The Dead Mountaineer's Inn (17 page)

“A cop's like a doctor,” I said portentously, feeling very awkward. “Words like ‘embarrassing' aren't in our vocabulary.”

“Well, all right,” the kid said suddenly, defiantly raising its head. “Here's what happened. At first it was a joke: bride and groom, girl or boy … Anyway, that's about how you treated
me … He probably felt the same way too, who knows what he took me for … And then, after we'd left, he started pawing at me. It was disgusting, I had to give him one … right in the face …”

“And then?” I asked, not looking at it.

“And then, he was offended, he cursed me out and left. Maybe it wasn't fair of me, maybe I shouldn't have hit him, but he was wrong too …”

“Where'd he go?”

“How should I know? He went down the hallway …” the kid waved its hand. “I don't know where to.”

“What about you?”

“Me? What about me? The mood was ruined, gross, boring … Only one thing to do: go back to my room, lock myself in and get drunk as hell …”

“So you got drunk?” I asked, sniffing carefully and looking furtively around the room. The mess was awful, junk was scattered everywhere, things were piled up who knew how, and there were long strips of paper on the table—signs, so far as I could tell. To be hung on the cop's door … I could actually smell the alcohol, and on the floor next to the head of the bed, I noticed a bottle.

“I told you.”

I bent down and picked up the bottle. It was almost empty.

“Someone needs to give you a good spanking, young man,” I said, putting the bottle on the table, right on top of the placard bearing the slogan “Down with generalizations! Meet the moment!”

“So you were sitting here the whole time?”

“Yes. What's a … person supposed to do in that situation?” The kid was apparently still trying, as if by force of habit, to avoid giving itself away.

“When did you go to bed?”

“I don't remember.”

“Okay, then, so be it,” I said. “Now, can you give me a detailed description of everything you did from the moment you left the table to the moment you and Olaf went out into the hallway.”

“Detailed?” the kid asked.

“Yes. As detailed as possible.”

“Okay,” the kid agreed, showing its small sharp teeth, which were so white they looked blue. “There I am finishing dessert, when a drunk police inspector sits down next to me and starts going on and on about how much he likes me and how he would like us to become engaged as soon as possible. At the same time, he keeps shoving my shoulder with one of his paws, saying, ‘Get out of here, get, I don't want anything to do with you, I'm talking to your sister …' ”

I swallowed this tirade without batting an eye. Hopefully, I managed to remain sufficiently stone-faced.

“Then, as luck would have it,” the kid continued, wallowing now. “Up swims a she-Moses to pounce on the inspector for a dance. They muck it up, with me watching, and the place starts to look like a harbor bar in Hamburg. Then he grabs the she-Moses somewhere under her back and drags her behind a curtain, and now it's looking like a completely different type of Hamburg establishment. And there I am staring at the curtain feeling awfully sorry for the inspector, because all things considered he's not a bad guy, he just can't hold his liquor, and there's old Moses also staring predatorily at the very same curtain. Then I get up and ask the she-Moses to dance, which makes the inspector about as happy as can be—apparently he sobered up behind the curtain …”

“Who was in the room at that point?” I asked dryly.

“Everyone. Olaf wasn't there, Kaisa wasn't there, Simone was playing pool, feeling sorry that the inspector had stood him up.”

“Go on,” I said.

“All right, so I'm dancing with the she-Moses, she's pressing herself to me greedily—because who cares, really, so long as I'm not Moses—and then something snaps on her dress. Oh, she says, pardon me, I've had an accident. Well, it's all the same to me, so off she sails with her accident, into the hallway, at which point Olaf swoops down on me …”

“Hold on a second—when was that?”

“Come on—why would I have been wearing a watch in there?”

“So Mrs. Moses went out into the hallway?”

“Well, I don't know about the hallway, maybe she went back to her room, or to an empty room—there are two empty ones close by hers … Do you want me to go on?”

“Yes.”

“So Olaf and I are dancing, he's pouring out various compliments—what a figure, he says, what posture, what a gait … and then he says: ‘Let's get out of here, I've got something interesting to show you.' And what do I care? All right, let's go … I don't see anything else interesting in the room anyway …”

“And Mrs. Moses, did you see her in the dining room at this time?”

“No, she was in dry dock, sealing up the crack … Well, by now we've made it to the hallway … you know the rest.”

“And you didn't see Mrs. Moses again?”

I glimpsed a quick hesitation. It was tiny, but I caught it.

“N-no,” the child said. “How would I have? I had other things to think about. Like for example drowning my sorrows in vodka.”

Its dark glasses were blocking me completely, and I decided firmly that during subsequent interrogations I would take them off. By force, if necessary.

“What were you doing on the roof during the day?” I asked sharply.

“What roof?”

“The roof of the inn,” I pointed a finger at the ceiling. “And don't lie, I saw you up there.”

“Like hell you did!” The kid bristled. “What do you take me for, some sort of lunatic?”

“Okay, so that wasn't you,” I said appeasingly. “Very well. Now, about Hinkus. Remember, he's the little guy, at first you confused him with Olaf …”

“I remember,” the kid said.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“The last time?… The last time, I guess, was in the hallway, when me and Olaf left the dining room.”

I practically jumped out of my seat.

“When?” I asked.

The kid looked alarmed.

“Why?” it asked. “There wasn't anything wrong … We'd just made it out of the dining room, I looked—there was Hinkus making his way towards the stairs …”

I frantically thought this over. They slipped out of the dining room no earlier than nine o'clock; at nine they were still dancing; Du Barnstoker remembers them being there. But at eight forty-three Hinkus's watch had been crushed, therefore at nine o'clock he was already lying under the table …

“Are you sure it was Hinkus?”

The kid shrugged.

“I thought it was Hinkus … Then again, he immediately turned left, towards the landing—but still, it was Hinkus, who else would it have been? It's impossible to confuse him with Kaisa or the she-Moses … or anyone else. Short, slouching …”

“Stop!” I said. “Was he wearing a fur coat?”

“Yes … in his stupid toe-length fur coat, with something white on his feet … What is this anyway?” The kid switched to a whisper. “He's the murderer, right? Hinkus?”

“No, no,” I said. Could Hinkus really have been lying? Was
it a hoax after all? Break the watch, move the hands back … and there's Hinkus sitting under the table giggling, and now he's played me and is back in his room still giggling … And somewhere his accomplice is giggling too. I jumped up.

“Stay here,” I ordered. “Don't you dare leave this room. I'm not finished with you yet.”

I went towards the door, then came back and took the bottle from the table.

“I'm confiscating this. I don't need a drunken witness.”

“Can I go see my uncle?” the kid said in a trembling voice.

I hesitated for a second, then waved my hand.

“Go on. Maybe he can convince you that it's important to tell the truth.”

After dashing into the hallway, I went back to Hinkus's room, unlocked the door and ran inside. All the lights were on: in the entryway, the bathroom, the bedroom. A wet and grinning Hinkus was squatting behind the bed. In the middle of the bed lay a broken chair, and Hinkus was holding one of its legs in his hands.

“Is that you?” he said hoarsely, straightening up.

“Yes!” I said. His appearance, crazy expression and bloodshot eyes again shook my conviction that he was lying and attempting to deceive me. He would have had to be a great artist in order to pull that kind of a role off. Nevertheless, I said sternly, “I'm tired of hearing lies, Hinkus! You're lying to me! You said that they caught you at eight forty. But you were seen in the hallway after nine. Are you going to tell me the truth or not?”

Confusion flashed over his features.

“Me? After nine?”

“Yes! You were in the hallway and stepped on the landing.”

“I did?” He suddenly chuckled convulsively. “I was walking in the hallway?” He giggled again, and again, and once
more, and suddenly his whole body shook with hysterical laughter. “I?… Me?… You've got it, Inspector! That's it exactly!” he said, gagging. “I was seen in the hallway … and I also saw myself … And I grabbed me … and tied me up … and I bricked myself up in the wall! I—me … do you understand, Inspector? I—me!”

I ran into the owner as I was walking down to the lobby.

“Hinkus is completely losing his mind in there,” I said grimly. “Do you have any strong sedatives?”

“I have everything,” the manager answered, not at all surprised.

“Are you able to give injections?”

“I can do anything.”

“Do it,” I said, handing him the key.

My head was buzzing. It was five minutes to four. I was tired and worn-out; most importantly, I felt no excitement at being on the trail. I realized all too clearly that this case was beyond my abilities. I hadn't had even the slightest break—on the contrary, the further I went, the worse it got. Maybe there was someone hiding in the inn who looked like Hinkus? Maybe Hinkus really did have a double—a dangerous gangster, maniac and sadist? That would explain some things … the murder, Hinkus's fear, his hysteria … But then we'd have to solve the problem of how he got here, and where and how he had managed to hide himself. This wasn't exactly the Louvre or the Winter Palace; it was just a “small, cozy inn with twelve rooms, guaranteeing total privacy and all the comforts of home” … All right, let's go see the Moseses.

Old Moses didn't let me in his room. He answered my
knock in a long oriental bathrobe, the usual mug in hand, and proceeded to literally push me into the hallway with his fat belly.

“You insist on talking here?” I asked wearily.

“I do,” he answered, breathing a complex and unidentifiable mixture of smells into my face. “Right here. A policeman has no business in the Moseses' domicile.”

“Then we'd better go to the office,” I suggested.

“Wellll … The office …” He took a sip from his mug. “The office should be fine. Although I don't see what we have to talk about. You suspect me of being a killer, then—me, a Moses?”

“No,” I said. “Heaven forbid. But your testimony might provide the investigation with invaluable assistance.”

“The investigation!” He snorted disdainfully and took another sip from the mug. “Well, all right, then, let's go …” While we were walking, he grunted, “Couldn't find my watch, your run-of-the-mill stolen watch, and now a murder investigation …”

In the office, I sat him in the armchair and then sat down at the table.

“So, the watch hasn't been found yet?” I asked.

He eyed me with indignation.

“Is Mr. Police Officer expecting that it will just somehow turn up?”

“I had hopes,” I said. “But since it didn't turn up, there's nothing I can do.”

“I'm no fan of our police force,” Moses said, looking steadily at me. “Or of this inn. Murders, avalanches … dogs, thieves, noises in the middle of the night … Who did you put in my room? I clearly said that the entire hallway is to be mine, excluding the den. I have no need for a den. How dare you break our agreement? Who is the vagrant they put in room three?”

“He was in the avalanche,” I said. “He's been crippled, frostbitten. It would be cruel to have to drag him upstairs.”

“But I paid for room three! You were required to ask my permission!”

I couldn't argue with him, I didn't have the strength to explain that his drunk eyes had mistaken me for the owner. So I didn't.

“The management offers its apologies, Mr. Moses, and assures you that tomorrow things will be back to normal.”

“Tramps!” Mr. Moses barked, pouncing on his mug. “Is he at least a respectable person, this vagrant in room three? Or is he some sort of thief?”

“An utterly respectable person,” I said, attempting to pacify him.

“In that case, why set your repulsive dog to watch him?”

“That is a pure coincidence,” I answered, closing my eyes. “Tomorrow things will return to normal, I promise you.”

“Perhaps the dead man will be resurrected?” the old bat asked sarcastically. “Perhaps you'd like to promise me that as well? Me, a Moses! Albert Moses, sir! I am not accustomed to dead men, dogs, resurrections, avalanches and cutthroats …”

I sat with my eyes closed and waited.

“I am not accustomed to someone bursting in on my wife in the middle of the night,” Mr. Moses continued. “I am not accustomed to losing three hundred crowns in one evening to some sort of traveling magician trying to pass himself off as an aristocrat. This Barl … Braddle … He's simply a hustler! A Moses does not cut cards with hustlers! A Moses—we're talking about a Moses here, sir!…”