The Lonely Skier

by Hammond Innes

  I woke to find Joe standing beside me with a tray of food. ‘It’s past ten,’ he said. ‘You’ve slept for nearly four hours. Better have some food now.’ I sat up then. I felt much better; very stiff, but quite fit.

  Joe went to the door. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘He’s awake.’

  It was Mayne who entered. ‘My God, Blair!’ he said. ‘I’m glad to see you.’ He sat down uninvited at the foot of the bed. ‘I’ve only just got back from Carbonin. I was in despair when we were searching up through the pass. We couldn’t find a trace of you. Then, when we got back at nightfall, there was Wesson’s message saying they’d picked you up on this side. I’ve never been so glad to get a telephone message. I’d almost given up hope. How do you feel? What happened?’

  It was incredible. That charming, boyish smile. It was so natural. But it did not extend to the eyes. Those grey eyes of his were expressionless. They told me nothing. Or was that my imagination? He seemed so delighted to see me. He made it sound important to him that I was alive. But all I could think of was that wall of snow rushing up to meet me and the great swirl of snow where he’d Christied into the floor of the valley. ‘You should know what happened,’ I said coldly. ‘You meant it to happen.’

  He went on as though he had not understood my remark. ‘When I got to the end of that valley, I found I was on the edge of a glacier. It was the Cristallino Glacier. I knew then, of course, that we had struck much too far to the right. I waited there for a few minutes. When you didn’t show up, I began to get worried. I started back up my ski tracks. But I hadn’t realised how quickly the snow was covering up my tracks. By the time I’d gone back five hundred yards, there was no trace of them left. The valley wasn’t clearly defined. Without any tracks to guide me, there were innumerable ways I might have come down. The snow had been so thick in my face that I could not remember the features of the ground. It was a maze of little valleys. I tramped up every one I could find. I climbed from one to the other, calling to you. And in the end I thought you must have had a spill, found my tracks covered and made your own way. I went on down to Carbonin then, and when I found you hadn’t arrived I telephoned here for them to send out a search-party from this end, and then started back up the pass with all the decent ski-ers I could muster at the Carbonin Hotel. My God!’ he said with an apologetic smile, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. You see, I felt it was my fault. I should have realised that my tracks were being covered up like that and kept closer touch with you. What did happen?’ he asked.

  I was staggered at his nerve. ‘You mean to say you’ve really no idea what happened?’ I demanded angrily. ‘Christ! You’ve got a nerve, Mayne.’ I was trembling. ‘Why did you take that steep slope as a direct run? You had to Christi at the bottom to avoid the soft snow on the other side of the valley. And you knew I couldn’t Christi.’

  ‘But I didn’t Christi,’ he said, and looked me straight in the eyes, perfectly cool. ‘There was quite a nice banking turn at the bottom. I took it as a straight turn. I know it was a bit fast, but there was nothing difficult about it. I certainly didn’t have to Christi.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ I said.

  He gazed at me in astonishment. ‘I repeat: I did not have to Christi. You’d made out so well, I thought you’d take that bit in your stride.’

  ‘You know very well I couldn’t take it in my stride.’ I felt calmer now. ‘You had to Christi and you knew I was bound to crash into that soft snow.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he said. ‘What are you trying to prove?’

  I looked at him for a moment. Could I have been mistaken? But that swirl of torn-up snow in the bottom of that valley—the picture of it was so clear in my mind. I said, ‘Mind if I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You joined the Army in 1942. What happened to you after you landed in Italy?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘I don’t get what you’re driving at, Blair,’ he said. ‘I joined the Army in 1940, not 1942. Went overseas in ’43—North Africa. I was a troop commander in an Ack-Ack Regiment. We landed at Salerno. I was taken prisoner, escaped and then joined UNRRA and went to Greece. But what’s that got to do with—?’

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit strung-up, that’s all.’ And I lay back against the pillow.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you’re all right. I did everything I could. I’m terribly sorry about it. It was my fault. I realise that. But I honestly thought you’d have no difficulty at the bottom of that run. I blame myself for not realising that the tracks were being covered up so quickly.’ He got up then.

  I said, ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  When he had gone out of the room, Joe uncovered a plate of scrambled eggs and placed it beside me. ‘What the devil were you driving at, Neil?’ he asked as I began to eat. ‘Why question him about his Army career?’

  ‘Because somebody told me he was a deserter,’ I said, with my mouth full. It was good to taste food again. ‘One of them is a liar. I’ll find out which before I’m through.’

  ‘Don’t understand your attitude,’ he grunted. ‘Mayne’s a decent enough fellow. He couldn’t have done more. Rang us up as soon as he got into Carbonin. I answered the phone. He was terribly worried. He must have been dog-tired after a bad run like that. But he went straight out again with a search-party he got together at Carbonin. Didn’t get in till dark. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t locate you.’

  I shrugged my shoulders and went on eating. He seemed to be annoyed by my silence. ‘I think you’re being damned uncharitable in the matter,’ he went on. ‘Know what you said when you came to and I was giving you brandy? I asked what had happened. And you told me that Mayne had tried to murder you.’

  I looked up at his heavy, friendly features. He was so sure of the world about him. It was just something to take pictures of. ‘You thought I was just unstrung by what had happened?’

  ‘Of course you were,’ he said soothingly. ‘Believe me, that boy did all he could. It wasn’t his fault that you went into some soft snow and that his ski tracks got covered up. Anything can happen up in the mountains when it comes on thick like that. The guide who carried you part of the way down, he told me several stories of people caught that way. Trouble was you tried to do too much when you were out of practice.’

  I said nothing after that. What was the good? But Mayne had lied when he said he’d done a straight turn at the bottom of that run.

  Joe left me then and I lay in bed, comfortably relaxed. I tried to read. But I could not concentrate. In the end, I put the book down and just lay there, trying to get things clear in my mind.

  It must have been about an hour later that Joe came in. ‘Engles wants you on the phone,’ he said. ‘He’s down at the Splendido. Says he tried to contact you earlier, but couldn’t get any sense out of Aldo. I told him you oughtn’t to be disturbed, but he was insistent. You know what he’s like,’ he added apologetically. ‘If you were dying, he’d still want me to rout you out. I tried to tell him what had happened. But he wouldn’t listen. Never will listen to anything in which he doesn’t figure. Do you feel like coming down, or shall I tell him to go to hell?’

  ‘No, I’ll come,’ I said. I got out of bed and slipped a blanket round my shoulders over my dressing-gown.

  ‘Wonder what he’s come over for,’ Joe said as he followed me out of the door. My knees felt a bit weak and stiff. Otherwise I seemed all right. ‘Why the devil doesn’t he leave us to get on with it on our own?’ he grumbled behind me. ‘It’s always the same. Feels he isn’t doing his job unless he’s goading everybody on. Have you got a synopsis for him?’

  ‘I haven’t done too badly,’ I said. But I was thinking of Engles’ private mission, not of the script.

  The telephone was on the bar, by the coffee geyser. Mayne and Valdini looked up as I came in. They were seated by the stove. Valdini said, ‘You feel better, Mr Blair? I am glad. I was afraid for you when I heard you had mislaid you
r way.’

  ‘I feel fine now, thanks,’ I replied.

  I picked up the receiver. ‘That you, Neil?’ Engles’ voice sounded thin over the wire. ‘What’s all this Wesson was saying about an accident?’

  I was conscious that both Mayne and Valdini were watching me and listening to the conversation. ‘I don’t think it was quite that,’ I replied. ‘Tell you about it tomorrow. Are you coming up?’

  ‘Snow’s pretty thick down here,’ came the reply. ‘But I’ll be up if I have to come through on skis. I’ve booked a room. You might see that it’s laid on. What have you discovered about Mayne—anything?’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I can’t tell you the plot now. This telephone is in the bar. Give you a full synopsis when I see you.’

  ‘I get you. But I think I’ve recognised him from those pictures you sent. Had the roll developed the instant it arrived. It was that scar that gave me the clue. That’s why I flew over. Watch him, Neil. If he’s the bloke I think he is, he’s a dangerous customer. By the way, I’ve got that little bitch, Carla, with me. She’s had ten Martinis and is now telling me I’m nice and not a bit English. We’ll see if our impressions of her so beautiful nature tally—yes?’ He gave a quick laugh. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’ And he rang off.

  Joe thrust a drink across to me as I put down the phone. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Seems to be,’ I said.

  ‘What’s he come over for? Did he tell you?’

  ‘Oh, I think he just wants to look over the ground for himself,’ I replied.

  ‘He would. Still, he’s a bloody good director. Queer fellow. Mother was Welsh, you know. That’s where he gets that love of music and that flashy brilliance of speech and intellect. They’re all the same, the Welsh—flashy, superficial, no depth to them.’

  ‘There’s a bit more to him than that,’ I said.

  ‘Well, he’s not all Welsh, that’s why. Don’t know what his father was—something dour, probably a Scot. That’s what makes him so moody and gives him that dogged seeking after perfection. Two sides of his nature always at war with each other. Makes him difficult to work with. Still, it’s his strength as a director.’

  I finished my drink and went back to bed. Joe fussed after me like a mother—had my hot-water bottles refilled, put a bottle of cognac beside my bed and saw to it that I had some cigarettes. ‘Want me to kiss you good-night?’ he asked with a grin.

  ‘I think I can get along without that,’ I laughed.

  ‘Okay,’ he said and switched out the light. ‘You’ll feel fine tomorrow.’

  As soon as his footsteps had died away, I got up and locked the door. I was taking no chances.

  I had not been in the warmth of my bed more than a few minutes before ski boots clattered along the bare boards of the corridor and there was a knock at the door. ‘Who’s there?’ I asked.

  ‘Keramikos,’ was the reply.

  ‘Just a minute,’ I said. I slipped out of bed and unlocked the door. Then I put the light on and hopped back into bed. ‘Come in,’ I called.

  He entered and shut the door. He stood for a moment at the foot of my bed, looking at me. It was difficult to see the expression of his eyes behind those thick lenses. They reflected the light and looked like two round white discs. ‘So,’ he said, ‘it was not the slittovia, eh?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I asked. But I understood.

  He ignored my question. ‘You lock your door now, hm? You are learning.’

  ‘You’re not surprised that I had an accident whilst out with Mayne, are you?’ I said.

  ‘I am never surprised at anything, my friend,’ he replied evasively.

  I tried another line. ‘You told me Mayne was a deserter and that he joined the Army in 1942. He says he joined in 1940.’

  ‘He’s probably right, then. I don’t know Gilbert Mayne’s history. I only know this man’s history.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that this is not the real Gilbert Mayne?’ I asked, for I did not know what other interpretation to put on his words.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But I did not come to discuss Mayne with you. I felt it would be courteous, as a fellow-guest, Mr Blair, to come and offer you my felicitations on your narrow escape. Wesson tells me the director of your film company has arrived. Will he be staying here?’

  ‘For a few days,’ I told him. ‘He should interest you. He was in Greece for a time.’

  ‘Greece?’ He seemed interested. ‘In the Army?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Intelligence.’

  He gave me a quick look. ‘Then perhaps he and I will have much to talk about?’

  He bade me good-night then. But as he reached the door I said, ‘By the way, when you examine what is written on a sheet of typing paper in the machine, you should always see that it is rolled back to the original position.’

  ‘I do not follow,’ he said.

  ‘You searched my room last night,’ I reminded him.

  He looked at me hard. Then he said, ‘Whoever searched your room, Mr Blair, it was not me—that I assure you.’ And he closed the door. I at once got up and locked it.

  6

  An Ugly Scene

  WHEN I LOOKED out of my window next morning it was a different world. There was no sunshine, no sharp contrast between black and white. The sky was grey with falling snow—large flakes that moved slowly downwards in their millions. The ground was a dull blanket of white. The trees were so laden with snow that they scarcely seemed trees at all. The belvedere was no longer a platform of bare boards. It was a square of virgin white, the round table-tops bulging with snow like giant mushrooms.

  I felt quite all right—just tired and very stiff. I went downstairs and phoned Emilio at the bottom of the slittovia. He told me that the sleigh could make it at the moment, but that if the wind rose and the snow began to drift, it would not be possible. I then phoned the Splendido and left a message for Engles that if he could get through to Tre Croci, the slittovia would be able to bring him up to Col da Varda. Then I told Aldo to prepare the remaining room.

  I suppose I should now switch straight to Engles’ arrival at Col da Varda, for nothing happened until after he had arrived. But, since everything hinged on that event, I must give some account of the strange air of expectancy that pervaded the bar room that morning.

  In the case of Joe and myself it was understandable. Joe was mentally preparing himself for a verbal clash with his director. ‘Engles will be full of ideas, damn his eyes,’ he grumbled to me. ‘But a film’s got to have a focal point, and the focal point, as I see it, is this hut and the slittovia. It’s a terrific setting. Look at it this morning! Another few hours and we’ll be snowbound up here. What a situation for, say, a group of people who hate each other, or whose interests clash!’ This was said to me at breakfast, and the others listened to his words with peculiar attention. ‘And the slittovia,’ he added. ‘I’ve got some fine shots of it. Rig up a dummy sleigh and have it hurtle down with the cable broken. And a ski chase—I’ve got a wonderful shot of you, Neil, as you came down that pass and collapsed at our feet. If Engles doesn’t agree with me—damn it, I’ll resign.’

  Joe was strung up and marshalling his points. And for myself, I must admit to a sense of excitement. After all that had happened, I felt certain Engles must tell me why he had sent me out here.

  But the others—why were they so silent? Mayne had greeted me cheerfully enough when he came in to breakfast. He asked me how I felt with the quiet solicitude of a friend who was glad to see me none the worse for an unfortunate mishap. He was charming and natural, but quieter than usual. Anna’s big eyes smiled at him unanswered as she laid the table. And when Joe came down and began to talk of Engles’ arrival, he fell strangely silent.

  And Valdini, who could have talked out any bill had he been an American senator, said hardly a word. Joe noticed it and said, ‘What’s on your mind, Valdini. In trouble with that contessa of yours?’

  ‘A
lways you make the fun of me, Wesson, eh?’ snarled the little Sicilian.

  ‘Well, you looked damned worried when she phoned you last night,’ Joe replied.

  ‘When was that?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, after you’d finally gone to bed,’ Joe answered.

  So she had phoned him after Engles had spoken to me. I would have given much to have known what she had said. That it concerned Engles I had no doubt.

  And Keramikos. He was always quiet and reserved. But this morning he appeared not so much reserved as watchful. He regarded the breakfast-table with amused detachment. And yet there was a trace of nervousness in his manner. It seems quite natural for him to have been nervous now that I know the whole story. But at the time it was strange, because he always had such an air of confidence.

  After breakfast everyone huddled round the stove. And that was strange, too, because normally they all drifted off to their rooms.

  Joe talked to me for a time about the film. He wanted my support. He tried to get me to give him a synopsis of the script I was supposed to have planned. Was I using the hut and the slittovia? What snow scenes had I planned? And when he found me uncommunicative, he too fell silent. Finally he confirmed my feeling that the atmosphere was tense. ‘Seems this snow has the same effect on people as the mistral or the sirocco. How long is it likely to last, Mayne?’

  ‘A day or two maybe,’ Mayne replied.

  ‘My God!’ Joe said. ‘Are we going to sit as glum as owls round this stove for several days? For the love of God, Mayne, get on that piano and hammer out something cheerful. Can’t say I usually like the row you kick up in the mornings. But anything is better than the five of us brooding over this monstrosity of a stove.’

  But Mayne said he did not feel in the mood. And nobody supported Joe in his demand for music. In the end, he went and got a book. But even with one of his inevitable Westerns, his mind did not seem able to settle down. Valdini sat picking his teeth with a match. Mayne and Keramikos seemed lost in thought.