Emmy read it several times, and then said, "I can't see that it tells us anything we didn't know before."
"It doesn't," said Henry. "It just makes' the whole thing clear, that's all. It's given me a vital bit of evidence I need to clinch my theory."
Emmy read the time-table again. "I don't see anything remarkable in it," she said at last.
"Don't you?" said Henry. "Well, there is. Spezzi's time-table, plus a little logical deduction, plus a remark made by one of the witnesses—and the case is virtually solved. All I have to do now is to tie the threads together."
"I'm not even going to ask you to explain," said Emmy, with a rueful grin, "because I know you won't. But you might at least tell me which witness it was that made this chance remark."
"With pleasure," said Henry. "It was Colonel Buckfast."
After breakfast, Emmy hurried off to join her ski class— the others skiers had already left. Henry had decided to go down to the village, and he was in his room putting his anorak on, when the door burst open, and Spezzi charged into the room, deeply agitated.
"Enrico, I must talk to you," he cried. He mopped his brow. "I have just been with the Baron."
"Bad luck," said Henry, sympathetically. "I suppose he wants you to arrest Franco di Santi."
"How did you know?"
"Because I had a talk with the Baroness last night," said Henry. "At her request," he added, hastily.
Spezzi sat down on the bed and nodded gloomily. "He's got Rossati in there," he said, " and they've both made complete statements to me about this divorce evidence-did the Baroness tell you?"
Henry nodded.
"The Baroness is having hysterics," Spezzi went on, miserably, "Rossati's in a state of jitters, and prepared to swear to anything. The Baron is as cold as ice, and absolutely determined. What am I to do?"
He made a despairing gesture.
"I'd arrest Franco, if I were you," said Henry, helpfully.
Spezzi groaned. "Mamma mia, is that all you can say? And what do I do then? There's a case against him, I admit—but it's not proved, by any means. If he's convicted, the Baroness will never forgive me, and if he's not, the Baron will be after my blood. Anyway, I believe the boy is innocent. I wish I'd never heard of this wretched case. And all you can say is, 'I'd arrest him if I were you.' O, Dio, Dio, Dio."
"I meant it," said Henry. "For several reasons. If by any chance di Santi is guilty, there's no point in delaying any longer. If he's not, the fact that an arrest has been made may encourage the real murderer to get careless, and make a mistake. Anyhow," he added, "with the Baron in his present mood, I should think Franco would be safer in prison than out of it."
"You really think that?" asked Spezzi, incredulously.
"Yes," said Henry, "I do."
By lunch-time, the Albergo Bella Vista was buzzing with excitement, and rumour ran riot. On his return from skiing, Franco—very pale but calm—had been escorted out of the hotel by Spezzi and his aide. From the head of the stairs, the Baron watched the grim little procession leave the hotel with an expression of satisfaction that was not pleasant to see, then he turned on his heel and walked into his suite, slamming the door behind him. From her window, Trudi Knipfer saw Franco being led away: there was an expression of perplexity on her face. The English peeped from behind half-closed doors, and shivered with a mixture of pity and relief. Rossati went into the kitchen and began bullying his staff.
When the prisoner and his escort were well away, Henry went down to the bar. Everyone in the hotel seemed to be there, with the exception of the von Wurtburgs and Gerda, and conversation spluttered and erupted excitedly. There was a dramatic silence, however, as Henry came in. Everybody turned to stare, and he felt like a freak at a side-show. He walked over to the bar, and ordered a Campari-soda. The talk started again, more quietly and furtively, and then Henry was aware of someone standing just behind him.
"So it was poor old Franco all the time, was it?"Roger was standing at Henry's shoulder, smiling with a sort of heady abandon. "Who'd have thought it? Well, I suppose the rest of us can breathe again now."
"So it would appear," said Henry.
"Well, I don't want to sound heartless," remarked Jimmy, who had come over to the bar with Caro, and was now knocking back brandy at a considerable rate, "but thank God it wasn't one of us. At least we know where we stand now." He turned to Caro, who was morosely sipping lemonade. "Look, Caro," he said, "now that this business is all over, I was wondering if you and Roger would like to—"
"All over?" said Caro. She put her glass down carefully on the bar, and looked Jimmy straight in the eyes. "As far as I'm concerned, it hasn't begun yet."
And with that, she walked out of the bar. Roger immediately put down his drink, and went after her. Their voices came indistinctly from the hall outside—Roger's soothing, Caro's protesting.
"I give up," said Jimmy to Henry. "I've been leaning over backwards to be nice, like you said, and that's all the thanks I get for it. What on earth is the matter with the girl now?"
"I don't know,}' said Henry. "But I mean to find out."
After lunch, Henry took the lift down and had a long talk with Carlo, taking him again over his recollections of the evening of Hauser's death. The news of Franco's arrest had spread like wildfire through the village, and Carlo was now inclined to remember a sinister look on di Santi's face as he boarded the lift, and a suspicious bulge in his pocket. Henry listened with polite scepticism, and then returned to the hotel.
Mrs. Buckfast was sitting alone on the terrace, and Henry went over to her and pulled up a chair.
"So the case is solved, Mr. Tibbett," she remarked, her knitting needles clicking busily. "I must congratulate you."
"Not me," said Henry. "All the work was done by the Italian police."
Mrs. Buckfast sniffed unbelievingly.
"My side of it," Henry went on, "is to find out all I can about the English end of the dope-ring. I'd be very interested to hear just what Hauser said to you in the bar, on the afternoon he was killed."
Mrs. Buckfast looked a little rattled. "He gave me last-minute instructions about disposing of the stuff," she said.
"What were they?"
"The usual thing. A messenger would call at my house. I told him quite frankly that I disapproved of the whole thing."
"And what did he say to that?"
"He threatened me, of course." Mrs. Buckfast smiled grimly. "He made a lot of veiled remarks about it being very dangerous to make mistakes, as other people had found to their cost. That was when I finally decided to go to the police."
"I see," said Henry, thoughtfully.
A little later, Emmy came in from skiing: when she had changed, they both went down to the bar.
It was very quiet. A desultory conversation in German drifted over from the Knipfers' table; the Buckfasts sat and stared at each other as if neither was pleased at the prospect of the other's countenance. Then there were brisk footsteps in the hall, and Gerda came in. For the first time, her iron composure seemed ruffled. Her face was flushed, and her eyes burned with anger. She walked straight up to Henry and said loudly, "You coward ! You miserable, snivelling coward! "
Henry looked at her with interest. "I don't quite understand what you mean, Fraulein Braun," he said.
Gerda's eyes blazed. "Oh, yes, you do," she said. "I've been out skiing all day, so I've only just heard. You've arrested Franco di Santi."
"Not I," said Henry. "Capitano Spezzi has arrested him."
"Capitano Spezzi..."Gerda's voice shook. "Capitano Spezzi thought that I was guilty ... I knew that and I respected him for it—it was an honest opinion. I respected it, and I thought he was a fine man—but he's as bad as you are. As bad and as spineless!"
"Really, Fraulein—" Henry began, but she cut him short.
"It's no good looking at me like that. I know very well why you arrested Franco. He made you do it."
"You're referring to Baron von Wurtburg, I suppose," said Henr
y.
To his surprise, Gerda's eyes filled with tears. "He's a brute and a bully," she said. "He won't even let me see her—or the children. He's as bad as Hauser. I wish he was dead, too."
She drew herself up very straight. "Anyway," she went on, " he's not going to have the satisfaction of seeing an innocent man condemned for murder. You'd better telephone Santa Chiara now, Herr Tibbett, and tell them to let Franco go. Because I want to tell you that I—"
Henry stood up suddenly, with a maladroit movement that knocked Emmy's drink off the bar. The glass shattered on the floor, and the bright red vermouth spattered Gerdu's white shirt, like bipod. Before the German girl had time to recover herself, Henry was apologising profusely, and Emmy was mopping the shirt with her handkerchief. Gerda stood perfectly still, trembling a little.
"I want to tell you—" she began again, but Henry said quickly, "Fraulein, I'm terribly afraid that stuff will stain. We must do something about it. Emmy, dear, haven't you got some patent cleaning lotion upstairs? Perhaps if you took Gerda up—"
"Yes," said Emmy. "Come along with me."
"Go with my wife," said Henry, firmly, to Gerda.
Emmy grabbed Gerda's arm, and led her, protesting, out of the bar.
Henry finished his drink, and then went upstairs.
He met Emmy and Gerda coming out of the latter's room* Gerda had changed her shirt, and looked calmer, though still angry.
"She keeps trying to tell me something," said Emmy, "but I pretended I couldn't understand any German* You'd better talk to her."
"I certainly had," said Henry. And to Gerda he said, in German, "Now, Fraulein, I understand there's something you want to tell me. I suggest we go to my room. My wife will come too," he added, hastily.
Gerda gave him a brief, unamused look. "Very well," she said.
As soon as the door had closed behind them, Henry said, "First of all, I'd like to say something to you. I don't know what it is you want to tell me, but I do assure you that quixotic gestures are unnecessary. If you've got any useful information that will help us to identify the murderer, let's have it. Otherwise—please trust me."
"Franco didn't do it." said Gerda.
"That's very possible," said Henry. "And if he didn't, he won't be in prison long, you can depend on that. I promise you faithfully that no innocent person will suffer." He paused. "Well, have you anything sensible to tell me?"
Gerda gave him a long, appraising look. At last she said, "No."
"Good," said Henry, cheerfully. "I'm sorry about your shirt. And by the way—Captain Spezzi isn't as foolish as you think, Fraulein. He is a very intelligent and estimable young man."
A ghost of a smile flickered across Gerda's face, and Emmy thought, "Good heavens, the girl is quite beautiful. She should smile more often."
At the door, Gerda suddenly stopped. She turned to face Henry again, and she said, "There is one thing I think I should tell you."
"What is that, Fraulein?"
"I... I hoped it would not be necessary," she said, "but now..." She paused. "It's about Herr Staines."
"Well?"
"The night before the murder," said Gerda, slowly, "he came up to fetch me, and asked me to come down and join the dancing."
"I remember," said Henry.
"I had been into the children's room to make sure they were asleep," Gerda went on, "and I met him in the corridor."
"Yes?" said Henry.
With some reluctance, Gerda said, "He was coming out of Hauser's bedroom."
"Was he?" said Henry. "Does he know that you saw him?"
"I don't think so," said Gerda. "I waited until he was out in the corridor before I came out of the children's room. He looked ... he looked very worried and rather grim. I am sorry I did not tell you before."
Henry sat up late that night, smoking and thinking, going over in detail all the pieces of the intricate jigsaw of evidence which were- beginning to fall into place with a relentless inevitability, forming a coherent' pattern in which so few pieces were now missing. Once, before she went to sleep, Emmy said, "You know now don't you?" and Henry said, without pride, "Yes, I'm afraid I do."
The result of this nocturnal brooding was, of course, that they both overslept, and did not get down to breakfast until nearly half-past nine. Emmy bolted her food and rushed off to join her class ("I shall get fired if Pm late again," she said, agitatedly). Henry fell for the temptation of yet another delicious roll and cherry jam. He came out of the dining-room to find a spirited altercation going on in the hall between Spezzi, who had just come up on the ski-lift, and the Baron.
"The man is arrested, the case is closed, and my wife and I will leave today,"the Baron was saying, in a voice that would have frozen oil.
"But Herr Baron ... I deeply regret ... it is not possible. There are formalities of evidence "
"My evidence can be taken in Innsbruck," said the Baron. "We, too, have a police force, Herr Kapitan."
Henry was about to go to Spezzi's assistance, when Maria-Pia saved him the trouble. She appeared at the head of the stairs, as white as a sheet, and said in a small voice, "What is all this, Hermann? You want us to leave?"
The Baron, irritated by this diversion, said shortly, "Yes. We leave for Innsbruck today. You, I and the children. I have already discharged Gerda."
Maria-Pia closed her enormous brown eyes for a moment, then opened them wide and said stridently, "I won't go!"
M Now, now, my dear—please don't make a scene."The Baron, embarrassed, strode over to the foot of the stairs. "It is far better that we go."
"I won't!" Maria-Pia's voice was almost a scream. She clung desperately to the banisters, as if she expected to be dragged away to Innsbruck then and there, by force.
"I won't! You can't make me I Henry, don't let him I Don't let him! "
The Baron wheeled round to face Henry. Like a ferocious animal at bay, he glared in turn at his three adversaries. Then he said, "My wife is naturally distraught by all these terrible events. You can see that it is for her good that I intend to take her home immediately."
"If you will forgive me for saying so, Herr Baron," said Henry, "I think that your wife is ill, and should not undertake the journey. Quite apart from the fact that the police require your presence here "
Maria-Pia suddenly began to laugh, hysterically. "I11!" she cried. "Ill!" The words were wrenched out between great choking breaths that could have been sobs or laughter, "I11! Oh, my God "
Then she was suddenly silent, and stood swaying for a moment, her slender body bending like a sapling in the wind, before she pitched forward and fell head-first down the stairs. There was a dull thud and a sharp crack as she hit the bottom step, and lay still.
Pandemonium broke loose at once. Spezzi ran to telephone for a doctor, Rossati screamed, and Henry had to fight his way through a knot of waitresses to get to Maria-Pia's side. Before he had a chance to look at her, a quiet voice said, "Out of my way, please!" and the Baron gathered his wife's frail, limp body into his arms with a curious gentleness, and carried her upstairs. For once, he made no protest when Henry followed.
Henry smoothed the rumpled bedclothes, and the Baron laid Maria-Pia down with delicate care. Then he said, in a low, anxious voice, quite unlike his normal brusque tone, "She's not ... not badly hurt, is she?"
"I'm not a doctor," said Henry. "But I know a bit about it. Let me look at her."
^ The Baron, as if unable to bear the tension, turned away from the bed and walked over to the window. Henry bent over the motionless body. As he did so, Maria-Pia opened her eyes, flutteringly: and, to Henry's astonishment* immediately closed one of them again in what was most undoubtedly a wink.
"Henry," she Whispered.
"How do you feel?" Henry asked, feeling exceptionally foolish himself.
"I knocked myself out, didn't I?" she went on, barely audibly. "My leg hurts. Have I broken anything?"
"I don't know," said Henry. "The doctor will be here soon."
"I
bet I have,"murmured Maria-Pia, with immense satisfaction. Then a spasm of pain crossed her face. "Get the doctor soon, Henry."
"He won't be long. Just lie still," said Henry. He gave her a big grin, then straightened, and said, "She'll be all right, Herr Baron, but she's had slight concussion and she may have broken her leg. She'll obviously need complete rest for a few days."
The Baron, who had been standing quite still with his back to Henry, did not move. He said, "Please come out on to the balcony, Herr Tibbett. I wish to talk to you."
Henry followed him out into the sunshine. The Baron carefully closed the door that led to the bedroom, and then said, "I believe that Franco di Santi is guilty."
Henry said nothing. In a voice which was almost pleading, the Baron went on, "I have to protect my wife from such a man, Herr Tibbett. From a murderer."
"You're making a very big assumption there," said Henry, "Nothing has been proved against him."
"There is no doubt," said the Baron, shortly. And he added, in a voice that was little more than a whisper, "There cannot be any doubt..."
There was a pause, and then Henry said, tentatively, "Of course, I sympathise with your point of view, Herr Baron. I understand that there was talk of a divorce "
The Baron wheeled round to face Henry, and there was a sort of anguish in his cold eyes. "Never 1" he cried.
"Never! I would never divorce my wife." Surprisingly, he added, "I love her."
"I know you do," said Henry.
"This man Hauser—" Every word the Baron spoke seemed to be wrenched from him with a painful effort. "It was he who told me. I did not believe him. I would have given my life not to believe him. But I had to know. I had to find the truth. Do you understand that?"
"Yes," said Henry, slowly. "I understand that."
"Do you imagine I enjoyed setting a dirty spy on my wife? Can't you see that when he telephoned me, I hated him, as I have never hated a man before? More than I hated di Santi, even. I find it ironic that one of my enemies should kill the other. It is like a judgment on them both."
"Supposing," said Henry, "that Franco di Santi is proved to be innocent. What will you do then?"
Dead Men Don't Ski Page 17
