Jack Higgins (11 page)

T
he lake was surrounded by an area of bog and morass, but beyond it the dune-like plain of hummock ice stretched into infinity, the horizon shimmering in the intense white light.

I led the way as navigator, a compass dangling from my neck on a long cord and Simonsen and Vogel followed pulling the sledge by two lines secured to their waists by body harness.

I kept well out in front and paused after half an hour to take another fix and looked back at them. Vogel was obviously as expert as he had suggested and was going well, but Stratton was trailing a hundred yards to the rear. In their hooded parkas and protective goggles they all looked remarkably businesslike, even Sarah Kelso sitting there in the sledge, a blanket wrapped about her legs.

I started forward again, zigzagging between the
hummocks of ice, sweating profusely at the unaccustomed exercise. It was hard work, but I was enjoying it. There was no wind and the sun was warm so that the top surface was slightly damp, sparkling in a thousand places, and I paused on top of a ridge to take my bearings again and gazed across this harsh barren landscape with a conscious pleasure.

I had told Ilana Eytan that I had come to Greenland to make money and like most things in life that was only partly true. Perhaps Desforge romanticised too much, but when I looked out across the ice-cap I knew what he meant when he spoke of the alien land. Here was one of the last places on earth where the challenge was the greatest one of all—survival. Amundsen and Peary and Gino Watkins—they had all felt it, had gone forward eagerly to meet it and in some strange way I felt myself part of the same stream as I went down the other side of the ridge and made my way across the snowfield at the bottom with renewed energy.

It was crisscrossed by a hundred narrow crevasses and halfway to the other side I turned and went back to meet the others.

“Trouble?” Simonsen asked.

“I don't think so if we take it carefully. A few crevasses, that's all, but you'll need me pushing at the back of the sledge to get across.”

“Perhaps I should get out and walk?” Sarah Kelso suggested.

I shook my head. “It isn't necessary, I assure you.”

Stratton appeared at the top of the ridge. He paused, then glided down to join us, losing his balance and
rolling in the soft slush. When I helped him to his feet he looked tired and there was sweat on his face.

“Are you all right?” I said.

He smiled brightly. “A little out of practice, that's all. I'll manage.”

“It's best if we all stick together over the next stretch,” I said. “It could be tricky. You can help me at the rear with the sledge.”

It took us the best part of an hour to get across, heaving the sledge bodily over crevasses three to four feet wide and any depth you care to speculate. Most of them were fairly sound, but now and then a fringe of soft snow gave an illusion of safety that only Simonsen's instinct and experience saved us from.

On the other side, we took a ten-minute break and then started again, crossing easier ground this time, a rough, sprawling plain, and I made good time, stopping every ten minutes to check my position.

It was just coming up to noon when I paused on top of a rise and looked down to the plain below. What had seemed like a narrow gully from the air was in fact a sizeable ravine and without waiting for the others, I swept down the slope and did a quick stem Christie that brought me to a halt on the rim. There was nothing to be seen and I started forward, following the twisting course.

I turned a bend and the Heron lay below me, crumpled into the show, one wing two hundred yards further on. The grave was at one side, a cairn of rocks surmounted by a rough cross fashioned from two pieces of the fuselage.

It was quiet and very peaceful and I stood there gazing down at the wreck, so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I failed to hear the approach of the others.

“Strange how it seems to fit into the landscape,” Vogel said quietly.

I turned and found him at my shoulder. Simonsen was helping Sarah Kelso from the sledge and Stratton was about a hundred yards in the rear. Simonsen joined us and stood looking down at the Heron, his face serious. After a moment of silence he sighed.

“And now comes the unpleasant bit. Shall we go down?”

We pitched a small tent about fifty yards away from the wreck and left Sarah Kelso there with a primus stove to brew some tea, more to keep her out of the way than anything else. The next bit was going to be pretty unpleasant and there was no reason for her to be involved any more than was strictly necessary.

No digging was necessary, but the stones of the cairn had frozen together and we had to prise them apart with the two steel ice spades we had brought. Simonsen and I handled that part, but Stratton and Vogel helped by pulling each stone out of the way as it came free. I found a leg first, or what was left of one. There was still a shoe on the foot, but the shin bone gleamed through the tattered remnants of a trouser leg. Until that moment there had been a certain amount of conversation, but from then on only the chink of the spades on the cold stone disturbed the silence.

When the last stone was removed the two bodies in their shallow pit looked more pathetic than anything else.
For one thing, the emotional highlights were missing. The Gothic horror of the open grave, the shrouded form in the coffin. What was left here was nothing but the framework of what had once been two human beings covered by a few tattered shreds of clothing and here and there, a strip of frozen flesh still clinging to a bone.

We stood there looking down at them for a while and then Simonsen turned to Vogel. “That photo of yours isn't going to help much here. You said Mrs. Kelso had furnished you with certain other proofs.”

Vogel unzipped his parka, fumbled inside and produced an envelope which he handed to Simonsen. “Mr. Kelso's dental record.”

Simonsen took out the white card contained in the envelope and got down into the pit. He tried the righthand body first then turned his attention to the other. He got to his feet and nodded grimly.

“I'm satisfied. This one is Kelso. See for yourself.”

He handed the card to Vogel who got down on his knees and made the necessary examination. When he stood up, his face was grey and sombre and he passed the card to me.

“If you would be so kind, Mr. Martin. The evidence of two completely neutral witnesses should be enough for any court.”

I got down on one knee and peered into the mouth. It didn't take more than a minute to see that its contents matched the card completely. Not only was the number of teeth correct, but three gold fillings and two porcelain crowns were in exactly the right place.

I stood up and passed the card back to Vogel. “As far as I can see an identical match.”

“That settles it then,” Simonsen said.

“There should also be a gold signet ring on the second finger of the left hand,” Vogel said. “Inside there is an inscription.
From Sarah with love
—22.2.52.”

The ring was there all right, but the flesh on the finger was still intact and frozen solid. I tried to get it off without success. Simonsen dropped to one knee beside me, took out a spring-blade hunting knife and calmly sliced through the finger. He examined the ring for a moment, then passed it to me. The inscription was perfectly plain and exactly as Vogel had indicated.

There was a short silence and I said brightly, “I suppose he must just have been wearing someone else's coat.”

Simonsen glanced at me sharply. “What do you mean?”

“If you look inside the jacket the name on the tab should read Harrison, isn't that right, Mr. Vogel?”

Vogel nodded soberly. “There was also some identification in his pocket in the name of Harvey Stein.”

“He certainly liked his aliases,” I said.

But Vogel was giving nothing away. “A riddle to which there can never be an answer now.”

Simonsen looked interested, but obviously decided to let it go for the time being. “Better get Mrs. Kelso.”

But there was no need for when we turned she was standing no more than ten yards away watching. She still wore her protective goggles so that it was impossible to determine what was going on behind them, but her face
was very white as Vogel went forward, the ring in the palm of his hand. She took off her glove and picked the ring up very delicately to examine it, and then she swayed and would have fallen if Vogel hadn't steadied her.

“Come back to the tent, my dear,” he said. “There is nothing for you here.”

She shook her head. “I must see him—I must!”

She pulled herself free and stumbled to the edge of the pit. I don't think she could have looked at what was left of her husband for more than ten seconds because she turned with a sharp cry and ran into Vogel's arms.

Stratton went to help and I watched them return to the tent, something very close to admiration in my heart. She was really very good. On stage at the National Theatre she could have been a household word.

 

I examined what was left of the Heron with Simonsen who made copious notes on the spot and asked my advice frequently. The wing which had parted company from the body of the plane still carried its two engines and we examined them first. They were in such a state that it was impossible to say what had gone wrong. We didn't fare any better with the other two and the interior of the plane was a shambles, the instrument panel smashed into a thousand pieces.

There was still plenty of blood about, frozen into snails' trails, but when Simonsen asked me to sit in the pilot's seat I managed it with no trace of nervousness although my stomach tightened momentarily.

“Well, what do you think?” he demanded.

I shook my head. “The instruments or what's left of them, show nothing. The engines don't offer any clues. Frankly I don't think we'll ever know exactly what happened.”

“Then make an intelligent guess.”

“God alone knows. It couldn't have been lack of fuel because she'd been fitted with auxiliary tanks. In fact by all the rules she should have gone up like a torch when she hit the deck.”

“All right, then tell me this? What were they doing up here in the first place when they should have been eight hundred miles south crossing the Atlantic?”

“Some sort of instrument error I should imagine. It's the only feasible explanation.”

He nodded briskly and snapped his notebook shut. “I'll buy that. Let's go and have a cup of tea. Stratton can have his two cent's worth now.”

He started back and I paused, dropping to one knee to fasten the thong on my left boot. I stayed there for rather longer than I had intended because someone had relieved himself against the side of the plane at that point. One thing was certain. It wasn't a leftover from the Oxford expedition. The yellow stain was much more recent than that. I covered it with a handful of snow and went after Simonsen.

Vogel and Stratton came to meet us. “Anything of particular interest?” the Austrian asked.

“I think the reports should be completely independent of each other,” Simonsen told him. “We can compare them later.”

“Certainly.” Vogel nodded. “Mr. Stratton and I will
get started then. The sooner we're finished, the sooner we can get out of here.”

Sarah Kelso gave me tea in an aluminium cup and I drank it gratefully. She looked white and strained and seemed very subdued.

“Can I ask you how it happened?” she said.

I glanced at Simonsen, who nodded. “I don't see why not.”

I told her what I'd found out which wasn't a great deal anyway and volunteered as much of the guesswork as I thought might interest her.

“So it was probably just some sort of stupid error?” she said and shook her head sadly. “So much of life seems to be like that.”

Simonsen leaned forward and patted her gently on the shoulder, real sympathy on his face and I got up and buckled on my skis.

“Going somewhere, Joe?” he said.

I nodded. “Just for a quick look round. I shan't be long.”

I went back towards the plane, silent on my skis and paused a yard or two away. Vogel and Stratton were talking together in low tones and the Austrian's voice lifted impatiently.

“But it must be here. Try again.”

I slid forward another yard and stooped so that I could see into the interior of the cabin. They crouched together just behind the pilot's seat. There was a long rent in the padded lining of the cabin and Stratton had his arm well inside.

Vogel glanced sideways and saw me and for a moment
the pleasant bland mask slipped and there was murder in his eyes or something very close to it.

I waved and said cheerfully, “Have fun, I'm just going for a look round.”

I moved along the ravine quickly until I found a place that gave me easy access to the top. I stood on the ridge and took a bearing with my compass. There was something I wanted to see, something I'd noticed from the air, and it couldn't be very far away.