"Nothing else?"
"No, that was all."
"And you have no idea which bit of information was useful to him?"
"None. He thought for a time after I had finished," and then he said, "Yes, it is all clear now. I will see Signor Tibbett tonight, and tell him who killed Fritz!"
"And you tried to dissuade him. Why?"
Pietro shrugged. "Whoever had killed Hauser could kill again," he said. "I did not want my father mixing himself up in such an affair. 'Leave it to the police,' I said. 'Whether you are right or wrong, everyone will know you have given information, and you may put .yourself in danger.'"
"You didn't trust us to protect him?" said Henry.
Pietro looked at him. "You could not protect him," he said. "He was murdered. And yet," he added, softly, "I am tortured because in the end it was my fault."
"Your fault?"
"Yes," said Pietro, and his face was very grave. "I was foolish. Mama begged me to stop Father from going to see you, and that is what I tried to do when I got to the top of the lift. But I was overheard—and so he was killed. If I could avenge myself on the murderer—" He stopped.
"How do you know you were overheard?"
"I had not seen that Signor Roger was just behind me. When I turned away from my father, he was there. He must have heard, and he speaks Italian very well. Mind you," added Pietro hastily, "I am not accusing him. He will undoubtedly have repeated what he heard to all the others."
Henry pondered this for a moment, and then said, "There is another conversation I am interested in. The one you and your father had with Hauser on the day of the first murder."
Pietro looked startled. "That? That was nothing."
"I should like to know what was said," Henry persisted.
Pietro thought for a moment, and then said, "Fritz Hauser was very fond of my brother Giulio. He had come to give us his sympathy on Giulio's death. We talked of my brother."
"I see," said Henry. "By the way, I understand that you were the first to find Giulio. Can you tell us about it? n
Pietro looked very surprised, but he made a little gesture, and said, "What is there to tell? I followed his ski tracks —it was just light enough to see them. They led me to the edge of the ravine, and then I saw him."
"What had caused him to fall, do you think?"
"Nobody will ever know for certain,"Pietro answered, u but I have a good idea. It is a very treacherous slope, that one, with hidden crevasses which are not visible as one comes down. When the run is opened, the piste is clearly marked, but when Giulio went there was no piste to follow. He went too near the edge of a ravine. When he saw his danger, he must have tried to turn—but there was a tree-stump with spreading roots just hidden by the snow. He must have hit the stump, which knocked one ski off, and before he could regain his balance ... It is easily done."
"So you saw him. Did you climb down to him?"
Pietro gave a tiny, rueful smile. "You have been talking to the men in the search party, I can see," he said. "Yes, I did climb down. I could not leave him there without..." He broke off, and then continued. "He was already dead, poor Giulio. So I went on to Immenfeld and called the search party. When they arrived with their lights, they could see I had been down the ravine before them, but they promised they would tell no one. On account of my mother, you see. It was a rash thing to do, and it would have distressed her greatly—she worries over such things. It was always the same—for my father, my brother and me. We liked to be adventurous, but my mother must never know."
"Pietro," said Henry, suddenly. "Was Giulio smuggling contraband into Austria for Fritz Hauser when he died?"
A look of real fear came into Pietro's eyes. "No, no," he said. "No, he would never have done that."
"He always had plenty of money, I understand."
"He was a popular instructor, Enrico."
"More popular than any of the others—than you? M
"Oh, yes. He was a marvel. And so handsome. All those Americans..."
"Look here," said Henry, "I know very well there weren't any Americans. Giulio got his money from somewhere, and you must have known about it."
"No, no, Enrico. You are quite wrong."
"We'll see," said Henry, grimly. "All right, you can go now."
When Henry got back to the hotel, he found a grave-faced Rossati waiting for him in the hall.
"Alas, Signor Tibbett, I fear I have bad news..."
Henry's heart sank. "What?" he said.
"Poor Signora Tibbett... it is so sad ... so sad..."
"Emmy!" Henry went cold. "What's the matter with her?"
"An accident, I fear, signore —they said it was an accident..."
Without waiting to hear any more, Henry took the stairs two at a time and ran down the corridor as if a thousand fiends were after him. So great was his relief when he saw Emmy lying on the bed, calmly reading a book, that he laughed aloud.
"So you think it's funny, do you?" she said, in a pained voice. "I can assure you it's damn painful."
"I'm sorry, darling. I was laughing at myself, because I was in such a blue funk about you. I thought it might have been . .. something worse."
"Didn't Rossati tell you what happened?"
"I didn't give him a chance." Henry went over to the bed, and kissed his wife with some warmth. Then he said, "Now tell me about it."
"Oh, it was so silly," she said. "We were doing Run Three, and it's not easy with the new snow. Anyway, I took a corner too fast, and came a cropper and twisted my blasted ankle." She raised her right leg, displaying an ankle of more-than-usual diameter, swathed in bandages. "And to make matters worse," she went on, "one of my skis came off and did the run in record time on its own, with about ten Frenchmen in hot pursuit. And I sat down with a resounding thump on the sharp edge of the other ski and both my sticks. My bottom is just like those platforms on the ski-lift pylons —completely corrugated—and it's even sorer than my ankle."
"Poor old love," said Henry, sympathetically. "How did you get back to the hotel?"
"The blood wagon," said Emmy, not without a certain pride.
"The what?"
"That's what they call the sledge that brings you down when you're hurt," she explained. "I must say it was marvellously well-organised. I was wrapped up in blankets and strapped down—I felt just like an Egyptian mummy. And then they whisked me down the mountain head-first at a fantastic speed. It was terribly exciting."
"It sounds horrible," said Henry.
"It's not, honestly," said Emmy. "They're so competent, these people, you don't feel a bit frightened. We went straight to the doctor, who's an angel, and he fixed me up and drove me back to the ski-lift in his car. Beppi met me at the top, and carried me up here as though I was a small overnight bag. He's fantastically strong, that man."
"What did the doctor say?" asked Henry. "Is it bad?"
"Oh, it's nothing at all. Just a sprain. But I can't ski again this year, which is maddening."
"What damn bad luck, darling. Will you have to stay in bed?"
"Good Lord, no," said Emmy, cheerfully. "I'm coming down to dinner. I can hop beautifully with my ski-sticks."
The news of Emmy's misfortune spread quickly through the hotel. Soon the room was crowded with well-wishers. Jimmy brought a bottle of brandy and a pack of cards to cheer the invalid, and it soon transpired that both he and Caro were keen on bridge. Henry regretfully excused himself from making up the four, saying that he still had work to do, but he remembered Mrs. Buckfast's remark during her sensational interview with Spezzi, and suggested that they should enlist her. Leaving the four of them contentedly engrossed in the playing of a highly problematical small slam which Jimmy had recklessly called ("Only ten points, partner, but I thought we'd have a bash," he remarked gaily to an unamused Mrs. Buckfast as he laid down his hand), Henry went in search of Roger.
He found the latter in his room, changing.
"Sit down, old man," said Roger hospitably. "Sorry to hear a
bout Emmy. How is she?"
"She's fine, thank you," said Henry. And then he said, "I'm afraid this isn't a social call, Roger. You've got some explaining to do, and you'd better do it fast."
"Oh." Roger stopped abruptly in the middle of tying his tie, and turned to face Henry. "It's like that, is it? Well, what do you want explained?"
"This, among other things," said Henry. He picked up the paper-covered copy of Cora Teresa, which was lying on the bedside table.
"I've told you about that."
"It won't do, I'm afraid. We know that you bought this in Immenfeld. Unfortunately for you, the girl in the shop remembered you."
There was a pause. Then Roger said, "I see. Been checking up pretty thoroughly, haven't you?"
"This is a case of murder," said Henry. "Everything has to be checked."After a short silence, he went on, "And there's another thing. I think I ought to warn you that Caro is liable to be arrested any moment on a charge of forging, without your knowledge or consent, a document designed to incriminate you. You put up a very good bluff on her behalf yesterday, but I'm afraid Spezzi's going to call it. I ought not to tell you this, I suppose, but I happen to know he's planning to arrest her to-morrow morning. So if there's anything you can tell us which might help her "
Roger had gone very white. He looked at Henry for a moment, and then he said, "All right. You win. I'll tell you the truth."
"That's the third time you've said that," said Henry, pleasantly. "You can't expect me to be over-impressed."
"But this really is the truth," said Roger, with a trace of desperation. "You can't possibly accuse Caro of writing that note without my knowledge or consent, because I asked her to do it."
"I appreciate your chivalrous instincts," said Henry, "but surely you don't expect Spezzi to believe a story like that?"
"It's true, I tell you," said Roger. "We were playing a silly sort of game one evening, trying to imitate each other's handwriting. I tore a page out of my diary for her to write on, and when she asked what she should put, for some crazy reason I suggested those words. Subconscious, I suppose. The Nancy Maud affair had been on my mind. And then Hauser got hold of the paper."
Henry shook his head. "That," he said, "holds about as much water as a broken sieve. Why those words? How did Hauser get hold of it? Why did you tell us he tried to blackmail you as soon as you arrived? You'd better think again. You'll never get Caro out of trouble with a cock and bull story like that."
Roger glared at him, but said nothing. Henry went on, "Perhaps it would be easier if I told you what really happened. Then you can correct me if I'm wrong."
There was another silence. Roger's face had darkened, and he looked dangerous. Henry continued, pleasantly, "I told you once before, Roger, that your trouble was over-ingenuity. You can't be content with a simple plan, or even with a simple lie. You've got a good, quick brain which might be extremely useful if you'd direct it towards something worthwhile. As it is, you do nothing but think up tortuous schemes which generally fall down under the sheer weight of their own intricacy."
"I don't know what you mean," said Roger, thickly.
"I'll explain," said Henry. "The note which Hauser had was genuine, of course. He was much too careful an operator to use a forgery. Whatever the court in Rome may have decided, I could tell the moment I met you that you're exactly the type of man who would revel in a bit of relatively harmless smuggling, especially if it involved sailing a small boat. At the same time, I think you were telling the truth when you said that Donati stole the Nancy Maud."
Roger opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and closed it again.
"You had intended, of course, to make the trip yourself, and you engaged Donati and the other boy as crew, because the loading and unloading were more than you could cope with single-handed. You wrote a note to Donati on a page torn out of your diary—by the way, you get the same diary every year, don't you?"
Reluctantly, Roger said, "My bookie sends me one every Christmas."
"But," Henry went on, "Donati double-crossed you. Not only did he sail ahead of time, hoping to sell the cargo and keep the profits himself, but he also hung on to your note to safeguard himself against your taking any action."
"Then why didn't he produce it in court?"Roger burst out. Henry guessed that this was a point which had been bothering Roger considerably.
"Because," he said, with a smile, "he hadn't got it by then. Hauser took it from him before the trial. Hauser was his real boss, and you were being deliberately lured into the net. You see, Hauser liked to have his subordinates absolutely under his thumb. And he realised that although you'd jump at the chance of running watches and cigarettes, you might very likely draw the line at dope."
"Dope?" said Roger. He looked really shaken now.
"Of course," slid Henry. "That was his real business. Here, then, we have you—in the clear as far as the Nancy Maud case is concerned, but keen as mustard to have another go. So Hatiser got you out here last year, with Rossati's help."
Roger nodded, hopelessly. "Rossati sent me a prospectus of the hotel," he said, "with a letter saying that in order to encourage English skiers, they were prepared to offer special rates. The prices he quoted were so ridiculously low, that as I was hard up and keen on skiing..." He paused. "But why did Hauser wait so long after the Nancy Maud case before he contacted me?"
"Two reasons," said Henry. "One was to let the publicity of the case die down, and the other was that he thought he had a satisfactory operator here. Then, last year, he began to have his doubts. So he got on to you. The next bit you told us, pretty truthfully. Everything was fixed up. You were delighted. You were instructed to come out again this year, bringing a thoroughly respectable English party as cover. It must have been a nasty blow to you when Hauser produced that note."
Henry looked hopefully at Roger for confirmation, but the latter maintained a moody silence. So Henry went on, "Now most people in your position would have been content to steal the note, and leave it at that. But your super-ingenious brain thought up a better scheme. You decided to turn the tables on Hauser. So you persuaded Caro to forge a copy of the note on a page of your current diary, and you switched it for the original. In fact, you did what you accused Hauser of doing—but the other way round. Then you challenged him to a showdown. Nothing would have pleased you more than to see that note sent to the police. It was a palpable forgery, and Hauser would have been in the cart. Of course, you did take the risk of Jimmy's writing being identified, but I agree it was a remote possibility. It was extremely bad luck that you forgot she had written on the back of your packing list. Am I boring you?"
"Go on," said Roger.
"Well," said Henry, "you came unstuck because you underestimated Hauser. He was far too clever for you. He spotted the forgery, and a chance remark of Caro's in the bar about pencil and paper games enabled him to put two and two together. It was a pretty safe bet that Caro had done it for you, anyway. So Hauser now had you even more firmly where he wanted you. At that famous tea-party that you told us about, I imagine he threatened to take both the forged note and a sample of Caro's handwriting to the police. After all, he could get hold of the hotel register easily enough. When Gerda saw you coming out of Hauser's room, I imagine you must have been making a last, frantic search to find the forged note and destroy it. You didn't find the note ... but the gun was lying on the table."
"I didn't take it!" Roger shouted. "I didn't take the gun!"
"Perhaps not—not then. But it could very well have given you the idea. And the next day, when you saw Hauser's briefcase at the Olympia..."
"It's not true!" cried Roger, frantically. "All right, I'll admit everything else—but I didn't take the gun I I didn't kill him!"
"But you will agree, won't you," said Henry, softly, "that far from having no motive to do so, you had the strongest possible one. The only one, I think, that could drive a man like you to violence. Caro's safety."
"Oh, God." Roger
sat down heavily on the bed. "I tell you I didn't." After a pause, he added, "What do you want me to do now?"
"I want a signed statement from you," said Henry, briskly, "admitting ... all that you are prepared to admit. Anything else, we can add later."
"But ... Caro?" Roger's distress was very obvious. "What will happen to Caro?"
"You told me," said Henry, carefully, "that you were playing a game when you asked her to write the note, and that she didn't know what it was for. If you put that in your statement, it should clear her of any blame. Of course, such a statement will have obvious disadvantages from your point of view, but..."
"I'll write it now." Roger stood up, suddenly quiet and determined. "And this time, it really will be the truth."
"I do hope so," said Henry, none too optimistically.
He left Roger writing frantically, and went down to the bar.
In the hall, he was waylaid by Gerda. She was dressed in slim black trousers and a white cotton shirt, which made her look as monochrome as a photograph.
"Herr Tibbett," she said, "I want to ask for your help."
"What can I do for you?"
"I am in a very difficult position," said Gerda, quietly. "I know very well that Capitano Spezzi thinks I am a murderess. That is not true. But, Herr Tibbett, I must leave the Bella Vista. The Baron has discharged me, as you know, with one week's notice. It is not possible for me to stay on in the hotel with no job. I cannot pay. I must return to Germany and find other employment. But the Capitano will not let me go."
"You have asked him?"
"I telephoned him today. He positively refuses."
"I see." Henry looked thoughtful. "Yes, it is difficult for you. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll have a word with the Baron. It seems to me that he must in all justice agree to pay your hotel bill while you are forced to stay here."
Gerda gave an impatient little sigh. "That is not the point, Herr Tibbett. I must find another job. I have to get away from here."
"I'm very sorry," said Henry, "but I don't see what else I can do for you. I agree with Capitano Spezzi that until the case is closed we cannot allow anybody to leave, especially if they wish to go to another country."
Dead Men Don't Ski Page 24