Dead Men Don't Ski

by Patricia Moyes

  "And did you see Herr Hauser again?"

  "I saw him in the afternoon. About half-past four, it must have been. I went into the bar to put back a chair I had been mending, and he was there with Signora Buckfast."

  "Did you overhear what they were saying?"

  Beppi looked hurt. "I do not listen to the guests* private conversations," he said. Then he grinned, widely. "In any case, they were speaking in English. I couldn't understand a word Later on, I saw Herr Hauser leaving the hotel."

  "At what time?"

  "Soon after six, Capitano. I cannot be exactly sure. I was passing through the hall, and he said good-bye to me as he went out of the door."

  Beppi was followed by Carlo, who gave a faithful if uninspired account of the scene at the foot of the chair-lift. He also confirmed Mario's recollections of the times when the various residents of the Bella Vista had used the lift, but he could not be precise about the time when Hauser had gone up again in the afternoon.

  After Carlo's departure, Spezzi called Gerda. Henry noticed again her curiously disturbing air of watchful repose. She was dressed entirely in black—black vorlagres and a high-necked black sweater—and her face had its customary pallor. She sat down gracefully and waited, motionless, for Spezzi's questions. Every movement she made seemed pared down to a minimum—a deliberate economy which suggested to Henry deep, untapped reserves of energy and strength. Spezzi looked at her with undisguised admiration, apologised for having to bother her, and began the interview somewhat tentatively, in German.

  "Would you mind telling us your full name, Fraulein?"

  "Gerda Augusta Braun."

  "And you are employed by the Baron and Baroness von Wurtburg?"

  "Yes."

  "In what capacity?"

  Gerda raised her eyebrow a fraction. By this millimetre of movement she indicated precisely that everybody's time was being wasted by asking questions to which they all knew the answers. Spezzi, ruling out a fresh page of his dossier, did not notice.

  "I look after the children," she said.

  "Have you any other duties?"

  "How could I? I have plenty to do as it is."

  Spefczi glanced up, and went slightly pink, but there was no trace of insolence on the calm face. He went on, "Please tell us exactly what you did yesterday."

  There was a short pause. Then Gerda said: "Is it the custom in Italy that one is questioned in front of other members of the public?"

  She turned her quietly intent gaze to Henry.

  Spezzi was by now becoming agitated, "I conduct my investigations as and how I please," he said. He threw his pencil down on to the table, and the point broke with a delicate, snapping sound. "It is no business of yours, but it so happens that Herr Tibbett is connected with the British police—"

  "Ah."Gerda looked at Henry with an expression that might have been satisfaction. "In that case, I am delighted that he is here."

  The needle-fine insult did not escape Spezzi. He flushed, and looked very crestfallen, but said nothing. Gerda went on. "Yesterday, I awoke at seven o'clock, as usual, and got the children dressed. We breakfasted at half-past eight, and were ready to start skiing by nine-thirty. I took the children down to the village first, on Run Three, and then we went up the cable railway to Alpe Rosa. We did the run three times—once in the morning and twice in the afternoon. We ate our packed lunches on the terrace of the Albergo Rosa, at the top of the mountain. It was very beautiful," Gerda added, unexpectedly, "in the sunshine."

  "And then?"

  "At five o'clock we finished our last run, and met the Baroness by appointment at the sports shop—she wished to buy new sweaters for the children. When that was done, we all went to the Cafe Olympia, where we joined Signor di Santi and the English party."

  Spezzi listened to the meticulous, gentle voice with an expression of mingled admiration and exasperation. As Gerda paused, he said, "Did you see Herr Hauser at all during the day?"

  "At breakfast. I heard him call for Signor Rossati and ask for his bill, as he was leaving by the last train."

  "And you did not see him again?"

  "Not until the evening."

  Spezzi leant forward. "What do you mean by that?"

  Again Gerda's eyebrow lifted slightly. "Going up on the lift, of course. When he was coming down. I presume he was dead by then." She spoke with no emotion at all.

  "Tell us about it."

  "What is there to tell? I was the last on to the lift. The English had gone up first, then Signor di Santi, then the Baroness, Lotte and Hansi. I must have been about half-way up when I saw Hauser coming down."

  "You recognised him without difficulty?"

  "Of course. It was dark and snowing, but there was a good light from a pylon lamp, and he was wearing his leopardskin boots."

  "You said just now that you presumed he was dead already. Did anything of the sort occur to you at the time?"

  "That he was dead? No. He was huddled up, sheltering from the snow, with his chin on his chest and his hat over his eyes. I did notice that he swayed in his chair as it bumped past the pylon—I thought perhaps he was asleep."Gerda paused, and then said very deliberately, "I hoped for a moment that he might fall off the lift and break his neck. But of course the safety-bar prevented that."

  If Gerda had produced a hand-grenade from her pocket and laid it on the desk, she could not have caused a greater sensation. She watched calmly as Spezzi jumped to his feet, invoked the Deity, implored her to repeat what she had said—which she did—and finally subsided, mopping his brow.

  "Do you realise the danger you put yourself in by saying such a thing, Fraulein?" he cried, in a sort of anguish. "Why should you say it? Why?"

  Gerda gave him a short, withering look, and addressed herself to Henry. "You would find out in any case," she said. "It is better for me to tell you. I hated Fritz Hauser. He killed my parents."

  Once again, Spezzi was galvanized into a frenzy of Latin excitement. "Let us keep calm!" he shouted.

  Gerda paid no attention to him. "My father's name was Braun," she explained carefully to Henry, "but my mother's was Rosenberg. She was Jewish. You may have heard of my father—Gottfried Braun."

  "The actor," said Henry.

  "Yes."

  "He was brilliant. I've seen all his films. He worked with Jannings and Reinhardt "

  "Yes."

  "And didn't he?" Henry stopped, embarrassed.

  "He committed suicide," said Gerda, evenly, "after the Gestapo had arrested my mother. She died in Ravensbruck."

  "What did Hauser have to do with all this?" Spezzi was trying desperately to regain his grip on the interview. Gerda looked at him coldly.

  "I don't suppose you know anything about my father," she said. "He was a great actor and a good man, but he was weak. He hated the Nazi regime without having the courage to oppose it openly. He had a bad nervous breakdown, and he consulted Hauser, who was practising in Berlin at that time. I think that was when he first started to take drugs."

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  "Life in Berlin between the wars was ... difficult," Gerda went on. "Or so they tell me. I was very young at the time, and my mother took good care that I knew nothing of..." She paused. "To me, life seemed very good."

  Henry had a vivid mental picture of a solemn, dark little girl, secure in her mother's love, sheltered from violence and corruption by the frail pink and blue walls of a pretty nursery: and of what must have happened when those walls crumbled.

  "I knew Hauser, of course. He was our doctor. My mother never liked him, but my father would have nobody else. I suspect now what I am sure my mother suspected then—that he supplied my father with cocaine."

  "Go on," said Henry, quietly.

  "When things got too bad for... for the Jews... and my father's position was no longer a safeguard, my mother and I went away to my uncle and aunt in the country. I suppose we were hiding—but I didn't know it at the time. To me, it seemed like a holiday that went on and
on. My father used to visit us from time to time. I was only seven, but even I could see how ill he was becoming ... and how desperate. One day, when I was playing in the garden, I heard my father weeping. My father ... weeping." The only emotion in Gerda's voice was a mild astonishment at the recollection. "I listened. I heard him say, 'They won't give me work ... they are all too frightened ...' And my mother said, 'It's all because of me!' And then she said, "Why can't we get away—all three of us? It would be a risk, but it would be worth it. We could go to America— you are well known there . . .'

  "So the talk went on." Gerda glanced at Spezzi. "One day, soon after that, my father arrived, very excited, with bright eyes. He told my mother to pack quickly, for we were going to America. * But how ?' she said: and my father said,' Hauser has fixed it.' Then my mother said, 'Oh, you fool. What have you done?' —but my father didn't listen. 'It is expensive, of course,' he said, 'but it's worth it, just as you said. I've sold everything—the house—the car. His friends will pick us up here tonight. . .' "

  Gerda paused. "I remember that my mother started to cry. I ran to her, and she kissed me. It was then that we heard the car outside and the knock on the door. It was the Gestapo, of course. They arrested my mother, and they would have taken me, but my aunt told them I was her child. I don't know why they believed her. They were very stupid sometimes. Then they complimented my father on his loyalty to the Fatherland in divulging his wife's address to 'the proper quarters'. That night, my uncle and aunt took me away in their car. My father refused to come with us. He waited until we had gone, and then he blew his brains out."

  There was a silence. Spezzi, deeply moved, blew his nose loudly.

  "And you?" Henry asked.

  "We went into hiding for a while, but they had lost interest in us. We came back to the farm, and I lived as their daughter. After the war, I trained as a children's nurse, and three years ago I went to work for the Baroness."

  "When did you meet Hauser again?"

  "The first time I came here with the children—three years ago. I recognised him at once, I have a very good memory," she added.

  "Did he know who you were?"

  "No, I am sure he didn't. Braun is a very common name in Germany."

  "Why did you not go to the authorities with your story after the war?" Spezzi put in.

  Gerda smiled faintly. "My story?" she said. "A conversation overheard by a child of seven? What proof is that of anything?"

  "And so you planned your revenge." Spezzi spoke quietly now, in a flat, hopeless voice.

  "How could I? I hated him. That was all."

  Spezzi seemed to steel himself to a deeply distasteful task. He leant forward over the desk. "When did you take the gun?" he asked.

  For the first time, Gerda appeared really surprised and disconcerted. "The gun? What gun?"

  "You knew that Hauser carried a gun?"

  "No. I did not."

  "And that is all you have to say?"

  "Yes, Capitano. I have saved you a lot of tedious work-but I cannot help you any more."Gerdj. stood up. "I did not kill him," she said. "I wish I had, but I did not."

  Spezzi gave her a despairing look. "You may go now," he said, "but do not attempt to leave the hotel."

  "Thank you, Capitano."For a brief moment, Gerda's eyes rested on the Capitano's handsome brown face, and Henry thought there was a sort of wistfulness in her look: then she turned on her heel, and went out as silently and swiftly as a black shadow.

  "Well," said Henry, when the door had shut behind her. "There's nothing like being frank. She was perfectly right in assuming that you'd find out anyway. The question is— was she being disarmingly honest or very clever indeed?"

  "She is like an angel of death," said Spezzi, gloomily. "I think—I fear—we need not bother with the reports from Rome. There is your motive. There is your opportunity. There is your murderess." He sighed deeply.

  "I wouldn't jump to conclusions, if I were you," said Henry, sympathetically. "You may be wrong."

  There was a firm but gentle knock on the door.

  "Come in,"called Spezzi, sharply. He was not a little disconcerted to see Gerda standing there once again, as self-possessed as ever.

  Spezzi got to his feet. "You have decided to tell us something more, then?" he asked, quietly.

  Gerda lowered her eyes, and shook her head. "I have told you all I know, Capitano," she said. "I have only come to give you a message from my mistress. She is up now, and will be pleased to talk to you. She would prefer the interview to take place in her room."

  With that, she turned and went out.

  Henry raised his eyebrows slightly. "Do we go up, or do we summon the lady down here? " he asked.

  Spezzi shrugged his shoulders glumly. "Her father is Count Pontemaggiore," he said, " and her husband is the Baron von Wurtburg. We go up."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Gerda was waiting in the hall when they came out. She preceded them up the wooden staircase, with its faint, delicious tang of polish and pinewood, and stopped outside a door on the first floor. It was the Baron's voice that answered her knock with permission to enter. Gerda opened the door.

  "The police," she said, shortly, and stood back to let the three men go in.

  Signor Rossati had evidently done his utmost to provide accommodation worthy of his important guests. The two best bedrooms in the hotel—which were linked by a connecting door—had been mobilised to form a suite. The room into which Henry and Spezzi now stepped was the sitting-room—that is to say, the bed had been replaced by a sofa and two arm-chairs, and a small table struggled manfully to impersonate a writing-desk, under the thin disguise of a blotter, an inkwell, and a potted cyclamen. A chintz screen in one corner evidently concealed the wash-basin. Through the open door leading to the other room, Henry got a glimpse of tousled bed-clothes and a dressing-table burdened with expensive glass bottles of scent and cosmetics. The balcony which encircled the building at first-floor level ran past both rooms, and sunshine was streaming in through the long windows, which stood open. Beyond them, the pink summits of the mountains soared to pierce the ink-blue sky, and the dazzle of the snow threw into sharp relief the rich darkness of the pinewoods. Far below, Santa Chiara looked like a settlement of dolls' houses, and the chairs of the ski-lift sailing placidly between the trees could have been a clockwork toy.

  At first sight, the room appeared empty. Then Henry saw the Baron. He was on the balcony, his back towards the room, leaning on the honey-coloured wooden rail and gazing down into the valley. He straightened slowly, turned, and came into the room.

  Without the hat, his face seemed longer and craggier than ever. He was smoking a Turkish cigarette, the aroma of which eddied and lingered in the crisp air, and he looked exceedingly angry and at the same time uneasy. Spezzi clicked his heels politely, and gave a little bow.

  "Capitano Spezzi, Carabinieri di Montelunga," he introduced himself, formally. The Baron inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. Then he turned his pale blue eyes to Henry for a second, and said to Spezzi, in German, "Who is this man?"

  Spezzi quavered noticeably. "He is a high-ranking officer of the British police, Herr Baron, who is concerned in these investigations-" he began, timorously.

  The Baron frowned. Henry, who was beginning to get cross, said, "My name is Tibbett. I come from Scotland Yard. You must be Baron von Wurtburg." He produced a card from his case, and held it out.

  The Baron did not even glance at it. Still addressing Spezzi, he said: "I fail to see what interest this case can hold for the British police."

  "It is a matter of some complication, Herr Baron "

  began Spezzi, sweating a little. "There are certain aspects of the deceased's activities which "

  Henry cut him short. "I am afraid I am concerned in the case, Herr Baron," he said. "I dislike the fact as much as you do. However, fortunately we need not trouble you. It is your wife who can help us by answering a few questions."

  The blue eyes grew da
ngerously cold. "Nobody interviews my wife except in my presence," he said.

  Simultaneously, Henry said, "lam afraid that is out of the question," and Spezzi said, "Naturally, Herr Baron. Just as you wish."

  There was an awkward pause. Then Henry said, "Forgive me, Capitano. This is your interview, and of course you must conduct it as you see fit."

  The Baron merely looked at Henry with icy dislike. Then he went to the bedroom door, and called, "Are you ready, my dear?"

  Maria-Pia, who had obviously overheard every word, came in at once. She was very pale, and Henry thought she had been crying. Her fragility was enhanced by her huge, loose sweater of pure white wool, worn over sky-blue vorlagers. She smiled at Henry—a desperate little smile that mutely apologised for her husband's behaviour and begged him not to think hardly of her. Henry grinned back reassuringly.

  She walked gracefully across the room, and sat down in an arm-chair. Instantly, the Baron perched himself on the arm, in an attitude at once protective and minatory. Henry took the other armchair, Spezzi plumped for the sofa, and spread his notes out on the seat beside him. The shorthand writer sidled thankfully out of the Baron's range of vision, and established himself at the pseudo-writing-desk, Spezzi began on an ingratiating note. "I am desolated to have to put you to this inconvenience, Baroness."

  The Baron interrupted. "Kindly speak in German," he said.

  Red-faced, Spezzi began again. "I would gladly have spared you this unpleasant interview, Baroness, but the fact that you were on the chair-lift at the crucial time makes it "

  "I know, I know. Let's have the questions," said Maria-Pia, in Italian. Spezzi mopped his brow, and continued, doggedly, in German. Tensions stretched across the room like elastic bands.

  "You boarded the ski-lift—when?"The Capitano grabbed his notes, delighted of an excuse not to meet the Baron's eyes.

  "I can't tell you exactly. About a quarter past six, I suppose."

  "I understand that you went up after Signor di Santi, and before the children and their nurse."