Dead Men Don't Ski

by Patricia Moyes

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it in no time," said Roger, briskly. "There's absolutely nothing to be frightened of. I'll be in the chair right behind you. Just put down the safety-bar, and then relax and enjoy the view."

  Caro showed no signs of enjoying herself, but she got on to the next seat without further demur, clutching a little desperately at the vertical metal arm, like a nervous child on a roundabout, as the chair sped upwards. Roger exchanged a joke in Italian with the attendant, and had time to discover that his name was Carlo and that the lift stopped working at seven o'clock each evening, before he slipped casually into his chair, leaving the safety arm flapping. Jimmy made a loudly facetious remark about dicing with death, which made Henry suspect that he was genuinely apprehensive, but he flopped his chair gamely enough, the neck of a brandy bottle protruding from his hip pocket. It seemed to Henry that he had had to wait an eternity for his turn, but in fact* the chairs came round so rapidly that it was less than a minute after the Colonel had boarded the lift that Henry—only partly reassured by Emmy's encouraging smile—found himself waiting in the appointed spot for the next down-travelling chair to complete its circuit by clanking round the huge wheel in the shed ; a couple of seconds later it came up and hit him in the back of the knees. He sat down, and the ascent began.

  The ride up to the Bella Vista was certainly cold: and over some of the more precipitous ravines Henry found it advisable to keep his eyes focused stubbornly on the heights to come, rather than glancing down to the huddled, snowy rocks below. But there was a magic, too, in the slow, steady, silent ascent—silent, that is, apart from the clatter and rattle each time the chair passed a pylon: and yet the unnerving effect of this noise was counteracted by a momentary sense of security, for the inspection platform of the pylon passed a mere eighteen inches below his dangling feet, and, noticing that a steel ladder led down from the platform to the ground below, Henry hoped fervently that if the lift did decide to break down, it would do so when he was passing a pylon, rather than at a moment when he was suspended over a precipitous gorge.

  To the right, about ten feet away, was the downward cable of the lift, on which a procession of empty seats followed each other towards the valley with the stately melancholy of a deserted merry-go-round. Just occasionally, however, a down-going chair was occupied—generally by a booted and be-furred lady of uncertain years. It was very much, Henry reflected, like being on an escalator in the London underground, watching the faces that glided downwards as one ascended, to come face to face and level for a fleeting moment before the inexorable machinery churned on. When it came to scenery, however, all resemblance disappeared. Instead of the garish rectangles of advertisement which London Transport provides for the entertainment of its passengers, there were vistas of snow| cloud and mountain, of pine trees and pink rock, of misty valleys and sun-touched peaks. At last, a tiny hut came into view at the top of an open snowfield—the trees were all but left behind. As the chair approached, a little wizened man with a walnut-brown face stood ready to take Henry's arm and help him as he slid maladroitly out of the chair before it clattered on round the wheel to begin its descent.

  Emmy came sailing up serenely on the next chair, slipped gracefully out of it, and came over to stand beside Henry. "Well," she said," here we are. And isn't it wonderful?"Far, far below them, Santa Chiara looked like a toy village laid out on a nursery floor, the miniscule houses dotted haphazardly round the apricot-pink church. Ahead, over the ridge where the ski-lift ended, a shallow, saucer-shaped sweep of snowfields stretched away to still more mountain peaks ; and to the right, round the bend of a snow-banked path, was the Albergo Bella Vista. The rest of the party were already walking up the path to the hotel, stopping every few yards to draw each other's attention to some fresh beauty. Henry and Emmy followed them slowly, hand in hand and very much at peace.

  CHAPTER THREE

  One of the charms of mountain architecture is its consistency. The deep eaves and steep roof-tops, the wooden balconies and shuttered windows, have been universal above a certain altitude for centuries—simply because they are functional, providing the greatest comfort and security for men living among the snows. So the Albergo Bella Vista looked exactly like any other mountain chalet, with its neat mosaic of stacked firewood nudging one wall, its balcony-veranda and pale wooden shutters pierced with heart-shaped holes.

  In the hall—floors and walls of honey-coloured waxed pine—a man in a light blue suit, plump as a capon and with sparse grey hair trained carefully to hide his pink baldness, was oozing welcome.

  "Allow me to present myself ... Rossati, Alberto ... welcome to the Bella Vista, meine Herrschaften ... ah, welcome back Colonel Buckfast... Herr Staines ... if you would kindly sign the register . .. this way, bitteschoen ... may I have your passports, please..."

  One by one the travellers signed in, surrendered passports, were allotted keys. By this time the luggage had arrived, having made the ascent on one of the two tray-shaped luggage-carriers attached to the chair-lift. At last all was sorted out, and Henry and Emmy found themselves alone in their bedroom. It was of light wood, like the rest of the building—the floor bare of carpets, yet warm to the touch, for an enormous radiator shimmered heat from below the window. The big intricately-carved bed had, in place of blankets, two vast white downy quilts, a foot thick and light as thistledown. A very large wardrobe, a plain deal dressing-table, a wash-basin and two upright chairs completed the furniture.

  An exchange in Italian with the chambermaid elicited the information that a bath was certainly available, at the price of 500 lire.

  "That's more than five shillings," said Henry, outraged.

  "Baths are always a terrible price in the mountains," said Emmy, cheerfully. "I never reckon on having more than one a week. But just at the moment I think it would be cheap at a pound."

  So they bathed luxuriously, and changed into clean clothes, and by a quarter to seven were ready to face the world and an aperitif.

  The bar ran the whole length of the building, one side of it being composed entirely of windows, which gave on to the veranda. It was dark outside, for the moon was not yet up, but still the snow glimmered faintly white below the ink-black sky. The furniture consisted of little tables covered in red gingham table-cloths, milk-white wooden chairs, and a long chromium bar with stools upholstered in deep red leather. On the bar, inevitably, an Espresso machine hissed and wheezed like a cauldron of snakes. Henry and Emmy perched themselves on stools, and a dark, smiling girl served them with Camparisodas. There was only one other customer in the bar—a man who sat at a table in the farthest corner and toyed with a glass of tomato-juice.

  Indicating the stranger with the tiniest nod of her head, Emmy whispered, "Doesn't look like a skiing type to me."

  Henry half-turned to look. He saw a small, smooth man in his fifties: everything about him was chubby, from his fat little fingers caressing the stem of his glass to his short, stumpy feet, whose outline could not be disguised by his tapering suede shoes. His face was pink, round and benevolent, with small eyes that twinkled obscurely behind thick-lensed spectacles.

  After a minute or so Signor Rossati, the proprietor, came into the bar. He went quickly over to the man in the corner, and spoke to him quietly in German. The man nodded amiably, finished his drink, and the two went out together, deep in conversation. They crossed the hall, and Henry heard the door of Rossati's private office click shut, cutting off the voices.

  "Our host seems to be bilingual,"Emmy remarked.

  "Nearly, everyone is, in these parts," Henry replied "We're only just over the Austrian border, you know, and this province was part of Austria until 1919. Italian is the official language now, but German comes far more naturally to a lot of the people—especially in the smaller villages."

  "Does it rankle at all, I wonder—being handed over arbitrarily to Italy?" asked Emmy.

  "Officially, no. Unofficially—yes, of course. But strictly under the surface. Nothing must upset the tourist trade.
" Henry turned to the barmaid. "Do you speak English—parla Inglese? " he asked.

  She giggled, shook her head, and said she didn't.

  "Tedeschi?"

  Her face lit up. "Ja, ja" A quick stream of German followed, but Henry just smiled and shook his head negatively. To Emmy, he said, "You see? I'm not letting on I understand her, because I don't want our English chums to know I speak German or Italian. But you heard what she said?"

  "She went too fast for me," said Emmy. "My German isn't all that good, you know. The best that can be said for it is that it's better than my Italian."

  "Well," said Henry, " she was saying that German was her mother-tongue, and she'd be delighted to speak it with us since we don't know Italian. It would be quite a relief, she said."

  Suddenly the hall outside became shrill with a babble of Italian voices and a cheerful stamping of boots.

  "The sci-lift ... finish..." said the barmaid.

  Through the open door, Henry saw the Baroness following Gerda and the children upstairs. A man's voice said, "Maria-Pia..." and she stopped, letting the others go on ahead of her. A dark young Italian, in extremely elegant royal blue ski-trousers, moved into Henry's line of vision. He stood at the foot of the staircase, and placed a hand on the Baroness's arm, restraining her, and talking urgently but softly. Gently, she freed her arm, shaking her head, but he caught her hand in his, pulling her down the stairs towards him. At that moment, Gerda reappeared round the bend of the staircase, her pale face impassive. Abruptly, the young man released the Baroness's hand, made some laughing remark, and ran upstairs past the two women, taking the steps two at a time. Gerda said something to the Baroness and they walked upstairs together. Meanwhile, Henry was amazed to see Colonel Buckfast and Roger Staines come in, dressed in full skiing regalia, their boots caked*in snow.

  "Signori Inglesi ... very much set ... already today..." said the barmaid, trying hard. "Co-lon-el Back-fist, he set molto ... you not set?"

  "Not yet," said Henry.

  "There's a nasty, icy side-slip halfway down Run Three,"the Colonel was saying, in the hall. "Sensible of you to stick to Number One."

  "I'm taking Run Three first thing in the morning," said Roger, defensively. "I just thought the light was a bit tricky for it this evening."

  "Very wise. Never run before you can walk," said the Colonel, maddeningly. Then, in a lower tone, he added, "That cove Fritz Hauser is here again. Remember him? I saw him in Rossati's office as I went out. Don't like the fellow."

  "Hauser? Oh yes, the fat little German ... was here last year... can't think why he comes when he doesn't ski..."

  They went upstairs.

  Dinner started gaily enough. The Baroness, ravishing in black velvet trousers and a white silk shirt, sat alone—but talked merrily and loudly to the dark young Italian, who also had a table to himself. Gerda, presumably, took her dinner upstairs with the children, for there was no sign of her. The Buckfasts (Mrs. Buckfast resplendent in lilac crepe) made quite a thing ^bout their "usual"table, which was no different from any other, but somehow established seniority. Henry and Emmy, at Jimmy's expansive invitation, joined up with the three young English at a large table in the middle of the room. The other diners were an unmistakably German family—a comfortably plump, blonde woman in her forties, an upright, sallow-faced man with a deep scar on his cheek, and a buxom girl, presumably their daughter, who wore no make-up, had her hair twisted into unbecoming ear-phone plaits, and never spoke a word. At a table in the corner, Fritz Hauser ate alone, rapidly and with serious concentration.

  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 to-morrow 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'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.

  u 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."