The Snow Tiger / Night of Error
‘But they did eventually? When?’
‘On that evening, Mr Chairman.’
Harrison sighed, exasperated at Crowell’s woolly-mindedness. ‘But we have heard evidence that Mr Ballard was neither drunk nor playing a practical joke. Why should you not believe what he said on that occasion?’
Crowell shook his head unhappily and looked towards Rickman, whose head was down as he busily scanned a sheet of paper. ‘I don’t know – it was just that it sounded that way.’
‘It has been suggested that Mr Ballard was “foisted” upon you.’ Harrison uttered the word as though it had a nasty taste. ‘Upon his appointment, did you make any complaint of any kind – to anyone?’
‘No.’
Harrison shook his head slowly as he regarded this most unsatisfactory witness. ‘Very well. I have no further questions He looked down from the rostrum. ‘Yes, Mr Ballard?’
‘I would like to ask some questions.’
‘I see that you still have no legal representation. Do you think that wise? You must have heard the saying that the man who argues his own case has a fool for a lawyer.’
Ballard smiled. ‘That may hold good in a law court, but, Mr Chairman, you have repeatedly said that this is not a court of law. I think I am quite capable of asking my own questions.’
Harrison nodded. ‘Very well, Mr Ballard.’
Ballard looked at Crowell. ‘Mr Crowell, two weeks after the disaster the board suspended me from my duties. Why?’
Rickman’s hand shot up. ‘Objection! What happened two weeks after the incident does not come within the scope of this inquiry.’
‘Mr Rickman has a point,’ said Harrison. ‘I cannot really see that this is helpful.’
Ballard stood up. ‘May I argue the point?’
‘Certainly.’
Ballard picked up a note-pad. ‘I took notes of your remarks when this inquiry began. You ruled that evidence given here may not be used in a future civil action. It seems to me that this inquiry may be the only public hearing possible.’
He turned a page. ‘On the second day Dr McGill said that the death-roll in the disaster was higher than need be. You overruled an objection to that on the grounds that this is not a court of law and the procedure is at your sole discretion.’
He looked up. ‘Mr Chairman, this inquiry is being widely reported in the Press, not only in New Zealand but also in the United Kingdom. Regardless of your findings, the public is going to blame someone for those unnecessary deaths. Now, certain imputations have been made about my character, my drinking habits and a supposed propensity for practical joking which, in my own interests, I cannot allow to pass unchallenged. I ask to be allowed to question Mr Crowell about these matters, and the fact that I was suspended from my duties a fortnight after the disaster certainly seems to me to be a legitimate reason for inquiry.’
Harrison conferred briefly with his two assessors, then said, ‘It is not the wish of this Commission that a man’s reputation be put lightly at stake. You may sit down, Mr Ballard, and continue your questioning of Mr Crowell.’
Rickman said warningly, ‘There may be grounds for appeal here, Mr Chairman.’
‘There may, indeed,’ agreed Harrison tranquilly. ‘You will find the procedure set out in the Commissions of Inquiry Act. Continue, Mr Ballard.’
Ballard sat down. ‘Why was I suspended from my duties, Mr Crowell?’
‘It was a unanimous decision of the board.’
‘That is not exactly answering my question, but we’ll let it pass for the moment. You said in evidence that you had nothing to do with my appointment, that you would rather have chosen another man, and that the instructions came from London. Do you usually take your instructions from London, Mr Crowell?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then where do you take your instructions from?’
‘Why, from …’ Crowell stopped short. ‘I do not take instructions, as you put it, I am chairman of the company.’
‘I see. Do you regard yourself as a sort of dictator?’
‘That is an insulting question.’
‘Maybe you might think so. All the same, I’d like you to answer it.’
‘Of course I’m not a dictator.’
‘You can’t have it both ways,’ said Ballard. ‘Either you take instructions or you do not. Which is it, Mr Crowell?’
‘As chairman I assist the board in making decisions. All decisions are made jointly.’
‘A most democratic process,’ commented Ballard. ‘But the decision to appoint me as managing director was not made jointly by the board, was it, Mr Crowell?’
‘The decision need not be unanimous,’ said Crowell. ‘As you have pointed out, this is a democratic process where the majority rules.’
‘But not so democratic as to be a one man, one vote system. Is it not a fact that he who controls most votes controls the company?’
‘That is the usual system.’
‘And you said in evidence that the instruction to appoint me came from a majority shareholder in London. Is that shareholder a member of the board?’
Crowell twitched nervously. In a low voice he said, ‘No, he is not.’
‘Then is it not a fact that your board of directors has no real power and is thus a democratic sham? Is it not a fact that the power to control the company lies elsewhere? In the City of London?’
‘That is a misreading of the situation,’ said Crowell sullenly.
‘Let us turn from my appointment to my suspension,’ said Ballard. ‘Did the instruction to suspend me also come from London?’
‘It may have done.’
‘Surely you know. You are the chairman of the board.’
‘But not concerned with the day to day running of the company.’
‘No,’ agreed Ballard. ‘That was the function of the managing director. You said so yourself in your evidence. Surely you are not suggesting that I suspended myself?’
Dan Edwards could not contain himself. There was a loud snigger from the Press gallery and Harrison looked up, frowning.
‘You are being ridiculous,’ said Crowell.
Ballard said drily, ‘Any ridiculousness inherent in this situation certainly does not emanate from me. There remains one alternative. Are you suggesting that the suspension of the managing director was a minor bit of day to day business that was beneath your notice as chairman?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then you will know where the idea of my suspension originated, won’t you?’
‘Now I come to think of it, the instruction for your suspension did come from London.’
‘I see. But that again is not an exact answer to the question. Is it not a fact that you communicated with London because the board is a puppet dancing to strings held in the City of London? Is it not a fact that a suggestion was made – by you – that the company was in danger of being in bad odour because of evidence to be given at this inquiry? And is it not a fact that you intimated that I, as a Johnny-come-lately, was an ideal person to shuffle the responsibility on to, and that it was then that the instruction was given – from London – that I be suspended?’
‘Objection!’ cried Rickman. ‘Mr Ballard cannot lead the witness in this way.’
‘I tend to agree,’ said Harrison. ‘Such a compendium cannot be permitted, Mr Ballard.’
‘I withdraw the question.’ Ballard knew, from the rustle in the Press gallery, that he had made his point where it mattered. ‘I shall return to the telephone conversation between Mr Crowell and myself. When you were cut off, what did you do? Oh yes; you talked it over with your wife, didn’t you? What was the substance of that conversation?’
‘I don’t remember.’ Crowell added irritably, ‘It was late at night and we were both very tired.’
‘When you were cut off, did you attempt to replace the call?’
‘No.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘You heard my evidence. I thought you were drunk.’
‘How long did you think I’d been drunk, Mr Crowell?’ asked Ballard softly.
Crowell looked startled and uncomprehending. ‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘It’s quite a simple question. Please answer it.’
‘I didn’t give it a thought.’
Ballard picked up a sheet of paper. ‘You said in evidence that your secretary had left a number of messages from me. You also said that you judged, from the number and tenor of those messages, that the matter was urgent. Did you think I’d been drunk all day? The first call I had was at eleven-thirty that morning.’
‘I told you. I didn’t give it a thought.’
‘Evidently not. So you did not try to call me back?’
‘No.’
‘And you did not try to communicate with the Ministry of Civil Defence?’
‘No.’
‘As a matter of interest, Mr Crowell, what did you do? After you had discussed it with your wife, I mean.’
‘I went to bed.’
‘You went to bed,’ repeated Ballard slowly. ‘Thank you, Mr Crowell. That will be all.’ He waited until Crowell was rising from the chair and was in a half crouch. ‘Oh, there is just one further thing. Did you come forward voluntarily to give evidence here, or were you subpoena’d?’
‘I object,’ said Rickman. ‘That has nothing to do with anything.’
‘I agree, Mr Rickman,’ said Harrison smoothly. ‘This Commission need not be instructed that Mr Crowell was subpoena’d – it already knows.’ He ignored the indescribable sound that came from Rickman, and continued blandly, ‘And now I think we shall adjourn for lunch.’
FOURTEEN
Over lunch in the restaurant near the Provincial Buildings, McGill said, ‘You’re doing all right, Ian. You got in some good stuff this morning.’
Ballard poured a glass of water. ‘I didn’t think Harrison would let me get away with it.’
‘Get away with it! God, he compounded with you. He ticked you off when he had to, but he didn’t stop you. I thought I’d split a gusset when he brought out the bit that Crowell had been subpoena’d. He agreed with Rickman and harpooned him in the same breath.’ McGill paused. ‘I don’t think Harrison likes Crowell.’
‘I don’t like him much myself.’
‘You’re not doing yourself much good with your family. That histrionic speech about the company dancing to strings pulled in the City of London won’t go down well with your uncles back home. Where did you learn to pull a trick like that?’
Ballard grinned. ‘Watching the Perry Mason Show.’ He shrugged. ‘It won’t make much difference. I’ve already decided to leave the Ballard Group.’
‘After a speech like that you’ll have to. I can’t see any Ballard company hiring you now. What will you do?’
‘Haven’t made up my mind yet. Something will turn up.’ He frowned. ‘I keep wondering what Stenning wants.’
‘Do you know him at all?’
‘Not well. The old man relied on him a lot, and I know why. He’s a tough old bird, about as ruthless as old Ben was himself. Ben told him what he wanted to do, and Stenning figured out a legal way of doing it. He’s as sharp as a tack.’
‘You say he’s old – how old?’
Ballard reflected. ‘He’ll be pushing seventy now, I suppose. He was much younger than Ben. One of the bright young men that Ben surrounded himself with in the early years.’
‘An old guy of seventy flying half way across the world,’ mused McGill. ‘Could be important, Ian.’
‘I can’t see how.’
McGill looked up. ‘Here comes someone else who is not doing herself much good with her family.’ He stood up. ‘Hi, Liz.’
Liz Peterson put her hand on Ballard’s shoulder. ‘Don’t get up, Ian. Hi, Mike.’
McGill drew up a chair for her and then sat down. He put out his hand and rubbed Liz’s dog behind the ears. ‘Hi, Victor; how’s the boy?’ The Alsatian lolled his tongue and his tail wagged vigorously.
‘I didn’t see you at the hearing this morning,’ said Ballard.
‘I was there. Wouldn’t miss it for anything. It’s just that I wasn’t sitting with the boys. I don’t like Lyall – he gives me the cold grues. Where’s Joe?’
‘Gone back to the hospital. Giving evidence this morning took it out of him.’
Liz tapped on the table. ‘My charming brother, Charlie, manufactures the bullets and Lyall fires them.’ She burlesqued Lyall’s accent. ‘“Did Mr Ballard drink heavily that night?” I damn near cheered when Joe fired that right back. It wounded Charlie to the heart.’
‘You’re not doing yourself much good with them,’ warned Ballard.
‘To hell with both of them,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I only stuck around because of Johnnie, and now he’s dead I’ll be leaving Huka. Maybe I’ll be leaving New Zealand.’
‘A fine pair you are,’ said McGill. ‘Don’t either of you believe in family ties at all?’
‘Not with that pair,’ said Liz. ‘I nearly gave Charlie a heart attack just now. I said that if anyone implied that Ian was drunk just once more I’d offer my services as your witness. I said that I can tell well enough when the man I’m dancing with is drunk, and that Ian wasn’t but that Charlie certainly was.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve never seen a man go red and white at the same time.’
‘I’d be careful, Liz,’ said Ballard soberly. ‘Charlie can be violent.’
‘Don’t I know it! I once had to crown him with a bottle. But I can handle him.’
McGill smiled satirically. ‘So unlike the home life of our own dear Queen,’ he observed.
Ballard said, ‘Thanks for the support, Liz. Ever since the avalanche I’ve been depressed, but now the depression is lifting. I’ve made a couple of decisions and now the way ahead seems a lot clearer. You’ve had a lot to do with it.’
‘I bring more than support, sir – I bring information. Rickman and Lyall are cooking up something together. I was driving past the company office just now when they both came out together, laughing fit to bust.’
‘Watch it, Ian,’ warned McGill. ‘It’ll be a pincer movement.’
‘Thanks, Liz,’ said Ballard.
She looked at her watch. ‘I think I’ll sit with the boys this afternoon. I might learn something more. See you at the hearing.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, Victor.’
As she walked away McGill said, ‘The prettiest spy I ever did see.’ He finished his coffee and looked around for the waitress. ‘We’d better be going, too. By the way, what are these couple of decisions you’ve made?’
‘You’ve heard one – I’m leaving the Ballard Group.’
‘And the other?’
‘I’m getting married,’ said Ballard placidly.
McGill paused, his wallet half way from his breast pocket. ‘Well, congratulations. Who’s the lucky girl?’
Ballard dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘Liz Peterson – if she’ll have me.’
‘You must be insane,’ said McGill. ‘Who’d want Charlie as a brother-in-law?’
FIFTEEN
MacAllister was an electrical engineer, stolid and given to precise answers. When Harrison asked him when the power lines were cut, he answered, ‘Two minutes and seven seconds to midnight.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Professor Rolandson.
‘There is a recording device on the circuit breakers. When they kicked out the time was recorded.’
Harrison said, ‘What did you do?’
‘Established where the break was.’
From Rolandson: ‘How?’
‘I put a current on the line and measured the resistivity. That gave a rough idea of the distance to the break. I put it as a little short of Hukahoronui.’
‘And then?’
‘I rang my opposite number in Post Office Telephones and asked if he had the same trouble. He had, and he confirmed my findings. I then sent out an inspection crew.’
‘With what result?’
‘They rang me nearly two hours later to say that they had found the trouble. They said it was due to a fall of snow. A Post Office crew was also there and my men had used their portable telephone.’
‘They just said it was due to a fall of snow?’
‘Yes, sir. It didn’t seem reasonable to me that a fall of snow could cut the cables so I asked for further information. The entrance to the valley of Hukahoronui is by a cleft or gap, and my men said the gap was filled with snow to a height farther than they could see in the darkness. I know the place, sir, and I asked if the river which runs out of the valley was still flowing. My man said there was a little flow but not very much. I assumed there would be flooding on the other side of the snowfall so I immediately notified the police.’
‘Very quick-witted of you,’ remarked Harrison. ‘But why the police?’
‘Standard instructions, sir,’ said MacAllister stolidly.
‘Did you take further steps?’
‘Yes, sir. I went to the scene of the break in the cable. It was snowing quite heavily as I set out and conditions became worse as I proceeded. When I arrived at the break it was snowing very heavily – something like a blizzard. On my truck I had a spotlight but there was too much back reflection from the falling snow to show how high the blockage in the Gap was. I also investigated the flow of the river and found it to be minimal. I judged the situation serious enough to telephone the police again.’
‘And what was the reaction from the police?’
‘They noted the facts as I gave them, sir.’
‘Nothing more?’
‘They told me nothing more.’
‘You say you could not tell the height of the blockage. Obviously you could not tell the depth – how far back it extended into the Gap?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you take steps to find out?’
‘Not at that time. It was snowing heavily and it was dark. To investigate in those conditions would have been most dangerous. I would not climb up there myself, nor would I send anyone else. I judged it better to wait until daylight when we could see what we were doing.’
Harrison looked at Smithers. ‘It appears from the evidence of Mr MacAllister that this was the first occasion that anyone outside Hukahoronui had any inkling of trouble.’ He switched his gaze to Crowell who was sitting next to Rickman and amended his statement. ‘Or anyone who did something constructive about it, that is. Have you any questions, Mr Smithers?’
‘No, Mr Chairman. But I think the witness ought to be congratulated on the sensible steps he took – especially his quickness in passing on news of a potentially hazardous situation.’
‘I concur.’ Harrison turned to MacAllister. ‘To what time does your evidence take us?’
‘I made the second call to the police at three-thirty on the Sunday morning.’
‘Thank you. You may step down, Mr MacAllister, with the knowledge that you have done your duty well.’
MacAllister left the witness chair, and Harrison said, ‘I think it is time to get back to what happened in Hukahoronui after the lights were extinguished. We have just heard of a fall of snow which blocked the Hukahoronui Gap. I would like to hear Dr McGill’s professional views on that.’
McGill rose, walked to the witness chair, and set his briefcase on the floor. Harrison said, ‘You were present in the lobby of the Hotel D’Archiac when the lights went out?’
‘Yes, sir. As Mr Cameron said, there was a lot of confusion at that time. Mr Ballard was trying to talk to Mr Crowell and had difficulty in doing so because of the actions of Mr Charles Peterson. I went to his aid and it was about then that the lights went out. Mr Ballard said that the telephone had also gone dead.’
‘Did you hear the snow falling into the Gap?’
‘No. There was too much noise in the hotel.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The management of the hotel got busy and provided light. There were candles and kerosene lanterns ready for use. I was told that a breakdown of electricity supply was not uncommon, and there had been a similar occurrence only the previous month. Everybody took it as a matter of course. I asked about the dead telephone but no one seemed worried about that, either. The dance was over, anyway, so everybody went home.’
‘Including you?’
‘Yes. I went home with Mr Ballard and went to bed.’
McGill was woken from a sound sleep by Ballard. He awoke to darkness and automatically flicked at the switch of the bed-side lamp, but nothing happened. It was then he remembered about the power failure. Ballard was a deeper shadow in the darkness. McGill said, ‘What time is it?’
‘Five-thirty. Cameron just rang up with a funny story. It seems that one of his men, Jack Stevens, left early this morning to go to Christchurch to see his mother. He says he can’t get out of the valley.’
‘Why not?’
‘He says the Gap is closed off with snow. He says he can’t get through.’
‘What sort of car does he have?’
‘A Volkswagen.’
‘Well, it’s not surprising, is it? Look at what happened to those two Americans the other day. Is it still snowing?’
‘Very heavily.’
‘Well, there you are. It’s probably been snowing all night. I couldn’t guarantee to get through myself with a Land-Rover.’
‘According to Cameron, Jack says it’s not like that. He’s talking of a wall of snow so high he can’t see the top. I told Cameron to bring him here.’
McGill grunted. ‘Light that candle on the dressing-table, will you?’
Ten minutes later he was saying, ‘You’re sure, now. This is not just a deep drift across the road?’
‘I’ve told you it’s not,’ said Stevens. ‘It’s a bloody great wall of snow.’
‘I think I’d better go and look at it,’ said McGill.
Ballard said, ‘I’ll come with you.’ He looked at the telephone and then at Cameron. ‘If there’s no power how did you manage to ring me?’
Stevens said, ‘The exchange has a bank of batteries and an emergency diesel generator to top them up. We’re all right for local calls.’
McGill nodded. ‘Whatever happened at the Gap must have taken out the electricity cables and the telephone lines both.’ He picked up a heavy anorak. ‘Let’s get going.’
‘I’ll come, too,’ said Cameron.
‘No,’ said McGill. ‘I’ve just been handed an idea. Do you have diesel generators at the mine?’
‘Sure.’
‘Then you see that they’re in working order. I have a notion that we’re going to need power before long.’
‘That means me,’ said Stevens. ‘I’m the mine electrician.’ He winked at Cameron. ‘Do I get double time for Sunday work?’
Ballard left to put on ski pants and an anorak and then he joined McGill in the garage. He got behind the wheel of the Land-Rover and pushed the self-starter; it whined but the engine did not fire. ‘She’s cold,’ he said as he pushed again. He tried several times but still the engine did not take. ‘Confound the bloody thing.’
‘Take it easy,’ said McGill. ‘You’ve flooded her. Wait a couple of minutes.’ He pulled the anorak about him and then put on gloves. ‘What’s between you and Charlie Peterson? Last night he acted like a bull moose in rutting season.’
‘It’s an old story,’ said Ballard. ‘Not worth repeating.’
‘I think I’d better know. Look, Ian: the Petersons are forty per cent of the town council and that fool of a mayor, Houghton, will do whatever John Peterson tells him to do.’
‘John’s all right,’ said Ballard.
‘Maybe. But Eric is steamed up about the mine and he hates your guts. As for Charlie – I don’t know. There seems to be something else sticking in his craw. What did you do? Take away his girl or something like that?’
‘Of course not.’
‘If an old quarrel is getting in the way of co-operation with the council I’d better know about it. Charlie did enough damage last night.’
‘It goes back a long way.’
‘So tell,’ said McGill. ‘The snow in the Gap won’t go away if what Stevens says is true. We have the time.’
‘I never knew my father,’ said Ballard. ‘I was born in the January of 1939 in England, and I was brought here as a babe in arms. Something else also happened in ‘39.’
‘The war?’
‘That’s it. My father had split with old Ben and he decided to leave England and farm here. He bought the land and then the war came and he joined the army. He was in the Western Desert with the New Zealand Division and I didn’t see him to recognize until he came back in 1943 when I was four years old. My mother wanted him to stay – a lot of the men who came back in ‘43 refused to return to active service – and there was a bit of a quarrel between him and my mother. In the end it was academic because he was killed in the avalanche here. I saw it happen – and that’s all I got to know of my father.’