Dead Men Don't Ski

by Patricia Moyes

  Several young carabinieri had been deputed to keep the local population away from the ski-lift: but whereas in the case of Hauser's death this job had been carried out in the face of much voluble curiosity on the part of the crowd, countered by good-natured banter from the police, this time the villagers stood in silence, and only occasionally, when one of them edged too far forward, did a carabiniere put out a gently restraining hand. This death was not for them a thrill of scandal, or a feast for idle, inquisitive speculation: it was a death in the village, a death in the family.

  The doctor—a small, dark, cheerful character in hornrimmed spectacles—greeted Henry warmly. "I haven't examined him yet," he said, "except to make sure that he's dead. No doubt about that, I'm afraid, poor old fellow. The photographers have got their pictures, so if you'd like to take a look at him, we can get him off to the mortuary, and I can get on with the job."

  "Thank you," said Henry. "I won't be long."

  Carlo stood aside silently as Henry bent over the body. Mario's face looked very tranquil. He might have been sleeping in the snow, but for an ugly red stain that had spread over his grubby white shirt. Henry straightened,

  "Tell me what happened," he said to Carlo. "You tried to help him off the chair?"

  "It is terrible, signore ... terrible. I had spoken to him on the telephone not long before "

  "When?"

  "I cannot be sure of the time," said Carlo, miserably. "About half-past five, I suppose, or a little later. I told him that the last of the Bella Vista people had just got on to the lift, and that I didn't think we would have any more customers this evening. He ... he had not been well, signore, and..."

  "Go on," said Henry, encouragingly.

  '"I didn't mean any harm," said Carlo, contritely, "but I did not see why he should wait about up there in the cold for another hour and a half. I ... I suggested that when Mr. Staines reached the top—he was the last on the lift, you see—Mario might come down."

  "Is he allowed to do that?" Henry asked.

  Carlo shuffled his feet, awkwardly. "It is against the rules, I know, signore . .. but Mario is an old man, and my son, who works the Alpe Rosa lift, was already home. We live nearby. If anyone had come who wanted help at the top, my son would have gone up ahead to help them off."

  "Supposing a fuse blew at the top?"

  "I would have telephoned to Beppi at the Bella Vista," said Carlo. "He understands the lift. He has taken Mario's place before."

  "This was a fairly usual arrangement, was it?" Henry asked.

  "No, no, signore ... only once or twice, when Mario was not well. In any case, he refused to come down."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said he had an appointment at the Bella Vista when the lift stopped. He said it was most important."

  "I see. What happened then?"

  "I asked him how he was going to get back to the village, and he said he would ski. I told him he was crazy, for I knew he was not well and he certainly should not ski in the dark. But he laughed, and said, 'Perhaps they will start the lift specially for me after what I tell them,' Then he rang off."

  "What did you do then?"

  "I waited here," said Carlo. "My son brought me a cup of coffee, and I had a word with Pietro—he came down on skis soon after. That was at a quarter to six—I know, because Pietro called out to me to tell him the time from my clock. He had an appointment, he said, and feared to be late. I suppose it was about a quarter of an hour later that I saw Mario coming down on the lift. First, I was pleased that he had changed his mind and taken my advice. Then I thought —the Bella Vista guests cannot have reached the top before Mario started down. He must have felt very ill to leave the lift with skiers still on it, and to miss his important engagement. As he came closer, I saw that he was limp ... as if he had fainted, perhaps. And the safety arm was down, which was strange. So I came quickly to help him, and..."Carlo's voice broke. "Just like Herr Hauser," he said, with difficulty. "Just like Herr Hauser..."

  "You tried to help him..." Henry prompted, gently.

  "I took his arm, and he fell—so. And then I saw that my friend Mario was dead .. ." Carlo turned away, deeply moved.

  "Thank you, Carlo," said Henry. Then he turned back to Mario, and, moving him very gently, he extracted the meagre contents of the old man's pockets. He made a little pile of the pathetic relics—five hundred lire, mostly in small change: a battered pocket-knife: a big, old-fashioned door key and a smaller, newer key: a stub of pencil: a very dirty handkerchief: and five black cigarettes in a purple packet. Whatever Mario had been intending to tell Henry, he had apparently had no intention of supporting it with any tangible evidence.

  Henry tied these belongings up carefully in his own handkerchief, and said to the doctor, "All right. You can take him away now. I'm going up to the hotel again. You might telephone me when you've had a look at him."

  "Certainly, signore."

  The stretcher-bearers were just moving forward when the ranks of villagers suddenly parted—silently and by common consent—and a tall figure stepped into the circle of lamplight.

  "Where is my father?" said Pietro. Under the harsh light, his fine face seemed to be carved out of granite, white and stern, and scored with deep shadows. Henry laid a hand on the young man's arm.

  "Caro Pietro;' he said. "What can I say?"

  Pietro was gazing down at his father's body. "They told me in the Bar Schmidt," he said. "I went straight to my mother. Now she has sent me to bring him home."

  Henry and the doctor exchanged quick glances. Then Henry said, "I'm afraid that's not possible, Pietro."

  Pietro's eyes flashed. "Not possible? Hasn't my mother suffered enough already, without?"

  "Your father was murdered," said Henry. "Later you can take him home, but first the doctor must examine him. It is absolutely necessary if we are to discover who killed him."

  Pietro did not answer, but stepped forward and went down on his knees beside Mario's body. He lowered his head, as if in prayer, and in the dead silence the church clock began to strike seven, like a funeral bell. At last, Pietro looked up, and his face was grim. "Very well, Enrico," he said. "I accept your ruling." He glanced down at his father's still face for a moment, and added, softly, "There are debts which must be settled."

  Then, abruptly, he got to his feet and strode away through the crowd* which parted silently to let him pass.

  The Bella Vista was wrapped in an ominous silence when Henry got back. All the residents—with the exception of the von Wurtburgs—were in the bar. They had split into small groups, talking in hushed and nervous voices. Roger and Caro were at the most distant table in the corner, conversing earnestly. Jimmy was at the bar, and the Buckfasts sat silently at their usual table. Near the door, the three Knipfers were carrying on a low-pitched conversation in German with Gerda. Spezzi and Emmy were nowhere to be seen.

  Henry went upstairs, and found Emmy in Gerda's room, going through the contents of the chest of drawers.

  "I hate doing this," she said. "There's nothing here, of course. Spezzi even made me search Trudi Knipfer, and after this I've got to go through her room, even though she came up to the hotel ages ago, even before Jimmy and Caro."

  Gerda's room revealed nothing of interest, apart from a small snapshot, carefully-framed, which showed a strikingly handsome, blond man and a pretty, plump, dark woman dressed in the fashion of twenty-five years ago: the woman was holding on her knee a small dark girl of three or four, who was laughing uproariously. There was also a larger portrait of the man—a carefully-retouched study of the kind which actors of the , thirties liked to send to their fans. It was inscribed, "To my darling wife, with all my love— Gottfreid. May, 1936."

  Henry glanced at the photographs, sighed, and said, "No, there's nothing here. Let's have a look at Trudi's room."

  Fraulein Knipfer's room was as bleak and bereft of interest as it had been when Henry had examined it earlier in the day. Now, however, he did not feel that he could
let the locked drawer pass, and he told Emmy to go and fetch Trudi.

  "Fraulein Knipfer," Henry said, politely, "I am sorry to trouble you, but as you know we have to search everybody's rooms, for there is a gun missing. I wonder if you would give me the key to this drawer?"

  "No," said Trudi. "I won't." She looked at Henry with mingled contempt and dislike.

  "I really would advise it, Fraulein," said Henry. "You see, if you refuse, we can but put the worst possible construction on it. I shall have to put a police guard on this room tonight, and Capitano Spezzi will return in the morning with a warrant, and break the drawer open. I am sure you would not want that."

  "The gun is not in there," said Trudi. "Merely something private of mine. It can't be important."

  "I'm sorry, Fraulein. I will have to insist."

  Trudi hesitated for a moment, and then said, coldly, 14 You cannot have searched the room very thoroughly, or you would have found the key."

  Brushing roughly past Henry, she went over to the washbasin, and fumbled in her sponge-bag to produce a small key. "There!" she said. She almost threw the key at Henry, and went quickly out, slamming the door.

  Henry unlocked the drawer. Inside was a small diary. He sat down on the bed to read it.

  There was nothing very remarkable about most of the entries. They recorded a rather dreary life in Hamburg, apparently dominated by the personality of "Papa". The family's arrival at the Bella Vista was duly noted, and then came a brief entry which read. "Tonight Papa told me I must marry F. H" After this, "F. H." cropped up in each day's entry, generally accompanied by some scathing comment. On the day before Hauser's death, Trudi had written, "Today I told Papa I could not go through with this marriage. He was insistent. Of course I cannot disobey him. I must think of some way out." For the day of the murder, there was a single, short, entry. "F. H. was killed today. I feel a wonderful sense of relief, and I know what I must do now."

  Henry stood up, and put the diary in his pocket "I'll have to show this to Spezzi," he said. "Let's go down."

  They found the Capitano and his adjutant in the hall, and all four of them went into Rossati's office, which had been commandeered once more.

  "We have searched everywhere—everywhere," Spezzi said. "Nothing to be found. And, after all, the murderer did not have much time to dispose of the gun. Rossati was in the bar, and Anna in the kitchen. Rossati saw the Baron come in and go straight upstairs, and then a few minutes later, all three skiers came in from the ski store."

  "You've looked there, of course."

  "I've taken it apart," said Spezzi, with a wry smile. "Anyway, they were all three in there together, which would have made it difficult for the murderer to find an elaborate hiding-place. According to Rossati, Gerda went straight upstairs, and the two men stayed in the hall, where we found them."

  "Well, I'm sorry you've had such a lot of fruitless work." said Henry. "But it had to be done. Emmy and I did find something that may be important."

  He gave Spezzi the diary, and the latter read it with intense concentration. When he came to the entry on the day of Hauser's death, he gave a low whistle. "Very interesting, Enrico," he said. "Or it would be, if there was the remotest possibility that Fraulein Knipfer could have committed either of the murders. Unfortunately, there isn't."

  "I find it interesting all the same," said Henry. "Well, now, to get back to the gun. I didn't really expect that you would find it here. My guess is that this time it really was thrown from the ski-lift. Thank God it isn't snowing. How soon can your men get out to look for it?"

  "I'll send a party out tonight, if you like," said Spezzi, doubtfully, "but there's only a half-moon, and I very much doubt if they'd find it in the dark."

  He walked over to the window, opened it and looked out.

  "It's clouding over," he said, "but I don't think it will snow tonight. I'll tell you what we'll do. There's a fair amount of light under the ski-lift itself, especially near the pylons. I'll send some men out to search there. Of course, if the murderer threw the gun into one of the ravines—and I must say that's what I would have done in the circumstances—then we won't find it tonight: nor if it was thrown clear of the lift and into the trees, but that would have meant quite a big movement, which would probably have been noticed by the person in the chair behind."

  "Unless the murderer came up last." Henry pointed out.

  "True. But I fear that is not the case." Spezzi sighed. "Anyway, we'll take a look."

  "It's very good of you," said Henry. "I do, think it's important."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Spezzi had only just finished telephoning to the village to organise the search-party, when there was a knock on the door, and Roger came in. He looked at Henry sheepishly, like a schoolboy facing an awkward few minutes with his headmaster.

  "I wonder if I can have a word with you, Henry," he said, diffidently. "There's ... there's something I want to tell you."

  Henry gave him a severe look. "I'm extremely glad to hear it," he said. "I was just going to send for you."

  "I rather meant... that is, could I see you privately?"Roger glanced apologetically at Spezzi.

  "No," said Henry, firmly. "This is an official interview, and Emmy will be taking it down in shorthand."

  Roger looked extremely unhappy, but he sat down, and said, with as good a grace as he could muster, "Oh, all right. If you insist."

  There was a long pause. Then Henry said, "Well, are you going to make a statement, or am I going to question you?"

  "It's about this business of Hauser," said Roger, at length. "This second murder has put me in a hell of a tricky position, and the only way out that I can see is to make a clean breast of things."

  "About time, too," said Henry, grimly.

  "I told you before that Hauser had no business proposition for me,"Roger went on. "I'm afraid that wasn't true. He wanted me to smuggle stuff out of here for him, and— well, to be honest, I agreed. It seemed to me like a pretty good way of raising the wind, and I'm somewhat embarrassed financially just now. I should have told you all this before, of course, but... well, I'm sure you can appreciate why I didn't."

  "You're not telling me anything I didn't know," said Henry. "By the way, what did you do with Hauser's second letter? I suppose you burnt it."

  "How did you know about that?" asked Roger, incredulously.

  "It was obvious," said Henry,"that there must have been a second letter—unless he telephoned you in London. Apart from anything else, no date was mentioned in the letter you showed me. Just a vague reference to 'the month of January'. Hauser didn't as a rule stay here for more than two weeks at a time, so he was bound to have fixed a definite date for meeting you. In fact, the whole letter was as phony as a tin half-crown. You discussed all this with him here last year, didn't you?"

  Roger gave Henry the ghost of a grin. "All right," he said. "You're too clever by half. Yes, he did mention it first last year, and I indicated that I might be interested. I wasn't surprised to get his letter—it just confirmed the tentative arrangement we'd made. I wrote back saying I was on, and he wrote again fixing January 25th for our rendezvous."

  "January 25th?" said Henry. "That's today."

  "He told me," said Roger, "that he would be leaving the Bella Vista on the twelfth—four days before we arrived, in fact—and coming back on the twenty-fourth. I was very surprised to find him here, as you can imagine, but he simply said that his plans had changed at the last moment. But he said not to worry, he would go back to Rome to collect my... my cargo, as it were, and bring it up sometime during our second week here. In fact, he was on his way to fetch it when he was killed. So you see ... I admit I haven't behaved like a plaster saint, but you must admit that I had a very strong motive for keeping Hauser alive."

  "And what about your story of blackmail?"

  Roger laughed, nervously. "Oh, that," he said. "That wasn't anything, really. Hauser was a pretty nasty little character, as you doubtless know, and he tried to u
se that note to make me accept less than my fair share of the loot, and as a sort of insurance that I wouldn't rat on him. But even he had to admit it was a forgery when he compared it to my real handwriting."

  "So the account you gave us of Hauser burning the note was also a complete lie?"

  "I'm terribly afraid so."Roger smiled disarmingly, and with a highly plausible air of candour, he added, "You see, I knew you'd find the note, but I was naive enough to hope that you wouldn't connect it with me. As soon as you mentioned the Nancy Maud in the bar that evening, I realised that you'd put two and two together, and I reckoned I'd better think up a story to explain why I didn't report Hauser's blackmailing efforts to the police straight away. I didn't intend all the other business to come to light, you understand."

  "I understand only too well," said Henry, dryly. "If I may say so, your fabrication was a little over-ingenious, and left a lot of loopholes. However, we haven't come yet to the really curious part of the story. Caro must have told you that the police in Rome have identified the forgery as being in her handwriting."

  Roger flushed angrily, and more than a trace of belligerence showed in his voice, as he said, "Yes, she has. And I think it's despicable, the way you've been frightening the poor kid with talk of lawyers and prosecutions. You must know as well as I do that these so-called handwriting experts are two-a-penny, and for every one that says she wrote it, I bet I can produce two to say she didn't. It's not by any means conclusive evidence, and as it's patently obvious to the most meager intelligence that the girl had neither the motive nor the opportunity to—"

  "I should save your righteous indignation, if I were you," said Henry. "You might instead give me your opinion as to why Caro has been in a state of nervous terror ever since Hauser died."

  "That's my fault, I'm afraid," said Roger. "I never intended Caro to know anything about my nefarious dealings with Hauser, but as bad luck would have it, she overheard us talking the very first day we got here. She didn't hear much, but enough to make her suspicious. To cut a long story short, she nagged and nagged at me until finally I told her the truth, like a fool. Then, of coupse, she got hysterical and tried to put the kybosh on the whole idea. To hear the way she carried on, you'd have thought I was planning a ... planning to steal the Crown Jewels, or something. She threatened to tell her father if I didn't promise to have no more to do with Hauser."