East of Desolation by Jack Higgins Page B

voice strong and steady as I kept up the flow. “It happens all the time. It’s the uncertain weather conditions on the ice-cap that do it. One moment a clear blue sky, fifteen minutes later the bottom’s dropped out of the glass and you’re in the centre of a raging storm and in a light aircraft that can be disastrous. What’s your interest in this, anyway?”
    “A large one, I’m afraid. My firm insured this plane, Mr. Martin. It disappeared more than a year ago on a flight from Grant Bay in Labrador.”
    “What was the destination?” Desforge asked.
    “Ireland.”
    I raised my eyebrows. “Then they were more than a little off course. Who was flying?”
    “Frankly, we don’t know. The plane was owned by Marvin Gaunt. Who this man Harrison was I haven’t the slightest idea, but that’s what it said on the name tab inside his jacket. There was also a wallet containing seven hundred dollars and an American Diner’s Club card in the name of Harvey Stein. As a matter of interest, when we checked that through their London office it turned out to be a forgery.”
    “Curiouser and curiouser,” I said. “I just like Alice.”
    “The most puzzling thing is yet to come, Mr. Martin. The pilot for the flight as logged out of Grant Bay was a Canadian called Jack Kelso and the airport records definitely indicate that the plane only carried Gaunt and the pilot.”
    “Sounds like a good storyline,” Desforge put in.
    Vogel said: “But one with little humour in it for my company. After the statutory period had elapsed we paid Gaunt’s next to kin—his mother, as it happened—the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds called for under the terms of the insurance policy.”
    Desforge whistled softly. “I’d say that entitles you to some sort of explanation.”
    Vogel smiled thinly. “Exactly how we feel, Mr. Desforge. The whole affair is obviously far too mysterious. As I see it there are three questions which must be answered. Who was this man Harrison? What happened to Kelso? Why was the plane so far off course?”
    Desforge grinned and emptied the last of the hock into his glass. “I said it was a good storyline.”
    Vogel ignored him. “As soon as I read the account of the find I contacted the Danish Embassy in London. They told me that eventually their civil aviation people would be inspecting the wreck, but that for various reasons there would probably be a considerable delay, perhaps even until next summer. Under the circumstances they obtained permission from the Ministry in Copenhagen for me to take a preliminary inspection myself.”
    “If you can get there,” I said.
    He smiled. “Which is where you come in, my friend. In Godthaab they told me that Joe Martin was the mostexperienced pilot on the coast.” He took out his wallet and produced a typewritten document which he passed across. “That’s the necessary clearing certificate from the Ministry.”
    I examined it briefly and passed it back. “Have you considered that there might be a logical explanation for this whole thing?”
    There was something in his eyes for a moment, a greenish glow that appeared like some warning signal then faded.
    “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said politely.
    “That this Marvin Gaunt was up to no good, that Kelso never really existed at all, except for the specific reason of getting that plane out of Grant Bay. That he was really Harrison all along.”
    “That’s good,” Desforge said. “That’s damned good.”
    Vogel sighed. “Ingenious, but unfortunately it won’t wash, Mr. Martin.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because Jack Kelso was most certainly flesh and blood and the London and Universal Insurance Co. has the best reasons for remembering the fact. You see under the terms of Marvin Gaunt’s policy, the pilot was also covered for the same death benefit.”
    “And you paid out?” Desforge said.
    “Twenty-five thousand pounds,” Vogel nodded. “To Mrs. Sarah Kelso, his widow. She’s waiting in the