Tomasson shrugged. "But I have no idea. None whatsoever. Several days before her accident, we talked about a project I've been working on, which is not at all related to what happened. I'm sure. I needed her input on some ideas I'd come up with, and she gave her ideas as freely as she always did. But I'm sure if she'd found anything 'incredible, as she reported to you in her letter, she would have said something. We had no secrets from one another, professionally, that is."
"Maybe she thought what she found was potentially dangerous. Maybe she thought she was protecting you by not saying anything."
"Perhaps," said Tomasson, touching a match to the tobacco in his pipe.
"Just what was she working on?"
"There has been some new volcanic activity a bit offshore of the Reykjanes Peninsula. Not far from here, actually. That sort of thing was right down her alley."
"But she was in the interior when she died. Miles from the ocean."
"That's true. I have no idea what she could have been doing there."
"Would it be possible to see where she was… where she died?"
Tomasson had picked up the hesitation. "You don't think it was an accident, do you."
"I don't know. Can I get to the site?"
The man was silent for a long moment. "Yes, it's possible to go there. One has to have a Land-Rover — and some equipment, of course. She died in a rather inaccessible place. It would also help to have someone along who knew the area."
Carter played with a pencil for a moment, thinking. "Did Lydia have an office here?"
"Yes, she did, as did all of the staff. But I believe we sent her personal effects to her family in Ohio."
"What about her notes, her scientific data, that sort of thing?"
"It all belongs to the university, Mr. Carter."
"I understand that. Is it still here?"
"Yes. It's still in her office."
"May I see it?"
Tomasson got to his feet and opened the door of his office. "I have a feeling if I said no, you'd see it anyway." He beckoned to Carter, and they walked across the lab. Several students had shown up to use the small seismographic laboratory and developing room to one side of the lab, and they all looked up with curiosity. Tomasson ignored them, puffing on his pipe in a preoccupied way. The revelation of Lydia's letter seemed to have disturbed him.
Lydia's office was only slightly smaller than Tomasson's and differed in layout only in that it had a window that looked out across the parking lot, and to the ocean beyond.
"There's nothing here," Carter said. The shelves were bare, and the desk had been stripped of everything except a lamp.
"Most of it was either sent to her relatives or returned to university stock. Reference books, tools, that sort of thing."
Carter pulled out several of the desk drawers, which were mostly empty. The large bottom drawer, however, was locked. "What about this one?"
Tomasson came around the desk. "I forgot all about it. It's locked. I was hoping the key would turn up. But I got busy and it slipped my mind."
Carter took a thin metal pick from the seam of his wallet and inserted it into the lock. In a few moments it popped open.
Tomasson said nothing, but his lips were compressed.
Carter poured the contents of the drawer onto the desk top and rummaged through the files and papers until he found a sealed manila envelope with photos inside. He pushed the rest of the papers to one side to make room for them.
"What's this?" Tomasson asked, his professional curiosity piqued.
"Your guess is as good as mine." Carter said. "Any ideas?"
"It's some kind of a time sequence," Tomasson said, studying the photos. "The times are stamped." He shuffled through the photos, laying them in order.
Carter noticed the date stamped on the shots. It was the day before she died.
"This was probably the fissure she was studying. She did mention something about it."
"These were taken the day before she died. One day at the seashore. The next inland. Isn't that odd?"
Tomasson shook his head. "I don't know. But I would not go looking for deep dark plots, Mr. Carter. We are scientists here, not spies."
"Still, it's odd."
"Yes," Tomasson admitted. He was staring at the photos.
"Do these photos mean anything to you? Do they fit in with what it was she was working on?"
"I don't know. It'll take some analyzing."
"Will you do it?"
"Yes. It may take a few hours. Maybe a day."
"I'll be back tomorrow. I'm going to rent myself a Land-Rover and a guide."
Tomasson looked up. "Let me give you a word of advice, Mr. Carter. Sometimes strange things happen here. I don't want to unduly alarm you, but I do want you to be careful."
"Thank you."
Tomasson nodded, then started gathering up the photos.
Carter telephoned for a cab from the lobby of the university's main building, and while he waited for it to come he did some thinking. He was certain now that Lydia had not met with any accident, although he did not really know what made him so sure. It was just a very strong hunch.
He was also reasonably sure that Josepsson had something to do with whatever political trouble Lydia had mentioned. The man was hiding something, definitely hiding something, and it was time. Carter thought, to begin drawing the man out.
The cab came, and as they started down the highway that led into Reykjavik, a small, black Lancia pulled out behind them.
Two
When they arrived at the Borg Hotel, Carter got out and was paying the driver when he noticed the Lancia parked just down the street. He went upstairs to his room.
As he opened the door he saw a small piece of notepaper he'd stuck in the doorjamb. It had fallen out. Someone had been in the room since he had left.
The place looked untouched, but he took out his gun and carefully checked the bathroom and closet. No one was there. From beneath his bed he pulled out his suitcase. Both locks had been forced, and every piece of clothing had been shredded. The lining of the suitcase had been ripped out all the way to the leather.
This had been no casual search. This was harassment, pure and simple, and whoever had done it felt no need to be subtle.
He went to the telephone and dialed for the operator. "Desk," said a mellow female voice.
"This is Carter in six-oh-eight. Someone's been in my room, and whoever it was used a master key. There's no sign the lock has been tampered with."
"Sir, the maid service enters each room about midday."
"Since when does the maid service shred clothing and destroy suitcases? Please send up your security people."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
He slammed the phone down. He could ignore this, he thought. Obviously this tactic was intended to frighten him, but whoever was responsible didn't know Carter. Letting it slide wouldn't be in keeping with his cover as an average citizen. Besides, the use of the master key implied the hotel had allowed it to happen, and he wanted to see what would come of raising a little hell with the management.
While he waited for the hotel to react, he called the coroner's office. A pleasant-sounding young woman told him in perfect English that any information he might require concerning the location of Lydia Coatsworth's accident would have to be obtained from the local authorities — in this case the police of Akureyri, the major town of Northern Iceland, about an hour from Reykjavik by air.
He hung up and placed a second call to the travel agency office in the hotel lobby. He made a reservation on a domestic Icelandic Airlines flight to Akureyri at 3:00 that afternoon and arranged to have a Land-Rover from one of the local outing clubs waiting for him when he arrived.
As he hung up from talking to the travel agency, a brisk knock sounded at the door. He opened it to find two men standing in the corridor. One was large, grim, and had a handshake like a vise. He introduced himself as the house detective. The other was smaller, more nervous, and his hands were noticeably damp. His name, he said, was Magnus Thoroddson. He was the assistant manager.