The Dead Mountaineer's Inn (14 page)

“Listen, Hinkus,” I said softly. “The person who grabbed you … You saw him earlier this afternoon, didn't you?”

He glanced at me wildly and took another swig from the bottle.

“All right, then,” I said. “Let's go. I'm locking you in your room. You can take the bottle with you.”

“What about you?” he said hoarsely.

“What about me?”

“Are you going to leave?”

“Of course.”

“Listen,” he said. “Listen, Inspector …” His eyes were restless, he was searching for the right words. “You … I … You … Check in on me, okay? Maybe I'll remember something else … Or maybe I can stay with you?” He stared at me pleadingly. “I won't try to escape, I … nothing … I swear …”

“You're afraid of being left alone in your room?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“But I'm going to lock you in,” I said. “And I'll keep the key with me …”

He waved his hands in desperation.

“That won't help,” he said.

“Come on, Hinkus,” I said sternly. “Buck up! You're acting like a scared old biddy.”

He didn't say anything but only hugged the bottle tenderly against his chest with both hands. I took him to his room and, after promising one more time that I'd check in on him, locked the door. I really did take the key and put it in my pocket. I felt that whatever was going on with Hinkus, it wasn't over yet, and that I'd be dealing with him again. I didn't leave right away. I stood for a few minutes in front of the door, with my ear against the keyhole. I could hear liquid being poured, then the creaking of the bed, then a repetitive noise. I couldn't make out what it was at first, but then I understood: Hinkus was crying.

I left him alone with his conscience and made my way to Du Barnstoker's room. The old man opened his door immediately. He was pretty worked up. He didn't even offer me a seat. The room was full of cigar smoke.

“My dear inspector!” he said quickly, executing a series of elaborate gestures with the cigar that he was holding in two fingers of his outstretched hand. “My esteemed friend!
This is damnably awkward for me to say, but things have gone far enough. I must confess: I have committed a small indiscretion …”

“So you killed Olaf Andvarafors,” I said glumly, collapsing into the armchair.

He shuddered and threw his hands into the air.

“Good lord! No! I have never raised a finger against anyone in my entire life!
Quelle idée!
No! I only want to confess, with the utmost sincerity, that I have been performing regular mystifications on our inn's guests …” He clasped his hands to his chest, sprinkling cigar ashes all over his bathrobe. “Please understand: they were only jokes! Lord knows, not well-executed or intelligent ones, but completely innocent … It is my métier, after all, I adore an atmosphere of mystery, mystification, general bewilderment … But there was never any
mal
intent, I assure you! I had nothing to gain …”

“Exactly what jokes are you talking about?” I asked dryly. I was angry and disappointed. I had not thought that Du Barnstoker would be caught up in all this. I'd expected better of the old man.

“Well … All those little jokes about the ghost of the Dead Mountaineer. The, er, shoes that I ‘stole' from myself and put under his bed … The prank in the shower … You were a little taken in by one—remember his pipe ashes?… Anyway, things like that, I can't remember them all …”

“You ruined my table too?” I asked.

“Table?” he looked at me helplessly, then looked over at his own table.

“Yes, my table. It was covered with glue, a good piece of furniture hopelessly ruined …”

“No!” he said fearfully. “Glue … a table … No, no, that wasn't me, I swear!” He clasped his hands to his chest again. “You must understand, Inspector, I had the best intentions,
not the slightest damage was inflicted … I even felt that people were enjoying it—why, our dear inn owner played along so well …”

“The owner was in on it with you?”

“No—how could you think that!” He flapped his hands at me. “I only mean that he … that he, well, he seemed pleased … haven't you noticed that he's a bit of a mystifier himself? You know, the way he makes his voice sound like that, and then there's all that ‘Allow me to dive into the past …' ”

“I see,” I said. “And the footprints in the corridors?”

Du Barnstoker's face grew focused and serious.

“No, no,” he said. “That wasn't me. But I know what you're talking about. I saw it once. This was before you arrived. Wet footprints, from bare feet, leading from the landing to—silly as it sounds—the memorial room … Another joke, of course, though not one of mine …”

“All right,” I said. “Forget the footprints. I have one more question. The note that you allegedly received—am I to understand that this was also your work?”

“That wasn't mine either,” Du Barnstoker said with dignity. “When I gave you the note, I was telling the absolute truth.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What you're saying is, Olaf went out, leaving you sitting by yourself. Then someone knocked on the door, you went to answer it, and saw that there was a note on the floor in front of the door. Is that what happened?”

“That's what happened.”

“Wait a minute,” I said again. I felt a thought coming on. “Please, Mr. Du Barnstoker, tell me: what made you think that this threatening letter was addressed to you?”

“I understand what you mean completely,” Du Barnstoker said. “It was only afterwards that I realized—only after reading it did I think that probably, if the note had been meant for me, it would have been slipped under my door. But at that
moment I acted subconsciously … That is to say, whoever knocked must have heard my voice, must have known that I was there … Do you see what I'm saying? In any event, when poor Olaf returned, I immediately showed him the note, so that we could both have a good laugh over it …”

“All right,” I said. “And what about Olaf? Did he laugh?”

“N-no, he didn't … His sense of humor, you see … He read it, shrugged, and we got right back to the game. He remained perfectly calm and serene and didn't mention the note again … As for me, as I told you, I'd decided that someone was playing a joke on us—to be totally honest, I still think that … You know that in a narrow circle of bored vacationers, you'll always find one person …”

“I know,” I said.

“You think the note is authentic?”

“Anything's possible,” I said. We were quiet. “Now tell me what you were doing from the moment that the Moseses went to bed.”

“Of course,” said Du Barnstoker. “I was expecting that question and have gone over the whole series of events in my memory. It happened like this: when everyone had dispersed—it was around nine thirty—I spent some time …”

“Just a minute,” I interrupted. “You said it was nine thirty?”

“Yes, around that time.”

“Good. Then tell me something first. Can you remember who was in the dining room between eight thirty and nine thirty?”

Du Barnstoker took his forehead in his long white fingers.

“Mmm …” he said. “That is going to be harder. I was busy with the game … Well, naturally, there was Moses, the owner … From time to time Mrs. Moses was there picking up the cards for him … We were at the table … Brun and Olaf danced, and then afterwards … No, excuse me, before that
Mrs. Moses and Brun … But you must understand, my dear inspector, I cannot possibly be certain when that was—eight thirty, nine … Oh! The clock struck nine, and I—I remember—I looked around the hall and thought how few of us were left. The music was playing, but the room was empty. Only Olaf and Brun were dancing … You know, unfortunately, this seems to be the only clear impression that has remained in my memory,” he concluded with regret.

“So,” I said. “Neither the owner nor Moses left the table even once?”

“No,” he said confidently. “Both of them turned out to be remarkably zealous gamblers.”

“Meaning that at nine o'clock there were only the three gamblers, Brun and Olaf?”

“Precisely. I remember that quite clearly.”

“Good,” I said. “Now, back to you. After everyone had dispersed, you sat for some time at the card table practicing card tricks …”

“Practicing card tricks …? I suppose it's possible … Sometimes when I'm lost in thought, you know how it is, my hands take on a will of their own, it happens subconsciously. Indeed. Then I decided to smoke a cigar and made my way back here, to my room. I smoked the cigar, sat in this armchair and dozed off, I have to confess. I was woken up by what felt like a sort of shove—suddenly I remembered that I had promised poor Olaf that I'd give him a chance to get his revenge at ten o'clock. I looked at my watch. I don't remember exactly what the time was, but it was a little after ten, and I felt relieved that I wouldn't be too late. I hastily cleaned myself up in front of the mirror, grabbed a bundle of bills and my cigars and went out into the corridor. It was empty, Inspector—that I remember. I knocked on Olaf's door: nobody answered. I knocked a second time, again without
any success. I decided that Mr. Olaf had forgotten about his revenge and found something more interesting to pursue. However, I am terribly scrupulous when it comes to this sort of thing. I wrote the aforementioned note and stuck it to his door. Then I waited until eleven, upon my honor, reading this book here, and at eleven went to bed. And the interesting part of it, Inspector, is that not long before you and the owner started making your racket and clambering up and down the hallway, I was woken up by a knock on my door. I opened it, but no one was there. I went back to bed, but couldn't get to sleep.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “I see. What you're saying is that from the moment that you pinned the note until you went to bed at eleven o'clock, nothing else of significance happened … there were no noises of any kind, or movement?”

“No,” Du Barnstoker said. “Nothing.”

“And where were you? Here, or in the bedroom?”

“Here, sitting in this chair.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “One last question. Did you talk with Hinkus before lunchtime yesterday?”

“With Hinkus?… That ill little … Wait a second, my dear friend … Of course! We were standing outside the shower, remember? Mr. Hinkus was irritated because we had to wait, and I was calming him with some trick or another … Ah yes, the lollipops! He was quite amusingly confused after that. I adore illusions like that.”

“And after that you two didn't speak to one another?”

Du Barnstoker pressed his lips together thoughtfully.

“No,” he said. “So far as I can remember, not at all.”

“And you didn't go up on the roof?”

“On the roof? No. No, no. I didn't go up on the roof.”

I stood up.

“Thank you, Mr. Du Barnstoker. I believe this will help the
investigation. I hope you understand how inappropriate further practical jokes would be at this point,” (he quietly waved his hands at me). “Well, that's good. I strongly advise you to take a sleeping pill and go to bed. In my opinion, that's the best thing you could do at this point.”

“I'll try,” Du Barnstoker said.

I wished him a good night and left. I went to wake up the kid, but then I caught sight of the door to Simone's room shutting quickly and quietly at the end of the hall. I made my way swiftly back to it.

I went in without knocking and immediately saw that I'd done the right thing. Through the open bedroom door I saw the great physicist, hopping on one leg, trying to get his pants off. This was even more ridiculous given that the lights were on in both of the rooms.

“Don't bother, Simone,” I said grimly. “Anyway, you don't have time to get your tie off.”

Simone collapsed helplessly onto the bed. His jaw was trembling, his eyes bulged. I went into the bedroom and stood in front of him, my hands in my pockets. We were quiet for a while. I didn't say a single word: I only looked at him, giving him time to realize that he was done for. He drooped even more under my gaze, drawing his head further towards his shoulders, his knobby, hooked nose looking even more despondent. Finally he couldn't hold back any longer.

“I will only speak in the presence of my attorney,” he announced in a cracking voice.

“Come on, Simone,” I said with disgust. “You're a physicist. What kind of lawyer are we going to find for you in this backwater?”

Suddenly he grabbed my jacket lapel and, looking up into my eyes, hissed:

“I know what you want, Peter, but I swear, I didn't kill her.”

Now it was my turn to take a seat. I groped behind me for a chair and sat down.

“Put yourself in my position—why would I?” Simone continued fervently. “There has to be a motive … No one just kills … Of course, there are sadists, but they're insane … Especially this kind of monstrosity, it's like a nightmare … I swear! She was already quite cold when I took her in my arms!”

For a few seconds, I closed my eyes. So there was another dead body in the building. And this time it was a woman.

“You know perfectly well,” Simone blabbered on. “Crimes don't just happen. True, André Gide wrote … But that's just an intellectual game … You need a motive … You know me, Peter! Look at me: do I really look like a murderer?”

“Stop,” I said. “Shut up for a minute. Think hard and then tell me exactly what happened.”

He didn't stop to think.

“Of course,” he said readily. “But you have to believe me, Peter. Everything that I'm saying is the sincere truth, and nothing but the truth. That's how it happened. Even during that damned ball … She'd given me hints before, though I didn't dare … But this time you'd pumped me full of brandy, so I decided, why not? It's not a crime, is it? And then it was eleven o'clock, things were calming down, I left and quietly went downstairs. You and the owner were talking nonsense about the cognition of nature, the usual balderdash … I quietly walked past the den—I was wearing socks—and crept to her room. The old man's light was off—hers too. As I'd expected, her door wasn't locked, so right away I was encouraged. It was pitch-dark, but I did make out her silhouette: she was sitting on the couch directly across from the door. I called to her softly, but she didn't answer. Then, well, I sat down next to her and, you know how it is, embraced her … 
Brr-r-r!… I didn't even get a chance to kiss her! She was stone dead … hard, stiff … Like ice! Like petrified wood! And that grin … Who knows how I got out of there. I must have broken all the furniture … I swear to you, Peter, take the word of an honest man: when I touched her, she was already completely dead, cold and numb … You know I'm not a beast …”