Tanya nodded.
“And you hid the bodies there, too,” Paxton continued. “The snow on the roof is thick, and it’d be easy to hollow out coffin-shaped grooves that aren’t visible from the ground. And a small ice cave would be an ideal hiding place for you – not too cold and out of the wind.”
“But only for a short period of time,” said Tanya. “That was why we had to act quickly.”
“When I suggested we use the drill-house roof as a high point to scan the ice, Julie immediately volunteered to go because she said she was the lightest… ”
“If you’d gone, you’d have seen our hollows,” said Julie. “Not to mention the winch we assembled to haul the bodies out of sight quickly. Would you like to see them now?”
Paxton gazed at her. “So you can kill me and be saved the bother of taking my body up there?”
“You’re the last,” said Julie dismissively. “It doesn’t matter whether we put you there or not. There’s no one left to hide your body from.”
Suddenly, her penknife was in her hand, and she was moving towards Paxton with grim determination. Tanya shoved the sample container in her pocket and darted behind him, dividing his attention. He realized he still held the heavy milk can that had killed Senko, and he hurled it as hard as he could. It hit Julie in the chest, knocking her from her feet so that the knife flew from her hand. Paxton was inclined to run, to escape the women who had murdered his colleagues, but there was nowhere to go. He would die on the ice just as surely as if Julie stabbed him.
He dived for the knife, aware that Tanya was close behind him. He skidded and lost his balance. Tanya was on him in an instant, clawing and scratching at him, and trying to prevent him from reaching the weapon. Meanwhile, Julie had recovered and was on her hands and knees, inching slowly towards the weapon.
In the distance, there was a dull growl that grew steadily louder. For a moment, Paxton thought it was something to do with the drill, but he glanced up and saw a tiny black speck in the sky.
“It’s a plane!” he yelled, trying to scramble to his feet. “You made McMurdo so concerned by allowing Hall to broadcast his insane messages that they’ve braved the fog and sent help.”
“But not soon enough to save you,” said Tanya grimly. “Our plan will still work.”
She lunged to one side, and Paxton felt his hood tightening around his neck. While he used both hands to try to loosen the choking grip, Julie finally reached the knife and climbed unsteadily to her feet. She staggered forward, the weapon poised for a swipe that would see her and Tanya the sole inheritors of the contents of Lake Vostok.
The plane droned nearer. Paxton was beginning to grow dizzy from lack of air, and Julie’s arm was already plunging downward. With the last of his strength, he twisted away. His feet slid on the ice and he fell, dragging Tanya with him. They landed on something that popped under their combined weight, and a gout of cold liquid burst across the ground. Tanya went limp.
“The sample!” screamed Julie, dropping to her knees and staring in horror at the pool of dirty water that ran in rivulets across the ice. “You fell on the container and broke it!”
“And you killed Tanya,” said Paxton, struggling free of the inert body and watching blood mingle with the spilled water. The plane roared low overhead as it prepared to land, and Paxton could see people at the windows, gesticulating wildly at what he assumed they could see on the drill-house roof. “It’s over, Julie.”
Julie was white-faced as the last dribbles from the container seeped into the snow. “It was all for nothing! None of us’ll be around by the time they agree to drill another borehole.”
“You’ll be serving a prison sentence for murder, anyway,” said Paxton coldly. “You killed six of your colleagues.”
“We almost did it,” she said softly, still gazing at the pale stain. “We held it in our hands. But at least there’s some justice in all this: you ruined our plan, but with the sample gone and the drill broken, at least it won’t be you who’ll be the first one to analyze Lake Vostok.”
With a deafening roar, the plane landed a short distance away, and its passengers began to hurry towards them, pointing at the drill-house roof in horror and confusion. Julie’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Paxton withdrew the small phial of Lake Vostok water he had secreted in his pocket when the others weren’t looking, and showed it to her.
“I’d have been the first to publish the results anyway,” he said softly. “All you’ve done is ensure that I’ll succeed.”
THE MYSTERY OF THE TAXI-CAB by Howel Evans
Now we step back in time again. I know little about Frank Howel Evans. He wrote several boys’ books as Atherley Daunt at the turn of the last century, and it’s probable that he was an actor or worked in the theatre in some capacity, as many of his stories involve the stage. He even wrote a Sexton Blake novel called The Actor Detective (1905). The following comes from a series of stories Evans wrote for The Novel Magazine in 1922 and which was reworked into the book The Murder Club (1924). The Murder Club is a collection of individuals who delight in solving bizarre crimes – such as the following.
“Once more a humble person craves admission – NUMBER ONE.”
Brinsley read this out from a slip of paper at the next meeting of the Murder Club.
White-haired, beaming. Number One, was admitted with Brinsley’s butler carrying a large parcel, which he placed on a side table.
“Gentlemen,” said the Chief of the Secret Service, “just a little memento. You will understand when you see it. Good night.”
In a second the little silver-haired man of mystery had gone, and Brinsley, as President, drew the untied wrappings off the parcel and brought to light a magnificent chased gold cigar-box, on the lid of which was an inscription:
TO THE MURDER CLUB
FROM
NUMBER ONE.
“And what’s this?” Brinsley picked up a scrap of paper which lay at the bottom of the box and read aloud:
“I rather fancy the Murder Club and The Wire will be interested in the murder of Sir George Borgham. If the mystery is solved I shall be glad of any particulars that you may not care to give to the public. Secret please – Number One.”
Brinsley grabbed for an evening journal.
“The little man gets busy,” he said. “It only happened this morning and Crimp’s on it, that’s why he’s not here. I’ll read the account, and then we shall have it in our minds clear and sharp.”
And this was the account:
“Sir George Borgham appears to have left his house in Mayer Street, Sloane Square, at about twenty minutes to ten this morning. He was driven in his car by way of Piccadilly, making a call at a bookshop there, and arrived at the Law Courts at five minutes to ten. The policeman on duty outside the Courts, knowing the famous judge’s car, opened the door as usual for Sir George to alight and make his way to the judge’s entrance. But Sir George, instead of jumping out quickly as was his habit – he was a very active man for his sixty-eight years – remained seated in the near corner, with his head sunk on his chest. His silk hat was lying on the seat by his side, and in his right hand was the book which he had bought, closed, with his finger between the pages as if to keep the place. At first the policeman thought that he was asleep, so he said to him: ‘You’re at the Courts, my lord.’ But receiving no answer, he put his head further inside the car, and instinct and experience then told him that he was looking at a dead man.