'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.
Ahead of us the two tiny figures swung further left. The leading figure turned still more. He was close by the railway now where it ran through a long cutting. He paused and half-turned his head. Dahler's smaller figure was gaining on him. Farnell swung away suddenly to the right, his skis throwing the snow up in a huge wave as he turned the speed. A moment later he was running parallel with the line directly below us.
I glanced once more over my shoulder. The train was moving steadily out of Finse. Jill saw it too and, without speaking, we turned and went headlong down the slope towards Farnell. Jill shouted at him. He must have heard, for I saw him look up. Dahler, too, had turned. He passed directly below us, a black speck hurtling down towards the railway.
Jill, in the lead again, swung away to the right, following Farnell's movement. Finse was hidden from us now by a long shoulder round which the line curved in a snowshed. Farnell was disappearing round the corner, Dahler close behind him.
Then they vanished from sight. Faintly came the siren sound of the train as it went into the first of the snowsheds after Finse.
A moment later, and we had turned the point of the shoulder. We were right over the line now, skiing along the roof of one of the snowsheds. It ended just round the bend. Here the line made a convex curve to another shoulder of hill where it entered the next snowshed. Farnell was climbing now up the side of the shoulder of land nearest Finse. Dahler came hurtling down the slope of the bend. He was making for the railway, clearly with the idea of getting between Farnell and the line.
It all happened very quickly then. The slope was steep where Dahler was coming down. At the bottom, just above the line, he did a jump Christi. Either he was tired or he was handicapped by his withered arm. At any rate, he muffed the Christi and went slithering down on his side. The next instant he had fallen down the sheer side of the cutting on to the lines.
Jill stopped then and I stemmed. We were standing at the end of the snowshed. Below us was the wooden tunnel over the line holding off the snow that poured like an avalanche slope down the shoulder of the hills. In places the wooden boards showed through the snow, which was blackened by smoke. Curving round the farther headland was the next snowshed, its entrance gaping black like a tunnel. Between the two snowsheds was the convex curve of the snow-ploughed cutting, with the lines showing black through the tight-packed snow. The walls of the cutting were quite sheer, the snow packed hard and tight. Its width was the width of a train. And in that cutting Dahler struggled to his feet and brushed the snow off his ski suit.
Beyond the headland the train hooted as it entered another snowshed. Jill clutched my arm. Her fingers bit into my flesh. For a moment I couldn't understand her agitation. Then I saw Dahler trying to scale the sheer snow walls of the cutting and I realised the danger of his position.
I glanced quickly up the shoulder ahead of us. Farnell was still climbing, glancing over his left shoulder as though measuring the distance to the line below. He was directly above the next snowshed now. Then I looked down towards Dahler. He was scrabbling frenziedly at the snow with his hands, trying to get a purchase for his skis. Round the headland I could hear the heavy panting and rumbling of the approaching train. 'Mr Dahler!' Jill screamed. 'This way. Under the snowshed.' Her fingers dug at my arm. 'Doesn't he know there's room for him to get off the track in these snowsheds?' She breathed. 'Mr Dahler!'
But the man was panic-stricken. Where he was, he could probably feel the trembling of the rails under his feet as the giant locomotive came down the track beyond the headland.
'Dahler!' I shouted. This way!'
But he was frenziedly tearing at the wall of snow as though he would burrow through it. Every now and then, where he had made it crumble a bit, he tried to climb with his skis.
'Dahler!' I yelled.
He looked up.
I waved to him. This way, for God's sake. Get under the shed here.'
He seemed to take it in at last, for he straightened up. The engine hooted again. The sound of the siren was very clear now. It was hooting for the entrance to the snowshed on the other side of the headland. Dahler half turned and looked at the black, gaping hole of the snowshed. Then he started to ski towards us. But his skis caught in the sleepers and he fell. Take your skis off and run for it,' I shouted.