Dead Men Don't Ski

by Patricia Moyes

  Before he could elaborate on this statement, Caro and Pietro came back to the table. Fresh supplies of coffee and cakes were ordered, and the conversation turned to Fraulein Knipfer.

  "We saw her this morning with Giovanni," said Jimmy. "Honestly, the girl's a wash-out. I ask you—nearly two weeks of lessons, and she still can't stand up on her skis. She ought to pack it in, and take up bird-watching."

  Pietro smiled, wryly. "It is sad, but I agree with you," he said.

  "I feel terribly sorry for her," said Caro. "Her room's just opposite mine, and I often bump into her going to the bathroom. She always looks utterly miserable. Mind you," she added, "I'm not surprised, so would I if I had to spend all my evenings with Fritz Hauser."

  "I don't know why you've got such a down on the poor little man," said Jimmy. "He's not all that bad. I daresay the Knipfer girl dotes on his company."

  "Don't be silly. Nobody could," said Caro, shortly.

  "Anyway," Henry put in, "she's free of him now. He's gone."

  At a quarter to five, Emmy joined them. She was in high spirits, and her hair was glistening with snow.

  "We had a gorgeous day on the Alpe Rosa," she announced. "We had lunch at the restaurant at the top— the view is fantastic from there. And afterwards, we came down the difficult way. I fell umpteen times, but it was wonderful. Heavens," she added, as she caught sight of herself in a mirror, "I'd better do something about my hair. Order me a lemon tea, will you, Henry? I won't be a moment."

  By five o'clock, Roger and the Colonel had stamped the snow off their boots, hung their anoraks in the cloakroom, and were relaxing over steaming cups of hot chocolate.

  "Tricky run, that one to Immenfeld," said the Colonel. "Hidden crevasses in the last snowfield—where young Giulio came to grief, you know." He suddenly realised that Pietro was at the table, and turned bright purple: but the instructor was talking animatedly to Jimmy, and apparently had not noticed the reference to his brother.

  "It sounds terribly dangerous," said Caro.

  "Rubbish," said Roger. "No trouble at all if you stick to the piste. And anyway we took it very slowly. The Colonel doesn't approve of speed."

  "Nonsense," said Colonel Buckfast, rather brusquely. "Just don't believe in breaking my neck, that's all."

  "Roger always takes risks," said Caro. "He adores danger."

  "That's quite untrue,"Roger remarked. "I always know exactly what I'm doing."

  "But after all,"Pietro put in, "what is the fun of life without risks?"

  "I suppose it's a good thing you feel that way," said Jimmy. "I mean ... skiing as a profession. God, how I envy you," he added. "Living here, skiing all the time-must be a wonderful life."

  "You think so?"Pietro's face grew suddenly grave and determined. "You would not say that if you lived here.

  This little village ... there is no opportunity for a young man. It's the same for all of us. We teach ski, we teach climbing, we make a little money ... then we grow old, and work the ski-lift, like my father. I do not mean to end like that. One day, I shall be rich. And do you know what I shall do then?"

  "What, Pietro?" asked Caro.

  Pietro flashed her a smile. "I shall go to America," he said. "That is the country to make money. I shall go to New York and ride in a big Cadillac, and ski only for fun, at the weekends."

  "I don't know anything about New York," said Jimmy, "but I'm prepared to bet they don't have cream cakes like these. Anyone else join me in another couple of dozen?"

  At twenty-past five, when they were talking about leaving, the Baroness and the children came in on a wave of chattering voices—the children proudly clutching new sweaters which their mother had just bought them. A few moments later Gerda joined them: she had taken off her anorak, and wore a white sweater with her black vorlagers, which had the effect of making her look paler than ever. She ordered a cup of coffee, refused anything to eat, and sat listening silently to the excited volubility of her two small charges. Henry noticed that Maria-Pia glanced nervously and expectantly at the door every few seconds, and sure enough it was not many minutes before Franco di Santi came in.

  He went straight over to the Baroness, and said something to her in Italian. Her face lit up with a brilliant smile, and Henry heard her say, "How wonderful. Oh, how wonderful. I can't believe it."

  Pietro asked Maria-Pia if she had had a good day's skiing, and, as the conversation became general, Roger and Franco pushed the two tables together, and yet more coffee, chocolate and tea were consumed. Maria-Pia and Franco both seemed filled with an infectious gaiety, which communicated itself to the others, and Henry, remembering their sombre faces in the bar the previous evening, marvelled at the volatility of the Italian character.

  It was five past six by the clock over the bar when Gerda, cutting Pietro short in the middle of a story about how he had once been the sole survivor of an avalanche,, remarked quietly that it was getting near the children's bed-time: this effectively broke up the party, and they all decided it was time to go back to the hotel.

  They all said good-bye warmly to Pietro.

  "Arrivederce" he said. "I shall see you on Monday."

  "Why don't you come up to the Bella Vista again tonight, Pietro?" said Caro. "It's still full moon."

  "No moon tonight, Miss Caro,"Pietro answered, with a smile. "Look, the snow."

  Sure enough, snow was falling in big, soft flakes when they came out of the cafe, turning the village street into a carpet of ermine. They had almost reached the turnstile of the lift, when Emmy gave an exclamation of annoyance.

  "My goggles," she said. "I've left them at the Olympia. Blast it, I'd better go back."

  "I'll come with you," said Henry.

  Pietro was still there when they got back. He was drinking grappa at the bar, and invited Henry and Emmy to join him. They took a leisurely rum grog each, and then strolled back through the dark village, and bought their tickets for the lift. The chairs were clattering past, empty and forlorn, and Carlo stamped his feet and blew on his fingers in the freezing air.

  It was eighteen minutes to seven by the big, white-faced clock in Carlo's cabin, and Henry was just getting into position to hop a chair, when he noticed to his surprise that someone was coming down on the lift—a huddled figure, silhouetted against the light from the first pylon. The man's coat-collar was turned up against the snow, and his head was sunk into the folds of his fur-collared coat: but the natty leopardskin boots were unmistakable.

  "Hauser's cutting it a bit fine for the last train," Henry remarked to Emmy.

  As the chair* approached, Carlo stepped forward to help Hauser off—although Henry had noticed that long practice had made the little German adept at coping with the lift. This time, however, he seemed more awkward than usual. As Carlo took his arm, he lurched clumsily sideways, and then suddenly tipped forward and fell on his face in the snow, where he lay still. Carlo cried out in German, and fell on his knees—a gaunt, elemental figure under the single harsh light that burned in the little shed. Henry and Emmy ran to his side.

  "Herr Hauser," said Carlo, uncertainly. "Herr Hauser ... er ist krank..."

  Henry, kneeling in the snow, rolled Hauser gently on to his back. Then he looked up. "He's not ill, Carlo," he said, in German. "He's dead."

  Emmy always remembered the scene that followed as a sort of El Greco tableau. The lean, cadaverous figure of Carlo, his long face creased into vertical lines of distress, lit sharply by the stark glare of the single bulb in the cabin: the skeletal shapes of the empty chairs as they clattered on their way: the huddled figure lying motionless in the yellowing, trodden snow: and the whole scene veiled in a white mist of falling snowflakes.

  Henry got to his feet. "Stop the lift," he said.

  As though thankful for something definite to do, Carlo scrambled up and threw the switch which disconnected the electricity supply. There was a sudden, unearthly quiet as the machinery stopped. In the silence, the telephone rang shrilly from the cabin.

&nb
sp; "Mario," said Carlo. "He's wondering why the lift has stopped."

  "I'll talk to him," said Henry.

  He picked up the telephone and spoke briefly. Then he said to Carlo, "Mario will stay up at the Bella Vista for the time being. Everybody else from the hotel is already up. Now, ring the police station at Montelunga. I want to speak to Capitano Spezzi."To Emmy, he said, "Go back to the Olympia, darling, and have a drink or some coffee. Carlo and I can cope here."0

  "I'd rather stay with you," said Emmy.

  Very quietly, Henry said, "Hauser was shot. I want you to see who you recognise in the Olympia. I'll join you as soon as I can."

  He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze, and then propelled her gently down the slope towards the street.

  Emmy walked in a sick daze. The shock of Hauser's sudden death had been bad enough, but now to have to face the implications of suicide or murder, the agonising'web of suspicion that loomed ahead ... she had an insane desire to take to her heels and run ... anywhere, so long as it was away from the smell of death.

  "Pull yourself together, girl," she told herself, severely: and found some comfort in the thought that at least by going back to the Olympia she could clear the menace of suspicion from everyone she saw there.

  She pushed open the swing doors, walked over to a purple and orange alcove, and sat down at a wrought-iron table. She could see Pietro at the bar: he had been joined by several other instructors, and was standing a round of drinks, flourishing a thick wallet crammed with bank notes. Looking round for other familiar faces, Emmy saw to her surprise that a corner table was occupied by Signor Rossati. He had chosen a table tucked away discreetly behind a complicated modern mobile made of tin and string, and he seemed even more ill at ease than the contemplation of this object would suggest. He kept on glancing at his watch, and then stirring his coffee with quite unnecessary vigour.

  "Waiting for someone,"Emmy noted to herself. The hands of the clock over the bar stood at five minutes to seven. Emmy had ordered a black coffee and a brandy, and the waitress had just brought them, when two things happened. First, Pietro noticed her and came running over.

  "Signora Tibbett, is time the lift stop ... you must go up..."

  He leant across the table, his beautiful face darkened by real concern. At the same moment, the door of the cafe swung open with an imperious flurry, and an exceedingly bad-tempered voice rasped out, in German, "It is only five minutes to seven. Why has the ski-lift stopped?"

  Emmy looked up over Pietro's shoulder, straight into a pair of black eyes that glowered from under a green Tyrolean hat.

  There was a sudden silence. The Baron strode across the room and banged his fist on the bar. "I have to go to the Bella Vista tonight. Why has the ski-lift stopped?"

  A pandemonium of voices and gesticulations broke out. Emmy got up and pushed her way through the crowd until she stood face to face with Baron von Wurtberg. In English, she said: "I think I can explain. There has been an accident."

  "An accident?"Pietro was at her side. u What accident is this, signora?"

  Emmy took a deep breath, prayed for guidance, and said, "Herr Hauser."

  The instructors crowded round her, gabbling in Italian and German. Pietro said, nervously, "They wish to know what has happened. Is it that the lift is broken?"

  "No," said Emmy. "Herr Hauser was—taken ill, I think."

  The instructors relaxed visibly as Pietro translated this to them. A serious accident on the ski-lift could bring the resort into disrepute, and endanger their livelihood: so long as the lift was not to blame, they had little pity to spare for the misfortunes of an individual. Only Pietro continued to show concern.

  "Herr Hauser," he repeated. He took Emmy's arm. "You must tell me," he said.

  "So the lift will work again tonight. That is very fortunate."The Baron spoke icily, in impeccable English. He gave a little bow. "Thank you, madame."Then he turned to the bar, coldly, and ordered a drink. As Pietro guided Emmy back to her table, she glanced over to the corner where Signor Rossati was sitting. He w^s quite still now, staring in front of him with a tiny, curious smile creasing his plump features.

  Pietro sat down at the table opposite Emmy. "What is this—illness or accident?" he asked, intently. Before Emmy could reply, she saw, with a great surge of relief, that Henry had come in and was making his way to the table.

  "Let's go," he said.

  Emmy stood up. "I'm sorry, Pietro," she said. "I have to go. You'll hear all about it to-morrow, I'm sure."

  Henry took her arm, and they went out through the swing doors into the flurrying snow. As soon as they were outside, Emmy said, "The Baron's here. Maria-Pia's husband."

  "I saw him," said Henry. "I was expecting him. When did he arrive?"

  "I don't know when he got to Santa Chiara, but he came into the Olympia soon after I got back, terribly angry because the lift wasn't working. And Signor Rossati was there too, lurking in a corner, waiting for somebody."

  They walked in silence for a moment, and then Emmy said, "Was it suicide?"

  Henry shook his head. "Almost impossible. We'll know for certain when the doctor's report comes in, but it didn't look like a close-range wound to me."

  At the ski-lift cabin, there was great activity. A photographer with a flash-lamp was photographing the body, and a posse of carabinieri chattered and smoked and shooed away the curious villagers and tourists who were already gathering, scenting sensation.

  A tall, fair man in uniform detached himself from the group as Henry and Emmy approached.

  "This is my wife," said Henry. "Capitano Spezzi."

  The capitano bowed, and kissed Emmy's hand. "Enchanted, Signora," he said, in halting English. "I wish we might to meet at a happier time. This—" he shrugged, eloquently— "this is a bad business."

  "I'd like to get up to the Bella Vista as soon as I can," said Henry. "And there are a couple of other people stranded, down here. When can we get the lift started?"

  At that moment, there was a small commotion as a stretcher was unfolded, and the inert body loaded on to it.

  "Now, as soon as he is away," said the Capitano. Emmy shivered as the sad little procession stumbled down the slope to the waiting ambulance. A carabiniere was sent off to the Olympia to tell the Baron and Signor Rossati that the lift was about to work again. Carlo, white-faced and with trembling hands, set the machinery in motion, and the chairs creaked into action.

  It was a cold, eerie ride up, and Emmy was thankful to see the light twinkling in Mario's cabin at the top. Helping them off their chairs, the old man looked like a puzzled, ill-treated monkey. He questioned Henry in earnest Italian, and Henry spoke reassuringly. As they walked up the snow-path to the hotel, Henry said, "Poor Mario. He's very shaken. It's a nasty thing to happen, and I think he feels somehow responsible."

  "Does he know—that Hauser's dead, I mean?" asked Emmy.

  "I told him," said Henry. "Everybody in the village knows by now."

  They went into the hotel.

  The bar was crowded. Caro, Roger and Jimmy were chattering animatedly over Martinis. The Buckfasts sat at a small table next to the Knipfers, with whom Mrs. Buckfast seemed to have achieved speaking terms. Maria-Pia and Franco sat at the bar, a little apart, drinking brandy and talking quietly.

  "I'm going to make an entrance," Henry whispered to Emmy. "Watch their faces."

  He walked in, his face grave. As the others turned to greet him, he said in what sounded to his own ears a ridiculously melodramatic voice, "I have very serious news. There has been an accident. Fritz Hauser is dead."

  For a moment there was absolute silence. Then, suddenly, Frau Knipfer broke into a frenzy of high-pitched, hysterical laughter.

  "Danke Gott! Danke Gott!" she screamed. Before anyone else could move, her husband stood up and slapped her hard across the face. She subsided into a soft, shapeless bundle of sobs. Herr Knipfer looked round at the circle of faces, defiantly.

  "My wife has been under a great strain," he
said, in English. "I must ask you to forgive. She must rest now. Trudi—" Fraulein Knipfer, expressionless as ever, had already put her arm round her mother's quivering shoulders, and now helped her to her feet. Herr Knipfer took his wife's other arm, and between them they led the weeping woman through the silent, wary bar. The door banged behind them.

  "Well, that was a curious exhibition," said Jimmy. "Will somebody please tell me if the old girl was heartbroken or pleased?"

  "She was saying 'Thank God'," said Roger soberly.

  "And so do I!" It was Caro who spoke, in a strangely strident voice.

  "Shut up, Caro," said Roger, dangerously.

  "I won't! None of you knew ... none of you—

  "Caro!"

  "Shut up yourself, Roger. I'm not going to tell tales. All I say is—thank God he's dead. That's all."

  "Take it easy, old girl," said Jimmy, in a worried voice. "I admit Hauser wasn't the answer to a maiden's prayer, but "

  "He was vile..." Caro turned suddenly to Henry. "You knew, didn't you?" she demanded. M You knew all the time—but you didn't do anything about it. And now someone has done something, and I'm delighted."

  "What do you mean, someone has done something?" Roger's voice was like a whiplash. "Henry said it was an accident, didn't he?"

  "An accident? Accidents don't happen to men like Hauser." Caro looked Henry straight in the eyes. "He was murdered, wasn't he?"

  "Yes," said Henry. "I'm afraid he was."

  There was a shocked silence. Then Jimmy said, uncertainly, "Now you've gone and put your foot in it properly, old sport. Suspect Number One, Miss Caroline Whittaker. Can you explain to the jury, Miss Whittaker, just how you came to know that the deceased was murdered, before anyone had "

  "Oh, be quiet, you fool!" Caro jumped up and ran towards the door. Jimmy was after her in a flash.

  "Caro, come back ... I want to talk to you..." He grabbed Caro's arm, but she shook his hand off angrily, and ran out into the hall. Jimmy followed, still protesting, and both of them disappeared upstairs.

  Meanwhile, the Buckfasts had risen and joined the group at the bar. Maria-Pia and Franco had not moved, but were sitting listening tensely, white-faced, and holding hands. There was a commotion in the hall as the outer door opened, and Henry said quickly, "Baroness—I'm afraid all this excitement put it out of my head—I meant to tell you that your husband is here. That must be him now."