The Dead Mountaineer's Inn (8 page)

I apologized and closed the door. Where was that chortler hiding himself? I couldn't see, or more surprisingly hear him anywhere. And why did I even care?

I can shoot pool by myself. There's not much of a difference, really—I'd even say it's more fun. I set off for the billiard room; on the way there, I got a little shock. At the bottom of the attic stairs, pinching the hem of her long, luxurious dress with two fingers, was Mrs. Moses.

“Now you're tanning too?” I blurted out, unable to control myself.

“Tanning? Me? What an odd idea.” She crossed the hall towards me. “What strange suggestions you make, Inspector!”

“Please don't call me Inspector,” I asked. “I hear it enough on the job … To hear it now from you too …”

“I a-
dore
police officers,” Mrs. Moses said, rolling her beautiful eyes. “They're heroes, men of courage … You're a brave man yourself, aren't you?”

Somehow it happened that I had offered her a hand and was leading her towards the billiard room. It was a white hand, hard and surprisingly cold.

“Madame,” I said. “You're practically freezing …”

“Not at all, Inspector,” she said, realizing her mistake at the last minute. “But then what can I call you now?”

“Peter, maybe?” I suggested.

“That would be charming. I had a friend named Peter once: Baron Von Gottesknecht. Perhaps you two know each other?… But then in that case, you must call me Olga. And what if Moses were to hear that?”

“He'll survive,” I muttered. I glanced sideways at her extraordinary shoulders, her queenly neck, her proud profile, all of which made me hot to the point of chills. She's an idiot, I thought feverishly—but then so what? Whatever. A lot of people are idiots!

We passed through the dining room and found ourselves in the billiard room. Simone was there. For some reason he had pressed himself into a shallow but wide recess in the wall. His face was red and his hair disheveled.

“Simon!” shouted Mrs. Moses, putting her hands to her cheeks. “What on earth …?”

In answer to this Simone let out a screech and, pushing his legs and arms against the sides of the recess, worked his way up to the ceiling.

“My god, you'll kill yourself!” Mrs. Moses cried.

“You know she's right, Simone,” I said in annoyance. “Quit playing around or you'll break your neck.”

The fool, however, was nowhere near breaking his neck and dying. He reached the ceiling, hung there for a second, growing even more flushed with blood, and then lightly and gently jumped to the floor, where he saluted us. Mrs. Moses began clapping.

“What a marvel you are, Simon,” she said. “A human fly!”

“Well, Inspector?” said Simone, who was a little out of breath. “Shall we fight for the glory of this beautiful lady?” He picked up a cue and lunged towards me as if it were a fencing sword. “Inspector Glebsky, I challenge you to defend yourself!”

With these words he turned to the billiard table and, without taking time to aim, shot the eight ball across the table and into the corner pocket with such a crack that my eyes grew dark. However, retreat was out of the question. I gloomily picked up a cue.

“Fight, gentlemen, fight,” Mrs. Moses said. “The beautiful woman will leave a token for the victor.” She threw a lace handkerchief into the middle of the table. “But I have to go now. I'm afraid my Moses is already furious.” She blew us her kisses and walked out.

“Devilishly attractive woman,” Simone said. “Capable of driving a man out of his mind.” He picked up the handkerchief with his cue, dipped his nose in its lace and rolled his eyes. “Charming!… I see you have also been unsuccessful in your attempts, Inspector?”

“Maybe if I spent as much time around her as you do,” I said darkly, gathering the balls into the rack. “Who asked you to hang around here in the billiard room, anyway?”

“You didn't have to bring her here, blockhead,” Simone rejoined reasonably.

“Well, I couldn't take her to my room,” I snapped.

“You shouldn't start things you don't know how to finish,”
Simone advised. “And rack the balls more evenly, you're playing with an expert here … There. What shall we play? London Bridge?”

“No. Something simpler.”

“Something simpler,” Simone agreed.

He placed the handkerchief carefully on the windowsill, paused for a second, lowered his head and peered through the window at something. Then he returned to the table.

“Do you remember what Hannibal did to the Romans near Cannes?”

“All right, all right,” I said. “Let's get going.”

“I'll jog your memory,” Simone said. With a series of elegant movements he nudged the cueball out to where he wanted it with his cue, took aim, and sunk it. Then he sunk another ball, and split the pyramid. Then, without giving me time to take any of his victims out of their pockets, he sunk two balls in a row, before finally whiffing.

“Lucky for you,” he said, chalking his cue. “Now let's see what you can do.”

I walked around the table, picking off the easiest ball.

“Look,” Simone said. He was again standing at the window and looking out at something off to one side. “Some fool is sitting on the roof … Excuse me
—two
fools! I mistook the standing one for a chimney. It appears that my triumphs have spawned imitators.”

“That's Hinkus,” I muttered, trying to get in a better position for my shot.

“Hinkus—that's the little one who's always whining,” said Simone. “A scrap. Olaf on the other hand. The descendent of the ancient Scandinavian kings, believe me, Inspector Glebsky.”

Finally, I took my shot. And missed. It was a simple shot, too. Too bad. I stared at the end of the cue, examining its pad.

“There's nothing to see—nothing at all,” Simone said, approaching the table. “You've got no excuse.”

“What's your shot?” I asked, watching him in confusion.

“Two sides and then the middle,” he said with an innocent look.

I groaned and went to stand by the window, in order not to see. Simone shot. Then he shot again. Snap, crack, pop. Then he shot again and said:

“Sorry, Inspector. Proceed.”

The shadow of the seated man threw his head back and raised a hand with a bottle in it. I saw that it was Hinkus. He'll swallow and then pass the bottle to the standing figure. But who was standing?

“Are you going to shoot or not?” Simone asked. “What is it?”

“Hinkus is getting drunk,” I said. “Today's the day he falls off the roof.”

Hinkus took a deep swig and then took up his previous pose. He didn't pass the bottle. Who was standing anyway? The kid, probably … Interesting, what could the kid have to talk to Hinkus about? I returned to the table, chose the easier ball and missed again.

“Have you read Coriolis's memoir on billiards?” Simone asked.

“No,” I said gloomily. “And I don't plan to.”

“Well, I have,” Simone said. He finished me off with two shots and broke at last into his creepy giggle. I lay my cue across the table.

“There's no one left to play with, Simone,” I said bitterly. “I guess now you can blow your nose in your prize by yourself.”

Simone grabbed the handkerchief and solemnly tucked it into his breast pocket.

“Excellent,” he said. “What shall we do now?”

I thought about this.

“I think I'll have a shave. It's almost lunch.”

“What about me?” Simone asked.

“You can play some pool with yourself,” I advised. “Or go to Olaf's room. Do you have any money? If you do, they'll greet you with open arms.”

“Ah,” Simone said. “I've already been there.”

“What—already?”

“I lost two hundred crowns to Olaf. He plays like a machine—not a single mistake. It's not even interesting. I set Barnstoker on him. He's a magician, after all, maybe he can pull a card trick on him …”

We went out into the hallway and immediately bumped into the child of Du Barnstoker's beloved deceased brother. The kid stood in our way, its black bulging goggles gleaming brazenly at us. It asked for a cigarette.

“How was Hinkus?” I asked, pulling out a pack. “Is he totally soused?”

“Hinkus? Um …” The kid lit the cigarette and, curling its lips into a circle, puffed out some smoke. “Not totally, but he kicked the first bottle and started on another one.”

“Oho,” I said. “On his second already …”

“What else is there to do here?” the kid asked.

“Were you drinking with him?” Simone asked with interest. The kid snorted haughtily.

“Not likely! He barely noticed me. After all, Kaisa was there …”

It occurred to me that here was an opportunity to figure out definitively whether I was talking to a boy or a girl. So I laid my trap.

“You were in the pantry then?” I said insinuatingly.

“Yes. So what? The police don't allow that?”

“The police just want to know what you were doing there.”

“The scientific community, too,” Simone added. It appeared that we'd had the same idea.

“Do I need a permit to drink coffee?” the child inquired.

“No,” I answered. “And what else were you doing there?”

Now she'll … that is to say,
it
will say something like, “I had a nibble,” or “I wolfed down two sandwiches.”

“Nothing,” the child said coolly. “Coffee and pastries with cream. That's all that happened in the pantry.”

“Sweets before dinner aren't good for you,” Simone said reproachfully. He was clearly disappointed. I was too.

“As for getting drunk in the middle of the day: that's not my cup of tea,” the kid concluded victoriously. “I'll leave that to Hinkus.”

“Fair enough,” I muttered. “I'm going to go shave.”

“Any more questions, officer?” the kid called after us.

“No. Peace be with you,” I said.

The door slammed—the kid had retired to its room.

“I think I'll have a little bite to eat,” Simone said, lingering on the landing. “Come on, Inspector—there's still an hour before lunch …”

“I know what kind of a bite you're looking for,” I said. “Go on, I'm a family man, Kaisa doesn't interest me.”

Simone chuckled and said, “If you're such a family man, can you tell me, was that a boy or a girl? I'm stumped.”

“Go play with Kaisa,” I said. “Leave the puzzles to the police … By the way, were you the one who pulled that prank with the shower?”

“I wouldn't have dreamed of it,” Simone said. “If you want to know, in my opinion, it was the owner himself.”

I shrugged, and we went our separate ways. Simone's boots pounded up the stairs as I headed for my room. The moment that I passed the door to the museum, I heard a crash, something toppled with a roar, there was the sound of glass breaking
and frustrated grumbling. Without a second's hesitation, I tore the door open and flew into the room, practically knocking Mr. Moses off his feet. Mr. Moses, who was lifting a corner of the carpet up with one hand, and in the other clutching his perennial mug, was looking with disgust at the overturned nightstand and the pieces of broken vase.

“Blasted rattrap,” he croaked at the sight of me. “Filthy den.”

“What are you doing in here?” I asked angrily.

Mr. Moses immediately lost his temper.

“What am I doing here?” he bellowed, jerking the carpet up with all his strength. Doing this, he nearly lost his balance and knocked over a chair. “Here I am, searching for the scoundrel who's been tottering around our inn, stealing things from decent people, stomping up and down the hallway every night and staring through the window at my wife! Why the devil should I have to do this, when there's an officer of the law on the premises?”

He threw the rug back down and turned to me. I took a step back.

“Maybe I should offer a reward?” he continued, working himself up. “The damned police don't lift a finger until there's a reward involved. All right—how much do you want, Inspector? Five hundred? A thousand? Very well: fifteen hundred crowns to the man who finds my missing gold watch! Two thousand crowns!”

“You lost your watch?” I asked, frowning.

“Yes!”

“When did you notice it was missing?”

“Only a second ago!”

The jokes were over. A gold watch: that wasn't felt slippers or a showering ghost.

“When did you last see the item in question?”

“Early this morning.”

“Where do you usually keep it?”

“I do not keep watches—I use them! It was lying on my desk!”

I thought this over.

“My advice,” I said finally, “is for you to write out a formal statement. Then I'll call the police.”

Moses stared at me, and for a few minutes neither of us said anything. Then he took a sip from his mug and said, “To hell with your formal statement and the police. The last thing I want is for my name to fall into the hands of some grubby newspaper reporter. Why can't you get to work on it yourself? I said I'd offer a reward. Do you want an advance?”

“I'm not comfortable intervening in this case,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I'm a civil servant, not a private detective. There's professional procedure to be considered, and anyway …”

“All right,” he said suddenly. “I'll think about it …” He paused. “Maybe it will turn up. Hopefully, it was all just another idiotic joke. But if the watch isn't found by tomorrow morning, I'll write your statement.”

We all agreed that this would be best. Moses went his way, and I went mine.

Who knows what new clues Moses found in his room. I had plenty of them in mine. For starters, someone had hung a sign on my door that said: “When I hear the word ‘culture,' I call the police.” I took it down, of course—but that was just the beginning. The table in my room appeared to be covered in hardened gum Arabic. Someone had poured it out of the bottle, which was lying in plain sight. In the center of the dried puddle was a piece of paper. A note. An utterly ridiculous note. In clumsy block letters: “MISTER INSPECTOR GLEBSKY: PLEASE BE INFORMED THAT A DANGEROUS GANGSTER, SADIST
AND MANIAC IS CURRENTLY STAYING AT THE INN UNDER THE NAME HINKUS. IN CRIMINAL CIRCLES, HE GOES BY THE NAME ‘THE FINCH'. HE IS ARMED AND THREATENING DEATH TO ONE OF THE INN'S CLIENTS. MISTER INSPECTOR IS KINDLY REQUESTED TO TAKE SOME SORT OF ACTION.”