“I’M NO DETECTIVE. IN fact, most of the time I’m more of a snowman, plowing through head-high drifts and 70-mile winds that plague us nine months of the year in the barren area of northern Canada beyond the permafrost line. But when you’re living all alone with one other man, 200 miles from the nearest settlement, and one day that only other man is murdered—well, that’s enough to make a detective out of anybody. His name was Charles Fuller, and my name is Henry Bowfort. Charlie was a full profes...sor at Boston University when I met him, teaching an advanced course in geology while he worked on a highly technical volume concerning the effects of permafrost on subsurface mineral deposits. I was an assistant in his department and we struck up a friendship at once, perhaps helped along by the fact that I was newly married to a sparkling blonde named Grace who caught his eye from the very beginning. Charlie’s own wife had divorced him some ten years earlier and vanished into the wilderness of Southern California, and he was at a stage in his life when any sort of charming feminine companionship aroused his basic maleness.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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