Copyright © 1959 by Patricia Moyes
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. Published by Henry Holt and Company. Inc.
115 West 18th Street, New York. New York 10011.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Moyes. Patricia.
Dead men don’t ski.
"An Owl book.”
I. Title.
PR6063.09D38 1984 823'.914 84-6732
ISBN 0-8050-0705-9 (pbk.)
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First published in hardcover by Holt, Rinehart and Winston in 1960.
First Owl Book Edition—1984
Printed in the United States of America
CHAPTER ONE
It was just nine o'clock on a cold and clammy January morning when Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett's taxi drew up outside the uninviting cavern of Victoria Station. From the suburban lines the Saturday morning hordes of office-bound workers streamed anxiously through the barriers to bus and underground—pale, strained faces, perpetually in a hurry, perpetually late: but here, at this side-entrance that led into a sort of warehouse fitted with an imposing array of weighing-platforms, were assembled a group of people who looked as paradoxical at that hour and place as a troupe of Nautch girls at the Athenaeum. They were not all young, Henry noted with relief, though the average age was certainly under thirty: but young or middle-aged, male or female, all were unanimous in their defiant sartorial abandon—the tightest trousers, the gaudiest sweaters, the heaviest boots, the silliest knitted hats that ever burst from the over-charged imagination of a Winter Sports Department. The faces were pale, true, but—Henry noted with a sinking heart—quite aggressively merry and free from any sign of stress: the voices were unnaturally loud and friendly. The whole, dingy place had the air of a monstrous end-of-term party.
"Will you pay the taxi, darling, while I cope with the luggage?"Emmy's amused voice recalled Henry from his fascinated appraisal of the dog beneath the Englishman's skin.
"Yes, yes, of course. No, don't try to lift it. . . I'll get a porter..."
The taxi grumbled on its way, and Henry was gratified to see that a small porter with the face of a malevolent monkey, who had been lounging by the wall rolling a cigarette with maddening deliberation, now came forward to offer his services.
"Santa Chiara, sir? 'Ave you got skis to register through?"The porter almost smiled.
"No," said Henry. "We're hiring them out there. We've just got—"
But the porter had abruptly lost interest, and transferred his attentions to a taxi which had just drawn up, aha which most evidently had skis to register through. A man with a smooth red face and unmistakably military bearing was getting out, followed by a bristling forest of skis and sticks, and a large woman with a bad-tempered expression. As the wizened porter swept the skis and sticks expertly on to his trolley, Henry caught sight of a boldly-written label —"Col. Buckfast, Albergo Bella Vista, Santa Chiara, Italy. Via Innsbruck."
"They're at our hotel," he muttered miserably to Emmy.
She grinned. "Never mind. So are those nice youngsters over there."
Henry turned to see a group of three young people, who were certainly outstanding as far as good looks were concerned. The girl was about twenty years old, Henry judged, with short-cropped hair and brilliantly candid blue eyes. One of the young men was quite remarkably handsome, fair and grey-eyed, with very beautiful hands—at once strong and sensitive ("I've seen his picture somewhere,"whispered Emmy). The other youth did not quite achieve the standard of physical perfection set by the rest of the party—he was tall and thin, with a beak of a nose and dark hair that was rather too long—but he made up for it by the dazzling appearance of his clothes. His trousers, skin-tight, were pale blue, like a Ruritanian officer's in a musical comedy: his sweater was the yellow of egg-yolks, with geranium-red reindeer circumnavigating it just below the armpits: his woollen cap, in shape like the ultimate decoration of a cream-cake, was royal blue. At the moment, he was laughing uproariously, slapping a spindly blue leg with a bamboo ski-stick.
"Good heavens," said Henry. "That's Jimmy Passendell—old Raven's youngest son. He's..." He hesitated, because the idea seemed ludicrous— "... he's a member of Lloyd's."
At that moment a burly porter, evidently deciding that the time had come to clear the pavement for newcomers, seized Henry's luggage unceremoniously, tucking a suitcase under each arm and picking up the other two with effortless ease; and with a bellow of "Where to, sir?" he disappeared into the station without waiting for an answer.
Henry and Emmy trotted dutifully after him, and found themselves beside a giant weighing machine, which at the moment was laden with skis.
"Which registered?" asked the porter laconically, twirling Emmy's dressing-case playfully in his huge hand.
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand about..." Henry began, feeling almost unbearably foolish. Everybody else obviously understood.
"Registered goes straight through—Customs here— don't see it again till Innsbruck," said the porter, pityingly.
"We'll register the two big ones," said Emmy firmly.
For the next few minutes Henry trotted between luggage, porter, and ticket office like a flustered but conscientious mother bird intent on satisfying her brood's craving for worms—the worms in this case being those cryptic bits of paper which railway officials delight to stamp, perforate, clip, and shake their heads over. Eventually all was done, the Customs cleared, and Henry and Emmy were safely installed, with the two smaller cases, in the corner seats reserved for their journey to Dover.
Henry sank back with a sigh in which relief was not unmingled with apprehension. For the moment they had the carriage to themselves, and the screaming chaos of the luggage shed had given way to the sounds of muted excitement which precede the departure of a long-distance train.
"I suppose the Yard know what they're doing," said Henry. "Because I don't. I wish we'd decided to do our skiing somewhere else."
"Nonsense" said Emmy. "I'm enjoying myself. And I haven't seen anybody in the least suspicious yet, except the taxi-driver and that screwed-up porter."
Henry gave her a reproving, walls-have-ears glance, and opened his Times, turning gratefully to the civilised solace of the crossword puzzle.
Henry Tibbet was not a man who looked like a great detective. In fact, as he would be the first to point out, he was not a great detective, but a conscientious and observant policeman, with an occasional flair for intuitive detection which he called "my nose". There were very few of his superiors who were not prepared to listen, and to take appropriate action, when Henry said, suddenly, "My nose tells me we're on the wrong lines. Why not tackle it this way?"The actual nose in question was as pleasant—and as unremarkable—as the rest of Henry Tibbett. A small man, sandy-haired and with pale eyebrows and lashes which emphasised his general air of timidity, he had spent most of his forty-eight years trying to avoid trouble—with a conspicuous lack of success.
"It's not my fault," he once remarked plaintively to Emmy, "that things always seem to blow up at my feet."The consequence was that he had a wide and quite undeserved reputation as a desperado, an adventurer who hid his bravura under a mask of meekness: and his repeated assertions that he only wanted to lead a quiet life naturally fed the flames of this rumour.
Emmy, of course, knew Henry as he really was—and knew that th
e truth about him lay somewhere between the swashbuckling figure of his subordinates* imagination, and the mild and mousy character he protested himself to be. She knew, too—and it reassured and comforted her—that Henry needed her placid strength and good humour as much as he needed food and drink. She was forty now—not as slim as she had been, but with a pleasantly curving figure and a pleasantly intelligent face. Her most striking feature was her skin, which was wonderfully white and fair, a piquant contrast to her curly T)lack hair.
She looked at her watch. "We'll be off soon," she said. "I wonder who else is in our carriage."
They very soon found out. Mrs. Buckfast's voice could be heard raised in complaint a full corridor away, before she finally entered the carriage like a man-o'-war under full sail. Her seat, naturally, was the wrong one. She had definitely been given to understand that she would have a corner seat, facing the engine.
"I can only say, Arthur," she said, her eyes fixed on Henry, "that reservations seem to mean absolutely nothing to some people."Unhappily, Henry offered her his seat. Mrs. Buckfast started, as though seeing him for the first time; then accepted the seat with a bad grace.
Soon a cheerful commotion in the corridor heralded the arrival of Jimmy Passendell and his party. ( u Seven in a carriage is far too many"Mrs. Buckfast announced to nobody in particular.) The girl became engrossed in the latest copy of The Tatler. Colonel Buckfast nodded briefly at the handsome young man, and said, "Back again this year, eh? Had a feeling you might be." The young man remarked that he hoped the snow would be as good as it had been the year before, and proceeded to cope expertly with the baggage, even coaxing a sour smile from Mrs. Buckfast by lifting a large number of small cases up to the rack for her. Jimmy Passendell immediately counteracted this momentary lightening of the atmosphere by producing a mouth organ and inviting the company to join him in the chorus of "Dear Old Pals".
"After all," he remarked brightly, "we soon shall be— we're all going to Santa Chiara, aren't we—to the Bella Vista."After a pause, he added, "Yippee!"The pretty blonde giggled ; the handsome youth looked uncomfortable; the Colonel and Henry retreated still further behind their respective Times ; Emmy laughed outright, and produced a tin of digestive biscuits, which she offered to all and sundry.
The young people fell on them with whoops of delight, and for a time conversation was mercifully replaced by a contented munching. The train moved slowly out of Victoria into the mist.
The channel was grey and cold, but calm. The skiers clumped cheerfully up the gangplank in their resounding boots, and made a concerted dash for the warmth and solace of the saloon, dining-room or bar according to temperament. As the steamer moved slowly away from the dockside and out of the narrow harbour entrance, Henry and Emmy had the deck to themselves. They leant over the rail, savouring the peace, the absence of strident human voices, and watching the familiar outline of the cliffs grow dim in the haze.
"There's nobody else going to Santa Chiara," said Emmy, at last. "And none of that lot look like dope-peddlers to me, whatever other failings they may have."
"The whole thing's probably a wild goose chase," said Henry. "I hope it is. Heaven knows I don't want any trouble. I want to learn to ski. After all, we are on holiday."
"Are we?" Emmy gave him a rueful smile. "Just pure coincidence that we're going to the hotel which Interpol thinks is a smugglers' den?"
"It was just my luck to pick that particular place," said Henry, ruefully. "And when Sir John heard we were going there, I couldn't very well refuse to keep my eyes open."
"Interpol know you're going to be there, though, don't they?"
"Yes—unofficially. They've no evidence against the place as yet—only suspicions. They were thinking of sending one of their own chaps to the Bella Vista as an ordinary holiday-maker, but when Sir John told them I was going anyway—"
Behind them, a familiar voice boomed. "It was clearly understood that we would travel first-class on the boat..."
"Let's have a drink," said Henry, hastily, and piloted Emmy down the companionway to the bar.
It was crowded, smoky and cheerful. Henry battled his way between young giants to the counter, and secured two Scotches and two hundred cigarettes for a laughable sum. By the time he had fought his way back to Emmy, she had already installed herself in the last remaining chair in the bar, and was chatting amicably to the fair girl, whose escorts were storming the bar in search of duty-free cognac.
"Oh, well done, Henry. Come and meet Miss Whittaker."Emmy seemed for some reason to stress the surname as she said it. Heavens, thought Henry. Somebody I ought to know. The girl beamed at him.
"Miss Whittaker sounds too silly," she said. "Please call me Caro."
Henry said he would be delighted to, and gave Emmy her drink. A moment later the handsome, fair-haired young man emerged from the scrum at the bar, laden with glasses and bottles. Caro fluttered into a whirl of introductions. This was darling Roger—Roger Staines, actually—who was a frightfully good skier and was going to shame them all— but shame them—and this was Henry and Emmy Tibbett and they were going to the Bella Vista—actually to the same hotel—wasn't that too extraordinary and blissful, Roger darling? Then darling Jimmy arrived with his ration of duty-free, and the party made merry, while the grey sea-miles slipped away under the keel, and the seagulls wheeled purposefully over the writhing white wake of the ship.
Calais was a scramble of porters, a perfunctory interlude with the Customs, a trek along seeming miles of platform— and eventually all five travellers were installed in Compartment E6 of a gleaming train, which had a showy plaque reading "Skisports Special" screwed to its smoking flanks. The hand-luggage was stowed away neatly above the door, and the first bottle of brandy opened (by Jimmy). The great train heaved a spluttering sigh, and pulled smoothly out of the station, heading south.
"And here we are," said Jimmy, "until to-morrow. Have some brandy."
France rolled away behind them in the already deepening dusk. Henry did his crossword; Emmy dozed; Jimmy took another swig of brandy; Caro read her magazine, and Roger stared moodily out of the window, a sulky look of bad temper ruining his impeccable profile. A small man in a leather jerkin, wearing a red armband embroidered with the words "Skisports Ltd." in yellow, put his head into the carriage.
"I'm Edward, your courier on the train," he announced brightly, blinking through thick-lensed spectacles. "Anything you want, just ask me."
"Have some brandy," said Jimmy.
Edward tittered nervously, refused, and withdrew. They heard him open the door of the next compartment.
"I'm Edward, your courier on the train. If there's anything "
"There most certainly is, my man."Mrs. Buckfast's voice rose easily above the rhythmic pulse of the wheels. They could hear it rumbling on in discontent even when the unfortunate Edward had been lured into the carriage, and the door firmly shut behind him.
A few minutes later, Caro got up and went into the corridor, where she stood leaning on the window rail, looking out at the darkening fields, the lighted farmhouse windows, the tiny country stations, as they flashed past, tossed relentlessly from future to past by the insatiable, mile-hungry monster of which they were now a part.
Emmy glanced after Caro, suddenly awake, then settled herself to sleep again. Roger Staines got up from his corner seat, and went out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him. He stood beside Caro, two backviews, inexpressive, lurching with the movement of the train, Henry could see that he was talking earnestly; that she was replying hardly at all. He could not hear what they were saying.
At five o'clock, the lights of the train came on suddenly, and at six-thirty the bell sounded merrily down the corridor for First Dinner. Jimmy consulted his ticket and found that he was, indeed, due to dine at the first sitting: so, collecting Roger and Caro who were now leaning relaxedly against the carriage door, smoking and chatting idly, they went off with considerable clatter down the corridor towards the dining-car.
/> It seemed very quiet and empty when they had gone. Henry got up and shut the door carefully. Then he said, "Roger Staines ... I wish I could place him...."
"I've remembered where I've seen his picture—in the Tatler," said Emmy. "He's what they call a deb's delight. Look—"
She picked up the magazine that was lying on the seat where Caro had left it. It was open at one of the familiar pages which report so tirelessly on the night-life of London, and there was a photograph of Roger and Caro toasting each other in champagne. "Miss Caroline Whit-taker, Sir Charles and Lady Whittaker's lovely daughter, shares a drink and a jest at the Four Hundred with her favourite escort, Mr. Roger Staines," said the caption, coyly. Henry looked at the picture for a full minute, thoughtfully. He said again, "I wish I could place him— further back. Quite a bit further back."
"Goodness, I'm hungry," said Emmy. "Have a biscuit."
The train sped on towards the frontiers of Switzerland.
Henry and Emmy shared their table at Third Dinner with Colonel and Mrs. Buckfast. The latter, having obviously had the time of her life making mincemeat of poor Edward, was in a comparatively good humour, and agreed to take a glass of Sauternes with her fish ; she even pronounced the food eatable. Her husband, evidently cheered by this unaccustomed serenity, became conversational over the coffee.
"Your first time on skis?" he asked Henry, his smooth red face aglow with affability.
"Yes, I'm a complete rabbit, I'm afraid," Henry replied. "My wife's done it before."
"Only twice," said Emmy. "I'm no good at all."
"Finest sport in the world," said the Colonel. He glanced round belligerently, as if expecting instant contradiction. Mrs. Buckfast sniffed, but said nothing. "My wife doesn't ski," he added, confidentially. "Jolly sporting of her to come out with me, year after year. I appreciate it. Of course, I'd absolutely understand if she wanted to stay behind and let me go alone..." His voice took on a wistful note.
Dead Men Don't Ski Page 1
