I was still standing by the rail in this mood of elation when Jorgensen came up from below. ‘It’s eight o’clock,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Bovaagen Hval now. Doubtless you’ll want to have Miss Somers up to check on what I say.’ He smiled and went down into the chartroom.
He was right. I certainly did want to know what he said. I called Jill up from below and we settled ourselves in the chartroom. Jorgensen had already tuned in and a voice was speaking what I presumed was Norwegian. But suddenly it concluded with ‘Twa bloody baskets, an’ that’s all, Johnnie.’
‘Scotch trawlers,’ Jorgensen said. And then, ‘Here we are.’ A deep voice had suddenly broken in across the fainter voices of the trawlermen:’ Ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo. Ul-lo Bovaagen Hval. Ul-lo Bovaagen Hval. Dette er Hval To. Ullo-ullo-ullo — Bovaagen Hval.’ There followed a double whistle and then another voice came in: ‘Ullo-ullo-ullo Hval To. Bovaagen Hval her.’ The double whistle again and the first voice came back with a stream of Norwegian.
‘Whale Two — that’s one of the catchers — reporting a seventy-foot whale,’ Jill whispered.
When he had finished another voice came in — Whale Five. ‘He’s seen nothing,’ Jill murmured in my ear. ‘He says the weather’s still bad up there — that’s about two hundred miles farther north, I think.’
As soon as Whale Five had signed off, Jorgensen switched on to the transmitting set and holding the mike close to his mouth said,’ Ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo Bovaagen Hval. Del er direktor Jorgensen. Er stasjonmester Kielland der?’ The double whistle and then a voice on the loudspeaker: ‘Ullo-ullo-ullo diretor Jorgensen. Del er Kielland. Hvor er De na?’
‘Jeg er embordpa den britiske yachten Diviner,’ Jorgensen answered.’ Vi ankrer opp utenfor Bovaagen Hval imorgen tidlig. Vaer sa snild a sdrgefor vann og dieselolje. Og na har jeg-’
‘What’s he saying?’ I asked Jill.
‘He’s arranging for water and oil for the boat on our arrival,’ she whispered back. ‘Now he’s explaining about the message in the consignment of whale meat. He’s asking the station manager, Kielland, to make inquiries and report on how the message got into the whale meat when we arrive.’
‘Javel, herr direktor,’ replied the manager’s voice. ‘Jeg skal la meg ar saken.’
‘Utmerket,’ answered Jorgensen. He gave the signing-off whistle and then turned to us. Tomorrow we will know the answer to this little mystery — I hope,’ he said.
And then our attention was called back to the radio with a voice calling, ‘Ullo-ullo-ullo. Hval Ti anroper direktor Jorgensen.’
Jorgensen picked up the microphone again. ‘Ja, Hval Ti. Dei er Jorgensen her.’
‘Dette er kaptein Lovaas,’ replied the voice.
Jill gripped my arm. ‘It’s the captain of the catcher, Whale Ten. I think he knows something.’
The conversation went on in Norwegian for a moment and then Jorgensen turned to me. ‘Lovaas sounds as though he has some information. He wants a description of Farnell.’ He thrust the microphone towards me. ‘He understands English.’
I leaned down to the microphone and said. ‘Farnell was short and dark. He had a long, serious face and wore thick-lensed glasses. The tip of the little finger of the left hand was missing.’
Jorgensen nodded and took the microphone. ‘Now what’s your information, Lovaas?’ he asked.
‘I speak English now.’ There was a fat chuckle over the loudspeaker. ‘She is not very good, my English. So please excuse. When I leave Bovaagen Hval two days before one of my man is sick. I take with me another man — a stranger. His name, he said, is Johan Hestad. He is very good to steer. But he has magnetise the compass and when I think I am near the whales I find I am off the Shetlands. He offered me many monies to go to the Shetlands. He says to me that he was with a man called Farnell seeking minerals on the Jostedal and that an English company will pay him money for his discoveries. I remember how this man Farnell is discovered dead on the Boya glacier and I lock him in the cabin. When I search his clothes I have found papers showing his real name to be Hans Schreuder. Also some little pieces of rock.’
At the mention of the man’s real name, Jorgensen’s grip on the microphone tightened. ‘Lovaas,’ he interrupted. ‘Did you say — Schreuder?’
‘Ja, herr direktor.’
‘Put about at once and return to Bovaagen Hval at full speed,’ Jorgensen ordered.
Again there was the fat chuckle over the loudspeaker. ‘I have done this six hours before,’ Lovaas replied. ‘I thought you will be interested. See you Tommorow, herr direktor.’ The double whistle as he signed off was almost derisive. Silence settled on the chartroom. The fat, jovial voice with the sing-song intonation of Eastern Norway had left me with the impression of a big man — a big man who enjoyed life and was also a rogue. I was to get to know that voice too well in the days that followed. But I was never to revise my first impression.
‘Who was Schreuder?’ I asked Jorgensen.
He looked up at me. ‘I do not know,’ he said.
But he did know. Of that I was certain.
