Dead Men Don't Ski

by Patricia Moyes

  Henry could not repress a smile at this, and she answered it, saying quickly, "Oh, you English. You are discreet all the time, even after you're married. Anyhow," she went on, "a few days ago I found out who the spy was. It was Hauser."

  "I see," said Henry, unsurprised. "How did you find out?"

  "Because he told me," she said, simply. "He showed me the evidence that he had—a signed statement from Rossati. He tried to sell it to me."

  "Because your husband was not paying him enough. Very typical," Henry remarked. "Did you buy it? "

  "How could I?" Maria-Pia was very close to tears. "I have no money of my own—none. Everything belongs to Hermann. He goes through every receipt, every cheque I cash. And Franco has no money. We were desperate. On the morning of ... of the murder, I tried to plead with Hauser, to beg him not to ruin my life—"

  "I know," said Henry. "I saw you. But why did you think that this would ruin your life? I can't imagine that you are happy with your husband, and presumably he would use this evidence to get a divorce. Wouldn't you like that?"

  She gave him a tragic look. "You don't understand, Henry. My family is very old-fashioned—they would disown me. Franco and I would be penniless. Not that I would mind," she added hastily: but Henry could not imagine the pampered Maria-Pia relishing love in a cottage.

  "And then there's Franco," she went on. "Hermann would claim huge damages, you can be sure. Franco would be ruined. But worst of all—what about the children? Hermann would have them, and I know he'd never let me see them. I would die, I swear it... I would die..."

  "You are in a mess, aren't you?" said Henry, lightly. He was deliberately flippant, anxious to stave off the emotional outburst which was threatening. Maria-Pia seemed to realise this. She gave him a grateful little smile, and went on quickly.

  "That man Hauser was a devil," she said. "He laughed at me. He said he would ... oh, but what does that matter now? The terrible thing now is that Hermann is trying to prove that Franco killed Hauser."

  "Is he, indeed?" said Henry, greatly intrigued. "As a matter of interest, did he?"

  Maria-Pia gave him a reproachful look. "Oh, Henry, you mustn't say things like that, even in fun. Franco wouldn't hurt a fly "

  "I wouldn't be absolutely sure of that," said Henry. "But I do see an objection. The fact that your husband arrived here on the evening Hauser was murdered leads one to suppose that Hauser had telephoned him earlier in the day and told him all he knew. In fact, we know that he made a call to Innsbruck during the morning. So if Franco did kill Hauser, it was a very stupid murder of revenge. The damage was already done."

  "No, no, you don't understand," said Maria-Pia, with tragic urgency. "Hermann has told me everything. Hauser did telephone him in the morning, just as you said, and told him that he had the evidence. My husband agreed to drive up here in the afternoon, but he pointed out that it was a long way by car, and he might not arrive much before seven o'clock. Hauser said he would wait for Hermann at the hotel as long as he could, but that if it got too late he would leave the documents in an envelope with Rossati, who would meet Hermann at the Olympia when he arrived. Hauser said he could trust Rossati implicitly."

  "Why didn't Hauser just send the evidence to your husband?" Henry asked.

  "I don't know, but I can guess," said Maria-Pia. "I don't think he intended to sue me for divorce—that would be too simple for a man like Hermann, and too kind. I think he wanted to catch us both together up here, and confront us with the evidence, and threaten to use it if we ever saw each other again. He wanted to play cat and mouse with both of us."

  "And where is this precious evidence now?" Henry asked. "I suppose Hermann has it."

  "No," said Maria-Pia. "When Hermann got to Santa Chiara, he found the lift had been stopped because of Hauser's death. Then, after you and Emmy had left the Olympia, Rossati approached him and introduced himself. Hermann at once asked him for the envelope, and Rossati had to confess that he had lost it."

  "Lost it?" said Henry, sharply. "When?"

  "Hauser gave it to Rossati in the bar at five o'clock. Rossati had an appointment with the bank manager, so he came down at once on the lift. When he was through at the bank, he went to have a drink at the Bar Schmidt, and came over to the Olympia at about half-past six. It was then he discovered that the envelope had disappeared from his overcoat pocket. He swears it was stolen."

  "But how on earth could Franco have taken it?"

  "That's the terrible thing," said Maria-Pia. "When we had finished skiing, I took the children to the sports shop— I had promised them new sweaters. Franco didn't want to wait while we bought them, so he went off and had a drink at the Schmidt with some of the instructors. He admits he saw Rossati there, and spoke to him."

  "Even so," said Henry, " how could he have known what was in the envelope?"

  "If he'd seen it," said Maria-Pia, " addressed to Hermann in Hauser's writing, he'd have guessed at once. And anyway..."Maria-Pia stopped suddenly, in confusion.

  "That evening," said Henry, "Franco came into the Olympia, and said something to you, and you said, 'How wonderful'. What did he say to you? Did he tell you he had got hold of the evidence and destroyed it?"

  Maria-Pia was trembling. "No..." she whispered. "No..."

  Henry looked at her sternly. "I wish you wouldn't lie," he said. "Of course, I can follow your train of thought perfectly. If Franco thought that Hermann already had the evidence, there would have been no point in his killing Hauser. But once he laid hands on that envelope, it becomes a very different story. The evidence is out of the way— but Hauser, alive, can produce it again. On the other hand, with Hauser dead, it would be easy enough to persuade Rossati to keep his mouth shut."

  Maria-Pia began to cry, quietly. "Franco didn't steal it," she said, in a choked voice.

  "Look," said Henry. "I'm going to look on the worst side, and assume Franco did get hold of the envelope. That doesn't by any means prove that he killed Hauser. When is he supposed to have taken the gun?"

  Maria-Pia said, in a whisper, "You remember the night before the murder? Everyone was dancing in the bar— even Gerda. Only Franco and I left early. Anna has told Hermann so. Hermann says that Franco could have taken the gun from Hauser's room then."

  "I'd forgotten that," said Henry slowly.

  "But you see," said Maria-Pia, "I know that he didn't."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because," said the Baroness, blushing prettily, "he was with me all night. But how can I tell Hermann that?"

  "I see your difficulty," said Henry. "I presume that you and Franco are now denying everything, and that Rossati, whatever other damaging things he may say, is keeping his own counsel about the contents of the envelope? n

  Maria-Pia nodded, silently. It was at this moment that Henry caught sight of the tall, gaunt figure of Baron von Wurtburg, flanked rather incongruously on either side by the diminutive ones of Hansi and Lotte, striding up the path to the hotel.

  "Well," he said, "from what you say, it certainly look9 as though Franco couldn't have killed Hauser: but the only effective way to clear him is to find out who did, and that's just what I'm trying to do. So whatever happens don't use that convenient but embarrassing bit of evidence —at least, not until I tell you that you must. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Henry," said Maria-Pia.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Anna informed Henry that il padrone was in his private sitting-room, as usual at this hour of the day, and could not be disturbed except in a case of grave emergency. Finally, however, Henry managed to convince her that the matter was urgent, and, with some reluctance, she led him through the green baize door that separated the proprietor's suite from the rest of the hotel.

  Rossati's sitting-room was plainly but comfortably furnished. Its two most striking features were a large, leather-covered desk, surmounted by a photograph of a strikingly beautiful dark girl whose face was vaguely familiar: and the proprietor himself, who was stretched full-length on a
sofa, with Rome's leading daily newspaper spread over his face, sound asleep. He leapt up guiltily as Henry came in, and professed himself eager to assist in any possible way.

  Henry started with deceptive triviality. He was interested, he said, to get a clear picture in his mind of Herr Hauser's last descent on the ski-lift.

  "I imagine you must make the trip down very frequently, Signor Rossati," he said. "I understand you do not ski."

  "No, no, never. When I came here, I was already too old to learn."

  "Three years ago, wasn't it?"

  "That's right, signore"

  "To get back to the ski-lift," said Henry. "How long would it take to walk down the path to the lift?"

  "Oh—two minutes, no more ... perhaps a little longer if it is snowing badly."

  "And in the dark?"

  "The path is well-lit, signore, as you know."

  "Then you would position yourself and wait for the chair?"

  "Of course."Rossati looked puzzled, as well he might, for he had a suspicion that Henry knew all this as well as he did himself. But the latter persisted.

  "Then the chair comes up behind you, you settle yourself in it, arrange the rug round your knees, lower the safety-arm—and by that time you are well on your way."

  "But exactly," said Rossati. "In my own case, I never bother with the safety-arm—it is for novices only, you understand."

  "Would you call Hauser a novice?"

  "After all these years..." Rossati laughed. "Most certainly not."

  Henry went on. "And, say, two minutes after boarding the chair, you are quite far away from the boarding platform?"

  "But yes—you would have passed the first pylon."

  "Thank you, Signor Rossati."

  "A pleasure, Signor Tibbett. If there is anything else I can tell you..."

  "Yes, there is," said Henry. "I'd like to know more about your relationship with Hauser. He must have thought a lot of you to entrust you with such a precious envelope to deliver to Baron von Wurtburg."

  Rossati simpered. "Ah, you know about that? It is a great misfortune to me that it was stolen. I do not know what was in the envelope, of course, but it must have been important, for the Baron is angry—terribly angry. How could I know?"

  Henry let this pass. "And I understand you think Signor di Santi took it?" he asked...

  Rossati shrugged. "The Baron seems to think that Signor di Santi had a reason for wanting to get hold of the envelope," he said. "And he had the opportunity."

  "I see," said Henry, dryly. Then he went on, "The Baroness is a valuable customer of yours, isn't she?"

  "But of course, signore..."

  "Then how is it," said Henry, "that Hauser was able to persuade you to sign a document which you knew would do her the greatest possible harm—and which, incidentally, would ensure that neither she nor her family ever came to your hotel again? A document which would damage the reputation of the Bella Vista immeasurably if it were made public?"

  Rossati was sweating now, but he managed a smile as he said, "Ah, Signor Tibbett, you know all, I can see. It is useless to try to deceive you."

  Henry said nothing. After a pause, Rossati went on, unhappily, "Herr Hauser told me it would be a criminal offence not to give evidence if I were required to do so..."

  Henry cut in sharply, "Hauser was not a policeman, or even a lawyer. He had no power to make you sign anything. Certainly no power to make you spy on the Baroness. Unless..." Something suddenly clicked in Henry's mind, as if his card-index memory, working subconsciously, had abruptly turned up the name he needed. He looked at the photograph on the desk. "That," he said, "is a remarkably good picture of Sofia Caroni."

  For a moment Rossati looked stunned. Then, embarrassingly, he began to sob loudly, his plump face disintegrating into a mask of despair. Manfully ignoring this, Henry went on relentlessly.

  "I don't know your exact connection with her, but I've no doubt you will tell me in a minute, when you recover yourself. What is perfectly obvious is that Hauser had some hold over you—some evidence which would connect you with the Caroni case, and probably land you on a criminal charge. You left Rome hastily when the case came up. You, who had never skied in your life, bought an hotel up here in this remote spot, and you took pains to speak German, so that people would think you'd lived here all your life. Hauser traced you up here, and has been blackmailing you ever since. I don't suppose you enjoyed having your hotel used as a headquarters for dope smuggling, did you?"

  Rossati's sobs had subsided now, and he sat with his head in his hands, a picture of silent misery.

  "I think," said Henry, more kindly, "that the time has come to tell me all about it"

  There was a silence. Then, without lifting his head, Rossati began to speak.

  "Sofia," he said, in a trembling voice. "Poor Sofia. She was my daughter." He hesitated, then went on. "She changed her name to go on the stage, you see. Her mother died when Sofia was only ten. We had very little money ... times were hard for us. You cannot blame me for being pleased when Count Brandozi began to take an interest in her. At first, I thought he would marry her ... I swear it."

  "As I remember," said Henry, "he was already married, with seven children. However, we'll skip that. Sofia became a pleasant source of income. Then these new friends of hers introduced her to dope, among other things. Am I right?"

  Rossati nodded, dumbly.

  "They probably used you as a go-between to get the stuff for them," Henry went on, improvising wildly. To his considerable surprise, Rossati nodded again. "Where did you get it? From Hauser?"

  Rossati lifted his tear-stained face. "No, no," he cried. "I had no idea that he had anything to do with it. I collected it from a chemist. I had to sign a receipt each time. Then my poor Sofia died and..."

  "Was found dead," Henry supplemented, "in the Count's country cottage after a particularly nasty orgy. And the scandal broke. What happened then?"

  "Hauser was her doctor," Rossati whispered. "He came to see me, and was deeply sympathetic. It was he who suggested I should come here, away from it all. He even lent me money to buy the hotel. Then, one day, he turned up here—with all the receipts I had ever given to the chemist. He had only to take them to the police, and..."

  "So from then on," said Henry, "he used this hotel any way he liked. You were worried the other day when Capitano Spezzi asked you about Hauser's bill—because of course he had 110 bill. On the contrary, I imagine he took money from you every time hfe came here...

  "Everything." Even in his misery, Rossati managed to be indignant at the injustice of it. "Every penny of profit, he took. He left me just enough to run the hotel, so that there would be guests..."

  "How many of the guests are genuine, and how many are Hauser's nominees?" Henry asked.

  "I don't know, signore. I swear I don't,"cried Rossati. "The first year Signor di Santi came here, he told me Hauser had recommended the hotel to him. And last year Hauser made me write to Signor Staines, offering him reduced terms. That's all I know. He told me nothing—not even about the smuggling, though I guessed it."Rossati looked at Henry pathetically. "What will happen to me now, signore?" he quavered. "The police... will the police...?"

  "I have no idea what action the Italian police will take," said Henry. "The Caroni case is closed, and it's possible that if you help us now "

  "Anything, Signor Tibbett, anything ... Ah, what happiness," sighed Rossati, "if I could run my hotel as I wish ... without fear .. . and keep the profits," he added, on a more practical note.

  "Now," said Henry. "About that envelope. Which contained your own signed statement. You honestly think that Signor di Santi stole it?"

  Rossati seemed to come to a great decision. "Signor Tibbett," he said, not without a certain dignity, "from now on I will tell you the truth."

  "That'll be a nice change," said Henry. "Well?"

  "The Baroness and Signor di Santi," said Rossati, "they are nice people. And good customers. When I saw poor Signor di San
ti in the Bar Schmidt, I could only think of what Hauser had done to me, and how I hated him. And I was ashamed that he had made me spy on them. I grew brave. Hauser had left—I was prepared to deny everything. I... I gave Signor di Santi the envelope."

  "A generous, if misguided, impulse," said Henry,"which may well land him on a murder charge."

  "How could I know that?" moaned Rossati. "I did it for the best. I wanted to help him."

  "And now you're trying to help him by accusing him of stealing it?"

  Rossati mumbled unhappily something about a murder changing everything.

  "There are more graceful ways of saving your own skin than by slandering other people," Henry pointed out. "How do I know you didn't kill Hauser yourself? You had plenty of reason to."

  This produced a storm of protest, a wailing of alibis.

  "All right, all right," said Henry at last, damming the flood of eloquence. "We'll just put you down on the list as yet another person who was delighted to see Hauser dead. If you think of anything else you've lied to us about, you might let me know."

  He walked quickly out of Rossati's room, and into the hall, where he met Emmy, who had just returned from skiing.

  "Darling," she said, "you look green. What's been happening?"

  "Nothing," said Henry. "Just a particularly nasty half-hour. I loathe," he added, "demolishing people."

  Emmy gave his hand a quick squeeze. "I know you do," she said. "Come and buy me a drink."

  It was only some time later that Henry realised, gratefully, that she had not asked who had been demolished, or why.

  In the bar, Henry observed with interest the effect that the murder, and its subsequent repercussions, were having on the guests at the Bella Vista.

  Mrs. Buckfast, he was amused to see, had not changed one whit after her dramatic confession. She swept majestically into the bar, nodded a brief "Good evening,"to Henry and Emmy, ordered, small sherry, sent it back because it was too dry, and upbraided Anna because an extra pillow which she had demanded had not yet made its appearance: in short, she,was absolutely her normal self. The Colonel, on the other hand, had clearly been shattered to his very foundations by the revelation of his wife's misdemeanours. He looked ten years older, and appeared to be trying to avoid meeting anyone's eye. When he saw Henry, he turned first purple and then white, and, during his wife's altercation with Anna, he shuffled shame-facedly over to the bar where Henry and Emmy were sitting.