by Emma Lathen
She was not altogether sure what to say to Suzanne, either. “Suzanne, about your gold medal. I am sorry, but next time you will beat Vera Darskaya—”
“Oh no,” Suzanne declared emphatically. “There won’t be a next time. I’ve tried and failed. That is enough.”
Tilly, sitting cross-legged on a bed, did not understand the prevailing currents.
Suzanne was detached instead of disheartened. “Darskaya was at her best today,” she said, sounding honestly indifferent. “She has a great style. I hope it will be all right for her, this defection to the United States. But you should have seen the look on Mr. Withers’ face.”
Her unforced giggle made Tilly frown in perplexity. “I thought winning the gold was the only thing you cared about.”
Suzanne, who was drifting aimlessly around the room, shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said coolly.
Tilly believed her, although she was not sure why. “But, Suzanne, you worked so hard!”
“No harder than you, or anybody else,” Suzanne replied. “Since I was here, I decided it was only right to do my best.”
“Since you were here?” Tilly echoed. “You make it sound as if they were going to expel you, like they did me.”
“Oh, Tilly, I was so glad to hear what happened at Whiteface,” said Suzanne. “I know everything will be all right now.”
“I think so,” said Tilly radiantly. “Most of the committee supports me. So I am here and if I get to compete, I am going to try to win.”
“The whole affair was foolish,” said Suzanne.
Tilly, glowing with fierce happiness, still wanted to get to the bottom of things. “Yet, now that you’ve lost to Vera Darskaya, you don’t seem to care.”
“To tell you the truth,” said Suzanne, “it’s a great relief!”
“A relief?”
Suzanne looked at her almost shyly. “It has been so complicated. You see, Tilly, nobody expected me to be named to the French team. And last spring, in Rome, I met Carlo. You know, Carlo Antonelli?”
“Yes, I know,” said Tilly impatiently. “Go on.”
In a rush of words, Suzanne said, “We got married. Oh, Tilly, it was wonderful, but then I was named to the French team and everything seemed completely impossible. You see, I had applied for Italian citizenship. But since Carlo’s papa owns a resort at Cortina, Carlo said we could win him over if I skated and got the gold. So we decided to keep it a secret from the committee that we are married. But, Tilly, it has been so hard! And we have had to take terrible chances, just to be together.”
This outpouring left Tilly wide-eyed. “Do you mean that no one knows?” she demanded. “The French team? The Italians? Or the police?”
“No one,” said Suzanne. Then, blushing, she added, “No one except Gunther Euler. We had to tell him.”
“Why?” asked Tilly bluntly.
But Suzanne was winging away into her own private heaven. “Now we can tell everyone!”
* * *
By the time John Thatcher made a belated appearance at Town Hall, the cast had been enlarged and a new conflict raged.
Front and center was State Police Captain Philip Ormsby, foaming with indignation. “You mean to say this is your idea of an emergency? You called me away from a murder investigation for this?”
“What the hell do you expect us to do?” retorted the town representatives. “The selectmen have almost unanimously voted not to become involved.”
“So call in a diplomat,” rasped Ormsby. “The place is lousy with them. They’re in my hair all the time. But why me?”
The selectman was damned if he was going to admit he was acting under Soviet advice. “Because you’re listed in the phone book under the State of New York.”
Ormsby drew breath for another salvo.
If he was overflowing with anger, Brad Withers was equally distraught. One glimpse of his vice-president, and he was at his side.
“John,” he said in anguished tones, “you’ve got to do something.”
Years of practice had made Thatcher adept at winkling unsavory details from his chief. He listened with iron control.
“And now she says she’s depending on me to protect her from the Russians,” Brad concluded on a woebegone note.
Thatcher cast a skeptical glance at the Soviet contingent. “You can’t claim they’re resorting to physical violence,” he remarked.
The Russians were as far from Vera as they could get, and their indignant comments were aimed at the press.
“As a matter of fact,” said Brad, always fair-minded, “they don’t seem to want her back. But they complain that her methods are uncultured.”
Thatcher ignored this tempting bypath. “Never mind about that. If they don’t want her, what’s the problem?”
“Vera says her visa expires with the Games, Vera says she has no place to go, Vera says she’s got nothing except what’s on her back . . .”
At this point Thatcher acquitted Brad of any ill-advised alcoholic encouragement at the disco. It was Vera who had done all the talking, just as she was doing now with a cluster of reporters.
“Just a moment.” Thatcher unceremoniously interrupted the sea of quotations and marched over to the town officials. The selectmen were delighted to exchange Ormsby for a stranger, any stranger.
“You said your vote was almost unanimous. What about the ones who didn’t go along?”
The selectman was contemptuous. “Oh, them. They’re organizing a committee.”
“Thank you.” There was genuine gratitude in Thatcher’s voice before he wheeled and returned to Withers. “There you are, Brad. The committee can take care of her.”
Withers’ blue eyes were clouded with apprehension. “Somehow I don’t think Vera’s going to like that.”
Thatcher would unhesitatingly have left Brad to do his own dirty work if there had been the slightest possibility of success.
“But under the circumstances,” he said, “it might not be a bad idea if you were to slip away right now.”
Naturally it was not that easy. While Brad painfully struggled his way to the right thing to do, Vera caught wind of the committee. A general éclaircissement followed which left Vera reproachful but willing to try her wiles on a new target, Brad relieved and bustling down the corridor to search out the committee, and Thatcher ready to depart.
“So they snared you, too.” Ormsby, also leaving, was sarcastic. “We’re lucky they didn’t ring in the President and the Supreme Court.”
“I expect they lost their heads for a moment.” If Ormsby was unaware of the role played by the Sloan’s chief executive, who was Thatcher to tell him? “No doubt they would have come to their senses in a little while.”
Ormsby shook his head. “Not if they ever looked up Federal Government in the yellow pages.”
If the captain had his way, the State Police would shortly be getting an unlisted number.
“But I’m glad I bumped into you,” Thatcher said, trying to look on the bright side. “I’ve been meaning to call and ask about progress.”
Ormsby had fallen into a determinedly bitter outlook. “Well, we’ve got the police station shoveled out.”
Thatcher rose above this gloom. “I mean about Vaux. Did you learn anything from him?”
“God knows he wants to help,” Ormsby said dourly. “He’d sell his own mother to buy himself a deal. But he was so nervous about Bisson and the rest spotting him with the Maas woman, he didn’t notice much about them. Anyway, I don’t think he did.”
Thatcher cocked his head. “What do you mean, you don’t think?”
Ormsby rubbed his jaw. “By now I’m probably reaching.”
“Yes?” said Thatcher inviting him to continue.
“Vaux’s been babbling like a brook—but there was just one thing he said that set me thinking. He was talking about Gunther Euler. He got the impression that Euler wasn’t really enjoying himself on the snowmobile outing. That he was just putting up a good show.”
&
nbsp; Thatcher pondered this. “What’s wrong with that? At the time there was a strong presumption that Bisson had the best chance for the gold medal. Euler may have been trying to be a good sport, and not quite succeeding.”
“That’s what Vaux figures,” Ormsby agreed. “But I wonder, maybe Euler spotted Bisson passing that check.”
There was a long silence before Ormsby continued. “You see, what worries me is that Bisson, by all reports, was in roaring good spirits the night before he was murdered.”
“You mean, after the bus trip back?” Thatcher asked, to be absolutely certain.
“That’s right,” Ormsby said. “Now, if Euler had actually seen the goof, could he have reassured Bisson?”
This was sounding more and more farfetched to Thatcher, and he said so. “Captain, how could anyone have convinced Bisson everything was all right after that fake was passed?”
Ormsby was laboring to construct a reasonable scenario. “By all accounts, Bisson was pretty dumb,” he said persuasively. “Maybe he just convinced himself that if nobody had seen his mistake he was out of the woods.”
Thatcher did not like to figure as a nay-sayer, but the flaws were too glaring. “But, Ormsby, if nobody saw him and he didn’t tell anybody, why isn’t he still alive?”
“Yeah,” said Ormsby. “There’s that.”
Thatcher had never found heavy depression conducive to thought. So briskly he said, “You say Bisson was stupid. Do you mean too stupid to have masterminded this counterfeiting?”
“I don’t say it’s impossible, but it sure as hell sounds unlikely. According to everything I hear, Bisson was more brawn than brains. Maybe he was just playing dumb—but if so, he fooled his teachers back in France, his mother and father, his teammates—”
Thatcher had not been questioning Bisson’s capacities. “Then, if he didn’t originate this scheme, he must have been recruited. Right?”
Ormsby was willing to go along with that
“How?” Thatcher asked.
“How? You aren’t forgetting that all these people are on the same winter sports circuit,” Ormsby reminded him. “They see each other all the time.”
“They see each other in a general way. Oh, figure skaters and bobsledders run into each other. But do they get on terms to become accomplices—?”
He broke off, as Ormsby grinned broadly at him. “Have I said anything amusing?”
“They get on terms to marry each other,” said Ormsby.
The romance of Suzanne Deladier and Carlo Antonelli, which was roaring through Olympic Village like a forest fire, interested Thatcher.
“They’re like Katarina Maas and Vaux,” he said. “They were guarding a secret which, presumably, had nothing to do with Yves Bisson’s murder. At least it tells us why Miss Deladier, or Mrs. Antonelli, was so unforthcoming when we spoke to her.”
“The trouble is that the more information we get, the less we know,” said Ormsby, agreeing in spirit.
But Thatcher was not ready for that conclusion. “However, the fact that Deladier and Antonelli knew each other well enough to get married does not destroy my argument.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Which is,” Thatcher replied, ignoring Ormsby’s skepticism, “that all things considered, Gunther Euler was the one thrown into closest proximity with Bisson over the past few months, or even years.”
“My boys have been nosing around,” Ormsby told him. “They say the word in Olympic Village is that Euler is a lot sharper than he lets on.”
“That can mean anything, can’t it?” said Thatcher. “Still, it might warrant taking a closer look at Euler, don’t you think?”
As he spoke, Thatcher’s thoughts hared off along another line. Intervale was reopening tomorrow morning, which meant, among other things, that time was running out. In days the Olympics would be over.
But Ormsby was thinking about Intervale in other terms.
“. . . because it’s always possible that the police won’t be the only ones taking a bead on Gunther Euler.”
Chapter 17
Outward Bound
THE Olympics reopened the following morning with cloudless skies smiling down on the crowds gathering at Intervale to watch the ski jumping. Nevertheless, dark shadows remained. Carlo Antonelli was not the only spectator who studied the terrain with Yves Bisson in his mind’s eye.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Suzanne, openly clinging to him.
“I was wondering how the contestants feel,” he said, looking down at her somberly. “Are they expecting a bullet in the back when they jump? Are they worrying about a sniper as they wait up there?”
“Oh Carlo,” she cried, “not today! We’re here to cheer for Gunther, to enjoy ourselves, to behave like normal people.”
“To see and be seen,” he said without enthusiasm.
“Why not?” she demanded with a toss of her head. “Are you ashamed?”
“No, no,” he said, reflecting how little he really knew Suzanne. The last thing in the world he had expected her to demand was this triumphal procession. The only thing lacking was a bouquet for her to toss.
“. . . yes, married all the time,” Suzanne was saying to two Canadian girls who had stopped to talk. “Oh, the French were furious when they heard, weren’t they, Carlo dear?”
Carlo, wishing himself elsewhere, nodded vaguely, then deliberately turned away to peer at the towers. “I think they’re about to begin,” he said, but Suzanne was too busy with her friends to pay heed.
Some people had come to watch the jumping. Most of them shared with Antonelli a pang of premonition when the first jumper appeared. Some of them, who were working for Captain Ormsby although they were not in uniform, tensed. But the slim Norwegian landed foursquare on his skis after an unmarred performance. As he coasted nonchalantly to the sidelines, there was a collective sigh of relief.
Needless to say, the true aficionados were thinking technique and nothing else.
“Well, Norway’s no threat,” announced an expert standing near Antonelli. “He didn’t come anywhere near a 110 meters.”
His companion squinted at the scoreboard which had sprung into electric life. “108,” he confirmed. “It’ll be different when the Germans hit that chute. Keep your eye on Gunther Euler.”
A scratch pad with notes was consulted. “Euler’s practice was lousy this morning.”
“I hope Gunther shows them all,” Suzanne, rejoining him, told Carlo in a stage whisper.
To his great relief, the experts simply moved away.
“Gunther has a lot of pressure on him,” he said. “Why don’t we go closer to the—”
But she willfully misunderstood him. “But, Carlo! With Gunther’s score in the earlier jumps, there are only three others who have any chance at all. Unless he has some sort of accident—”
This was the first time Suzanne had ever lectured him, and Carlo did not much care for it. “Yes, Suzanne. But now, be quiet. Here comes Schecktel from East Germany. He has a strong chance to beat Gunther.”
Schecktel’s jump stilled conversation until the moment of touchdown.
“Beautiful,” murmured the experts, and the scoreboard confirmed them. Schecktel had jumped 113.7 meters.
Carlo turned to make domestic peace only to find Suzanne again enjoying her moment in the sun. While looking on, he too was accosted by a wellwisher.
“Congratulations and all that,” said Dick Noyes awkwardly.
“Thank you,” said Carlo.
His reserve did not keep Noyes from completing the formula.
“And you’re a lucky man, Carlo.”
They stood in silence, surrounded by the ebullient crowd, long enough to make Noyes uneasy. Fortunately distraction was at hand.
“It’s Gunther!” he and Antonelli said simultaneously.
Euler looked like perfection as soon as he began moving. There was no adjustment in the chute, no discontinuity between being earthborn and airborne, no jerking resolution of the h
unched-over tuck into the aerial float high over the heads of the spectators. Gunther simply flowed effortlessly from the starting gate to far, far down the bill.
“Look at him stretch it!” Noyes was reverent.
When Euler landed, beautifully balanced with his elbows barely flared, the cheering began long before the scoreboard announced 114.9 meters. There were five competitors still to come, but that was a formality. The gold medal had been won!
“And so much for all that garbage, about how Gunther wouldn’t have a chance if it wasn’t for Yves’ murder,” Dick said robustly. “Yves never jumped like that.”
A spectator nearby looked at him sharply. Dick did not notice but Carlo did. With deliberation he said, “Neither did Euler before today. He may be the kind of athlete who needs pressure to perform his best.”
“Well, he was just great, whatever the reason,” Noyes rejoined.
“Yes,” said Carlo, conscious of the eavesdropper. -There can be no quarrel about that.”
Certainly not among most spectators who pressed forward to congratulate, to admire, to listen to the answers that the flushed Euler was making for the microphones.
“Yes, this morning I was worried. But as soon as my skis hit the snow, I knew it was going to be better than ever before.”
“Well, Gunther, you certainly showed our viewers a wonderful jump. We’re looking forward to seeing you again—”
“Oh you will,” said Euler, grinning broadly. “You will.”
After his bout with the media, he came back to earth with friends and acquaintances crowding around. Like a reigning prince, he began to lead the way from the run-out area, so that remaining competitors could continue. His entourage made a large joyful caravan as they proceeded, and Suzanne, Carlo noticed, had managed to slip in beside the star.
Suddenly, as he and Noyes brought up the rear, all progress stopped.
Gunther was glaring at Suzanne. “What are you talking about?” he demanded in a voice that carried.
Carlo quickened his pace and arrived in time to see Suzanne shrink back.
“B-but, Gunther! We met you at Herr Wennerdonk’s! The day after we went snowmobiling. Don’t you remember? You saw Carlo and me coming out of the bedroom—”
