Dead Men Don't Ski

by Patricia Moyes

"Oh," said Henry. "What's the verdict?" He felt a cold fear.

  "The note is a forgery," said Spezzi, shortly.

  Henry was conscious of a distinct sensation of relief. "I'm glad to hear it," he said. "What's bothering you, then?"

  Instead of answering Spezzi handed Henry Roger's packing list, which had been sent to Rome. "This," he said.

  Henry looked at it. "Two pairs of ski trousers," he read, "four sweaters, four pairs of underpants—" He looked up, "Nothing very shattering there, surely?"

  "Turn it lover," said Spezzi,

  On the back of the paper, hastily scribbled in a different hand, was written, "Cocktails, Thursday, Lady Floyd, 181 Hyde Park Grove. Don't forget."

  "Well?" said Henry, blankly.

  "The person who wrote that," said Spezzi, with more than a touch of drama, "also wrote the forged note."

  Sharply, Henry said, "Who was it? Do you know?"

  Spezzi opened the hotel register, laid it on the bed, and put the packing list down on the open page beside one of the entries. There was no doubt about it: the widely looped, exuberant handwriting was unmistakable. The person who had scribbled on the back of Roger's packing-list had also written, in the register: "Caroline Whittaker, British subject, London"

  Henry looked at the register and the grubby piece of paper in silence for a long time. Then he said, "Oh, my God. How silly can people get?"

  "But what does it mean?" Spezzi had turned away, and was pacing the room, deep in concentration. Almost to himself, he said, "Where is the sense in it? That Miss Caroline should forge such a note—it would be ridiculous if it were not obviously true. And all the time we imagined that she was in love with him..."

  "Well, there's nothing we can do about it for the moment," said Henry. "She's out skiing. I'll question her as soon as she comes in—and Staines, too. I just hope she'll have the sense to tell me the truth, but I rather doubt it. At least it explains why she's been like a cat on hot bricks all this week. As soon as she heard you'd sent the packing list to Rome, she must have known that somebody would very likely have the wit to turn it over and look at the writing on the back. And there's another odd thing."And he told Spezzi Gerda's information about Roger's visit to Hauser's room.

  "I wouldn't pay too much attention to that," said Spezzi, briefly. "The girl is guilty herself, so she will naturally lie to cast suspicion on others."

  "You still think that?" said Henry. "I wonder. In any case, I think and hope that the whole thing will be cleared up once and for all tonight."

  "Tonight? When you question Miss Caroline, you mean?"

  "No," said Henry. "When Mario comes to see me after the ski-lift has stopped. He has something to tell me."

  "Mario?" said Spezzi, surprised. "What can he tell you?"

  "The name of the murderer," said Henry,

  The next two hours dragged unbearably.

  At five o'clock, Henry heard voices in the hall, and went downstairs to find the English class arriving back from their skiing. Pietro was with them. While the others went to put their skis away in the shed, Pietro went into Rossati'g office. He came out a moment later, looking sulky and cross.

  "These Austrians," he said to Henry, "They make me sick."

  "What's the matter?" Henry asked.

  "I come all the way up here to see the Baroness—I have known her for several years, I was once her instructor. When I hear she have accident, I come up—I bring her a present." He produced from his anorak pocket a small box of Perugina chocolates, exquisitely wrapped in white and gold paper. "And now Rossati tells me her husband is out, and has left orders that nobody may see her. She is not dying—no? Why may she not see her friends?"

  "She has a broken leg, and she—she's suffering from shock," said Henry, pacifically. "Perhaps it's just as well that she shouldn't have visitors. But it's very kind of you.

  Shall I take the chocolates to her? I am a favoured visitor, you see—being a policeman, they can't very well keep me out."

  Pietro smiled. "Thank you, Enrico," he said "And— give her all my good wishes ... the good wishes of the village. We know this is a sad time for her."

  "I'll do that," said Henry. He pocketed the chocolates, as Jimmy and Caro came in from the ski-store.

  "Paid your sick-bed respects already, Pietro?"Jimmy asked, gaily. "That was quick. Hello, Henry, old trout. How did the lone run go?"

  "I am not allowed to see the Baroness," said Pietro, shortly. "Her husband has forbidden it."

  "Can't say I blame him," said Jimmy. "If I had a wife, I certainly wouldn't let you into her bedroom. Too risky altogether. Come and have a drink or some tea or something."

  Jimmy bore Pietro off into the bar. Caro, who had been standing just behind them, stayed where she was and looked at Henry.

  "I'm afraid I must have a talk to you, Caro," he said.

  "I see," said Caro. "Very well." There was no surprise in her voice.

  "Let's go in here," said Henry. He opened the door that led into what was described as the Residents' Sitting Room, though nobody had ever been known to sit there. It was a small room, dismally over-furnished with large, dark armchairs and deplorable art nouveau tables in pale, shiny wood. Henry switched on the light—for the dusk was deepening fast—and shut the door.

  "Sit down," he said.

  "I'd rather not, thank you," said Caro, in a small voice.

  "Please yourself." Henry sat down in one of the armchairs and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Caro, but she shook her head negatively.

  "You know," said Henry, after a moment, "I wish to goodness you'd tell me all about it, It's far better for you to make a clean breast of everything than have us find out bit by bit. And we shall, you know."

  Caro said nothing.

  "This business of the note that Roger was supposed to have written in Tangiers," Henry went on. "The police in Rome have identified it as being in your handwriting."

  "What note? I don't know what you're talking about," said Caro.

  Henry took Roger's packing list out of his pocket, turned it over, and held it out to Caro.

  "Did you write this?"

  "I can't remember."

  "Oh dear, you are making things difficult," said Henry, with a sigh. "At least, you will agree that you signed your own name in the hotel register?"

  Grudgingly, Caro said, "Yes."

  "Then," said Henry, "you also wrote this "—he tapped the packing list—" and you also tried—not very successfully—to forge Roger's writing on a note that was found in Hauser's wallet."

  Caro looked at him squarely. "Prove it," she said.

  "Look, Caro," said Henry, despairingly, "I'm honestly not out for your blood—or Roger's either, for that matter. But forgery is a very serious matter indeed, and if you won't give me any sort of an explanation..."

  He paused. Caro, who was standing behind one of the big armchairs, lowered her short-cropped blonde head and began picking nervously at the chocolate-brown moquette upholstery: but still she said nothing.

  "My God," said Henry, with more than a touch of anger, "I've a good mind to hand you over to Spezzi and let you stew in your own juice."

  Caro raised her head, and her blue eyes were tragic. "Please, Henry," she said. "I can't tell you anything. I simply can't."

  "You can tell me one thing," said Henry, more kindly. "Are you still in love with Roger?"

  "Of course."

  "You haven't by any mad chance decided that, you prefer Pietro Vespi, have you?"

  "Of course I haven't."

  u In that case," said Henry, "if you won't tell me the truth I can only assume that you're either mad or bad. By the way," he added, "what was Roger doing in Hauser's room the night before the murder?"

  Caro looked terrified. "I don't know," she said.

  "But you knew he was there?"

  "No, I didn't. You're putting words into my mouth!"

  There was a silence. "Well, I'm sorry, Caro," said Henry, at length, "but there's nothing whatsoever I ca
n do for you if you go on like this. Spezzi and his boys will take over from now on, and the best advice I can give you is to get a good lawyer, quick. You're going to need one."

  "I can look after myself," said Caro.

  "That, my child, is exactly what you obviously can't do. Hell," said Henry, reasonably, "even Roger had the sense to tell the truth when he was questioned."

  "Did he?" said Caro, with a trace of impudence. "Did he tell you he'd been in Hauser's room?"

  "That's none of your business," said Henry. "Go on then. Off with you. I'm bored with this. If you come to your senses, let me know."

  For a moment, Caro hesitated, and Henry thought that she was going to say something: but she changed her mind, turned quickly and ran out of the room and up the stairs.

  Jimmy was in the hall with Pietro.

  "What's up with Caro now?"Jimmy asked, as he watched her retreating figure.

  "Loss of memory," said Henry, shortly. He was tired and upset, and his interview with Caro had done nothing to add to his peace of mind.

  "Miss Caro is not well?" Pietro asked, with concern.

  "She's ail right," said Henry. "Just a little upset."

  "I know this." Pietro's face was troubled. "When she first come here, she ski so good, she is gay. But since this murder—" He made a despairing gesture. "I worry," he said. "I do not understand."

  "She's all right," said Henry, again. And Jimmy said, "D'you really have to go, Pietro? Stay and have another drink."

  Pietro looked at his watch. "No, no," he said. "Is nearly half-past five, see? I have—how you say it—a date in the village." He smiled flashingly.

  "It's jolly dark," said Jimmy. "The moon's not up yet. Mind how you go."

  "No need to worry for me," said Pietro, easily. "I do this run many times in the dark—not so fast as in daytime, or is not safe. But you come and see me start—you will see I am O.K."

  "All right," said Jimmy. "Come on, Henry—do you good to get some fresh air."

  So the three men walked down to the start of Run One, and Henry and Jimmy waved Pietro on his way to the village. As they turned away, after the speeding figure had been lost to sight among the trees, Henry glanced over to the ski-lift. It was deserted now, although the chairs still clanked round on their endless belt. He could see Mario, walking up and down outside his hut, and blowing on his fingers to warm them, for the evening air was sharp with frost. "I wonder," he thought to himself. "I wonder ... oh, well, I shall know soon..."

  Henry found Emmy in their bedroom, padding about in bare feet searching for her stockings, which she swore she had left hanging over the back of the chair.

  "Hello, darling," she said. "Anything new?"

  She grew very grave when Henry told her about Caro. "The silly child," she said.

  "It's all very well to dismiss it as silliness," said Henry sombrely. "It may be a lot worse than that."

  Emmy stopped her searching, and said, "Caro? Oh, surely not, Henry. She's such a nice creature. Oh, hell, what has Anna done with my stockings? n

  Eventually they came to light under one of Henry's shirts, by which rime he had discovered that his back-stud was missing. At length, however, they both succeeded in changing into their apris ski regalia. As Emmy sat brushing her thick, dark hair with decisive strokes, Henry straightened his tie, and said, "Well, I'm ready. I suppose I'd better go and find Spezzi, if he's still here, and report on my utter lack of success with Caro. What time is it?"

  "Five-past six," said Emmy, looking at her watch.

  "Mario won't be here for well over an hour, then," said Henry. "I'd better see Spezzi and get it over."

  "Mario?"

  "He's coming up to see me when the lift stops. And I think and hope that it'll be the end of the case. You see, he "

  Henry got no further. There was a brusque knock on the door, and Spezzi burst in without waiting for an answer.

  "Enrico!" he cried. "You must come at once. Something terrible has happened!"

  Henry felt an icy hand close on his heart. "What?" he said.

  "It's Mario ... poor old Mario. He's dead—shot on the ski-lift, just like Hauser!"

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  For a moment, Henry looked completely stunned.

  "It's not possible," he said, half to himself.

  "Alas, it is possible. It has happened." Spezzi sat down on the bed. "This afternoon, when you said that Mario knew the name of the murderer, I confess that I did not believe you. Now it is only too clear that you were right. He knew—and he paid for his knowledge with his life."

  Henry pulled himself together with an effort. "Tell me all you know about it, quickly," he said. "Then we'll go down."

  "I know very little," said Spezzi. "Carlo telephoned the news from the village. He was very shocked—could hardly speak. He kept saying over and over again that it was just like Herr Hauser."

  "When did he ring?"

  "This minute. I came straight up to you. He has stopped the lift and called the doctor. Meanwhile, he waits for instructions from us."

  "Right." Henry spoke briskly now, and turned thankfully to the prospect of action. Only thus could he beat off the nightmare that was beginning to close in, "Has everybody from the hotel arrived up yet?"

  "I don't know."

  "We'll go and see. Emmy, will you check up on Gerda, and then try the Baron's suite to make sure he's back? You'd better have a look for Trudi Knipfer, too."

  "Of course," said Emmy, and went quickly out of the room.

  There was no need to search for Roger and Colonel Buckfast. They were in the hall, and Henry and Spezzi could hear their voices as they came out into the corridor.

  "Never known it happen before," the Colonel was saying. "Hope the fellow's not ill."

  "He's been looking pretty ghastly lately, I must say," said Roger.

  Henry came down the stairs. "Who are you talking about?" he asked.

  "Mario," said Roger.

  "Most extraordinary thing," said the Colonel. "I thought at the time it was him—pretty dark, of course, couldn't see very well. But I said to myself on the lift— I said, 'By Jove, that looks like old Mario going down.' And sure enough, when we got to the top, he wasn't there. Never known such a thing."

  "We're afraid he must be ill," said Roger.

  "I'm afraid I've got bad news for you," said Henry. "Mario is dead. He was shot."

  "Oh, God."Roger had gone deathly pale, and the Colonel took an uncertain step towards Henry, and then put out his hand and grasped the banister for support. He looked as if he might easily be sick.

  "Shot?" he repeated, stupidly. "Shot?"

  "On the ski-lift, I presume," said Roger, in a voice of thin ice.

  "I don't know yet," said Henry, "but it sounds like it."

  "Charming, I must say." Roger turned to Colonel Buckfast. "How do you like the feeling of being a prime suspect in a case of double murder, Colonel?"

  "A ... a what...?"

  "Don't you realise that you and Gerda and I were the only people who were going up on the lift on both occasions?" said Roger. "Stands to reason, doesn't it? One of us is the culprit."

  The Colonel seemed to be fighting for breath. "I don't know how you can speak so flippantly, Staines," he said at last. "In any case, the Baron was on the lift, too. He went up about five minutes before we did."

  "Ah, but he wasn't even in Santa Chiara when Hauser was killed." Roger pointed out, maliciously. "No, it's one of us, I'm afraid. Who are you putting your money on— Gerda or me? Or are you going to confess?"

  "My dear Staines," began the Colonel, outraged, but Henry interrupted him crisply.

  "So Gerda came up with you, did she? And the Baron was already on the lift. That means that everyone is back at the hotel." He broke off for a quick consultation in Italian with Spezzi, and then went on, "I am going down, to the village now. Capitano Spezzi will stay up here, and he agrees with me that an immediate search must be made for the gun. He has no warrant, of course, and you are qui
te at liberty to refuse, but I very much hope you will cooperate with us. There have been two deaths already, and we can't risk a third."

  Both men professed themselves only too willing to be searched. Rossati was called, and agreed tearfully to the hotel being combed for the missing weapon. Henry called Emmy, and suggested to Spezzi that she should search the women—a proposition which Spezzi accepted gratefully, Henry left it to Spezzi and Rossati between them to break the bad news to the Baron, and made his way down to the ski-lift.

  He spent some minutes in Mario's hut—silent now except for the insistent ticking of the clock. Then he examined carefully the platform outside the hut, where the chairs now hung still—sinister shapes casting long, spidery shadows across the snow under the lamplight. He studied with particular care the book in which Mario had logged the breakdowns of the lift, but found nothing more sensational than the fact that a fuse had blown and been repaired shortly after three o'clock that afternoon.

  Finally, he picked up the telephone which connected Mario's cabin to Carlo's, and wound the old-fashioned handle which rang the bell in the lower hut. Carlo's voice answered at once.

  "Tibbett here," said Henry. "Start the lift, will you, Carlo? I'm coming down."

  It was an eerie ride. Henry watched the procession of empty chairs as they slid upwards beside him, and, with a completely illogical stab of fear, half-expected to see one of them occupied ... occupied by a shadowy figure who held a gun, pointed steadily at the victim for whom there was no escape, borne relentlessly onwards as he was by the mechanism of the lift, closer and closer to his death.

  Impatiently dismissing this childish fancy, Henry shut his eyes and gave himself up to intensive concentration. But the problem whirled like a roundabout in his mind, one face after another rising up, mocking him: and all the time the same thought thundered in his brain, like an angry sea. "I must have been wrong ... I must have been wrong..."

  The scene at the bottom of the lift was bitterly reminiscent of the evening of Hauser's death—except that tonight it was not snowing. Mario lay where he had fallen in the snow—a pathetic, shapeless bundle of old clothes that had lately been a man. Carlo stood beside his friend's body, like a dog keeping watch over his dead master, and Henry saw the tears on his lean, wrinkled face.