'Yes,' came the faint answer, brought in by the cold wind that entered from the open door. Drifts of light snow were whitening the boards near the entrance.
Farnell backed away, easing the weight of the pack on to his shoulders. He stood for a moment in the doorway, his teeth bared in a smile in his stubble beard. 'I'll be on the Oslo train, Jorgensen, if you want me but your policemen won't find me.'
Then suddenly he was gone and we were staring at the closed door. And I became conscious again of the weight of the wind against the hut and the snow piling up against the windows.
CHAPTER TEN
The 'Blaaisen'
It was a moment, after Farnell had left, before anyone in the hut moved. It wasn't so much that we were stunned by the suddenness of his exit as the fact that none of us had any plan. Lovaas was half bent over the table, holding his shoulder. Halvorsen was cutting his jacket away with a large jack knife. Jorgensen, usually so quick, stood motionless, staring at the closed door. I met Jill's eyes. She looked away as though it hurt her to look at me. Her face looked pinched and cold. Her jaw was set firmly like a man's. 'Come on, Bill,' she said suddenly. 'We must do something. If the police get him — ' She didn't finish the sentence, but started for the door.
I followed her, sliding up the zip of my windbreaker. As she opened the outer door, a swirl of fine, powdery snow swept up into my face. Outside, the force of the wind was driving the snow almost parallel with the top of the ridge on which the hut stood. The whole world seemed moving, the myriad snow-flakes showing as dark specks against the dismal grey light. Dahler looked up as we came out of the hut. He was fixing his last ski. I called to him. 'Where are our skis?' But he made no reply. He was working feverishly at the binding of his ski. Then he straightened up, pulling his sticks out of the snow and, with one last glance at us, turned and thrust himself forward into the driving snow.
'Mr Dahler!' Jill called. 'You'd better wait for us.'
He glanced back over his shoulder. Perhaps it was the light, but it seemed to me that his face was contorted in a frenzy of hate. Then he pressed forward. An instant later he was no more than a vague shadow. Then he was gone, swallowed up in the storm.
Jill caught my arm. 'Quick!' she said. 'Our skis are down there.' She caught hold of the sticks still leaning against the side of the hut, thrust a pair into my hands and then started off down the slope, skiing forward like a skater on her feet. I followed. Below the loose surface the snow was a hard, frozen crust. The wind whipped blindingly into my face as I descended. The exertion and the cold brought my circulation back. By the time I caught up with Jill she had already fixed one of her skis. Fortunately all the skis had come to rest in a pile on a drift. I found mine and fitted them to my boots. As I straightened up, Jorgensen joined us. 'Be careful, Miss Somers,' he said. 'It is dangerous now. You may get lost.'