The Lonely Skier

by Hammond Innes

  He turned to us with a smile. It was meant to be an easy, confident smile. But all he achieved was a deathly grin. His face looked drawn and hollow. His skin had a grey pallor that was not entirely due to the dim, snow-whitened light that came through the windows from the bleak world outside. And I suddenly realised that he was afraid.

  He seemed to hesitate for a moment. I think he was debating whether to shoot us down there and then. I had an unpleasant sensation in the pit of my stomach. ‘If he raises that gun, dive for the table,’ Engles whispered to me. His voice was tense. I glanced at the big pine table. It offered very little cover. I felt helpless and I think I was frightened. My mouth felt dry and every movement, every sound in that room was magnified so that the scene is still quite vivid in my mind.

  I remember I could hear the ticking of the cuckoo clock above the noise of the wind. I believe the sound of the snow falling was actually audible, a dull blanketed murmur that was like a sigh. And there was a strange chattering noise, which I traced to Aldo’s teeth. The blood was moving in a dark trickle from below Valdini’s mouth, which was open and resting close against the scrubbed pine boards of the floor. One of us had spilled a glass of cognac on the bar. The little pool of liquor dripped steadily on to the floor.

  It seemed ages that we stood there like that—quite still—the three of us bunched against the bar, Aldo with a cloth in one hand and a glass in the other and his teeth chattering in his bald shiny head, and Mayne standing out there in the middle of the room, the gun slack in his hand. But I suppose it was only for a matter of seconds really. A door shut and Carla’s boots sounded overhead. She was in Valdini’s room.

  Mayne glanced up. He, too, was listening to the sound of those footsteps, and I think he must have been wishing that he had killed her whilst he had the chance. Then he pulled himself together. And it was with something of his old manner that he turned to us and said, ‘I am afraid, gentlemen, I shall have to ask you to hand over your weapons, if any. You first, Keramikos! Step over to the table where I can see you clearly.’ And he motioned him to move with the point of his gun. ‘You needn’t be afraid,’ he added as the Greek hesitated. ‘I won’t shoot you. I’ll need your help in digging up the gold.’

  I think Keramikos was in two minds. By a quick movement he could get behind Engles. But Engles had turned and was watching him.

  ‘You’d better do it before he gets frightened again,’ Engles said.

  Keramikos suddenly smiled. ‘Yes, perhaps it is better,’ he said and went over to the table. He glanced enquiringly at Mayne.

  ‘Take your gun out by the muzzle and lay it on the table,’ Mayne told him.

  Keramikos did this.

  ‘Now turn round.’

  I half braced myself for the shot. But Mayne walked over to him and searched him quickly with practised hands.

  It was Engles’ turn next. He, too, had a gun.

  ‘Now you, Blair.’

  ‘I haven’t got a gun,’ I said as I went over to the table.

  He laughed at that. ‘Bit of a sheep among the wolves, aren’t you?’ he said. But he searched me all the same. He even ordered Aldo out from behind the bar and searched him. The Italian was practically beside himself with fear, and, as he came out from behind the bar, his eyes were starting in his head so that he looked like some grotesque doll out of a Russian ballet. ‘Now get that body out of here,’ Mayne told Aldo in Italian. ‘Bury it in the snow and wash those boards.’

  ‘Non, non, signore. Mamma mia! E non possibile.’ I don’t know which he was more terrified of—Mayne’s gun or the body huddled against the wall in its pool of blood. He was gibbering and quite beyond reason.

  Mayne turned to us. ‘There’s no sense in this animal,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to dump it outside in the snow somewhere so that it doesn’t show and get this cretino to swab the floor.’ He was quite master of himself again. He dealt with the disposal of Valdini’s body as though it were a glass that had been smashed. ‘Do not try to go to your rooms yet,’ he added. ‘I want to search them first.’ He glanced up. Carla’s boots were moving about almost directly above his head. ‘Now I must go up and attend to Carla,’ he said. But first he went to the telephone and wrenched it out of the wall.

  ‘What are you going to do to her?’ Engles asked as he made for the door.

  He turned in the doorway and smiled. ‘Make love to her,’ he said. And we heard his boots on the boards outside and then on the stairs. There was the crash of a door being kicked open and then a scream that was instantly stifled. It became a moaning sound that was gradually lost in the noise of the wind.

  ‘Mein Gott! He has killed her,’ Keramikos said.

  We stood, listening. Whatever a woman may be, it is not pleasant to hear her scream with pain and to think that she has been killed without any attempt being made to prevent it. I felt suddenly very sick. That scream and Valdini’s body lying there like a stuck pig in his own blood—it was too much. Footsteps sounded on the stairs again. Mayne was coming back. He entered the room and stopped as he saw that none of us had moved. ‘What’s the matter with you people?’ he asked. He had put his gun away and seemed almost cheerful.

  ‘Have you killed her?’ Engles asked.

  ‘Good God, no! Just tied her up, that’s all. She couldn’t find another gun in Valdini’s room.’ He nodded at the body. ‘Engles! Will you and Blair remove that. Keramikos—you come with me.’

  Valdini’s body was not heavy. We opened the window by the bar and pitched it out. There was a deep drift and Valdini sank into it as though it were a feather bed. I leaned out of the window and looked down at him. He was sprawled on his back, his clothes very bright against the white background of the snow and the blood from his mouth making a red stain round his head. He looked like a rag doll with a ridiculous scarlet hat set at a jaunty angle on its head. Then the snow began to drift across him and his body became indistinct. The wind was very cold on my face and rapidly crusted my head with driven snow. I stepped back and closed the window. Engles was standing over Aldo. The Italian was on his knees, swabbing up the blood with a bar cloth. ‘I think I need a drink,’ I said.

  ‘Pour me one, will you?’ He came over to the bar. ‘Must be near lunch time.’

  I glanced at the cuckoo clock, which was still ticking away merrily as though nothing had happened. It was twelve-thirty. ‘I have never felt less like food,’ I said.

  ‘Good God! You’ve seen worse than this,’ he said as he took the drink I handed him.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But that was war. I suppose one gets used to the idea of death during one’s battle training. But killing a man in cold blood, that’s different. I thought he was going to shoot her.’

  ‘Don’t worry—he will. And he’ll shoot us, too, if we don’t do something about it.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers!’ he said. He was quite cool. ‘It’s a funny thing,’ he said, ‘the effect that gold or jewels, or any form of concentrated wealth, has on men. Take our friend Stelben; he slaughtered nine men, as casually as you or I would cut a film script. It’s the same with Mayne. Already he’s killed three men and caused another to commit suicide. That’s the straightforward killer for you—the gangster, the man who kills without thought or feeling. He’s a pretty dull fellow really, no emotions. It’s only what he does that’s exciting.’

  ‘Why the devil did you want to get involved in this business?’ I said.

  He gave me a quick glance. ‘Yes, I was afraid you’d ask that sooner or later.’ He hesitated. ‘You know, I’ve been wondering about it myself during the past few minutes. Pride, I suppose, and my insatiable desire for excitement. I had a good record as an Intelligence officer, you know. I didn’t fall down on many things. But I did fall down on the matter of Stelben and his gold. And when I read of his arrest and how he had become the owner of Col da Varda, something told me the scent was hot again. I just had to do something about it. And then, when you sent me that photograph, I knew I was right. I re
cognised Mayne and I thought I recognised Keramikos. I just had to come over and see what was going on. But when I talked this morning about stoking up the fires, it never occurred to me that things would move so swiftly.’ He patted me on the shoulder. ‘Sorry!’ he added. ‘I didn’t mean to land you in a mess like this. Make no mistake about it, Neil—we’re in a pretty tight spot.’

  ‘Well, let’s get out of it,’ I said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Surely we could make Tre Croci on skis?’

  ‘Yes, on skis. But Mayne is no fool. He will have thought of that, and of the snow-shoes. However, let’s investigate.’

  He was quite right. Mayne was standing by the open door of the ski room and the clatter of skis told us that he had Keramikos at work tying them up. ‘Disposed of the body?’ he asked. ‘Then come and give a hand with these.’ He kept well clear of us as we entered the little room and his eyes were watchful. There were several pairs of skis there besides our own. We tied them in bundles of three and then he had us carry them out on to the belvedere.

  Mayne directed us to the concrete machine-room at the top of the slittovia. The snow was very deep, in places over our knees. He unlocked the door for us and we filed in, glad to get out of that biting, snow-laden wind. The place felt chill and damp, and it had that musty smell that all unused concrete buildings have. The machinery was covered with a grey film of concrete dust so that it looked old and disused. But it was well oiled. The snow clung like a white veil to the windows, which were heavily barred. The wind whistled through the slit by which the cable entered. I glanced at the opposite wall. That was where Stelben had shot down those German soldiers, according to the statement of Korporal Holtz. But there were no bullet marks. The concrete presented a smooth, grey, uninteresting front. Engles must have noticed my interest, for he whispered, ‘Looks as though Stelben had that re-cemented.’

  We stacked the skis and the two pairs of snow-shoes in the corner by the switchboard. Then we went out into the snow again and Mayne locked the door. We fought our way back in the teeth of the wind to the belvedere. Mayne paused at the entrance to the hut. ‘We’ll start work this afternoon,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, I’d be glad if you’d stick around the bar as far as possible, so that I can keep an eye on you.’

  We went in then. The big room seemed warm. We shook the snow off our clothes and it melted in pools on the floor. Joe was at the bar. ‘Where the hell have you all been?’ he asked us. ‘And what’s the matter with Aldo? He’s even more stupid than usual. He’s broken two glasses and fumbled a bottle of cognac.’ Anna was laying the table. She gave us a scared look. The colour had drained out of her face and it no longer looked bright and cheerful. Joe ordered drinks and produced several rolls of film. ‘Some ski-ing shots,’ he grunted as we moved over to the bar. ‘Gives you some idea of the possibilities of the place.’ He handed them to Engles.

  ‘Where have you been doing your developing?’ Engles asked.

  ‘Out at the back, in the scullery,’ he said. ‘Cold as charity. But it’s got running water.’

  Apparently he had heard nothing. Engles began running through the negatives. Mayne stood apart from us. It was strange, standing there drinking with someone who had heard nothing and was completely unaware that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

  Engles suddenly stopped half-way through the second roll of film. ‘What’s this shot, Joe?’ he asked.

  Joe leaned over and glanced at the celluloid. ‘Oh, that’s a picture I took the night we arrived. Good moonlight shot. Went out and took it from the trees at the edge of the slittovia. Good spooky stuff, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ye-es—it is.’ Engles was peering at it closely. ‘What’s he doing?’ He pointed to one of the negatives with his finger.

  Joe looked at it over his shoulder. ‘Dunno,’ he said.

  ‘Seemed to be measuring something. Gives a bit of action to it. Matter of fact, that was why I went out. Wanted to get somebody moving around the place to give it a little life.’

  ‘Did he know you were taking pictures?’

  ‘Good Lord, no! Would have spoilt it. He wouldn’t have moved naturally.’

  ‘Good point.’ Engles passed the film across to me. ‘Nice shot there, Neil. Might give you an idea or two. Ought to have a moonlight episode in the script. Film very effectively.’

  I took the length of film from his hands. His thumb was placed on one of the shots to indicate a figure bending down. I held the celluloid up to the light. It showed the whole front of the rifugio with its high snow-crusted gables, the great pine supports and, in the centre, the concrete housing of the slittovia machinery over which the hut had been built. The moonlight reflected white in the windows of the machine-room, and outlined against them was the figure of a man. It was not difficult to recognise that small, neat figure. It was Valdini.

  I ran quickly down the strip of celluloid. He had his arms stretched out and made the motions of a man measuring the outside of the concrete housing. I could even see what appeared to be a measuring tape in his hands. Then he got to his feet and went round to the side of the building. The outside edge of the door suddenly appeared in the film and Valdini disappeared.

  ‘Not bad, eh?’ Engles said. ‘Might run through the rest of it. There are one or two good ski-ing shots on that one.’ He was looking through the third roll. I took the hint and ran through the rest of the film. Then I handed it back to Joe. ‘You’ve got some nice shots there,’ I said. ‘Have you finished with the other one?’ I asked Engles.

  He handed it across to me. As he did so, he caught my eye. He was clearly excited. But he masked it by turning to Joe and beginning a long technical discussion on the merits of certain lighting and angles. And I was left wondering why a film shot of Valdini measuring a concrete wall should have aroused his interest.

  8

  We Dig Our Own Grave

  IT WAS A strange, tense lunch. Mayne sat apart from us at the opposite end of the table. He had searched our rooms, including Joe’s. He knew none of us had a gun. But he took no chances. Hardly a word was spoken throughout the meal. Mayne was excited, though he tried not to show it. The rest of us were busy with our thoughts; all except Joe. He began to recall the few ski pictures that had been made. But he desisted when he found that Engles was not interested. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you all?’ he demanded. ‘And why’s Mayne sitting up there as though he’s suffering from a contagious disease?’

  ‘Let it rest, Joe,’ Engles said. ‘We’ve had a row, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh. Valdini and the Contessa involved too?’

  ‘Yes. They’re feeding upstairs.’

  He seemed satisfied with that and got on with his food in silence. It was difficult to believe that he did not even suspect that anything frightful had happened. Mayne became increasingly restless. He watched us all the time he was eating. I think he was afraid of us, even though we were unarmed. He watched us with cold, unemotional eyes. I remembered how Stelben had shot those men down. Here was another killer. As soon as he had got the gold, he would not hesitate to kill us. Joe might be safe as long as we could keep him in ignorance of the situation. But Engles and myself—he would most certainly destroy us. And what chance had we? It was like having lunch with the hangman on the day of one’s execution. I began to feel sick. The sweat broke out cold on my scalp, as though it were curry I was trying to eat. I pushed my plate away.

  ‘Not feeling hungry, Blair?’ Mayne asked.

  ‘Would you, if you were me?’ I replied sullenly.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he said.

  Joe looked across the table at me. ‘What’s the matter? Feeling ill, Neil?’

  ‘No, I’m all right,’ I said. But he wasn’t convinced and went over to the bar and got me a drink. ‘We’d better all have a drink,’ he said. ‘Might clear the air a bit.’

  But it didn’t. The liquor seemed cold and uninteresting and my mouth remained unpleasantly dry.

  As soon as lunch was ov
er, Joe got up and said, ‘’Fraid I’ll have to tear myself away from this cheerful gathering.’ And when nobody showed any desire for him to stay, he went back to his developing.

  Mayne got up then and went upstairs. We heard the key turn in the lock of Valdini’s room and the sound of his boots crossing to the window. Then the door shut and the key was turned in the lock again. When he came back into the room, he said, ‘Now we can get started. Come with me, will you, Engles.’

  Keramikos and I were left alone. We looked at each other. ‘Can’t we do something?’ I said.

  Keramikos shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is difficult when you are dealing with a man who is armed and who will not hesitate to shoot. You might take up a chair and try to brain him as he comes in through the door again. Or you might throw a bottle at him and hope to stun him. Or again you might walk out through that door into the snow and try to get down to the bottom of the slittovia. For myself, I prefer to wait. Mayne is not the only one who has a gun. I took the precaution some time back of preparing for just such an eventuality. I have been in many difficult situations in my life. And I have discovered that always there is the moment. We shall see.’ He was very pale and the lips of his small mouth were pressed close together so that they were the same colour as his skin.

  ‘I’d rather take a chance than be shot like Stelben shot those men,’ I said.

  Again he shrugged his shoulders. He was not interested. I looked down the passage to the kitchen. There was no sign of Mayne. I glanced at the window facing the slittovia. Keramikos had his gun—but would he use it to assist us? I didn’t trust him. My mind was suddenly made up. I crossed to the window and opened it. There was a deep bed of snow on the wooden platform below. And beyond the platform, the sleigh track, piled with drift snow, fell away into the murk of driving snow. ‘Shut the window after me, will you,’ I said to Keramikos.