‘So you didn’t know about the Jokulen project? Nobody in England seems to have heard about it. So many strange things happen in a war and only a few people outside the countries where they happen ever hear about them. In Norway everybody knows about the Germans and the Jokulen. It is a big joke.’ He paused and then added, ‘But it was not a joke for those who had to work on it.’ He leaned over towards me and grabbed at my arm. ‘Do you know the height of the Jokulen?’
I shook my head.
‘It is the highest point on the Hardangervidda. It is 1,876 metres high — a glacier, perpetually covered by snow. They were crazy. They thought they could make an airfield up there. The snow was blown into waves by the wind. They drove tractors with heavy iron rollers up to the top. And when they found circular rollers packed the snow up in front of them, they made octagonal rollers. There were crevasses. They tried filling them with sawdust. Oh, it is a hell of a fine joke. But we had to work up there and in the winter on the Jokulen there is sometimes as much as 50 degrees of frost.’ He had been talking fast. Now he suddenly leaned back against the pillow and shut his eyes. ‘Do you know how old I am, Mr Gansert?’
It was impossible to put an age on him. ‘No,’ I said.
‘Just over sixty,’ he said. ‘I was fifty-four then. And I’d never have come down from Finse but for Bernt Olsen. He got six of us away. Packed us into aero engine crates — the Germans were testing engines under ice conditions up by Finse Lake. From Bergen the resistance people got us away to the island of Fedje by boat. And a few days later we were taken off by a British M.T.B.’
It was an incredible story. I suppose he noticed my surprise, for he said, ‘This came later.’ He indicated the withered arm. ‘After I got to England. Delayed reaction. Paralysis. My wife died that year I was at Finse.’ He struggled on to his elbow. ‘All that, Mr Gansert, because Jorgensen wanted my shipping fleet. It was a family business started by my father. After my arrest the Germans confiscated it. Jorgensen formed a company and bought it from them. And you ask why do I hate the man.’ He lay back as though exhausted, drawing on the cigarette. ‘Remember what I told you? The only dangerous Norwegian is a Norwegian business man.’
‘What about Farnell?’ I asked. ‘What was he doing up at Finse?’
His eyelids flickered open and he stared at me. ‘Farnell?’ He suddenly laughed. ‘You English — you are like bulldogs. You never let go. You can ignore anything and concentrate on the one thing that matters to you. You don’t care about what I have been telling you. It doesn’t mean anything to you, eh?’ His voice had risen to sudden passion. ‘I tell you a story of injustice, of the destruction of one man by another. And all you think about is-’ His voice dropped again. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you. Farnell worked on the Bergen railway. He worked at the railway yards at Finse under the name of Bernt Olsen. He was working for the resistance. He risked his life to get us out. Now I would like to help him — if I can.’
‘How can you help him when he’s dead?’ I asked.
‘If he’s dead — then that’s that. But if he’s not… My life’s finished. I have no future — nothing. When you have reached that stage, Mr Gansert, you can afford to take a little risk here and there.’
‘Such as — trying to kill somebody,’ I suggested.
He smiled. ‘You are still wondering whether that gybe was an accident or not — eh? Jorgensen thinks I did it on purpose, does he?’ He chuckled. ‘All his life now, until I’m dead, he’ll he wondering — wondering what the noise at the window is, wondering whether he’ll die a sudden death.’ He began plucking nervously at the blankets. ‘Farnell knew a lot about Jorgensen. If only I could find Farnell. Is Jorgensen sure Farnell is dead?’ He closed his eyes.
The door opened then and Jill came in with a cup of beef tea. ‘How is he?’ she asked me.
Dahler sat up in his bunk. ‘I’m quite well, thank you,’ he said sharply.
She handed him the cup. ‘Drink that,’ she said. ‘And then try to get some sleep.’
I followed her out and shut the door. ‘We must always see that somebody else is with him when Jorgensen is about,’ I said.
She nodded.
‘Was it an accident or not?’ I asked her.
‘I don’t know.’ She turned quickly towards the galley.
I caught her arm. ‘You saw what happened. Or Jorgensen thought you did. What was it — accident or — attempted murder?’
She winced at the ugliness of the word. ‘I don’t know,’ she said again.
I let her go then. ‘He seems to have reason enough for his hatred,’ I said. ‘Anyway, from now on I’m taking no chances.’
