month of August, 1939. The trial of George Farnell was covered very fully. There were pictures of Farnell and of his partner, Vincent Clegg, a picture of Farnell with his father and one of Farnell working with a divining rod — the same picture that Sir Clinton had included in the batch he’d sent me.

But though I searched through every paragraph of the reports I could get no line that could conceivably have a bearing on his death. No extraneous characters had appeared as witnesses on either side. It was a simple, straightforward story. Farnell and Clegg had set up as mining consultants in 1936. They had operated successfully for three years. Then Clegg, who handled the business side, found that certain cheques had been cashed of which he had no knowledge. The signature on the cheques appeared to be his. The amount involved was nearly Ł10;000. Farnell pleaded guilty to the forging of his partner’s signature. In evidence he stated that prospecting work in Norway, not on behalf of the firm, had involved him in considerable expenditure. He was convinced that valuable minerals did, in fact, exist in the mountains of Central Norway. His partner had refused to finance him. He had, therefore, acted on his own in the matter. In mitigation, his counsel said that he honestly regarded the money spent as being in the form of an investment. Apart from Farnell and Clegg, the only witnesses called were members of the office staff and Pritchard, who was called in as a metallurgist to give his views on Norway’s mineral potentialities. The judge in his summing up described Farnell as a ‘man obsessed with an idea.’ Farnell was sentenced to six years.