The Dead Mountaineer's Inn (12 page)

I ran out of the den and up to the second floor. As I passed the shower, I heard the water gushing fiercely and the owner chastising Kaisa for her stupidity in a fierce whisper. The hallway light was out; I spent quite a while finding the switch, and then even longer knocking on Hinkus's door. Hinkus wasn't answering. Well, then, he must still be on the roof! I was horrified. Had he fallen asleep up there? What if he'd frozen! I rushed frantically up the attic stairs … there he was, sitting on the roof. He was sitting in the same position as before, bundled up, with his head hidden in the huge collar and his hands pulled into their sleeves.

“Hinkus!” I shouted.

He didn't move. I ran up to him and shook his shoulder. I couldn't believe it. Hinkus collapsed, gently giving way beneath my hand.

“Hinkus!” I cried in agitation, involuntarily trying to catch him.

The coat opened, and out fell some clumps of snow and the fur hat; only then did I realize that this wasn't Hinkus: it was just a snowman with his fur coat wrapped around it. That was the moment when I sobered up at last. I looked quickly around me. The small bright moon was hanging directly over my head, and I could see everything, as if it were day. There were many sets of footprints on the roof, but they were all the same: it was impossible to tell whose was whose. The snow beside the chaise longue had been trampled, scattered and dug through—maybe because of a scuffle, maybe in order to gather snow for the snowman. The snow-covered valley was
white and clear as far as the eye could see, the dark stripe of the road led north before disappearing in the blue-gray fog that was hiding the mouth of Bottleneck.

Stop, I thought, attempting to get a hold of myself. Let's try and figure out why Hinkus needed all these props. He wanted to make us think he was sitting on the roof, of course. Meanwhile, he'd been somewhere else, doing something completely different … the tuberculosis was fake, he wasn't such a sad-sack … But what was he doing, and where? I examined the roof again thoroughly, attempting to make some sense of the footprints, but I couldn't understand anything; I searched through the snow but found only a pair of bottles—one of which was empty, and the other of which still had a little brandy in it. It was the undrunk brandy that really got to me. I knew that things had to be really serious if Hinkus was willing to throw away five crowns' worth of brandy. I slowly went back down to the second floor; I knocked on Hinkus's door again, and again no one answered. Just in case, I tried the handle. The door opened. Ready for anything, and with my hand held out in front of me in order to ward off any possible attacks from the darkness, I went in and, after fumbling hurriedly for the switch, turned on the light. Everything in the room looked the same as it had been before: the trunks stood in their old places, though both of them were open. Hinkus wasn't there, of course: but I hadn't expected to find him here. I sat down next to the trunks and carefully went through them again. They were also exactly as they had been, with one small exception: the gold watch and Browning were both gone. If Hinkus had fled, he would have taken the money. It was a good-sized wad, heavy. That meant he was here. Or, if he'd left, that he intended to return.

One thing was clear to me: a crime was about to be committed. What kind of crime? A murder? Burglary? I quickly
rejected the idea of murder. I simply couldn't imagine anyone killing anybody here, or think of why they'd do it. But then I remembered the note that they'd slipped Du Barnstoker, and began to feel sick. Though it was clear from the note that they would only kill Du Barnstoker if he tried to run away …

I turned off the light and went out into the hallway, closing the door behind me. I went to Du Barnstoker's room and tried the handle. The door was locked. Then I knocked. No one answered. I knocked a second time and put my ear against the keyhole. Vaguely, an obviously half-asleep Du Barnstoker's voice called back: “One minute, I'm just …” The old man was not only alive, he wasn't preparing his escape. I didn't want to have to explain myself to him, so I jumped into the stairwell and pressed myself against the wall beneath the attic stairs. A minute later I heard the key snap, and the door creak. Du Barnstoker's voice said, in amazement, “Strange …” The door creaked again, the key clicked. Everything was okay—at least for now.

No, I decided finally. Murder was impossible, of course, and the note had been planted either as a joke or as a red herring. But what about robbery? Who was worth robbing here? So far as I could tell, there were two wealthy people in the inn: Moses and the owner. Okay. All right. Both lived on the first floor. The Moseses' room was in the southern wing, the owner's safe was in the northern one. They were divided by a lobby. If I set myself up in the lobby … Then again, you could get to the owner's office from upstairs, by coming down from the dining room into the kitchen, and then the pantry. If I secured the pantry door … It's settled then: I'll spend the night in the lobby, and tomorrow we'll see. Suddenly I remembered the one-armed stranger. Hmm … Now that I think about it, being a friend of Hinkus's, he's probably in on it. Maybe he got in a real accident, but maybe this is all
a farce, like the snowman on the roof … No, you won't fool us, sir!

I went down the hall. Nobody was in the shower, but Kaisa was standing in the middle of the lobby with an addled look on her face, wearing her nightgown (the skirt of which was wet) and holding the stranger's wet and crumpled clothes in her arms. In the corridor of the southern wing a light was on; from an empty room opposite the den I could hear the muffled bass voice of the owner. He had apparently set the stranger up in here, which was probably just what the one-armed man wanted. It had been smartly done: nobody would drag a half-dead man up to the second floor …

Kaisa came to herself finally and started making her way off to the owner's quarters, but I stopped her. I took the clothes from her and searched through the pockets. To my great surprise, there was nothing in the pockets. Absolutely nothing. No money, no identifying documents, no cigarettes, no handkerchief—nothing.

“What's he wearing now?” I asked.

“How do you mean?” Kaisa asked. I didn't press it.

I gave the clothes back and went to see for myself. The stranger was in bed, wrapped in blankets up to his chin. The manager was feeding him something hot with a spoon, saying, “You have to work up a sweat, sir, you have to, you have to get a good sweat going …” In all fairness, the stranger looked terrible. His face was blue, the end of his pointy nose was white as snow; one eye was squinting painfully, the other was shut completely. With every breath he let out a feeble moan. If he's someone's accomplice, he's not doing a very good job of it. Still, I had a few questions to ask him. Just in case.

“Did you come here alone?” I asked.

He looked at me with his squinting eye, and moaned quietly:

“Is anyone still in the car?” I asked, enunciating my words. “Or were you traveling alone?”

The stranger opened his mouth, took a small breath and then closed his mouth again.

“He's weak,” said the owner. “His body's like a bundle of rags.”

“Dammit,” I muttered. “And now someone has to go to Bottleneck.”

“Yes,” agreed the owner. “What if someone was left behind … They might have gotten trapped under the avalanche.”

“You'll have to go,” I said decisively, and at that moment the stranger spoke.

“Olaf,” he said expressionlessly. “Olaf And-va-ra-fors … Get him.”

I felt another shock.

“Aha,” said the owner and set the mug of liquid on the table. “I'll get him right away.”

“Olaf …” the stranger repeated.

When the owner left, I took his place. I felt like an idiot. At the same time, I was pretty relieved: the depressing plot that I'd worked to a point of believability had collapsed.

“Were you alone?” I asked again. “Was anyone else hurt?”

“One …” the stranger groaned. “An accident … call Olaf … where is Olaf Andvarafors?”

“He's here, he's here,” I said. “He's coming soon.”

He closed his eyes and grew quiet. I leaned back in the chair. Well, all right. But then what had become of Hinkus? And how is the owner's safe doing? My brain had turned to mush.

The owner returned with his eyebrows raised and his lips pursed. He leaned towards my ear and whispered:

“Peter, it's the strangest thing. Olaf isn't answering. His door is locked, there's a draft coming from underneath it.
And my spare keys seem to have gone missing somewhere …”

I quietly took from my pocket the bunch that I'd stolen from his office, and handed them to him.

“Ah,” the owner said. He took the keys. “Well, anyway. You know, Peter, maybe we should go together. Something doesn't seem right to me …”

“Olaf,” the stranger groaned. “Where's Olaf?”

“Soon, soon,” I told him. My cheek had started to twitch. The owner and I went out into the corridor. “Here, Alek,” I said. “Call Kaisa. Have her sit next to this guy and not move until we come back.”

“Ah,” the owner said again, wiggling his eyebrows. “So that's how it is … Something's afoot …”

He jogged down to his quarters, and I slowly made my way to the stairs. I'd already gone a few steps when the owner said sternly behind me:

“Come on, Lel. Sit here … Sit. Don't let anyone by. No one.”

I was already in the second floor hallway by the time he caught up with me, and together we went to Olaf's room. I knocked, seeing just as I did so a note pinned to the door. The note was stuck with a pin right at eye level. “I WAS THERE, AS WE ARRANGED, BUT YOU WERE NOT. IF YOU STILL DESIRE REVENGE, I AM AT YOUR DISPOSAL UNTIL ELEVEN O'CLOCK. DU B.”

“Did you see that?” I asked the owner quickly.

“Yes. I just didn't get a chance to tell you.”

I knocked again and, not waiting for a reply, grabbed the bunch of keys from the owner.

“Which one is it?” I asked.

The owner pointed it out. I stuck the key in the keyhole. Just my luck: the door was locked from the inside, and someone had left the key in it. While I worked at it, pushing, the
door to the next room over opened and a sleepy and calm-looking Du Barnstoker came out into the hall, tightening the belt of his bathrobe.

“What's going on, gentlemen?” he asked, “Is it now prohibited for the guests to get some sleep?”

“A thousand apologies, Mr. Du Barnstoker,” the owner said. “But events have occurred that require decisive action.”

“Is that so?” Du Barnstoker said with interest. “I hope I'm not interrupting.”

I managed to make a clear path for the key, and straightened up. From beneath the door a winter chill emerged, and I was totally sure that the room would be empty, just like Hinkus's. I turned the key and opened the door. A wave of cold air washed over me, but I hardly felt it. The room was not empty. A man was lying on the floor. The light from the hallway wasn't enough to see who it was. All I saw were the soles of two gigantic shoes on the entryway threshold. I stepped into the entryway and turned on the light.

It was Olaf Andvarafors, manly god and descendent of ancient Scandinavian kings. He was clearly, utterly dead.

After making sure to lock each of the window latches, I picked up his suitcase and, stepping carefully over the body, went out into the hallway. The owner was already waiting for me with glue and strips of paper. Du Barnstoker hadn't left, he was still standing there with his shoulder propped against the wall. He looked twenty years older. His aristocratic jowls drooped and quivered pitifully.

“Horrible!” he muttered, staring at me with despair. “A nightmare …!”

I locked the door and sealed it with the five strips of paper, each of which I signed twice.

“Horrible!…” Du Barnstoker muttered behind me. “Now there won't be a rematch … nothing …”

“Go back to your room,” I told him. “Lock yourself in and stay there until I call you … Wait a second. Was the note yours?”

“It was mine,” Du Barnstoker said. “I …”

“All right, we'll deal with that later,” I said. “Go on.” I turned to the owner. “I need to take both your sets of keys. There aren't any more, are there? Good. I need you to do something for me, Alek. Don't tell our one-armed visitor about this. Make something up if he gets too restless. Look in the garage, see if all the cars are where they should be … And one more thing:
if you see Hinkus, don't let him leave—even if you have to use force. That's it for now. I'll be in my room. And not a word to anyone, understand?”

The owner nodded his head without saying anything and went downstairs.

Back in my room I set Olaf's suitcase on the filthy table and opened it. Here, too, nothing seemed right. It was even worse than Hinkus's dummy suitcase. At least that had had rags and books in it. But there was only one thing inside this flat and elegant suitcase, and that was some sort of device: a black metal box with a rough surface, some multicolored buttons, little glass panels with nickel-plated verniers on them … No underwear, no pajamas, no soap dish … I closed the suitcase, collapsed back into the armchair and lit a cigarette.

All right. What do we have here, Inspector Glebsky? Instead of deep sleep between clean sheets. Instead of getting up early so you can take a snow bath and ski around the whole valley. Instead of eating a good dinner and then indulging in a game of pool, and flirting with Mrs. Moses, and in the evening installing yourself comfortably by the fireplace with a glass of hot port. Instead of enjoying every day of your first real vacation in four years … What do we have instead of all this? We have a fresh corpse. Cold-blooded murder. Crime's tedious confusion.