The Blue Ice Read Free Page B

place to place, a little cog in the big machine of grab. I’ve never had a chance to stop off where I like and laze in the sun and look around me. All I knew of the world was cities and mining camps. I picked up the paper and read the story through again. Then I went up on deck. ‘Dick!’ I shouted. ‘Any reason why we can’t slip out on this tide?’
    â€˜Yes,’ he answered, surprised. ‘We’ve just grounded. Why?’
    â€˜Read that,’ I said and handed him the paper.
    He read it through. Then he said, ‘It looks like Norway doesn’t it?’
    â€˜No,’ I said, ‘No, it doesn’t. I’m damned if I’ll be thrust into the thing like this.’
    â€˜What about Farnell?’ he murmured.
    â€˜What about him?’
    â€˜You want to know how he managed to kill himself on that glacier, don’t you?’ he suggested.
    I nodded. He was right. I did want to know that. ‘I wonder if anyone will come forward with information,’ I murmured.
    â€˜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. & I. messenger brought it,’ he said. ‘It’s from Sir Clinton Mann.’
    â€˜Anybody else been pestering you?’ I asked as I slit open the envelope.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜A light ale, please,’ she said. Her voice was soft, almost subdued.
    â€˜Well,’ I said when I had given the order, ‘what can we do for you, Miss Somers?’
    â€˜I want you to take me to Norway with you.’ The tenseness was in her voice now.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen any newspaper story. Sir Clinton Mann phoned me this morning. He told me to come along and see you. He said you were sailing for Norway, tomorrow.’
    â€˜Well, he’s wrong.’ The sharpness of my voice seemed to jolt her. ‘Why do you want to get to Norway?’ I asked in a gentler tone.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Before or after he went on the Malöy raid?’
    â€˜Before.’ She gulped at her drink. ‘I was working for the Kompani Linge.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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