by Nick Carter
I noticed the rattle of bottles had ceased in the next room.
Seven
To get to the Sol y Nieve ski resort, you take a winding road out of Malaga and up the southern slopes of the Sierra Nevada. The Hotel Sierra Nevada, where we were registered, lay at the bottom of the Prado Llano, and the suit Juana and I shared looked out onto the ski run.
The white slope of the Borreguilas divides the ski run about midway between the Picacho de Veleta and the Prado Llano. The lower cable-car from the Prado Llano ends and the upper cable-car begins at the Borreguilas. The engine room is nearby.
Two parallel barrancas contain the lower ski runs from the Borreguilas to the Prado Llano. They are separated by a knife-edge ridge of granite and mica, where only small patches of snow are visible even after the heaviest snowfall.
The cable car running from the Prado Llano to the Borreguilas is suspended over the main barranca where the easy runs are located. The more difficult runs are to the east in the neighboring gulley.
I sat out on the balcony that ran all the way around the hotel, watching the skiers, but I soon decided I would rather ski than watch. But just to enforce my cover, I took half a dozen pictures with the Rolleiflex 1 had brought along — gratuitously supplied by AXE's Prop Section — making sure the patrons below saw me.
It had been a tiring drive, and soon I went inside, kicked off my shoes and lay back on the bed with a weary sigh. But I couldn't sleep. My mind was racing over the events of the past couple of days.
It was now two days after the killing of Rico Corelli's gemini — his stand-in — by The Mosquito. Absolutely nothing had happened in the two days following my meeting with Barry Parson and Elena Morales. But I had kept in touch with Mitch Kelly, and several communications had come in from Hawk:
ITEM: Under no circumstances try to communicate directly with Rico Corelli. AXE's agreement with him stands firm. No trace of double-dealing from his end. Wait until you hear from him by way of Tina Bergson.
ITEM: Our information shows that Moscato is not now in Malaga or Torremolinos. Do not — repeat, do not — try to follow him. Keep a watchful eye out for him.
ITEM: The meeting at Sol y Nieve is still in the go stage.
ITEM: Information requested on Barry Parson is nonexistent. MI-5 will not divulge whether or not there is such a person. Obviously the name is a pseudonym; MI-6 will probably not divulge his identity until his current mission is over. Sorry but there is neither confirmation nor denial on him or on bis role in this scheme.
ITEM: Moscato is a hired killer who has been employed by the Mafia for years. He also makes free-lance hits.
ITEM: Elena Morales — not much can be found out about her. She has no record of prior involvement in espionage, counterespionage, or undercover work of any land for the Spanish Government. However, she might not be Spanish at all, but French or Italian. No leads.
ITEM: Confirmation on Moscato's presence in Mexico at the time the sniper attacked you in Ensenada. Also, there is a record of his having made a flight to Europe at the same time you did, although not via Iberia.
That was it from Hawk.
On the second morning after the killing of Rico Corelli's stand-in I had gotten the phone call during breakfast with Juana.
"Kelly," said the voice. "Tina has heard from Roman Nose. You're to go to Sol y Nieve today."
"Right."
"Don't look for him. Wait till the first night. At midnight, go to the cable-car engine room and meet his contact there. The contact's name is Arturo. He will set up a meeting between you and Roman Nose, at which time you are to arrange for Juana to meet with him. But you must go alone to the first two meetings."
"Got it."
"That's it, then," said Kelly. "Good luck."
"Hold on. How's Tina?"
"Coming along."
"When wall she be going to the resort?"
"No telling. Hernández hasn't released her yet, nor has he said when he would."
"Anything on Parson?"
"Negative."
"Elena Morales?"
"Likewise."
"You guys sure work hard for a living, don't you?"
"Aw, Nick!"
* * *
About four in the afternoon I rolled off the bed and got into my ski pants, shirt, and sweater.
Skiers were still on the slopes. I could see red-jacketed men, green-jacketed girls, jacketed figures of both sexes, coming down the lanes of the lowest level. Past the engine house for the lowest slope of cable cars I could see the second slope rising past the Borreguilas in the big sweep all the way to the top of the highest run — on the Veleta.
The cable cars were still operating, going up and down simultaneously, passing each other, going up full, coming down empty. I glanced up at the engine house speculatively.
Rico Corelli. If only I knew what he really looked like. The hotel was small — I could take up my station in the lobby and meet him without all this ridiculous cloak and dagger stuff so dearly loved by Hawk and his minions.
Still. One man had already been killed. Rico Corelli was a big man on a dangerous mission. Security was important.
I knocked on the door to Juana's half of the suite.
"Yes?"
"Let's go down, Juana."
We went out together like husband and wife — an old married couple in whom the fires of sex and love had long ago died. The bachelor husband and the virgin wife.
* * *
The air was cold but bracing. The snow appeared perfect for skiing, just a light layer of powder in the right places. No storm was predicted. Yet I could sense that there might be some snow that night.
We sat at one of the last tables in the Prado and drank some hot chocolate with cognac. A party of four people came down from the slopes and parked their skis and poles against the wall of the snack bar and looked for a table and chairs.
They were speaking German. I know some German, so I offered them half of our table. They took one look at Juana and hastily accepted. The party consisted of four men. One was in his forties and obviously the leader of the group; the other three were probably in their late thirties. The leader spoke German but was actually Swiss. The other three were mixed — one Dane and two Germans.
They could not take their eyes off Juana, even after the muchacho brought them four steaming mugs of chocolate.
"Herr Bruno Hauptli," said the big man, reaching out to shake my hand.
"George Peabody. From the States."
"Ah, yes! Of course. I did recognize something of an American accent in your German."
"I apologize," I grinned. "This is Juana, my wife."
"Such a lucky man!" exclaimed Bruno Hauptli, turning to his companions and explaining in German that she was married to me.
"Ya, ya," said the two Germans as they stared at Juana. The Dane drooled into his chocolate.
"You people ski tomorrow?" Herr Hauptli asked.
Juana nodded. "We intend to."
"Ah! I am not on the slopes tomorrow, but perhaps the next day — or the next!" Herr Hauptli slapped his thigh excitedly. "Why do we not make a duet of it — I mean, a trio," he said, remembering me.
Juana sparkled. "I'd love it!"
"Herr Peabody?"
"Oh, love it, love it!"
Everybody laughed because it was obvious that I would not love it.
The talk churned on. Hauptli suddenly had Juana by the arm, was leading her off from the table and leaning down with her over his skis and poles. They were deep in some technical discussion about the lock device he had on his skis. Juana was bubbling and effervescent.
"Herr Hauptli," I said in German to one of the younger men. "He is a businessman, yap?"
The German next to me was classically blue-eyed and blond-haired. "Ya! Herr Hauptli is one of the most successful businessmen in the Common Market," he said. "He has a great deal of responsibility."
"He is on vacation?" I asked.
"A big meeting is to be held in Paris
in a week. For now, Herr Hauptli is relaxing, enjoying the sunlight, and the snow and the…"
A pause.
The Germans both laughed and the not-entirely-melancholy Dane slapped the table with his open palm.
"The girls!"
Much laughter.
It reminded me of one of those old comic operas I used to see on the late late show — old nineteen thirties' movies. Something struck me as not just quite right about it. But I couldn't put my finger on it.
* * *
The restaurant was set up like a typical ski resort refectory, with one long table all the way down the middle of the room, trestle-fashion, and smaller tables along the walls of the room.
Our party — Juana and I had joined Herr Hauptli and his friends — was right in the center of the entire gathering. Herr Hauptli kept up a running line of Teutonic chatter that was ear-shattering and mind-blowing all at the same time. Even those who could not understand German or English seemed totally hypnotized by his charisma.
I took my time during the long meal and scrutinized the rest of the patrons of the hotel.
I was looking for Roman Nose, trying to spot the real Rico Corelli in the sea of faces about me. There seemed to be no possibilities.
It was eleven-thirty before I was even aware of the time. The brandy came and I sat sipping it. When Herr Hauptli paused for breath I turned to Juana and said: "I'm going out for a breath of fresh air before bed. Are you coming, dear?"
She smiled at me calmly. "No, darling. Sorry. It's much too cold. Don't be late."
I smiled and finished my brandy.
"Herr Hauptli, it's been a real pleasure. See you tomorrow, or whenever — right?"
"Ya," said Herr Hauptli, his face red with the wine and brandy and the stimulation of eating. "Auf weidersehen."
I pushed back my chair, bowed to the two Germans and the Dane and made my way through the crowded restaurant.
It was extremely cold outside. The air was nippy. I poked my head out, and then went back upstairs to our suite and got myself some ear muffs and a stocking cap. I also put on my windbreaker after checking the loads in my shoulder holster and making sure the knife was strapped to my ankle.
I made it to the top of the winding trail without incident Away from the protection of the buildings I felt colder than I had felt since I had come to the Sierra Nevadas. The wind cut through my clothes until I felt half naked.
There were no lights on in the engine house. Nor was there a sound on the mountainside. I looked back over my shoulder. The yellow beams of light from the hotel rooms and from the windows overlooking the Prado made golden patterns in the white snow.
The building where the chair lift machinery was sited was surrounded by banks of snow. I could see the main entrance facing out into the valley. The door to the engine room was closed, but it was unlocked. I turned the knob and pushed it open. Inside the building it was very dark, although the reflection of the stars on the snow brought in some light. It was surprising how bright the sky was even in the dead of night.
I could see past the wheel to the turnaround where the cable cars swung around in a semi-circle, reversing direction. A cable car stood in the middle of the semi-circle, holding there until the machinery started up in the morning.
I was just about to go forward when I saw someone moving past the cable car. Whoever it was had either been inside the building when I entered, or had come in from some other entrance. I thought he must have been there waiting for me. Then he, of course, would be my contact man.
Arturo.
I gripped my piece, drew it out, and tensed to move forward, opening my mouth to whisper "Arturo."
I never got the word out.
Someone else did!
"Arturo!"
The sound seemed to come from behind the cable car. I lifted the piece and aimed it at the silhouette there. If he was calling for Arturo, he was not Arturo. And since I was supposed to be calling for Arturo, I knew that the man there would be someone else also trying to find Arturo before I did, someone not on my side.
"Sí?" a voice asked in the other half of the big engine room.
Instantly there was a loud, echoing gunshot — a report that bounced back and forth in that small room like the pounding of a hundred drums. A blaze of orange flame appeared and disappeared instantly. I heard a scream to my left.
Immediately I crouched and let go a shot at the figure behind the cable car.
Someone cursed in Spanish. There was the sound of a body falling off to my left, and a groan. I fired once again, trying to see the man behind the cable car. I could not make out any part of him.
The door reopened then, and I knew the figure; had made his escape. I fired once again in the direction of the door sound, and then ran through the darkness toward the spot.
No one was there.
There was a door — a second entrance to the engine house. I opened it and looked out. There was no sign of anyone. I moved quickly outside and looked up and down the snowy slope. No one.
Back inside the building I could hear someone gasping and wheezing, I found the boy and knelt down over him on the concrete floor. I could not see him at all.
"Arturo?" I asked.
"Sí." He shuddered.
"Where do I meet the man I came to see?"
"Top of Veleta — Picacho de Veleta. Twelve o'clock. Tomorrow night."
"Okay," I whispered. I leaned down. I could hear his labored, ragged breathing. Then, before I had a chance to say anything more, I heard that familiar bubbling rasp that is so much like a rattle, but is not really a rattle at all.
Something else.
Life leaving the body.
Arturo was dead.
Quickly I rose and left the engine house, skirting around the outcrops with my piece drawn and ready until I had made the Prado Llano and run to the hotel.
I looked back only once, and I could see a light on in the engine house now, and shadowy figures milling about inside.
The shots had been loud enough to alert the entire constabulary of Sol y Nieve. The Guardia Civil was there.
Shaken, I climbed the stairs and passed through the lobby, turning left to the bar, trying to get my breath back with a stiff jolt of cognac.
That helped.
Some.
But not much.
Eight
The muted excitement which had increased to a peak of intensity just after the shooting of Arturo and the subsequent investigation of the killing had died down completely within a half hour. The Guardia Civil stationed at the ski resort had taken care of the corpse and had begun the long tedious process of questioning patrons and attendants at the resort.
I did not envy the police their job. It was back-breaking, unrewarding, and particularly uncomfortable work in these altitudes at this time of the year. They were good men.
I was lucky. Nothing led them to me.
The cognac had succeeded in calming me somewhat. I kept my eyes on the lobby of the hotel, watching everyone who came in and went out. I was looking for anyone who resembled the man I had found in the bed of the villa in Torremolinos, the man I had come to believe was The Mosquito.
Finally I got up and went into the lobby and peered out at the Prado Llano. No one at all seemed to be abroad now.
I crossed the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor where our suite was. As I inserted the key in my door I heard laughter in the room adjoining mine. Juana's laughter.
Smiling, I pushed open my door and snapped on the light. So she had brought Herr Hauptli up to her room. At least he seemed entertaining, even in his boorish Teutonic way. There was one consolation — few hidden wrinkles existed in a man as extroverted as that.
I crossed to the door and put my ear to it.
Giggling. Juana s amusement fizzed out of her like the bubbles out of a champagne glass. Herr Hauptli must be better in bed than in the drawing room, I thought idly. I didn't trust the man.
"Please," Juana said. "And put i
ce in it, would you please, Barry?"
Barry!
I drew away from the door, frowning.
Barry Parson?
I could hear his voice then, muted, but quite clearly recognizable — British accent, submerged hilarity, and subdued effervescence unmistakable.
"Right, Sweetheart. One glass of scotch, coming up!"
We had last seen Parson in Malaga. He and Elena had joined Juana and me for a lazy shopping and dining spree the day after the killing of Rico Corelli's double. We had gone to dinner with them the night before leaving for Sol y Nieve. But we had not told either of them where we were coming — because we had not known until early the next morning. How had Parson found out where we were? And why had he followed us? Had he discovered that The Mosquito was after us, too? Quite possibly. The Mosquito was here — I suspected that he had killed Arturo. At least, that was the most obvious possibility.
But why was Parson not out there to stop The Mosquito, if he had followed him? And why…?
Thought of The Mosquito halted me. I did a quick mental reconsideration, and shuffled the cards into a completely new deal. I saw then that it was possible that Barry Parson might not be the innocent British MI-5 officer he claimed to be.
Thus:
I had been led to the villa where The Mosquito was hiding in Torremolinos by a prostitute who had helped service him the night before.
I had found a man in the bedroom, had tried to take him, but had been interrupted. The man had fled. Another man calling himself Barry Parson had entered the bedroom, claiming to be a secret British agent after The Mosquito.
Suppose Parson was not an agent at all. Suppose the man in the bed was simply a John Doe. Suppose The Mosquito had put the John Doe there, and had then interrupted me to let the false Mosquito vanish. And then suppose he had succeeded in conning me into believing that The Mosquito had vanished.
Then he was The Mosquito! Barry Parson! And he had simply followed me to Sol y Nieve, had followed me to the engine house, had killed Arturo, probably assuming Arturo was me, and had run off. Now he was in bed with Juana, hoping to be led to the real Rico Corelli!
