Blood in the Snow

by Franco Marks

  Marzio composed himself, even though his face was as red as an Apache’s.

  “Dear Inspector, I know that those four girls did not commit suicide. Someone killed them.”

  Marzio sipped the Ginpin. It was so strong that it cancelled out his sense of smell. He couldn’t distinguish the ingredients and it immediately made his head spin.

  “How can you claim something like that when the investigations are about to reach a completely different conclusion?”

  “I know what others do not see.”

  The situation was starting to get to White Wolf. It must be the fault of that odd substance he was drinking. Van Dine’s twenty rules surfaced in his mind – a set of general guidelines about writing detective stories that he had happened upon while he was attending the Police Academy, and one which was particularly relevant to the current location and circumstances.

  The problem of the crime must be solved by strictly natural means. Such methods for learning the truth as slate writing, ouija boards, mind reading, spiritualistic seances, crystal gazing, and the like, are taboo…

  Marzio should have got up and left. And instead he seemed nailed to his chair, his head clouded by that green concoction. Was it the Ginpin or had she spiked it with something?

  Olimpia assumed an abstract expression, like a prophetess. She looked as though she were wearing a mask.

  “The four women were killed by a bad man.”

  Olimpia spoke slowly, accentuating the pauses with painful expressions. She was very convincing when she went into one of her trances. Marzio tried to give the situation a logical structure.

  “Who is the person who killed them?”

  She stared at the air as though seeing a ghost. “The other night I summoned the four girls and they told me everything.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “They had been drinking on the night of the crime, and they’d done some naughty things. I saw the details. They were quite scandalous and even your Elisabetta was no saint. But I clearly saw the hand that killed them. The killer is a purple angel.”

  “Do you have any more details?”

  “Because of how they were killed, I know nothing more, but I am certain that he is a purple angel.”

  “But you didn’t see this person?”

  “No, he was wearing purple coveralls, like a ghost. Faceless.”

  Marzio’s mind was in the grip of the Ginpin and that demented game.

  “Like a mechanic, or a workman? Or a ski suit?”

  “I don’t know – the purple was so bright that I couldn’t see anything else.”

  “Only the teachers at the Valdiluce ski school wear purple ski suits.”

  “It could be…”

  “But how did he kill them?”

  “With the gas that they used to commit suicide.”

  Dazed as he was, Marzio found himself entangled in that obscure phrase.

  “I don’t follow…”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly what?”

  “As you say…”

  “The name.”

  Madness and reverie shone in Olimpia’s eyes. “I cannot say the name, but what is certain is that the motive for the killing came from the gash on the rock.”

  “Be clearer.”

  Olimpia seemed to have fallen into the abyss and Marzio realised that he was wasting his time – he’d been stupid to listen to all her nonsense: she was completely crazy.

  “Look, I came about the light.”

  “No. You were called here to learn the truth.”

  There was a strange spell upon Olimpia, like a pink light. It was as if she was at the centre of a coloured box. Marzio couldn’t accept all this deference to the unknown, he had to escape from the supernatural. Re-enter the world of logic. With great difficulty he managed to get up, as slowly as a rusty crane. The energy that had raised him to his feet helped him to find the strength to shout in a powerful, baritone voice. “That’s enough. Let me out.”

  Olimpia was disappointed. “But Inspector, I’m offering you the way to solve the case.”

  Marzio answered with more vulgarity than he ever had before.

  “Fuck this!”

  Olimpia understood that the situation was getting complicated. White Wolf was, after all, a police inspector. Better to end it there.

  “How much do I owe you for the light?”

  “I’ll pay for it. But for heaven’s sake let me out of here.”

  “Follow me, this way.”

  Together they skated on their woollen slippers. For Marzio it was like a slalom, and he could barely keep his balance. He put his shoes back on at the door with as much difficulty as if he were drunk. He’d never found himself in a situation like that before. Olimpia stared at him as though she was trying to hypnotise him.

  “Inspector, don’t ignore what I’ve told you, look into it. Look for the man who killed the girls and arrest him.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion, it hadn’t occurred to me.”

  The more the characters of the inhabitants of Valdiluce were revealed, the more astonished Inspector Santoni grew. They all had some hidden flaw, a subtle strata of electrical madness enveloped the whole town.

  Over the years, dangerous kinships had developed – cousins had married cousins, families had formed between relatives, genes had become entangled. In some way, he belonged to that community, so there must be something dark residing in his mind too. The Ginpin in particular, which had completely knocked him out.

  What if Olimpia was right? All the fifty-six Valdiluce ski instructors wore purple ski suits, but why would any of them have killed four girls? It was absolutely unthinkable.

  He felt strange. Perhaps Olimpia had put something in the Ginpin. Perhaps she’d put a curse on him. He had difficulty keeping his balance on the Vespa. He couldn’t find the right line to follow when he went around the curves. He stopped, and leaned the scooter against a kerbstone.

  An Ape motor van suddenly appeared, brushing against him as though it wanted to crush him. Marzio leapt back like an animal and fell to the edge of the road. At the wheel he clearly saw Agostino, the caretaker of the Bucaneve, and sitting next to him, as close as if they were a single person, his sister Carlina. The Ape swerved and in the back, numerous glass jars of jam rattled. It vanished around the corner, leaving a smell of raspberries behind it.

  Marzio picked himself up from the ground. He felt an indecipherable malaise he had never experienced before in his life. He could see two of everything: the forest, the scooter, the white strip on the asphalt, even himself. As if he had split into two distinct people.

  White Wolf and Inspector Marzio Santoni. The snow dazzled and blinded him, and he slipped on the ice. He was falling, but luckily a hand held him up. He felt too ill not to believe what he was imagining. In his delirium he saw it clearly. It was he, White Wolf, who was holding him up. The wild part of himself.

  “We have to run, run away, get into the waters of the Orrido di Marti river. Right now.”

  Marzio’s legs were shaky and he wouldn’t have been able to walk a yard on his own, but he was lifted up. The strong arms of White Wolf grabbed him and swung him up onto his shoulders. A piggyback, the way a father does with a child. Holding him tightly, he started running. One on top of other. The craziest journey of their life. Separated Siamese brothers. White Wolf, strong, his blonde hair streaming in the wind, crashing through the bushes, the branches, the plants, as swift as a gazelle, his boots harpooning the snow, tearing through it, sinking into it, nothing impeding his passage. On his shoulders, crouched like a monkey, the man of certainty, rigid and mathematical thought. Inspector Santoni. Dressed in grey with a black tie, thin, resembling Kristal in his fragility. An obscure civil servant. A bizarre image, dazed with drugs and Ginpin.

  They ran through the woods. They crossed the great beech forest, the plantation of white fir, the stony plain of Valnera. Like animals that had to get to the magical place of their birth. After skati
ng across the fresh snow of a very steep slope, they arrived at the Marti river where as children they had bathed with their peers or fished out trout with their hands. The river was completely covered in snow and only a few icy segments could be seen. White Wolf stopped at the edge, and the other part of himself, Inspector Santoni, climbed down from his shoulders.

  With a long stick he pushed aside a snowdrift. He broke the surface. An opening formed. The Orrido di Marti river was down there, a body of water as big as a small lake. They shed the rough woollen jumper, the checked shirt, the corduroy trousers, the red socks and the underpants. A cathartic striptease. To cleanse and restore order to existence. They dived in naked, flew together among the white rocks and magnificent stalactites, brushed against sharp icicles – a long, eternal journey in slow motion.

  The hands of White Wolf broke the crust. The water of the river was cold enough to take your breath away, to clear your brain. They had been in a limbo of waiting, and they needed to regain reality. By magic, the images of White Wolf and Inspector Santoni flowed back into a single body. Solid and reliable. He emerged from the river mighty. Beautiful, naked, blonde hair, skin red with the cold, his hairy chest dripping with stars, his backside as solid as if it were carved from the rocks of the mountains. A fox looked at him from its hiding place, struck by that beautiful image of an eternal man at the centre of the blue against the white background of the snow.

  Marzio walked up onto the stony shore. He smelled of clean crystal. He began to dress. He was a bio-inspector once again. He felt extraordinarily strong. Regenerated. What the hell had Olimpia put in the Ginpin? A drug? LSD? A curse? What had happened to him was something completely out of the ordinary. A noise, unexpected. Marzio looked up. Among the clouds clattered the falcon Trogolo with his chain attached to his leg. He flapped his wings with soft nonchalance, as if tracing the perimeter of the mirror like water in the sky. Intimidated, White Wolf looked at him. Could the flight of a bird be an omen of curses and misfortunes to come?

  15

  Marzio entered the garden of Agostino’s villa. There was a large pile of precision cut wood. At the centre, an extinguished hearth. Many bundles tied tight with ropes that looked like dummies. A powerful smell of damp. Since he had been taken ill on the day of the crime, Marzio had only seen him that time in the Ape with his sister Carlina. It was she who protected and handled her brother. A surly sort, she had given up her job as a ski instructor to devote herself to the production of jams – blueberry, strawberry, raspberry. Dried mushrooms and mushrooms in oil. A life spent in front of a blackened pot.

  “Who are you looking for?”

  Carlina always had this hint of rudeness about her. Quite tall with tangled hair, she wore no make-up, dressed in shawls, had powerful hips and wore Tyrolean petticoats and long, lopsided sweaters. A fleshy mouth and a small nose. No one had ever seen her with a relaxed expression on her face.

  “I came to have a chat with your brother.”

  Carlina smelled of blueberries, but her body gave off a strong, feminine scent.

  “Why? The poor thing’s in shock. He won’t speak, he keeps crying. Leave him be.”

  Marzio heard noises coming from inside the house – a circular saw.

  “What’s that?”

  “Agostino’s in the cellar cutting wood.”

  “Come on, I have to see him.”

  “You can’t. He’s not well. You’ve already questioned him enough. Why do you need to see him?”

  Marzio opened the door of the house and, following the noise of the serrated blade, went down into the cellar. There, he found Agostino, who was cutting a piece of wood. He must only have begun a few minutes ago, as no heap of sawdust had yet formed. There was no smell of wood, only an aroma of mushrooms. Many pairs of skis resting against the back wall. Some ski skins and crampons. The paraphernalia of a mountaineer skier. Wood stacked against the wall with geometric precision. Dozens of jars of blackberry, raspberry and blueberry jam and mushrooms in oil deployed along the shelves like toy soldiers. Agostino didn’t appear surprised to see him. Marzio began at a tangent. He ran his hand over a pair of Dynastar skis.

  “Magnificent. They’re the latest model. What are they like?”

  Agostino had his sunglasses on his hat, and he set them on the counter of the circular saw. He was fidgety, his uneasiness making him elusive. His eyes, his face, every part of his body was turned away.

  “Dunno,” he answered, sounding annoyed.

  “The snow’s been bad this year. Have you skied at all?”

  “A little.”

  “You spend your time cutting wood?”

  “I enjoy it.”

  “How long have you been at it?”

  “Hours.”

  “Have you been out at all?”

  “No, never.”

  Marzio had noticed that the lenses of Agostino’s glasses were photochromic: when he’d first entered the cellar, they had been very dark, as if until then they’d been in the sun, then, slowly, in the darkness of the room, they had grown more transparent. Why on earth would Agostino Uberti have said he’d never left the house when the evidence of his glasses contradicted him? He had spent time outside in the sun. Was it a lie, or did it hide something more complex? With someone like him, it was hard to work out what was really going on in his head. It was as though he were following some improvised script. Something he had made up when he’d heard Marzio’s scooter arrive.

  “So why’s there so little sawdust, then?”

  “Sometimes I clean up and then I carry on. I don’t like mess.”

  Agostino realised that he was being questioned, and he didn’t like it. “What do you want from me?” he almost shouted, accentuating the words with a convulsion of his body, as though he were in a state of turmoil. His hands were trembling. “I’m not well.”

  “I just wanted to ask you some questions. You have to help me. I need your testimony.”

  Marzio used a melodious tone of voice. He knew how to deal with people with mental health issues. In his career, he’d known plenty of ‘weirdos’. He’d spent almost a year investigating a murder in a psychiatric clinic. He had learned the basics and studied their illnesses, trying to understand them, to speak their language.

  “What pleasure do you get out of torturing him? He needs a little peace.”

  Carlina had come downstairs. She wanted at all costs to be part of it. She stood there, as immobile as some cumbersome bundle. Marzio led her to the door with a certain determination.

  “This is my house, you can’t do this.”

  “Give us five minutes. We need to talk man to man.”

  He closed the door on Carlina, but it was obvious that she would be standing behind it eavesdropping. Agostino assumed a threatening tone. “Your policemen have interrogated me a thousand times. I’ve had enough of it.”

  “I’m sorry about that. This is the first time that I’ve done it, though.”

  “So what? What difference does that make?”

  “It seems perfectly normal to me that I’d want to speak to you. You were there at the Bucaneve. You’re the last one who saw the four girls alive. It would be helpful to talk to you.”

  “They’re dead and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Did you go into the room when you smelled the gas?”

  “No, I just phoned. In fact, the door was locked when you arrived.”

  “That’s true. So when did you realise something was wrong?”

  Agostino was in the grip of a worrying anxiety: he was sweating and moved his hands compulsively. He grabbed his sunglasses and twisted them nervously, folding in the sides. He was extremely agitated and trembling like a wet dog. Only the scar on his head was cold, motionless and slightly livid.

  “So when did you smell the gas?”

  “I was asleep. I woke up with a start. I was afraid, I called you and I waited for you to arrive.”

  “Why didn’t you open up, didn’t you have the keys?”


  “Because I didn’t want to see what we saw.”

  Marzio had met some people who, behind a disarming madness, concealed a part of themselves which was organised and precise enough to conceive of ingenious criminal plans. The other side of a mind. You always had to be on your guard, to keep all your senses awake. What was Agostino’s true face? Marzio stared at him in silence for a long time: his lips were swollen and his eyes darted about, looking at nothing. He looked as though he were on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  “Agostino, after they went back to their room, did the four girls receive any visitors?”

  “No, no one went in. I would have seen them.”

  “And did any of the girls leave?”

  “No, I would have seen.”

  “Did you hear shouting?”

  “How could they shout if they were dead? Don’t talk rubbish, Inspector.”

  In this state, Marzio wouldn’t get anything out of him. Agostino was stammering the words in halting breaths. It was pointless insisting. Perhaps he really wasn’t hiding anything – perhaps he was just what he was. A simple man, troubled by his feelings. All that was hiding behind his shoulders was his loneliness. For days, the image of Agostino Uberti had been buzzing around inside White Wolf’s head, a bit like Trogolo the falcon, noisy and intrusive, disturbing his sleep, prodding him, but he had never quite managed to nail him down. It was hard to fence in a madman in a coherent system. Inspector Santoni had read the reports on Agostino’s interrogation that his colleagues had written. They were confused, jumbled, devoid of any logic. No beginning or end. Bureaucratic nebulas. The psychologist had been clear in his assessment of Agostino’s profile.

  “A mentally unstable subject who is innocuous and incapable of committing any offensive action against himself or others.”

  Marzio picked up some of the jars of mushrooms in oil. He observed them carefully.

  “As soon as the snow melts, a lot of these sleeper mushrooms will start coming out…”

  The word ‘sleeper’ brought Agostino back to the real world. His eyes came to life.