Dead Men Don't Ski

by Patricia Moyes

  "As far as I am concerned, the case is clear," said Spezzi. "I only wish I had arrested the girl at once, as I wanted to. Then poor Mario would still be alive now." He stood up. "I do not think we can do any more tonight,"'He said.

  "Are you going to work out a time-table for this murder?" Henry asked.

  "Of course," said Spezzi, with a touch of hauteur.

  "Please let me have a copy," said Henry. "It was most valuable last time."

  Spezzi, not absolutely certain whether to take this as a compliment or an insult, contented himself with saying, "Of course,"once again.

  Before the Capitano left the room, Henry said, "By the way—this is only a suggestion, but if I were you, I wouldn't confine everybody to the hotel to-morrow. It doesn't really serve any useful purpose, and it makes them all thoroughly irritable. In my opinion, the only way we'll get proof in this case is to give the murderer plenty of rope."

  "I had already come to that conclusion," said Spezzi, stiffly.

  When the Capitano and the carabinieri had gone, Emmy said, "Phew! Poor Gerda! He's really got it in for her."

  "Yes," said Henry absently. He scratched the back of his neck. "You know, Emmy, my nose tells me we're approaching this case from the wrong end altogether. I've been as stupid as anyone, I fully admit—because I allowed myself to be side-tracked, instead of sticking to my original line of thought. But when you face the facts—as Spezzi so penetratingly advised—you get a different perspective altogether ... altogether ... do you see what I mean?"

  "No," said Emmy, "but I'll take your word for it."

  She felt a rising excitement. This was the first time on this case that Henry had talked about "my nose "with complete unselfconsciousness—it was an expression that came out spontaneously when he was deep in thought and really on the track of something. In the early stages of an investigation, when he was groping uncertainly, he would occasionally use the same phrase—but in inverted commas, as it were, and with an apologetic smile. This time it was the real thing.

  Upstairs, as they got ready for bed, Henry was silent and thoughtful/moving about the room like a man in a dream. Emmy went to the window, and opened it.

  "It's a heavy sort of night," she said. "Lots of cloud and no moon to be seen. It's rather weird. Even the ski-lift lights look cold and spooky—and there's a great dark shadow where one of them has gone out, as if the lift had broken its back..." She shivered, and turned away from the window.

  Henry had not been listening. He was sitting on the bed with his sandy head in his hands, and all he said was, "There's something that I've missed ... there must be ... there must be..."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next morning dawned drab and overcast. As Spezzi had predicted, no snow had fallen overnight, but the sky was heavy with it, and it could only be a matter of a few hours before the great, grey-bellied clouds discharged their freight, curtaining the landscape in cold, misty whiteness.

  Henry woke early, and roused Emmy. "Will you do something for me, darling?" he said.

  "What is it?" she asked, sleepily.

  "Get up now, take the lift down as soon as it starts, and catch the 9.40 train to Immenfeld."

  "To Immenfeld?"Emmy sat up in bed, tousled and surprised. "Whatever for?"

  "I want you to try and find out what Roger was doing there on the day of Hauser's murder."

  "Roger? But he skied there with the Colonel, and..."

  "And the Colonel said," Henry put in, "that after lunch he had done some of the local runs while Roger went shopping. There are mighty few Englishmen in Immenfeld, and with any luck they'll remember him. I want to know what he did, what he bought, and who he spoke to. And also if there's any significant amount of time not accounted for."

  "O.K." Emmy got out of bed and stretched. "I can't see the sense of it, but anything you say."

  So she and Henry breakfasted early and she went off to the ski-lift, having arranged to rendezvous with Henry in the Olympia at half-past twelve.

  Meanwhile, Henry climbed to the top floor of the hotel, and knocked at Trudi Knipfer's door.

  "Come in," she called. She was standing in front of the mirror in her ski-clothes, twisting her thick fair hair into ugly plaits. She looked very disconcerted when she saw Henry.

  "Oh, it's you. ^May I have my diary back, please?"

  * Not quite yet, I'm afraid," said Henry. "The Italian police have it."

  "They have no right to keep it," said Trudi, coldly. "I shall speak to the Captain about it."There was a pause, and then she said, "Well? What do you want?"

  "Just a word with you before you go skiing, if you don't mind, Fraulein," said Henry.

  "Go ahead," said Trudi. She went on doing her hair.

  "You must have heard," said Henry, "about Mario's murder yesterday."

  "They told me he was dead," said Trudi, without expression.

  "The two deaths are undoubtedly connected—Mario's and Hauser's," Henry went on.

  "Of course," said Trudi, shortly, her voice distorted by the fact that her mouth was full of hairpins. These she now proceeded to jab viciously into place one by one.

  "You don't sound as though you were surprised to hear of Mario's death," said Henry.

  Trudi's eyes met his steadily in the mirror. "Were you?" she asked.

  "Very," said Henry. "You see, he had arranged to come and see me last night."

  "So Gerda told us," said Trudi. "Still, I suppose he is allowed to change his mind. He probably lost his nerve."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Well," said the girl, "I understand that he had already started to go down on the ski-lift when he ... when he died. So presumably he had decided not to come and see you after all."

  There was a pause. "Fraulein Knipfer," Henry said, very gravely, "I believe that you know who killed Fritz Hauser."

  Trudi turned round and faced him. "Do you know?" she demanded.

  "Yes," said Henry, "I think I do."

  "Then you need no help from me or anyone else."

  "Would you say," Henry persisted, "that the same person was responsible for both deaths?"

  "That's obvious, isn't it?" said Trudi. "And now, perhaps you will excuse me. I must have breakfast, or I shall be late for my lesson."

  At the door she paused, and then said, "You will forgive me, Herr Tibbett—but I am surprised that, with a detective of your brilliance working on it, the case is not closed by now."With which calculated insult she walked out of the room.

  Henry went slowly and thoughtfully downstairs, and sought out Rossati, who was in his office.

  "I'd like to know, Signor Rossati," he said, "just what you were doing between a quarter-past five and a quarter to six yesterday evening?"

  "Me?" Rossati looked scared stiff. "It is no secret, Signor Tibbett. I was in here, writing some letters. The door was open, and everybody must have seen me."

  "Who do you mean by everybody?"

  "Signor Jimmy and the two young ladies. And the Knipfers."

  "Where were they?"

  "In the bar, having tea," said Rossati. "The three Knipfers went in first—soon after a quarter-past five, I should think. Then, at about half-past, Signor Jimmy came down with the two young ladies. They, too, went into the bar."

  "Thank you," said Henry.

  He then went in search of Anna, who confirmed that she had served tea to the Knipfers and the English party: and finally, he had a word with Herr Knipfer, who was with his wife on the terrace.

  "Of course it is so," said the German, stiffly. "All six of us were in the bar."

  "Did anybody leave the room?" Henry asked.

  "Certainly not. We were all still there when Captain Spezzi came and insisted that we should be searched."

  "And that," thought Henry, "seems to be that."

  He went up to his room to fetch his anorak, and noticed on the dressing-table the box of chocolates which Pietro had brought for Maria-Pia. In the excitement of the previous evening, he had forgotten a
ll about them.

  He picked up the chocolates, went down to the first floor, and knocked on Maria-Pia's door.

  "See, Henry," she greeted him, proudly, "I am up."

  Sure enough, she was out of bed, sitting in an armchair by the window, with her ungainly, plaster-coated leg emerging incongruously from the frills of a lemon-yellow peignoir.

  "I am glad you have come to see me," she said. "Hermann has gone out for a walk, and the children are skiing, and now that the snow is falling I feel very sad and lonely."

  Henry looked out of the window. Sure enough, the snow was coming down in fine, misty flakes, and the landscape looked grey and uninviting.

  "I've brought something to cheer you up," he said. "A present." And he gave her the chocolates.

  "Oh, Henry—you shouldn't have..."

  "They're not from me, I'm ashamed to say," said Henry. "They're from Pietro. With the good wishes and sympathy of the entire village. He wanted to see you himself yesterday, but he wasn't allowed up."

  "Oh, poor Pietro." Maria-Pia looked up, stricken. "Henry, I am a terrible, brutal woman. I have been so busy feeling thankful that Franco is safe..." She looked up at him anxiously. "He is safe now, isn't he, Henry? Why hasn't he been released?"

  "I think he soon will be," said Henry.

  "Thank God," said Maria-Pia, simply. "But it is no excuse for me. I've hardly stopped to think about poor Mario ... or about Rosa and Maria and Pietro. And now he sends me a present, and it puts me to shame. It should be the other way round. He is the one who needs sympathy now."

  "Yes," said Henry. He pulled up a chair, and sat down j beside her. "They seem to be a very tragic family. First Giulio, and now Mario. It seems like the cruellest sort of i bad luck. But I've often noticed how misfortune seems to i run in some families, for no apparent reason."

  "There may be a reason in this case," said Maria-Pia.

  "What do you mean?"

  "There's a wild streak in all the Vespis," said Maria-Pia. "Not Rosa, of course—she's like Mother Earth. But the men have always been crazy. Mario's father was killed in the mountains, you know. It's a local legend. Apparently some foolish rich Englishman bet him he wouldn't climb the Alpe Rosa in pitch darkness. There was quite a big sum of money involved—big for him, that is—and nothing would stop him. He got to the top, and left his ice-axe there to prove it: and then he fell. He was still alive when they found him, and all he cared about was that he had won the bet. 'Stop snivelling,' he said to Mario, who was about fifteen then, and go and get the money.' When Mario came back with the Englishman's cheque, his father said, 'Tell him I prefer golden sovereigns.' And then he died. Mario has often told me the story. They say in the village that no Vespi ever dies in his bed. I suppose Mario's father did—but hardly in the orthodox way."

  "I wonder what happened to that money?" said Henry.

  "Oh, it wouldn't amount to much these days," said Maria-Pia. "I think it was about a hundred pounds. If I know Mario, he'd keep it like a miser for years, and then give it to his sons. I dare say Giulio had most of it."

  "Giulio seems to have been a remarkably rich young man, one way and another," said Henry. "Where did it all come from, do you think?"

  "Oh, well ..." Maria-Pia spread her hands in a wide gesture. "You know how it is in these villages. All the young instructors—" She broke off suddenly. "Here comes Hermann," she said.

  Henry looked out of the window, and saw the Baron coming up the path through the whirling snow.

  "You'd better go now," said Maria-Pia. "Give Pietro my love and my thanks and my sympathy ... and give him this, too..."

  There was a big bowl of red roses on a table at her elbow. She pulled one out, and handed it to Henry. "Hermann bought them for me in Montelunga yesterday," she said. "Heaven knows what they cost. I wish I could send them all to Rosa and Pietro, but I dare not. So just take one. And tell them I will pray for them."

  "I'll do that," said Henry, moved. It was easy to see why people loved Maria-Pia. "Good-bye for now. I'll come and see you again soon."

  "Oh, please do. And if you see Franco..."

  "I'll give him a suitable message," said Henry, gravely. He left the room, and only just in time, for the Baron was already in the hall when he came downstairs. Henry put the rose hastily into his pocket, feeling like a character in a French farce, and went off to fetch his skis.

  He skied slowly through the scurrying snow, which was now falling fast, making visibility difficult: and, once down, made straight for the Olympia, feeling certain that Emmy would have been waiting for some time. When he pot there, however, he was amazed to see that the clock over the bar alleged that it was no more than a quarter to twelve—in fact, his descent had taken less than an hour. So he left his skis on the rack outside the cafe and made his way to the Vespi's house. The shop was shut and all the shutters closed, and a group of cold, miserable reporters hung about outside in the driving snow, cursing their luck. Henry's arrival at least gave the poor creatures something to do, and he was immediately mobbed. With difficulty, he pushed his way through the crowd, shaking off the importunate pleas for a statement, and knocked at the door of the shop.

  At first, there was dead silence. Henry took a pace back from the door and looked up, just in time to see a small, pale face peeping out from behind the lace curtains of an upstairs window. Shortly after this, there was a scuffle of footsteps and the sound of bolts being drawn, and the door opened a crack to reveal the owner of the face—Maria, Rosa's young daughter.

  "What is it?" she whispered.

  "I'm very sorry to have to disturb you," said Henry, "but I'm afraid I must see your mother."

  "Come in," said Maria. She opened the door another inch, just enough to let Henry slip inside, and then slammed it again in the tantalised face of the press.

  The shop was as dark as a tomb. Henry stood still, accustoming his eyes to the gloom, while Maria shot the heavy bolts back into place. Then he followed her, picking his way between the barrels of pasta and lentils, behind the counter and into the parlour. Here, too, the shutters were closed, but the two candles on the mantelpiece gave a guttering light, so that Giulio's photographed face flickered in and out of sight, like a worn film in a badly-equipped cinema. The effect was to give it a disturbing sort of life, and Henry had a sudden feeling that the young man was watching him intently: but the expression on the handsome face was as enigmatic as ever, revealing no secrets.

  "I will tell Mama," Maria whispered, and ran upstairs.

  With a heavy heart, Henry took from his pocket the knotted handkerchief which contained Mario's meagre possessions, and also the rose—now slightly the worse for wear— which Maria-Pia had given him. A moment later there was a slow, heavy footfall on the stairs, and Rosa Vespi came in, Henry was shocked at the change in her. The round, merry face was white and drawn, and the twinkling black eyes looked, in the dim light, like shadowy caverns of despair.

  In a voice that was startlingly harsh after Maria's whispering, Rosa said, "What do you want now? Why can't you leave us in peace?"

  "I beg you to forgive me, signora," said Henry, "and to accept my deepest sympathy. I have come to bring you this. It is from Baroness von Wurtburg. She asked me to say that she was praying for you."

  "The Baroness is very kind," said Rosa, without expression. She took the rose and laid it on the mantelpiece.

  "Also," said Henry, "I wished to return these to you." He laid his handkerchief on the table, and unknotted it, revealing the pathetic contents.

  Rosa looked briefly at the little pile on the table. "So they have decided not to rob him after all, have they? We must be thankful." Her voice was very bitter.

  "There was never any intention of robbing him, signora," said Henry, gently. "We only hoped that among Mario's possessions we might find a clue to his murderer."

  "What does it matter now?" said Rosa, in a voice without hope. She sat down, heavily. "He's dead, isn't he? What's the difference who killed him?"

 
Henry did not answer, but brought the two keys over to Rosa, holding them so that she could see them in the uncertain light.

  "Signora Vespi," he said, "do you recognise these keys?"

  Rosa looked at them dully. "Of course," she said. "That is the key of the shop, and the other is the key of the radio."

  "The radio?"

  "Try it, if you wish," she said. "Mario was proud of the radio. He liked to carry the key with him."

  Henry walked over to the radiogram, fitted the small key into the lock, and turned it anti-clockwise. Nothing happened. Then he turned it clockwise: the key turned easily, but when he tried to lift the lid, it would not move.

  "The radio was not locked," he said. "I thought Mario kept it locked."

  "It's possible it was not locked," said Rosa, without interest. "Pietro also had a key."

  Henry unlocked the lid of the cabinet again, and opened it. The metalwork of the arm and soundhead glinted in the candlelight. He shut the lid again, and put the two keys back with the rest of Mario's possessions. Then lie came and sat down in a chair, facing Rosa.

  "Signora" he said, "I am afraid I must ask you some questions. I know how distressing it must be for you, but I am sure you are as eager as we are to find the culprit."

  Listlessly, Rosa said again, "What does it matter now? n But at least she did not refuse point-blank to answer, so Henry, encouraged, went on.

  "First of all, do you know if Mario had any enemies?"

  "Enemies?" Rosa raised her head slowly, and looked at Henry. "Everybody loved Mario. Everybody—the whole village. You know that, signore."

  "Yes," said Henry. "I do. But the police think that your husband was killed because he knew the name of Herr Hauser's murderer—and he was coming to tell it to me last night. Now—did he give you any hint of who the guilty person might be?"

  Rosa began to weep, quietly. "He was strange, the last days," she said. "But he told me nothing. He was ill with worry—especially after Signor di Santi was arrested. And yesterday he said to me, 'I know what I must do now, Rosa...' "

  With a slight shock, Henry recognised the phrase that he had read in Trudi Knipfer's diary. "I know what I must do now..." He said, "But he never mentioned any name?"