Hammond Innes: Blue Ice

That was all. I closed the file and went out into the chill bustle of Fleet Street. I jumped on a bus going west and as we moved along the Strand I wasn’t thinking about the trial. I was thinking about the girl. Could be helpful if you gained her confidence. Maybe Sir Clinton was right. Maybe she did know something. I got off at Trafalgar Square. At the offices of the Bergen Steamship Company, I talked with a man I’d met several times at public functions. He gave me introductions to men in Bergen and in the Norwegian Government which might prove useful. Then I went out and got a complete set of Admiralty charts and sailing directions for the Norwegian coast.

It was late afternoon before I took a bus up to the City and walked across Tower Bridge. I paused for a moment by the parapet and looked down at Diviner. The tide was in now and she lay with her decks almost flush with the wharf. To me she looked very beautiful with her tall masts and blue hull. I could understand how all the City people had felt who stood where I was standing, gazing down at her. Up the river the light was fading and the sun, setting in a livid streak, gave an orange glow to the cold, damp air. Lights were still on in some of the big office blocks. Clocks began to strike and I looked at my watch. It was six o’clock. I hurried on then.

As I turned in between the tall warehouses, a taxi passed me and stopped at the wharf. A man got out and paid the driver off. As I came up he was looking uncertainly about him. ‘Excuse me, please,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me if that is the yacht, Diviner?’ And he nodded towards the slender clutter of spars that towered above the wharf. He was a slim, neatly dressed man. He looked like an American business man. And he spoke like one, except for a peculiar preciseness and the trace of what seemed to be a Welsh accent.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’

‘Mr Gansert,’ he answered.

‘I’m Gansert,’ I told him.

His rather heavy eyebrows rose slightly, but his leathery features remained entirely expressionless. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘My name is Jorgensen. You have heard of me, perhaps?’

‘Of course,’ I said, and held out my hand.

His grip was limp and perfunctory. ‘I wish to talk with you.’ he said.

‘Come on board, then,’ I invited.

Carter poked his head up out of the engine-room hatch as I stepped down on to the deck. His face was smeared with grease. ‘Where’s Mr Everard?’ I asked.

‘Doon in the saloon, sir,’ he answered. ‘There’s Miss Somers an’ a man wi’ him. The man came aboord wi’ a suitcase as though he were planning to stay for the weekend.’

I nodded and dived down the main companionway. ‘Mind your head,’ I warned Jorgensen. When I entered the saloon I found the girl seated opposite Dick in the half light. Beside her stood a heavily-built man with red hair. I knew him at once. ‘Curtis Wright, isn’t it?’ I asked.

‘So you remember me, eh?’ He sounded pleased. ‘You know, you were one of the few industrialists I enjoyed visiting,’ he added, seizing my hand in a powerful grip. ‘You knew what we wanted and got things moving.’ At one time he’d been responsible for testing our artillery equipment. He’d been in and out of the works quite a bit. He was regular army.

‘Is this a social call?’ I asked. ‘Or are you here about Farnell?’

‘I’m here about Farnell,’ he answered. ‘Sir Clinton Mann telephoned me this morning.’

‘You knew Farnell?’ I asked him.

‘Yes. Met him during the war.’

I suddenly remembered Jorgensen. I introduced him and asked Dick to get Carter to give us some light. What was puzzling me was the reason for Jorgensen’s visit. ‘Did you come to discuss Farnell too, Mr Jorgensen?’ I asked.

He smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I came to discuss rather more important matters — privately.’

‘Of course,’ I said.

Dick came in again at that moment. ‘There’s a rather strange-looking specimen up top,’ he said. ‘Says he has an appointment.’

‘What’s his name?’ I asked.

‘My name is Dahler.’ The voice came from the doorway. It was low pitched and foreign. I saw Jorgensen jerk round as though somebody had pressed something into the small of his back. A small, awkward-looking person stood in the saloon doorway. I hadn’t noticed him enter. He just seemed to have materialised. His dark suit merged into the shadows. Only his face showed, a white blur under his iron grey hair. He came forward and I saw that he had a withered arm. The lighting plant started with a shrill whirr and the saloon lights came on. Dahler topped then. He had seen Jorgensen. The lines on his face deepened. His eyes flared with sudden and violent hatred. Then be smiled and a chill ran through me. It was such a crooked, twisted smile. ‘God dag, Knut,’ he said and I realised he was speaking Norwegian.

‘What are you doing here?’ Jorgensen answered. The suave-ness of his voice was gone. It was angry, menacing.

‘I am here because I wish to talk with Mr Gansert about Farnell.’ The cripple was peering up at Jorgensen. Then he turned to me. ‘Did you know Farnell?’ he asked. His lips were still set in that crooked smile and I realised suddenly that half his face was paralysed too. He had difficulty in forming some of his words. The paralysis produced a slight hesitation and a little froth of spittle bubbled at the corner of his mouth, catching the light.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I worked with him once.’

‘Like him?’ His eyes were watching me as he put his question.

‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Why?’

‘I like to know whose side people are on,’ he replied softly, and looked again at Jorgensen.

‘Why have you come here?’ Jorgensen barked the question out as though he were speaking to a subordinate.

Dahler said nothing. He didn’t move. He remained staring at Jorgensen so that the very silence made the atmosphere electric. It was as though the two men had things between them that could be communicated without speech. It was Jorgensen who broke the silence. ‘I would like to speak to you privately, Mr Gansert,’ he said, turning to me.

‘You are afraid to make your proposals openly, eh?’ Dahler said, and there was a venomous note in his voice. ‘It’s a pity Farnell isn’t here to advise Mr Gansert.’

‘Farnell is dead.’

‘Is he?’ Dahler leaned suddenly forward. He was like a spider darting from the corner of its web. ‘What makes you so sure he is dead?’

Jorgensen hesitated. Any moment now he would pick up his hat and walk off the ship. I could see it coming. And I didn’t want that. If I could hold Jorgensen on board … And at that moment I heard the warning bell on Tower Bridge ring. I knew then what I was going to do. I edged towards the door. Jorgensen said, ‘I did not come here to talk about Farnell.’ I slipped out and hurried on to the deck.

A tramp steamer was edging out from the neighbouring wharf. The traffic on Tower Bridge had stopped. Carter and Wilson were standing by the rail, talking. I went over to them. ‘Carter,’ I said. ‘Is the engine warm? Will she start up first go?’

‘Ye dinna ha’ to fash yersel’ aboot the engine, Mr Gansert,’ he said. ‘Ah’ve got her so she’ll go when I click me fingers.’

‘Get it going then,’ I said. ‘And make it quick.’ As he dived down the engine-room hatch, I ordered Wilson to let go the warps. ‘And do it quietly,’ I told him.

He climbed over the rail and in a few seconds both warps were on deck. I slipped aft and took the wheel. The engine coughed twice and then roared into life. ‘Full astern;’ I called down to Carter. There was a bubbling froth under our stern and we began to move. As we slid clear of the wharf, I ordered ‘Full ahead’ and swung the wheel. The engine roared. The propellers frothed and gurgled under the water. The long bowsprit swung in a wide arc until it pointed straight for the main span of Tower Bridge.