Police headquarters was housed in a modern building of glass and concrete on the corner of Hverfisgata and Snorrabraut. As Carter got out of the cab and paid his fare, the weak afternoon sun was just tinting the aluminum window casings gold.
Inside, a pretty blond girl behind the information desk looked up and smiled.
"I would like to speak with whoever is investigating the fire this morning near the university," Carter said.
"Have you come for some information, sir?" she asked.
"No, I'm here to give some."
She thumbed through a daily report log. "That would be Sergeant Gundarsson," she said, finding it. "I believe he is still in." She telephoned someone, speaking in rapid-fire Icelandic.
Moments later a young officer in a crisp blue uniform appeared at the corridor door, and Carter followed him through a maze of desks and partitions until they reached a gray, nondescript desk tucked in a comer, where a sallow-faced man, also in a blue uniform, sat typing. Smoke from a cigarette dangling on his lip curled up into his eyes, making him blink from time to time.
"Yes?" he said, looking up.
"I want to talk to you about the fire this morning."
"Tomasson?"
Carter nodded and sat down. "What have you found out?"
"That depends on who you are," Gundarsson said.
"I'm Nick Carter. A friend of Tomasson's — and of his colleague Dr. Lydia Coatsworth, who died here recently."
"I see. And?"
"I think Professor Tomasson was murdered. Arson."
"Faulty gas range in the kitchen, Mr. Nick Carter, American. Who would want to kill the professor?"
"He'd just discovered something very important," Carter said. "Something very important to the internal security of Iceland. I believe he was killed to prevent this information from getting out."
Gundarsson lit another cigarette off the stub of the one in his mouth, then pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. He jotted down Carter's name. And the names Petur Tomasson and Lydia Coatsworth.
"Go ahead." he said, looking up. "You came to tell me something. Tell it."
Carter began to relate the entire story, nonstop, from the time he'd come to Iceland, just as he had done for Einarsson. It took the better part of thirty minutes for the telling, during which time Gundarsson wrote furiously and smoked continuously. When Carter was done, Gundarsson repeated the main points, Carter made a few corrections, and then the officer rose from his chair, told Carter to wait, and disappeared around a partition.
Carter went over what he had just told the man. Einarsson had been skeptical about the story, but this cop had seemed indifferent. The story sounded lame, of course. Too much speculation and too little hard fact. He should have waited until he had more information. Yet…
Gundarsson came back and took Carter down a long corridor until they reached an office near the end. Gundarsson opened the door, and Carter stepped inside.
The man behind the desk was in shirt-sleeves. Semicircles of sweat appeared under each arm as he put his elbows out in front of him and peered up at Carter through thick, black-rimmed glasses.
"Sit down, Mr. Carter," the man said. His voice was gruff. A brass nameplate on his desk identified him as Lieutenant Thor Thorsson.
Carter sat down.
"Do you know the time?" the lieutenant asked. He did not seem very happy.
"Four forty-five," Carter said, glancing at his watch.
"My day ends at five, Mr. Carter, at which time our business will be concluded, wild stories and all."
"It may seem like a wild story, Lieutenant, but it's true nevertheless."
Thorsson shook his head in exasperation. "I just finished speaking with Mr. Johann Sigurjonsson. On the telephone. He is the gentleman who heads our Energy Commission. He said your story is utter nonsense. There is, and will be in the forseeable future, no shortage of geothermal energy here in Iceland. If Professor Tomasson thought differently, he was wrong."
"They wouldn't admit it. Can you imagine the effect if it became common knowledge that Iceland was running out of power?"
"Mr. Sigurjonsson is lying, then. He heads the biggest business concern in this country, he is a well-known and very respected leader, and he had done a great deal both publicly and privately to benefit dozens of charities. You, on the other hand, are a foreigner. Who shall I believe?"
"I was attacked and nearly killed outside Akureyri by a stranger. Why?"
The cop just glared at him.
"I was getting too close to the truth, and it upset the power in this country. Dr. Coatsworth and Professor Tomasson were on the same story."
"I have had no report from Akureyri yet. Only your ridiculous story."
"Then you will not help me?" Carter asked.
"Drop this immediately," the lieutenant said.
Carter got up and started to leave, but the lieutenant stopped him.
"What hotel are you staying at?"
"The Saga," Carter said. He knew what was coming.
"Do not leave your hotel, Mr. Carter. Reservations on the morning plane to the States will be made for you. Your welcome has expired."
Carter nodded. "I came up here to investigate the accidental death of a friend. Now I am being booted out of the country when I discover it may have been a murder. You people have a strange sense of justice."
"I have also spoken with Mr. Josepsson. He complained about you yesterday. I held off doing anything about it, however, but now you have gone too far."
"So they got to you too," Carter said.
The lieutenant's face turned red. He got to his feet. "One more word… just one… and you will be spending a very long time in a very unpleasant jail, just downstairs."
Carter nodded after a moment. "I'll be on the morning plane."
"Yes, you will," the lieutenant said.
Outside in the lobby, he asked the girl at the desk if he could glance at the incident report Gundarsson had filed about the fire. She hesitated.
"I've just now spoken with Lieutenant Thorsson about this," he said.
She dug out the report and handed it up. The folder only included one sheet, on which were written the names of Tomasson's estranged wife and their two children. Their address was listed.
He took a cab back to his hotel, and in a phone booth in the lobby he looked up Tomasson's wife. Her last name was not Tomasson. In Iceland, he was learning, there are no last names. One is named for one's father. Tomas's son becomes Tomasson. His daughter, Tomasdottir. Consequently everyone has two names that are his and his alone, no matter who marries whom. Tomasson's wife was Helga Arnadottir. She lived in the eastern sector, Skipholti 33. She was home when he called.
They talked for twenty minutes. She accepted his condolences, and he learned that she and her husband had been on the verge of divorce, and had ceased living together some time ago. She and the professor had two small children, a boy and a girl.
He asked if Tomasson had talked to her at all before he died. Had she seen him during the past few days? Had he perhaps left something in her care?
No. She hadn't talked with him for several weeks.
He thanked her, expressed his sympathies again, and hung up.
As he was crossing the lobby, the desk clerk motioned to him with a folded piece of paper. "A message, sir," he said. "You're to call this number immediately."
It was Einarsson. Carter recognized the Akureyri exchange. He placed the call from his room. Einarsson was in his office.
"Carter?" he shouted.