Dead Men Don't Ski

by Patricia Moyes

  Gerda looked at him steadily. "So you will not help me," she said. "Very well. I shall have to make the best arrangements I can."

  Abruptly, she turned on her heel, and walked quickly across the hall and up the stairs.

  The only occupants of the bar were the Knipfers, who were drinking beer in one corner, and Colonel Buckfast, who sat at the bar sipping a whisky and soda. He welcomed Henry warmly.

  "Beginning to feel like an exile in here," he confided. 14 Wife playing cards with your wife, I believe.... sorry about the accident ... not serious, I hope?"

  Henry assured him that Emmy was on the road to recovery, and the Colonel mumbled his satisfaction at the news, and then cleared his throat loudly. Finally he said,

  "No hard feelings about... British Consul and so forth... have to protect oneself, y'know. . . have a drink."

  "Thanks," said Henry. "I'll have a Martini, please-straight, no gin."

  "Outlandish, these Eyetie drinks,"remarked the Colonel. "Martini, Anna! Can't abide 'em myself. And as for the whisky ... genuine Scotch made in Naples, if you ask me."

  There was a lull in the conversation while Anna brought Henry's drink, and then the Colonel went on, "Heard about young Pietro?"

  "What about him?"

  "The Gully. First thing this morning. Amazing effort. Saw the tracks when I did my first run—before the snow started. Wouldn't have believed it otherwise. Take off my hat to him. Amazing effort. Could have used him in The Team."

  Having bestowed on Pietro the highest praise he knew, the Colonel returned to his whisky.

  "He did it for a bet, I understand," said Henry.

  "Yes. Carlo was telling me. He and the other lads all turned out to see it. Talk of the village."

  "Have you ever done the Gully yourself?" Henry asked.

  "Not for years," said the Colonel. "Frankly, it's too fast a run for my taste. Anno domini, I suppose. Speed's all very fine, but can become an obsession. Want to watch it."

  "I've got a long way to go before I need worry about that," said Henry smiling.

  "Young Staines now," the Colonel went on. "Mad on speed. Insists on making every run a race. Claims he can do Run One in seven minutes. Don't believe it. Times himself with a stopwatch, you know," he added, lowering his voice: one would have thought that he was accusing Roger of some nameless perversion.

  "What's your best time?" Henry asked.

  "For Run One? All depends on conditions. Ten or eleven minutes, I suppose, going really fast. Much slower in bad visibility, of course—over twenty minutes, probably."

  "It takes me an hour in ideal conditions," said Henry, ruefully.

  "No need to be depressed," said the Colonel, kindly. "First season, after all. Have to start slowly. You'll improve." He looked at Henry critically. "Solid legs," he added, cryptically.

  "Thank you," said Henry, rightly interpreting this as a compliment.

  A little while later, Roger and Caro came in, and intimated their desire to talk to Henry. The three of them sat down at a table, and Roger handed over several pages of closely-packed handwriting.

  "There you are," he said. "All signed and sealed. I've shown it to Caro."

  "Thank you," said Henry. He glanced briefly at the sheets of writing, and then pocketed them. "Well," he said to Caro, "why couldn't you have told me all this sooner, you silly girl? You've nothing more to worry about now."

  "No, I suppose I haven't. But Roger has."

  "The great thing to remember," said Henry, rather pontificaily, "is always to tell the truth, especially in a murder case. I hope that neither of you will be so stupid again."

  "But Henry," said Caro, "what will Roger—?"

  Henry held up his hand. "No more of that tonight," he said. "The office is closed, and official business over, I suggest we all have a drink."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next two days—Friday and Saturday—seemed to last for ever. Henry spent some time with Spezzi, discussing their plan of campaign. Outwardly, all was serene, and the Italian press made a few scathing comments on the lack of progress made by the police.

  On the Friday, Franco di Santi was released from prison. He did not return to the Bella Vista, but, as he was forbidden to leave Santa Chiara, took a room at a small pension in the village. He kept very much to himself, and skied alone.

  Henry rejoined the class on Friday afternoon, and found that they had all got considerably ahead of him—all now accomplishing an occasional good stem cristiania turn. He remarked on this fact to Caro, as the two of them stood alone together at the top of a slope, waiting for their turn to practise. Caro did not answer him directly, but said instead, "Henry, I'm worried about that statement of Roger's."

  "I blow you are," said Henry.

  "You see," she said, "it isn't strictly true. I..."

  "I know that, too," said Henry, and set off down the hill at speed before she could reply.

  On Friday evening, Henry fulfilled his promise to Spezzi, and questioned Mrs. Buckfast about where she had been at the time of Mario's murder. She replied coldly that she had been on the terrace, as Henry knew very well, until half-past four, when it got cold. She had then gone up to her room and written postcards.

  Henry had another talk with Rossati, who maintained that he had had the hall under constant observation from five-fifteen onwards. "Nobody used the front door," he said. "I would have seen them. And Signora Buckfast did not come downstairs until much later on."

  "I presume you could also see the door to the ski store," said Henry. "Is there any other way out of the hotel?"

  "Only through the kitchen," said Rossati, " and Beppi and the cook were in there."

  The weather improved steadily, and became idyllic. On Saturday, the Gully was declared open—but only the most intrepid skiers took advantage of this fact*. 'Henry saw a few of the instructors coming down, and marvelled at the incredible speed with which they covered the distance, their ski-tracks streaming out behind them like the vapour-trails of aircraft. On Saturday afternoon, Spezzi lifted his embargo on the Immenfeld run. The ski school, however, issued a warning that the run should not be attempted, as they had had no time to mark the piste, and the last section was still dangerous. Another event that day—notable in a small way —was Henry's first successful stem cristiania turn.

  In spite of this triumph, however, he found sleep difficult that night. He was satisfied with the response that his tactics were arousing, but it worried him deeply to be so near the brink of a complete solution, and yet to be in the dark. Not as to the identity of the murderer—he was sure that he knew that now—but as to the method. Round and round in his mind went the kaleidoscope of facts and impressions which he felt sure held the key to the mystery ... snatches of conversation: Spezzi's time-tables: Spezzi himself, with his patronising smile: Rossati's servile unctuousness and Pietro's thin-drawn features: Roger's plausible candour and Caro's tears: the Colonel's bluff heartiness and his wife's impassive bad temper: Maria-Pia, touching in her simple, amoral sincerity: the Baron, with his harsh, wounded sense of justice: Jimmy, apparently so worried and so innocent: the Knipfers—the mother's face blurred in an untidy flurry of tears, the father grim and unbending: Trudi, with her secret diary and her secret thoughts, keeping her own counsel: Rosa Vespi in her grief: and the unknown, Giulio...

  At half-past two, Henry got up and had a long drink of water. Then he said to himself, "Go to sleep. You've done all you can. To-morrow ... we'll see what happens tomorrow..."

  He got back irjto bed, and inadvertently kicked Emmy, who murmured complainingly in her sleep. Poor Emmy ... bad luck hurting herself like that ... dear Emmy.... He drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

  Henry woke with a start to find Emmy sitting up, reading, and sunshine streaming in through the window.

  "You've surfaced at last, have you?" said Emmy. "You were sleeping so soundly I hadn't the heart to wake you."

  "What's the time?" said Henry.

  "Nearly ten o'clock."

/>   "Good God!" Henry sat up. "Why did you let me sleep so late?"

  "Does it matter?" said Emmy, lazily. "It's Sunday."

  "It certainly does matter. I've got things to do." Henry jumped out of bed, kicking away the downy coverlet, and Emmy said, "Here, have a care. Remember my wounds."

  Henry suddenly stood stock-still, an unimpressive, sandy-haired figure in blue-and-white striped pyjamas. Then he clapped a hand to his head.

  "Got it!" he shouted.

  "Got what?" asked Emmy, disconcerted.

  "You told me I You—you adorable, clever angel! You told me, and I never saw it... I never even noticed. Wait a minute. Let me think." He began pacing the room. "Yes. Yes, it's possible. It's just possible." He stopped abruptly. "Tell me something."

  He asked Emmy a question, and very surprised, she answered, "Yes, I suppose so. That morning. But what has that got to do with it?"

  "I've got to get dressed!" Henry shouted. He flew round the room like a whirlwind, assembling pants, ski trousers, shirt, sweater and socks with the speed of a croupier raking in counters. His ski boots seemed to take an hour to put on, but at last he was ready.

  "Henry," said Emmy, helplessly, "I don't understand. You must tell me..."

  "Later," he said. "Can't stop now."

  He ran downstairs, and out to the ski-lift. There, he commandeered the telephone, and rang Carlo. He asked him two questions—and received the answers he expected. Then he hurried back to the hotel, and nearly knocked Mrs. Buckfast flat on her face in the hall.

  "In a hurry, Mr. Tibbett?" she asked, coldly.

  "Yes," said Henry. "Where is everybody?"

  "Out skiing, I presume," said Mrs. Buckfast with a sniff. "Sunday is the same as any other day up here. Except that there's no ski school, of course."

  She passed majestically on her way to the terrace, and at that moment Jimmy came in, with snow on his trousers and a healthy flush on his cheeks.

  "Hello, lazybones," he said. "Why aren't you out there? I left before nine, and had a splendid time doing Run One, and now I reckon I've earned a rum grog."

  "Where's everyone else?" Henry demanded.

  "Caro's not up yet, and I haven't seen the Knipfers, but everyone else has gone off unhappily to Immenfeld."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "It was really rather funny," said Jimmy. "Roger and Gerda and the Colonel all said at breakfast that they were taking a morning off. But when I came up on the lift just now, I saw them. They'd all skulked in their rooms, I suppose, until they thought that everyone else was well away, and then crept out, obviously hoping to do some lone skiing—and there they all were, all starting off for Immenfeld at the same time. And Pietro had arrived up, too, and was going on the same run. The Colonel did a sort of double-take, as though he'd seen the others for the first time, and said, 4 Well, well. Changed your minds, did you? So we're all going to Immenfeld. We'd better join up.' "

  "And did they?" asked Henry, sharply.

  "Pietro told them the piste was dangerous after the new snow," said Jimmy, "and wasn't supposed to be open. He said he was going officially to try out the run, and they shouldn't come: but they were all adamant, so eventually they went off together. It was a hoot."

  "It's anything but a hoot," said Henry. "It's deadly serious."

  "Good heavens, how very sensational," said Jimmy. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean murder," said Henry, grimly. "How long ago did they leave?"

  "Oh, just this minute."

  "Well, someone will have to go after them, and pretty damn quick," said Henry. "Oh my God—there's nobody left in the hotel who can ski! "

  "Beppi," said Jimmy. "Beppi skis."

  Henry barged unceremoniously into Rossati's office, to be met with the bland and unhelpful information that it was Beppi's Sunday off, and he had gone to see his family in Montelunga. Jimmy, who was still inclined to take the matter light-heartedly, began making feather-brained suggestions, but Henry checked him with such vehemence that he stood tongue-tied and ashamed. Desperately, Henry said to Rossati,"There must be someone who can ski. I tell you, there's a murderer in that party, and the others are in terrible danger. I very much doubt if they will reach Immenfeld alive."

  A tall, thin shadow fell across the desk, and Henry looked up to see the Baron standing in the doorway.

  "I came to request my bill," he said, "but I could not help overhearing. You need a skier?"

  "Desperately," said Henry.

  Without emotion, the Baron said, "I will go."

  "But you haven't any skis—and this is a dangerous run which you don't know..."

  The Baron looked at Henry coldly. "Naturally, I have my skis," he said. "So far I have not used them. And you may be interested to know that I was champion of Austria twelve years ago. I know the Immenfeld run well. Tell me what I must do."

  As the Baron put on his skis, Henry explained the situation as concisely as he could. "There's no time to explain fully," he ended, rather helplessly. "You'll just have to take my word for it."

  The Baron did not raise a single query. "I see," he said, in his clipped, unpleasant voice. "And Spezzi is at Immenfeld. I suggest you join him there. Take the chair-lift up, and climb as far as you can, if I have not already reached the village." He turned to Jimmy. "There is no time to lose," he said, "will you be so kind as to say goodbye to my wife for me?"

  "Of course," said Jimmy. It was almost a whisper.

  "They have about ten minutes' start," said the Baron. "A party cannot travel as fast as a lone skier, and I shall accomplish the climbs in better time than they do. I shall certainly overtake them. I hope it will be in time."

  He gave Henry a stiff little bow. "I shall see you in Immenfeld, Inspector," he said. And with that he was gone.

  Afterwards, when the story of the epic run to Immenfeld was told and re-told, it never occurred to anybody to give Henry credit for the considerable courage and resource which were required for a skier of his standard to accomplish Run One to Santa Chiara in fourteen minutes. And yet, in its way, it was a remarkable feat. Henry knew very well that the ten minutes he could save by skiing down might be crucial: there was no other way. He telephoned to the Police Station at Santa Chiara, instructed them to have their fastest car and their best driver waiting at the bottom of the ski-run, and also gave a message to be delivered post-haste to Capitano Spezzi, if the latter could be located in Immenfeld by telephone. Then he put his skis on.

  Henry could never remember, afterwards, any clear details of that hectic run. A blurred recollection remained of terrifying, uncontrolled speed of hurtling frantically down precipitous slopes; of the startled faces of other skiers as this seeming lunatic shot past them with ski-sticks flailing inexpertly. He fell frequently: scrambled up and was off again without taking time to catch his breath. Muttering to himself the rules he had been taught—"Lean out ... weight on the bottom foot... knees bent"—he cut a corner by attacking a long, icy side-slip as steep as a wall: accomplished half of it, fell, and slithered the rest agonisingly on his seat. After what seemed an eternity, he saw the last, easy run-out opening up ahead of him: he took it like the wind, and fell, clumsily, for the last time at the edge of the road, right beside the waiting police car. When he got to his feet, he found that he was shaking like a leaf from head to toe, and his knees felt as though they had turned to water. It was all he could do to get his skis off. The young police driver clipped the skis and sticks on to the roof-rack of the car beside his own, and they were off.

  On the way, Henry got a rough picture of the layout of the Immenfeld run from the driver. From the Bella Vista, the run started with a wide, steep, bumpy snowfield—very fast, but not unduly difficult for a good skier. This ended at the bottom of a small, high-set valley, whence it was necessary to climb to the top of the next ridge. A very difficult side-slip followed, and then a comparatively easy, open slope which soon led down into the trees. Here there were some treacherous wood-paths—narrow and steep, with hairp
in bends. After that, another climb to the top of the ridge that marked the Austrian border, and the last section of the run began. At first, the going was steep and open, but it was at the point where the trees began again that the real danger-spots of the run lay. Several deep, rocky chasms split the mountain-side, and it was essential to follow the marked piste to avoid them, as they were invisible until one was upon them. It was one of these ravines which had claimed Giulio, among other victims. The slope was so steep that it was easy to lose control, and for that reason the run was forbidden to skiers in all but the most favourable conditions.

  This dangerous section lasted for about two kilometres. After that, the trees grew more densely, and the paths, though precipitous and tricky to negotiate, were clearly defined and easy to follow. There was an alternative, more direct and steeper footpath by which one could walk up through the woods. Finally, the run emerged, on to the spacious, simple nursery slopes of Immenfeld, which were served by a chair-lift which ran up from the village as far as the tree line.

  As the driver explained all this to Henry, the car careered dangerously over the snowy roads, the chains on its back tyres clattering and jangling as they bit into the slippery surface. The frontier post had been warned, and the long red-and-white striped poles swung up silently to let the car through. The final stretch was down a narrow, unfenced, mountain-track, with dizzy U-bends winding lower and lower towards the village of Immenfeld. Henry closed his eyes as the car skidded suicidally round a hairpin bend—and opened them to see the driver smiling happily.

  "Lovely road, isn't it?" said the young carabinierie, and meant it.

  "It's rather narrow," said Henry, faintly.

  "They're going to widen it soon, I'm told."

  "I'm delighted to hear it."

  if For the bus, you understand, It's fine as it is for private cars and lorries, but the bus has to take the corners carefully."