Dead Men Don't Ski

by Patricia Moyes

  The Baron turned away, and leant on the pale woodwork of the balcony. His gaze seemed fascinated by the steep, snowy slopes below. "That is my affair, Herr Tibbett," he said, very quietly. "Whatever happens, I »ha!i see to it that Maria-Pia is happy."

  There was a long silence, then the Baron straightened, and said in his usual, clipped voice, "So the Baroness is not seriously hurt. That is very welcome news. I do not think I need trouble you further."

  He turned away in a clear gesture of dismissal. Henry stepped quietly back into the sunny bedroom, and walked quickly past the small, motionless figure on the bed, and out into the cool, pine-scented corridor.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  There were times, Henry reflected, when he hated his profession, and this was one of them. He looked forward with deep unhappiness to the tasks he had set himself for the day—the final checking, the last moves that would close the net of evidence on someone who had been driven by desperation to a desperate act.

  He decided to cheer himself up by skiing down to the village on his own.

  Half-way down, he came upon his own class, who were making gallant if not very successful efforts to master the stem cristiania turn. Pietro waved cheerily, and Henry came to a wobbling halt beside Caro, who was waiting for her turn. The class had been augmented by three new arrivals—an Italian couple and a young German—so that Pietro was busily yelling instructions and advice in three languages.

  "This is hellishly difficult," said Caro. "I'll never get it, I'm sure. Are you going to join us?"

  "Welcome back, Enrico,"cried Pietro, bounding up the slope with incredible ease, lifting his skis like a Schuhplattler dancer. "You come for the stem cristiania, eh? Just in time."

  "I'm afraid not," said Henry. "I've got to go to the village. I had a ridiculous idea that it would be quicker on skis than on the lift."

  14 Aha, the brave one, skiing all alone,"Pietro laughed, attractively. "No more ski school for you, eh? Today Run One, to-morrow Run Three, the day after—the Gully, perhaps?"

  "It's all very well for you to laugh," said Henry. "How the devil d'you do that?" he added, as Pietro, with a lightning movement, dug a stick into the snow and jumped round it, feet parallel, to face the other way.

  "Easy—so!" Pietro obligingly repeated the performance on one foot, to the applause of the class.

  "Have you done the Gully yet this season, Pietro?" Jimmy asked. They had all looked with awe at this formidable run, which was little more than a crevasse which ran like a white streak down the mountain-side, not far from the ski-lift.

  "No—is still forbidden. Not safe yet. But I do it soon —you will see. Very soon now I do it. Zim!" Pietro made a flashing movement of his hand from shoulder to knee. "Just like that. Steep like a wall. Benissimo!"

  "Horrible!" said Jimmy. "Don't ever dare take us there."

  "Next week, perhaps," said Pietro, mischievously. "When you have learn well the stem cristiania. Now, Mister Jimmy. Bend ze knees—and hoop-la!"

  Henry left them to it, and proceeded cautiously on his way. Apart from about a dozen falls, and a hair-raising encounter with a horse-drawn sledge laden with logs, he reached the bottom in good order, and felt very pleased with himself. He took off his skis, left them at the bottom of the lift, and went into the Olympia.

  Apart from a few mid-morning coffee-drinkers, the cafe was empty. Alfonzo greeted him warmly.

  "Coffee? Of course, signore. Straight at once."

  The Espresso machine hissed, spluttered and disgorged a cup of delicious, steaming coffee. Deftly, in what appeared to be a single movement, Alfonzo assembled the cup, a tiny jug of cream and a packet of sugar on a small tray, and placed it with a flourish on the bar. "So, the murder is solved, signore? Poor Signor di Santi—everyone very sorry. What for did he do it?"

  "Now, now," said Henry, reprovingly. "You know very well I can't talk about the case. Anyway, it has yet to be proved that he did do it."

  "Ah, the English, so correct always."Alfonzo beamed. "The other day, you ask me about Americanos, no? I am silly. I have forgot. Many Americanos here—last year, year before—ladies, you understand, all alone,.very rich. Much money for the ski instructors. I am silly to forgot."

  "Thanks, Alfonzo," said Henry, smiling. "Now tell me something else. You knew Herr Hauser well by sight, didn't you?"

  "The dead one? But of course. Many times he come in here."

  "Did he," Henry asked, "have lunch here the day he was killed?"

  "No, no, signore. His luggage was here—I took it myself from Carlo. But he never came in all day, I am certain."Alfonzo leant over the bar, confidentially. "The American ladies," he said, "much like Giulio—Mario's boy, the one who die. Give him much money."

  "I'm sure they did," said Henry.

  "Everybody know this," said Alfonzo, slightly on the defensive.

  "Everybody knows it now, anyway," said Henry. "So long, Alfonzo. Be seeing you."

  Henry's next port of call was the little bus station in the centre of the village. Both bus and railway time-tables were displayed in the small wooden waiting-room, and Henry studied them earnestly. He learnt that there was a bus to Montelunga at ten minutes to twelve, and one to Immenfeld at noon. A train departed for Immenfeld at half-past eleven and returned, headed for Montelunga, at twelve-twenty: after this, you had to wait until half-past two for transport in either direction—as in all civilised countries, the two-hour lunch interval was sacrosanct.

  Although not relishing the prospect of four more cups of coffee in quick succession, Henry doggedly went on with his self-appointed task. He visited every cafe in the village, and in each he asked the same question and got the same answer. Hauser had not lunched there on the day of his death.

  Bloated with coffee, and feeling more and more depressed.

  Henry then made his way to Signora Vespi's shop. There were no other customers, and it was only too easy to encourage the proprietress to talk. After dealing thoroughly with the shock to her nervous system occasioned by Franco's arrest, the impossibility of making a livelihood with salami at its present price, and the excellence of the weather, Signora Vespi paused for breath, and Henry said: "By the way, Signora, you never told me that Herr Hauser came here for lunch on the day he was killed."

  The fine flow of Rosa's rhetoric dried up, as if a tap had been turned off. She looked very disconcerted.

  "I... that is, signore ... he did not..."

  "Oh, yes, he did," said Henry. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I didn't think ... Mario said..."

  "After all," said Henry, "there wasn't anything unusual about it, was there? You told me he often came here."

  "Si, signore ... that is, only sometimes..."

  "Can you remember what he talked about that day? n Henry asked. "It might be important."

  "Nothing, signore ... he only came to say good-bye. We had a little lunch, and then I came back to the shop and the men talked. I don't know what about—I didn't hear them."

  "When you say 'the men,' you mean Mario, Pietro and Hauser?"

  "Si, signore."

  "Perhaps they talked about Giulio," Henry suggested.

  "Yes, yes, about Giulio," cried Rosa, eagerly. "Herr Hauser was so sympathetic ... it must have been about poor Giulio that they talked."

  "I see," said Henry. "Thank you signora. You have helped me a lot."

  He went out again into the blinding sunshine, and walked slowly up to the ski-lift. There was a queue, and Carlo was busy. Henry stood and watched the skiers taking their chairs: from time to time he glanced at his watch. Then he turned and walked down to the ski school office.

  The man at the desk was only too eager to talk. This terrible murder, and now the arrest—such goings-on for a quiet little village...

  "As a matter of fact," said Henry, "it's another death I'm interested in at the moment. Giulio Vespi's."

  "Ah, the poor boy. Our best instructor. And yet one must admit -that it was his own fault. Rosa tells me that Mario di
d all he could to prevent his son from attempting the run—there were angry words about it, but it was no good. Nobody could stop Giulio doing as he wished."

  "Tell me what happened," said Henry. "When did he start the run, and when was he missed?"

  The man considered. "He set off after lunch," he said. "It was on a Sunday, you see, so there was no ski school. He planned to return by the train at five o'clock. When he didn't arrive, his family grew worried, for that is the only train on a Sunday. So they went to look for him."

  "His family?" said Henry, sharply. "Not a search party?"

  "Later, the search party went out. But they are all crazy, the Vespis. It was young Pietro who found him first—he went off on that same run after five in the evening. Admittedly, he has done much skiing by night, but even so it was lunacy. He was lucky not to be killed also."

  "How did Pietro find him?"

  "He followed Giulio's ski tracks, and stopped on the edge of the crevasse where his brother had fallen. He saw the body on the rocks below. Of course, if Giulio had fallen into deep snow, we might not have found him for many months—but as it was, Pietro saw him, and skied on into Immenfeld to give the alarm. Then the search party went out. It was all we could do to prevent Mario going with them."

  "I see," said Henry, thoughtfully. "Thank you."

  "A pleasure, signore."

  Unhappily, Henry went back to the Olympia—now crowded with returned skiers—and ordered a solitary lunch, most of which he did not eat. As he was ordering his coffee, he was surprised to see Colonel Buckfast, Roger and Gerda come in together. The Colonel had recovered most of his usual buoyancy after a good morning's sport. He came over to Henry's table.

  "Been out this morning?" he inquired. "Henry had realised by this time that to the Colonel "out" invariably meant "out on skis," so he said, "Yes. Nothing in your class, I'm afraid. Just a gentle Run One. I see you took Fraulein Gerda with you," he added.

  "We didn't exactly take her," said the Colonel, lowering his voice tactfully. "Met her on the Alpe Rosa, skiing all alone, poor girl. Sorry for her, y'know. Asked her to join us."

  "I'm glad you did," said Henry. "She seems to be a very lonely person."

  "Good skier," said the Colonel. "I can't say much to her, of course. No German. But young Staines was prattling away quite a bit. Well, lunch now. Mustn't waste the good weather."

  The three skiers ate their lunch quickly, and left the cafe just before two o'clock. Soon afterwards, Henry followed them. He was already in the ski-lift queue when he remembered that Emmy had warned him that they were out of toothpaste, and so he went down to the chemist's at the far end of the village to get it. When he came back, the queue had lengthened considerably, and it was half-past two before he had collected his skis and begun the ride up to the Bella Vista.

  It was a glorious afternoon. The sun sparkled, highlighting the smooth white piste of Run One, and throwing into sharp relief the stray tracks made by solitary skiers in the virgin snow: it struck warmly on the pink peaks high above Henry's head as he sailed up between the pine trees, and threw up a diamond shimmer from the snow banked on the platforms of the pylons as they slid away one after the other beneath his dangling feet. The whole landscape exuded a reckless joy, which only served to deepen Henry** melancholy. There was only one thing to hope for now, and by all the laws of men and gods he had no right to hope for it. '

  At the top, he slid off his chair, slung his skis on his shoulder, and was beginning to walk up to the hotel, when Mario stopped him.

  "Signor Tibbett!"

  "Yes, Mario?" Henry looked at the old man with compassion: he, too, seemed depressed and worried.

  "Signor Tibbett—I cannot leave the lift now, but there is something I must say to you. Something very important. Can I see you at the hotel this evening?"

  "Of course, Mario. Come up as soon as the lift stops."

  "Thank you, Signor Tibbett. I will be there."

  The next chair arrived, and Mario limped quickly back to work. Henry walked slowly up the path.

  Signor Rossati was in his office, writing letters. In answer to Henry's query, he said that Fraulein Knipfer had gone out for her ski lesson—her parents were on the terrace. The Baron, also, was out. Yes, the doctor had been, but he had no idea of his diagnosis. Anna had reported the Baroness as being cheerful, and sitting up in bed for lunch.

  Henry went upstairs, but instead of going into his own room, he climbed to the top floor, and opened the door of the room occupied by Trudi Knipfer. It corresponded to the Baron's sitting-room, but, being two stories higher, had a sloping ceiling and no balcony. It was immaculately tidy. The dressing-table boasted nothing but a photograph of Herr Knipfer, in a tooled leather frame, a hard hairbrush and a comb: beside the bed was a small travelling clock: otherwise there were no visible signs of occupancy, apart from a checked sponge-bag hanging up beside the washbasin. Henry took a quick look round, his face thoughtful. Then he went over to the window.

  The view from here was even finer than that from the lower rooms. Santa Chiara looked even smaller and more toy-like, and the mountain peaks behind the village glowed against the dark blue sky. Looking down, Henry saw the Baron's balcony below him. Lower still, two pairs of sturdily-shod feet propped comfortably on footstools were all that could be seen of the Knipfers, pere et mire, as they took the sun on the terrace. The path to the ski-lift wound its way in a graceful curve below, a ribbon of darkness overshadowed by its steep banks of snow: and beyond it, Henry could see Mario going about his business at the head of the lift.

  Henry turned back into the room, and, feeling like a thief, opened the dressing-table drawers. They yielded nothing more than neatly-ranged piles of clothes and handkerchiefs, and a large number of hairpins. He was considerably interested to remark that one of the small drawers beside the mirror was locked.

  After a final, appraising glance at Herr Knipfer's unprepossessing features in their leather frame, Henry stepped quietly out into the corridor, and went down to the first floor. He knocked on Maria-Pia's door.

  "Who is it?" she called.

  "Henry. May I come in?"

  "Of course, Henry."

  The Baroness, looking pale but enchanting in a fluffy pink and white negligee, was propped up on a plethora of pillows, reading a fashion magazine. At the end of the bed the blankets were turned back, to reveal a small, honey-coloured foot protruding from a large white plaster cast.

  "You see, Henry," said Maria-Pia, proudly, "I did break it."

  "You're a terror," said Henry. "How do you feel?"

  "I'm fine now," she said. "Have you seen Franco?"

  "Not this morning. But don't worry about him. He's in good hands."

  Maria-Pia giggled. "Hermann is furious," she said.

  "I'm not surprised," said Henry, severely. "You gave us all a very nasty frigKt. Did you have to go as far as all that?"

  "Henry." She gave him a reproachful look, "How could I leave Santa Chiara with poor Franco incarcerated down there? If I do have to ... to give my evidence ... I must be here with you to support me. Once we got back to Innsbruck, Hermann would find some way of stopping me talking to the police."

  "I had thought that your powers of verbal persuasion—"

  "With Hermann? That just shows how little you know him. Anyway, I did feel faint," she added, defensively.

  Henry grinned. "It was a magnificent performance," he said. "You had me fooled. But you might easily have broken your neck, you know."

  Maria-Pia suddenly grew grave, and her eyes filled with tears. "It might have been better if I had," she said.

  "Now, now, none of that."

  "Henry—Franco didn't do it, did he? Promise me he didn't..."

  "I'm not going to promise you anything. But if I'm right in what I think, it'll be all over by tonight."

  "And after that.. . what will happen to me afterwards? Henry, you must help me. You said you would."

  "My dear girl," said Henry, helplessly, "your private
life is something you've got to work out for yourself. Other people can't solve that kind of problem for you."

  "But Henry "

  "And do remember," Henry went on, "that although I agree Hermann is a difficult character, he really is devoted to you, in his own way. Don't hurt him more than you can help."

  "Hurt him?" Maria-Pia laughed, sharply. "Nothing could ever hurt him."

  "You can," said Henry. "You hurt him first of all by marrying him, and you've been carrying on the good work ever since, until he's become quite desperate. Don't think," he added hastily, as the tears welled in her eyes, "that Fm not sympathetic. It's a hell of a position for you. But things may be ... difficult ... for Hermann. Try to remember that the agony hasn't been all on one side."

  Maria-Pia sniffed. '"You don't have to live with him," she said. "It's all very well for you to talk.". r

  "I know," said Henry. He stood up, and took her hand, which was lying like a delicate golden leaf on the white coverlet. "You're a very brave girl. Keep it up."

  With that, he left her, and went downstairs.

  In the hall, he was surprised to see Spezzi in Rossati's office. He had a paper in his hand, and was poring over a large book which lay open on the desk. As Henry approached, he shut the book—which Henry could now see was the hotel register—and picked it up. He nodded curtly to Rossati, and came out into the hall, his pleasant face very grave.

  "An extraordinary development has occurred," he said to Henry. "Where can we talk?"

  "Come up to my room."

  When the door had closed behind them, Spezzi said, "I heard from Rome at lunch-time."

  "About Hauser?"

  "Oh, that. Yes, a lot of stuff—only confirming what we'd already guessed. Among other things, they found in his apartment sufficient evidence to connect Rossati with the Caroni case."

  Henry nodded. "I knew about that," he said. "I hadn't had time to tell you."

  Spezzi gave him a surprised look, but went on. "No, the really sensational thing is about Roger Staines."