Dead Men Don't Ski

by Patricia Moyes

  He pulled out his wallet, and extracted a letter, which he passed to Henry. It was typewritten, on heavy and expensive writing paper.

  Via Amelia 49 Roma October 4th

  Deur Mr. Staines,

  I wonder if you remember me? I had the pleasure of meeting you at the Bella Vista hotel in Santa Chiara last January, and I was most impressed, during the talks which we had then, by your outstanding grasp of business matters and by your executive ability. Consequently, I thought of you at once when a most interesting business proposition arose recently — one which could be extremely lucrative if handled by the right man.

  I would very much like to discuss this matter personally with you, if you are interested. Since I am planning to visit the Bella Vista again during the month of January, I wonder whether you, too, would not consider spending your skiing holiday there? In that way, we could talk privately and at our leisure about the scheme I have in mind.

  With my most distinguished salutations, Fritz Hauser

  Henry studied this remarkable document in silence: then he said: "So you came."

  Roger grinned. "Of course I did, old boy. No harm in finding out what it was all about."

  "You had no idea at all when you came here about the nature of this business proposition?"

  "Not the faintest."

  "Didn't it strike you that the whole thing sounded extremely shady?"

  Roger said again, "There was no harm in finding out."

  "All right, I'll accept that," said Henry. "Go on."

  "Well, I came."There was a bitter note in Roger's voice now. "I came, and of course there was no business proposition whatsoever. Just a grubby attempt at blackmail. I knew the note wasn't genuine, of course—because I never wrote such a thing: the first time I set eyes on that little rat Donati was in the courtroom in Rome. But Hauser undoubtedly thought it was genuine. I presume Lupo wrote it himself, and sold it to Hauser."

  "So what did you do?"

  "I laughed in his face," said Roger. "I told him that apart from the fact that I'm stony-broke, and the worst possible person to blackmail, the note was an obvious forgery, and he'd better go ahead and do his worst."

  "Why didn't you report him to the authorities?"

  "My dear fellow, I'm on holiday," said Roger. "In any case, it would have meant raking up all the business of the Nancy Maud, and frankly, I want to forget it. No point in digging up old dirt."

  "And what was Hauser's reaction when you laughed at him?"

  Roger, for the first time, seemed a little hesitant, "He wasn't pleased, as you can imagine," he said slowly. "He tried to bluster a bit, but at last it penetrated his thick skull that I wasn't in the least frightened of him. Then he changed his tune."

  "You didn't by any chance," said Henry, "turn the tables on him and threaten him with prosecution?"

  There was a short silence. Roger lit a cigarette. At last he said, "You told me yesterday to stick to the truth, and I'm going to take your advice. It's understood, ^hope, that this is in strict confidence."

  "You know I can't promise you that," said Henry. "All I can say is that it won't be mentioned unless it becomes necessary evidence."

  "O.K. Fair enough."Roger took a long pull at his cigarette. "All right, then. I did threaten to tell the police—I felt completely confident, and I intended to make him realise it. But he called my bluff. He invited me to prosecute him, and he also pointed out that—win or lose— Sir Charles Whittaker might have understandable objections to me as a son-in-law if such an unsavoury case were splurged across the newspapers. You see," he added, disarmingly, "I hope to marry Caro."

  "And Hauser knew that?"

  "He was remarkably well-informed," said Roger, dryly. "Anyway, in the end we came to an agreement. I would not prosecute, and he would destroy the note. Even though it was a forgery, I didn't like the thought of a man like that running round with such a thing in his pocket. You see, unfortunately it was written on a page of an old diary of mine—I'd left it on board the Nancy Maud when she was stolen. The printing is fairly distinctive, as you can see, and I thought Hauser might be able to make more trouble for me if he was allowed to keep it."

  Henry was looking very thoughtful. "When did you come to this agreement?" he asked.

  "The day before yesterday. We were having tea in the Olympia together. He took the note out of his wallet, and put a match to it. It burnt itself out in the ashtray. I thought that was the end of the matter."

  "Then how did it happen that he still had the note when he was killed?"

  Roger said, angrily, "He must have tricked me. He held out the note for me to see, but when I put out my hand to take it, he snatched it away again, and it fell on the floor. I suppose that was when he switched it for a blank piece of paper. It wasn't until you so kindly dropped me a hint in the, bar last night that I realised what must have happened."

  To his annoyance, Henry felt his face redden. He hoped fervently that Spezzi's English was inadequate.

  "I knew nothing about the note then," he said. "All I did was to advise you to tell the truth."

  "Well, I have," said Roger. "Now you know."

  "You realise," said Henry, "that we shall have to submit the note to graphologists, together with specimens of your handwriting?"

  Roger smiled. "Of course," he said. "Go ahead. I'm not worried."

  "No," said Henry, thoughtfully. "I see you're not."

  With perfect good humour, Roger handed over his passport, with its specimen signature, rewrote the words of the note without hesitation on a page of Spezzi's notebook, and turned out his pockets to find his packing list, written in the same flowing, flamboyant hand.

  When he had gone, Henry gazed long and earnestly at the scrap of paper from Hauser's wallet, holding it alongside the note which Roger had just written. The handwriting was superficially similar, but even to Henry's inexpert eye the "blackmail"note looked like a palpable forgery. He said as much to Spezzi, who was unimpressed.

  "He would obviously have tried to disguise his handwriting in Tangiers," said the Capitano. "We must leave it to the experts. Personally, I think the note is genuine."

  "And what else, may I ask, did you find in Hauser's pockets?" asked Henry, a trifle maliciously.

  Spezzi's blue eyes were mirrors of injured innocence. "Nothing of any interest, my friend. Just what I told you." He paused. "And, if I may be so bold, how many more of the British witnesses have you been coaching in what to say at their interrogations?"

  He looked at Henry blandly, and then they both began to laugh.

  "Touché" said Henry. "I'm sorry. But remember, I wouldn't have said a word to him if I'd known about the note."

  "It should be a lesson to both of us," said Spezzi "But I trust there is no harm done. I will send these "—he indicated the notes, the packing-list and the passport— "to Rome tonight. Let us now see your gallant compatriot, the Colonel."

  Colonel Buckfast seemed to be suffering from an exaggeratedly delicate sense of de mortuis which compelled him to approach the subject of Hauser's personality like a hippopotamus on tiptoe.

  "Poor fellow," he muttered into his moustache. "Likeable chap in many ways. German, of course. Couldn't help that."

  "As a matter of fact, he was Italian," said Henry.

  "Italian, was he? What terribly bad luck," said the Colonel, though whether he referred to Hauser's demise or his nationality was not clear.

  Yes, he remembered him well from last year—and the year before, come to that.

  "When we first arrived here," said Henry, "I got the impression that you didn't much care for him."

  "Me?" said the Colonel, reddening. "No, no. Nothing against him. Hardly knew the man."

  "He never spoke to you about himself, or his profession?"

  "Good God, no."The Colonel sounded as though Henry had suggested some gross obscenity. "Why ever should he? I tell you, I barely exchanged a word with him."

  Colonel Buckfast brightened considerably when it came to descri
bing the previous day's sport.

  "First-class run," he said. "First class. No piste, of course. New snow—absolutely superb. We took it fairly slowly, and made Immenfeld by two o'clock—had a late lunch there, and then I tried a couple of the local runs while Staines went shopping. Then we took the train back, and met the rest of you in the Olympia."

  "And what about your ride up on the ski-lift? Did you notice Hauser coming down?"

  The Colonel cleared his throat. "It was extremely cold and uncomfortable, as you know," he said. "In fact, when the confounded thing broke down while we were waiting for it, it seemed the last straw. Inefficiency, that's all it is. Wouldn't be tolerated in Switzerland. But when you're dealing with Eyeties—" He suddenly became aware of Spezzi's concentrated stare, and broke off, abashed. "Anyway," he went on, with some haste, "When I did get on, I muffled myself up in my blanket, and frankly I lost all interest until I reached the top. Never even noticed the poor fellow coming down."

  "You didn't hear a shot, I suppose?"

  The Colonel shook his head. "Didn't hear a thing, apart from the bloody rattle—begging your pardon, Mrs. Tibbett, I forgot you were there—the rattle that the chair makes every time it passes a pylon. But if the gun had a silencer, and I presume it did, I don't suppose anyone would have heard it. The chairs are pretty widely spaced, you know. Ever tried to shout from one to the other?"

  "I know," said Henry, "By the way, did you know Hauser had a gun?"

  "I should think everybody in the place knew, the way he flashed it around," said the Colonel, tetchily. "Gave my wife quite a shock when he threw it on the floor in the bar the other evening. Very bad form, I thought, with ladies present."

  "Threw it?"

  "As good as. Did it on purpose—any fool could see that. My wife was really upset."

  Reverting to the ride up the chair-lift, the Colonel gave it as the best of his recollection that he had come up behind Jimmy and Roger, but before Caro, although he couldn't be sure. In any case, he reiterated, he would not have noticed any movement from the person in the chair in front: it was very dark, and—as he finally admitted—he had been half-asleep.

  That concluded Colonel Buckfast's contribution to the evidence, and as it was by then five o'clock, Henry suggested a break for tea.

  "Afterwards," said Spezzi, "I will have a word with these Knipfer people, and then I would welcome an opportunity to study these interviews and prepare a report."

  "What about Mrs. Buckfast?" asked Henry. "We haven't seen her yet."

  "I hardly think she will have anything important to tell us," said Spezzi. "She was not on the chair-lift, and was in no way concerned. But by all means talk to her if you wish, and let me know if anything interesting emerges."

  "I gather your money is still on Fraulein Gerda," said Henry.

  Spezzi nodded slowly. "The plausible Mr. Staines will bear further investigation," he said, "but I do not fancy him as a murderer. No, it is the girl—so beautiful, so dangerous. She would stop at nothing, I am sure of it."And the gallant Capitano sighed deeply.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Herr Knipfer strode purposefully into the office, clicked his heels and bowed to Emmy, Henry and Spezzi, and sat down with jerky precision. Before Spezzi could get a word out, he began, "I fear I shall not be able to assist you, Herr Kapitan. There is nothing I wish more than to see this crime solved, for Hauser was a friend of ours ; but as you know, I do not ski, and yesterday my wife and I left the hotel only to take a short walk. There is nothing I can tell you."

  Spezzi said, quietly, "It is for me to decide, Herr Knipfer, whether you can help us or not."

  For a moment, anger glinted in Knipfer's cold eyes. Then he said, "Ask your questions, then. You will see."

  He admitted grudgingly that his name was Siegfried Knipfer, that he ran an import-export business in Hamburg, and was in Santa Chiara on holiday. He managed to impart this information in such a way as to make it clear that he considered the questions a gross impertinence.

  "Herr Hauser seemed to be especially friendly with your daughter," Henry put in.

  Knipfer turned to him with a smile of icy sarcasm.

  "You are obviously a keen observer, Herr Tibbett," he said. "Nothing escapes you. Yes, Fritz Hauser was greatly taken with Trudi. In fact, I may as well tell you that he wished to marry her."

  Spezzi's eyebrows shot up.

  "Indeed?" he said. "Did you approve?"

  Knipfer spoke carefully. "Naturally, I wished for time to consider his offer," he said. "After all, I knew very little about the man. I had never met him before. He seemed to be wealthy, which was satisfactory, but I am not a poor man. There would be no question of Trudi marrying for money. On the other hand, I would have to be assured that her husband was able to support her adequately. Personally,

  I was favourable towards the match. My daughter, alas, is no beauty, and such a chance may not occur again." He paused. "Unfortunately, my wife felt otherwise. For no particular reason, she took a dislike to Hauser. Women are apt to be sentimental in such matters. In fact n -^6e glanced uneasily at Henry—"in fact, she had protested against the engagement with some violence, and was inclined to become hysterical on the subject. For that reason, I am afraid that her first reaction to the news of Hauser's death was one of relief. I need hardly say that she now regrets this."

  "I see," said Spezzi. "I would be interested to know whether you had, in fact, made any inquiries about Hauser and if so, with what results?"

  Knipfer regarded him with cold contempt. "One does not set detectives on a future son-in-law," he remarked.

  "We had arranged to visit Fritz in Rome during the spring. Meanwhile, I was content to take him at his face value."

  "You liked him?"

  "Of course. Otherwise I would not have contemplated his proposal."

  "To come to the events of yesterday," Spezzi went on. "Since you were in the hotel all day, perhaps you can tell us something of Hauser's movements."

  Knipfer considered this. "We were having breakfast when he told the proprietor he was leaving," he said. "As a matter of fact, we knew it already. He had told us the previous night that he had to return to Rome."

  "Did he say why?"

  "He said that the attraction of Trudi's company had already induced him to postpone his return, and that now he could no longer ignore the pressure of business."

  "Did he specify the business?"

  "He did not. I imagine that it was of a financial nature. He was a doctor, as you must know—but I understand that his researches were merely a hobby. He made his money by deals on the Stock Exchange, and such transactions demand constant vigilance and attention."

  "So you saw him at breakfast. What happened then?"

  "My wife and I went to sit on the terrace, as usual. Hauser joined us at about half-past ten—he said he had been packing. We had coffee together, and then he said he was going down to Santa Chiara for lunch, after he had made a telephone call. Shortly before twelve, he passed us on his way down to the lift. We bade him good-bye, but he said that he would see us again, as he had now decided to return to the hotel after lunch."

  "And did you see him return?"

  "No. My wife and I went for a short walk after lunch, and then rested in our room. At six o'clock, Hauser knocked on our door to wish us good-bye."

  "You are sure of the time?"

  "Yes. We were both asleep, and his knock woke us. I remarked to my wife that it was six already, and we should be getting dressed for dinner. Hauser repeated his invitation to us to visit him in Rome, and we promised to write. Then he left. He already had his hat and coat on, so I presume he went straight out to the ski-lift."

  "One last question, Herr Knipfer." Spezzi twirled his pencil, in some embarrassment. "What were your daughter's feelings about this proposed marriage?"

  "Trudi?" Knipfer smiled coldly. "Trudi was naturally flattered and pleased by his proposal. The question of whether or not it should be accepted was for me to decide."


  Herr Knipfer was followed by his wife. She lowered her stout body gingerly on to the small chair, and clasped her hands together nervously. After confirming her husband's account of how they had spent the previous day, she turned suddenly to Henry.

  "I have to apologise for my behaviour yesterday, when you told us Fritz Hauser was dead," she said. Her round blue eyes welled with unshed tears. "My husband must have told you of this talk of an engagement* I am a mother, Herr Tibbett... you must understand and forgive me..." Her voice quivered dangerously, and Henry murmured, "Of course, of course..."

  "I did not wish it," she went on. "He was too old for my Trudi ... an old man, Herr Tibbett. . . and he would have taken her away from us to live in Rome. She is my only child, my baby..."

  Tears threatened again, so Henry said quickly, "And I suppose she did not want to marry him?"

  Frau Knipfer seized on this. "Ach, you are so sympathetic. You see into a mother's heart ... my poor little girl..."

  "And yet your husband was in favour of the marriage?"

  At this point, the tears became uncontrollable. "Men," sobbed Frau Knipfer, dabbing at her eyes with a miniscule lace handkerchief. "How can men understand these things? Is it a disgrace to remain unmarried?" This last question she flung, passionately, at Emmy, who shook her head and made soothing noises.

  Frau Knipfer sniffed loudly, and went on more calmly, "So when I heard that he was dead, I confess I did not stop to pity the poor man. All I thought was 'Now my Trudi is safe ... now she can come back to Hamburg with her mamma...' "

  Henry said, "Had you any other reason to dislike Hauser, apart from the fact that he was too old for your daughter?"

  Frau Knipfer buried her face in her handkerchief again, and shook her head vigorously. "No, no..." she cried. "No reason at all... no reason at all... that is why I am so ashamed to think what I said..."