Blue Ice

The Mediterranean,’ I said with sudden decision. ‘I’m through with the scramble for metals.’ The wind howled joyfully in the rigging. Then we’d lie out on the deck and swim and laze and drink wine. ‘Go and check that that water tender’s coming alongside before the tide leaves us on the mud,’ I said, and turned and went back to the saloon. I crossed over to the porthole and stood there idly watching a barge drift down with the outgoing tide. But why had Farnell died on the Jostedal? That’s what I couldn’t get out of my mind. During the war he’d probably lived up in the mountains. He knew all the glaciers. I glanced down at the table. The paper that Sir Clinton had left was still there. I read the headlines without recording them. I was thinking of Farnell’s note: If I should die… Why quote that?

A story ringed in blue pencil caught my eye. It was headed — METAL EXPERT TO VISIT CONVICT’S GRAVE. I picked up the paper. The story was quite short. It read:’ Recent reports of mineral discoveries in Central Norway have aroused fresh interest in the death of convict hero, George Farnell, whose body was discovered a month ago on the Jostedal Glacier in Norway. Farnell was an expert on Norwegian minerals. Castlet Steel and Base Metals amp; Industries are the firms chiefly interested. Sir Clinton Mann, chairman of B.M. amp; I., said yesterday, ‘It is possible that Farnell may have discovered something. We intend to investigate.’

‘“Big” Bill Gansert, until recently production chief at B.M. amp; I.‘s metal alloy plant at Birmingham, is the man chosen for the job. He leaves for Norway Tommorow, sailing his own yacht, Diviner, and postponing a planned Mediterranean cruise. If anyone has any information that may assist Gansert in his investigations, they are asked to get in touch with him on board his yacht which is moored at the wharf of Messrs. Crouch and Crouch, Herring-Pickle Street, London, close by Tower Bridge.’

I threw the paper down angrily. What right had he to put out a story like that? — trying to force my hand? I thought of all I’d read about the ruins of Greece and Italy, the pyramids, the primitive islands of the Aegean, the hill towns of Sicily. I I suppose I’ve been almost everywhere in the world. But I’ve seen nothing of it. I’ve always been chasing some damned metal, rushing from 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?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, surprised. ‘We’ve just grounded. Why?’

‘Read that,’ I said and handed him the paper.

He read it through. Then he said, ‘It looks like Norway, doesn’t it?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘No, it doesn’t. I’m damned if I’ll be thrust into the thing like this.’

‘What about Farnell?’ he murmured.

‘What about him?’

‘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.

‘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.