Dead Men Don't Ski

by Patricia Moyes

  "The Baron," said Henry, slowly, "was a very brave man indeed. He not only saved three lives today. He deliberately sacrificed his own."

  "So that Pietro wouldn't escape..." said Jimmy.

  Henry looked down. "I think that was the reason," he said.

  EPILOGUE

  It WAS four days later. Henry and Maria-Pia were sitting in the sunshine on the balcony of her suite. Below them, they could see the children, Hansi and Lotte, pelting each other with snowballs under the benevolent eye of Emmy, who was sunning herself on a bench outside the hotel, and pretending to read a magazine.

  "So," said Maria-Pia, "you leave this afternoon. And so do we. You go back to your life in London, and I..." She stopped, and gazed at the children playing below.

  "What will you do?" Henry asked gently.

  "I asked you to solve my problems for me," said Maria-Pia, slowly. "That was a foolish thing to do. Nobody can solve problems for other people."

  "I know," said Henry.

  "I have been very wicked," said Maria-Pia, simply, " and this terrible thing has happened to me because I deserved it. I was not worthy of happiness, and now I have lost the chance of it for ever. That is just."

  There was a moment of silence, and then Henry said, "Your husband was a remarkable man, Maria-Pia. I told you once that he loved you to distraction. I would go further. I think he loved you more than life."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just this," said Henry. "He knew that Immenfeld was crowded with policemen—Pietro could not have escaped. Hermann did what I asked him to—and did it magnificently —in warning the three others of their danger. What he did after that was ... was his own affair."

  Maria-Pia didn't answer, but her eyes filled with tears.

  "Nobody would expect you to get over it quickly," Henry went on, "but in time I think you will be happy again. I think that is what Hermann wanted."

  There was a long pause, and then Maria-Pia said, "You know that I am taking Rosa and Maria Vespi back to Innsbruck with me?"

  "Yes," said Henry. "I think it's a wonderful thing you are doing. Wonderful and typical."

  Maria-Pia gave him a sad little smile. "I had to find someone to look after the children now that I have lost Gerda," she said. "I shall train Maria myself. She will make a good Nanny. And Rosa is going to be my housekeeper."

  Henry smiled. "Gerda is out skiing with the gallant Capitano again, I presume?" he said.

  "Yes," said Maria-Pia. "She has taken a job at the Olympia, you know." She smiled again, and there was something of her old sparkle in her voice as she said, "I think it's very suitable. I'm sure they'll be very happy."

  "I hope so," said Henry. "Poor old Spezzi. He must have suffered the tortures of the damned when he thought Gerda was guilty. I'm not surprised she tried to run away."

  "She was really trying to slip over the border into Austria and do a bunk, was she?" said Maria-Pia, inelegantly.

  "I'm certain she was," said Henry, "though of course I haven't given her a hint that such a thing had occurred to me. It was pretty grim for her. She'd lost her job, and the man she was in love with thought she was a double murderess. At one time, when Franco was arrested, she was so desperate that she tried to put an end to everything by confessing to the murder herself. Fortunately, I nipped that in the bud."

  "Thank goodness you did," said Maria-Pia. "That would have been really awful."

  "She wanted to do it for your sake," said Henry. "She'a very fond of you, you know."

  Maria-Pia opened her big brown eyes very wide. "Goodness," she said, "I'd no idea..."

  "We all are," said Henry. He took her hand for a moment, and suddenly kissed it. Then, rather red in the face, he walked quickly out of the room and down the stairs.

  In the hall, he met Trudi Knipfer. Unsmilingly, she said, u I have been meaning to talk to you, Herr Tibbett. I owe you $n apology."

  Henry grinned. "Officially, Fraulein," he said, "I am naturally very angry with you for withholding vital evidence."

  Trudi looked him in the eyes. "Would you have given the old man away?" she demanded. "Would you—if you'd hated Fritz Hauser as much as I did?"

  "That's a very difficult question to answer," said Henry, "I'll ask you one, instead. Why were you still prepared to marry him, if you felt like that?"

  "My father wished it," said Trudi, shortly.

  "Why?" asked Henry.

  Trudi hesitated for a moment. "He thought—" she began, but a brusque voice interrupted from the terrace.

  "Trudi! My pipe is in my room!"

  "Yes, Papa," said Trudi. And she was gone.

  "And that," thought Henry, "is a small mystery which will never be solved. Oh, well..."

  He went into the bar. Roger was sitting there alone, drinking coffee.

  "Nice to see a friendly face," he remarked to Henry. "All the others are packing."

  "I came," said Henry, "to give you this. I thought you might want it."

  He pulled Roger's statement out of his pocket.

  "I should burn it, if I were you," he added. "I don't think you or Caro will want to be reminded of it again. Officially, of course, I know nothing about it and never did."

  He left the paper on the table, and walked out quickly before Roger could say a word.

  Outside in the sunshine, Emmy put down her magazine and said, "Everything packed and ready?"

  "All done," said Henry. He sat down on the bench beside her. "How does the ankle feel today?"

  "Oh, much better," she said. "I can't put any weight on it yet, though. Even if we were staying on here, I don't suppose I could ski again inside a month. But next year..."

  Henry looked at her, his eyebrows raised. "You want to come again next year? After all that's happened?"

  "Of course I do. We'll take our holiday in January, and have a glorious fortnight's skiing with no murders, and I'll be doing parallel cristianias—you'll see." She suddenly gave him an anxious look, and added, in a different tone, "You do want to come again, don't you? I mean—you do like skiing?"

  "I hate it," said Henry, cheerfully, "but I know very well I'll be back next year and the year after and every year for as long as we can afford it. It's as bad as a dose of Hauser's cocaine."

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, gazing out over the sunlit beauty of the valley. Then Henry was recalled to reality by a voice at his elbow.

  "Signor Tibbett."

  He turned, to see Rossati standing there. In the proprietor's hand was a large piece of paper.

  "Signor Tibbett," he said, "It has been a pleasure and an honour to have you at my little hotel. I trust that all these unpleasant events will not turn you against the Bella Vista, for I should be so happy if you came again next year. Next year you will see changes. I am going to redecorate the bar, and I shall engage a little band for dancing." His eyes grew dreamy. "I shall refurnish the residents' sitting-room," he went on, " and all the bedrooms. I shall install two more bathrooms and hold tea-dances every Thursday. I shall engage a chef and have charcoal grill in the dining-room. My hotel will be the finest in all Italy ... my very own hotel ... Signor Tibbett "—his voice trembled with the ecstasy of the moment—"Signor Tibbett, may I present you with your bill?"