The Blue Ice

Jill suddenly gripped my arm as faintly echoing through the mountains came the mournful note of a siren. She was pointing away to the right where the track curved round a shoulder of the mountains towards Bergen. Just below the tip of the shoulder a plume of smoke showed for an instant. 'It's the Oslo train,' she said. 'See it?' A moment later the plume of smoke was visible again and I could see the dark line of the train coming out of the tunnel-like entrance of one of the snowsheds. For perhaps half a minute it crawled along in the sunshine. Then it was gradually swallowed up under the snow as it entered another snowshed. Little puffs of smoke came from the side of the shed which was not covered with snow. I couldn't see the train, but I could measure its progress as it burrowed along under the snow by those little wisps of smoke that appeared and then hung motionless in the frosty air.

'Do you think George really meant it when he said he was going to catch that train?' Jill asked.

'I don't know,' I answered. 'But it certainly looks like it. These must be his and Dahler's tracks. Surely nobody else would have been out in that snow? And if they are his tracks, then he's certainly making for the railway.'

'But look,' she said, 'they're not going down to Finse. They're curving away to the left. The next station down the line is Ustaoset. That's more than twenty miles away. He'd never make it in time. And he can't jump the train.'

'Well, there's only one way to find out,' I said.

She nodded and we started off again. The ski tracks led farther and farther away to the left until Finse lay over my right shoulder. The Oslo train was drawing into Finse station now.

I could see the black snake-line of the carriages slowing to standstill. A white plume of steam burst from the engine as though it were blown with the long climb up from sea level to over four thousand feet. I began to wonder whether in fact we were following the right ski tracks.

Then round a small nut of rock we came upon the figure of a man struggling up towards us. He looked up as we bore down on him. And then suddenly he shouted, 'Is that you, Jill?' It was Curtis. I recognised him as soon as I heard his voice.

'Yes,» Jill called back.

'Thank God!' he said. 'I wondered what had happened to you. I've been trying to look for you, but I'm not very used to these things yet.' He pointed to his skis. Then he saw me. 'Hallo Skipper! So you made it all right.'

'Has Farnell passed you?' I asked as I ran up towards him.

'Dunno,' he answered. 'Two men went by a little time back. One a long way behind the other. The second looked rather like Dahler. Couldn't have been, could it? But neither he nor Jorgensen were at the hotel when I got down to breakfast. And police all over the place. Where have you been?' he asked, turning to Jill.

'Up on Sankt Paal,' she replied.

Down in the valley the train whistled. The siren note was thrown back by the mountains, growing fainter and fainter as it slipped away into the infinity of snow-capped peaks.

'That was Dahler all right,' I said. 'The man ahead of him was Farnell.'

'Good God!' I heard him mutter. But I was already past him, thrusting with my sticks to gain impetus. Jill came up beside me. Now that I was within sight of the quarry, I felt the excitement of the chase bringing the strength back into my legs. If only I could get Farnell alone — away from people like Lovaas and Jorgensen. He was bitter, tired of being pursued. He needed to be handled carefully. If I could talk to him quietly.

We topped another slight rise and there ahead of us, connected to us by the double lines of their ski tracks, two figures showed black against the snow. They were close above the railway now. The whistle of the train at Finse sounded again, the wail of it coming up to us from the valley and being thrown back by the hills. I glanced over my right shoulder. Great puffs of smoke were belching from the engine, condensing white in the thin air. The smoke turned black. I could hear the thick panting of the heavy locomotive. The long line of carriages began to move.

Jill came up alongside me. 'We must stop him getting on to that train,' she panted. Then she raised her stick and pointed to the sharp-cut line of the snow-ploughed railway below us. Little figures were moving along above the cutting. 'Police,' she said.

I nodded and plunged my sticks into the soft snow. All thought of my tiredness had vanished. If Farnell were captured by the Norwegian police, there was little chance of my getting the information I wanted.

Side by side we plunged down the slope, heads bent, our skis sizzling through the snow, thrusting the powdery top surface up like bow waves on either side of the upcurved points.