But showed all things even as they were indeed.

gas chambers. He himself had found work in the clothing industry in New York, studied in night school, worked for an oil company, married and with the death of his wife that spring had set about fulfilling the agelong ambition of his race, the return to their holy land. It was a touching story, pathetic and deeply moving, and I didn't believe a word of it. Every twenty minutes I changed position with Jackstraw and so the long hours of the night dragged by as the cold deepened and the stars and the moon wheeled across the black vault of the sky. And then came moonset, the blackness of the arctic night rushed across the ice-cap, I slowed the Citroen gratefully to a stop and the silence, breathless and hushed and infinitely sweet, came flooding in to take the place of the nightlong clamour of the deafening roar of the big engine, the metallic clanking of the treads. Over our black sugarless coffee and biscuits I told our passengers that this would be only a brief three-hour halt, that they should try to get what sleep they could: most of them, myself included, were already red-eyed and drooping from exhaustion. Three hours, no more: not often did Greenland offer travel weather like this, and the chance was not to be missed. Beside me, as I drank my coffee, was Theodore Mahler. He was for some reason restless, ill at ease, jerky and nervous, and his eyes and attention both wandered so much that it was easy enough for me to find out what I wanted. When my cup was empty, I whispered in Mahler's ear that there was a little matter that I wished to discuss privately with him. He looked at me in surprise, hesitated, then nodded in agreement, rising to follow me as I moved out into the darkness. A hundred yards away I stopped, switched on my torch so that he blinked in its beam, and slid my Beretta forward until its barrel was clearly visible, sharply outlined in the harsh white glare. I heard the catch of the breath, saw the eyes widening in fear and horror. "Save the act for the judge, Mahler," I said bleakly. "I'm not interested in it. All I want is your gun." CHAPTER SEVENTuesday 7 A.M.Tuesday Midnight "My gun?" Mahler had slowly lifted his arms until his hands were at shoulder level, and his voice wasn't quite steady. "II don't understand, Dr Mason. I have no gun." "Naturally." I jerked the barrel of the Beretta to lend emphasis to my words. Turn round." "What are you going to do? You're making nikon coolpix s4 digital camera a" "Turn round!" He turned. I took a couple of steps forward, ground the muzzle of the automatic none too gently into the small of his back, and started to search him with my free hand. He was wearing two overcoats, a jacket, several sweaters and scarves, two-pairs of trousers and layer upon layer of underclothes: searching him was easier said than done. It took me a full minute to convince myself that he wasn't carrying a weapon of any kind. I stepped back, and he came slowly round to face me. "I hope you're quite satisfied now, Dr Mason?" "We'11 see what we find in your case. As for the rest, I'm satisfied enough. I have all the proof I want." I dipped the torch beam to illuminate the handful of sugar I'd taken from the pocket of his inner overcoatthere had been well over a pound in either pocket. "You might care to explain where you got this from, Mr Mahler?" "I don't have to tell you that, do I?" His voice was very low. "I stole it, Dr Mason." "You did indeed. A remarkably small-time activity for a person who operates on the scale you do. It was just your bad luck, Mahler, that I happened to be looking directly at you when the theft of the sugar was mentioned back in the cabin. It was just your bad luck that when we had our coffee just now it was dark enough for me to have a swig from your cup without your knowledge: it was so stiff with sugar that I couldn't even drink the damn' stuff. Curious, isn't it, Mahler, that such a tiny thing as giving way to a momentary impulse of greed should ruin everything? But I believe it's always the way: the big slip-up never brings the big criminal to book, because he never makes any. If you'd left that sugar alone when you were smashing up the valves, I'd never have known. Incidentally, what did you do with the rest of the sugar? In your grip? Or just thrown away?" "You're making a very grave mistake, Dr Mason." Mahler's voice was steady now, and if it held any trace of worry or guilt I couldn't detect it. But I was now far beyond the naive stage of expecting to detect anything of the sort. "I didn't touch those valves. And, apart from the few handfuls I took, the sugar bag was quite intact when I left it." "Of course, of course." I waved the Beretta. "Back to the tractor, my friend, and let's have a look at this case