The Winter Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  Roger was full of his first run of the season.

  “The snow’s still difficult,” he announced, pontifically. “Not quite enough of it, unfortunately—it was far better this time last year. Still, it’s quite simple if you know how to manage it.”

  “I for one certainly don’t,” said Henry. “I intend to enrol in the ski school first thing tomorrow morning.”

  There was a chime of agreement from Jimmy and Caro.

  “I’ll come along with you,” boomed Colonel Buckfast from his table, not to be outdone by Roger. “Just to introduce you, of course. I know them all down there. Splendid lot of chaps. You want to get Giulio, if you can. Best instructor in the place. Failing him, his brother Pietro. They’re the sons of old Mario, you know—man who works the top end of the chair-lift. Used to be the star instructor himself until he crocked himself up.”

  The Colonel settled back in his chair with a comfortable affability, delighted at having established his claim to local knowledge.

  Before anybody else could speak, the Baroness said quietly, “Giulio is dead.”

  “What!” Roger dropped his spoon into his soup plate with a clatter, swinging round to look at the Baroness. Then, conscious that his own party were staring at him, he muttered, “I mean, I knew him quite well. He taught me when I was here last year.”

  “I say—I’m damned sorry to hear that,” said the Colonel, who had turned a deep raspberry red. He looked genuinely distressed, but whether on account of Giulio’s death, or because somebody else had found out about it before he had, Henry could not be certain.

  “How did it happen, eh?” the Colonel went on. “He was only a lad.”

  “It was a skiing accident, so they told me in the village,” said the Baroness. After a pause, she added: “Last week.”

  “He was a young man of great…great foolishness.” The dark young Italian joined in, speaking very earnestly, partly from deep sincerity and partly because he found English difficult. “This was not surprise. If not ski…then that so-rapid automobile he drive…no chains…he must die.”

  “He was on the Immenfeld run, just over the Austrian border,” the Baroness went on. “It’s very dangerous terrain there, and the run was definitely prohibited because of the snow conditions. But just because it was forbidden, Giulio must attempt it. He was like that. They found him at the bottom of a crevasse. One ski was still on his foot. The other ski and his sticks they never found.”

  There was an awkward pause.

  “Poor old Mario,” said the Colonel at last, wiping his moustache with his napkin.

  There was a clatter of wood on wood as Fritz Hauser got up and replaced his chair neatly at his table. Only he and the German family seemed quite unmoved by the conversation. “They probably don’t understand English,” thought Emmy.

  Hauser stopped at the Germans’ table, said something in a low voice to the girl, and crossed the room to the door. There he paused, as if taking a decision. Then he turned and said in good English to the room in general: “This idiot Giulio is dead. So—it is his own fault. He disobeyed orders. Let it not be a discouragement to other skiers.” He gave a curious little bow, and walked out.

  “What a vile little man,” said Caro.

  “Yet it is true what he was saying,” said the Baroness. “There is nothing to fear if one is sensible. Only the foolish come to grief.”

  “That’s what I always say.” Mrs. Buckfast spoke firmly and surprisingly. “You just have to be a little careful.” All at once, Henry had an extraordinary impression of tension, as if each remark had more than its surface meaning, as if purposeful streams of innuendo were being directed by the speakers towards—whom? Everybody? One other person? He glanced round. Caro was looking uncomfortable, her eyes on her plate. Roger had pushed his food away, and seemed really distressed. The Colonel brooded, chin on chest. As quickly as it had come, the impression faded, became ridiculous. The Baroness remarked that it was a great tragedy, but that these things happened, and they mustn’t let it spoil their holiday. She added that since the ice had now been broken, she’d like to introduce them all to Franco di Santi—the dark young Italian—who was a sculptor from Rome, whom she had met here on a previous visit. “So we are old friends,” she added, with a dazzling smile.

  This restored the conversation to normal, and when they had all professed themselves delighted to know Franco, Roger asked the Colonel pointedly if he intended to try the Gully—which was, as he explained to the others, the most direct but also the most precipitous route from the hotel to the village. The Colonel answered tartly that he had made enquiries about it, and that the piste was closed until further notice, owing to the extremely dangerous state of the run. Fearing that this might lead the conversation back to Giulio’s foolhardiness, Emmy asked Roger how the residents of the Bella Vista generally spent their evenings, isolated as they were. Roger brightened up and said there was a damn good radiogram in the bar, and why didn’t they all go and dance?

  “What about that poor little German wretch,” said Jimmy sotto voce, indicating the other table. “Let’s ask her to join us.”

  “Yes, let’s,” said Caro, in a stage whisper. “The poor thing looks too bullied for words.”

  Henry hoped for politeness’ sake that the German family did not understand English: certainly they gave no sign of knowing that they were being talked about, but continued to plough stolidly through monoliths of cheese and dishes of gherkins.

  “You ask her, Roger old dear,” said Jimmy. “You’re the expert in Hun-talk.”

  “Yes, go on, Roger darling,” said Caro.

  With some reluctance, Roger got up and went over to the other table. They saw him exerting his not inconsiderable charm as he proffered the invitation: his reception, however, was quite brutally abrupt. Before the girl could say a word, her father rasped out a curt refusal, and all three got to their feet and stumped out of the dining room. Roger returned to the table looking crestfallen and angry.

  “Charming, I must say,” he remarked, dropping into his chair again.

  “What did he say, the old pig?” asked Caro, solicitously.

  “Just bellowed that it was out of the question, and dragged the poor kid off before she could open her mouth,” Roger answered.

  “A maiden in distress… how splendid.” Jimmy was enjoying himself, and his conspiratorial glee was infectious. “We must rescue her from the dragon’s clutches. Who knows where her room is?”

  Caro volunteered that she had seen the girl coming out of the room opposite hers on the top floor. “And my room’s at the back,” she added, “so hers must be over the front door.”

  “All right then,” said Jimmy. “We’ll wait until they’ve all gone to bed, and then Roger and I will climb up to her balcony and serenade her—”

  “Don’t be silly, everyone would hear you,” objected Caro.

  “We’ll serenade her very quietly,” said Jimmy a little severely. “Then she can leave a bolster in her bed and creep downstairs…”

  Still plotting delightedly, they all adjourned to the bar “… and if that old bastard comes down and makes a scene,” Jimmy was saying, “I promise you I’ll—”

  He stopped abruptly. From the bar came the strains of a sentimental Neapolitan love song, recorded by a lush tenor to an accompaniment of dreamy guitars: and through the open door they could see the persecuted damsel waltzing sedately with Fritz Hauser, while her parents sipped coffee and Italian brandy at a table.

  Emmy burst out laughing. “So much for your maiden in distress,” she said.

  Poor Jimmy came in for a lot of good-natured teasing, which he took with his usual equanimity. Soon they were all dancing. The Baroness danced once with Roger and several times with Franco, and then said she was exhausted and wanted to be up early next morning to ski. Soon after she had gone, Henry and Emmy decided that they, too, were ready for bed, and Franco agreed with them. When they left, Roger and Caro were demonstrating the cha-cha-cha to Jimmy,
while Colonel Buckfast ordered just one more brandy, positively the last tonight, and Mrs. Buckfast complained that the Italians would never learn to make good English coffee.

  Lying in bed, Emmy reached out a hand to put out the light, and said, “Poor Jimmy. His Sir Galahad act fell a little flat.”

  “Yes.” Henry’s voice was heavy with sleep. “Still, who knows…he may need it again one of these days…”

  Emmy raised herself on one elbow. “You mean she wasn’t enjoying herself with Hauser?”

  “Well, would you?”

  “I don’t know. He seems quite a reasonable little fellow. Henry—”

  “Mm.” Henry was almost asleep.

  “Henry, do you think the Baroness came here for a secret assignation with Franco di Santi? He’s terribly good-looking, and I’m certain he’s in love with her…”

  “Oh, go to sleep,” muttered Henry into his pillow.

  In the silence that followed, the sound of the gramophone drifted up faintly to them, rhythmic and cloying. Emmy’s last waking thought was of the unknown young man, Giulio, lying frozen and alone at the bottom of the ravine, with one ski still strapped to his foot.