The Lonely Skier (20 page)

‘Pour me one, will you?' He came over to the bar. ‘Must be near lunch time.'

I glanced at the cuckoo clock, which was still ticking away merrily as though nothing had happened. It was twelve-thirty. ‘I have never felt less like food,' I said.

‘Good God! You've seen worse than this,' he said as he took the drink I handed him.

‘I know,' I said. ‘But that was war. I suppose one gets used to the idea of death during one's battle training. But killing a man in cold blood, that's different. I thought he was going to shoot her.'

‘Don't worry—he will. And he'll shoot us, too, if we don't do something about it.' He raised his glass. ‘Cheers!' he said. He was quite cool. ‘It's a funny thing,' he said, ‘the effect that gold or jewels, or any form of concentrated wealth, has on men. Take our friend Stelben; he slaughtered nine men, as casually as you or I would cut a film script. It's the same with Mayne. Already he's killed three men and caused another to commit suicide. That's the straightforward killer for you—the gangster, the man who kills without thought or feeling. He's a pretty dull fellow really, no emotions. It's only what he does that's exciting.'

‘Why the devil did you want to get involved in this business?' I said.

He gave me a quick glance. ‘Yes, I was afraid you'd ask that sooner or later.' He hesitated. ‘You know, I've been wondering about it myself during the past few minutes. Pride, I suppose, and my insatiable desire for excitement. I had a good record as an Intelligence officer, you know. I didn't fall down on many things. But I did fall down on the matter of Stelben and his gold. And when I read of his arrest and how he had become the owner of Col da Varda, something told me the scent was hot again. I just had to do something about it. And then, when you sent me that photograph, I knew I was right. I recognised Mayne and I thought I recognised Keramikos. I just had to come over and see what was going on. But when I talked this morning about stoking up the fires, it never occurred to me that things would move so swiftly.' He patted me on the shoulder. ‘Sorry!' he added. ‘I didn't mean to land you in a mess like this. Make no mistake about it, Neil—we're in a pretty tight spot.'

‘Well, let's get out of it,' I said.

‘How?'

‘Surely we could make Tre Croci on skis?'

‘Yes, on skis. But Mayne is no fool. He will have thought of that, and of the snow-shoes. However, let's investigate.'

He was quite right. Mayne was standing by the open door of the ski room and the clatter of skis told us that he had Keramikos at work tying them up. ‘Disposed of the body?' he asked. ‘Then come and give a hand with these.' He kept well clear of us as we entered the little room and his eyes were watchful. There were several pairs of skis there besides our own. We tied them in bundles of three and then he had us carry them out on to the belvedere.

Mayne directed us to the concrete machine-room at the top of the
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. The snow was very deep, in places over our knees. He unlocked the door for us and we filed in, glad to get out of that biting, snow-laden wind. The place felt chill and damp, and it had that musty smell that all unused concrete buildings have. The machinery was covered with a grey film of concrete dust so that it looked old and disused. But it was well oiled. The snow clung like a white veil to the windows, which were heavily barred. The wind whistled through the slit by which the cable entered. I glanced at the opposite wall. That was where Stelben had shot down those German soldiers, according to the statement of Korporal Holtz. But there were no bullet marks. The concrete presented a smooth, grey, uninteresting front. Engles must have noticed my interest, for he whispered, ‘Looks as though Stelben had that re-cemented.'

We stacked the skis and the two pairs of snow-shoes in the corner by the switchboard. Then we went out into the snow again and Mayne locked the door. We fought our way back in the teeth of the wind to the belvedere. Mayne paused at the entrance to the hut. ‘We'll start work this afternoon,' he said. ‘In the meantime, I'd be glad if you'd stick around the bar as far as possible, so that I can keep an eye on you.'

We went in then. The big room seemed warm. We shook the snow off our clothes and it melted in pools on the floor. Joe was at the bar. ‘Where the hell have you all been?' he asked us. ‘And what's the matter with Aldo? He's even more stupid than usual. He's broken two glasses and fumbled a bottle of cognac.' Anna was laying the table. She gave us a scared look. The colour had drained out of her face and it no longer looked bright and cheerful. Joe ordered drinks and produced several rolls of film. ‘Some ski-ing shots,' he grunted as we moved over to the bar. ‘Gives you some idea of the possibilities of the place.' He handed them to Engles.

‘Where have you been doing your developing?' Engles asked.

‘Out at the back, in the scullery,' he said. ‘Cold as charity. But it's got running water.'

Apparently he had heard nothing. Engles began running through the negatives. Mayne stood apart from us. It was strange, standing there drinking with someone who had heard nothing and was completely unaware that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

Engles suddenly stopped half-way through the second roll of film. ‘What's this shot, Joe?' he asked.

Joe leaned over and glanced at the celluloid. ‘Oh, that's a picture I took the night we arrived. Good moonlight shot. Went out and took it from the trees at the edge of the
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. Good spooky stuff, isn't it?'

‘Ye-es—it is.' Engles was peering at it closely. ‘What's he doing?' He pointed to one of the negatives with his finger.

Joe looked at it over his shoulder. ‘Dunno,' he said.

‘Seemed to be measuring something. Gives a bit of action to it. Matter of fact, that was why I went out. Wanted to get somebody moving around the place to give it a little life.'

‘Did he know you were taking pictures?'

‘Good Lord, no! Would have spoilt it. He wouldn't have moved naturally.'

‘Good point.' Engles passed the film across to me. ‘Nice shot there, Neil. Might give you an idea or two. Ought to have a moonlight episode in the script. Film very effectively.'

I took the length of film from his hands. His thumb was placed on one of the shots to indicate a figure bending down. I held the celluloid up to the light. It showed the whole front of the
rifugio
with its high snow-crusted gables, the great pine supports and, in the centre, the concrete housing of the
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machinery over which the hut had been built. The moonlight reflected white in the windows of the machine-room, and outlined against them was the figure of a man. It was not difficult to recognise that small, neat figure. It was Valdini.

I ran quickly down the strip of celluloid. He had his arms stretched out and made the motions of a man measuring the outside of the concrete housing. I could even see what appeared to be a measuring tape in his hands. Then he got to his feet and went round to the side of the building. The outside edge of the door suddenly appeared in the film and Valdini disappeared.

‘Not bad, eh?' Engles said. ‘Might run through the rest of it. There are one or two good ski-ing shots on that one.' He was looking through the third roll. I took the hint and ran through the rest of the film. Then I handed it back to Joe. ‘You've got some nice shots there,' I said. ‘Have you finished with the other one?' I asked Engles.

He handed it across to me. As he did so, he caught my eye. He was clearly excited. But he masked it by turning to Joe and beginning a long technical discussion on the merits of certain lighting and angles. And I was left wondering why a film shot of Valdini measuring a concrete wall should have aroused his interest.

IT WAS A
strange, tense lunch. Mayne sat apart from us at the opposite end of the table. He had searched our rooms, including Joe's. He knew none of us had a gun. But he took no chances. Hardly a word was spoken throughout the meal. Mayne was excited, though he tried not to show it. The rest of us were busy with our thoughts; all except Joe. He began to recall the few ski pictures that had been made. But he desisted when he found that Engles was not interested. ‘What the hell's the matter with you all?' he demanded. ‘And why's Mayne sitting up there as though he's suffering from a contagious disease?'

‘Let it rest, Joe,' Engles said. ‘We've had a row, that's all.'

‘Oh. Valdini and the Contessa involved too?'

‘Yes. They're feeding upstairs.'

He seemed satisfied with that and got on with his food in silence. It was difficult to believe that he did not even suspect that anything frightful had happened. Mayne became increasingly restless. He watched us all the time he was eating. I think he was afraid of us, even though we were unarmed. He watched us with cold, unemotional eyes. I remembered how Stelben had shot those men down. Here was another killer. As soon as he had got the gold, he would not hesitate to kill us. Joe might be safe as long as we could keep him in ignorance of the situation. But Engles and myself—he would most certainly destroy us. And what chance had we? It was like having lunch with the hangman on the day of one's execution. I began to feel sick. The sweat broke out cold on my scalp, as though it were curry I was trying to eat. I pushed my plate away.

‘Not feeling hungry, Blair?' Mayne asked.

‘Would you, if you were me?' I replied sullenly.

‘Perhaps not,' he said.

Joe looked across the table at me. ‘What's the matter? Feeling ill, Neil?'

‘No, I'm all right,' I said. But he wasn't convinced and went over to the bar and got me a drink. ‘We'd better all have a drink,' he said. ‘Might clear the air a bit.'

But it didn't. The liquor seemed cold and uninteresting and my mouth remained unpleasantly dry.

As soon as lunch was over, Joe got up and said, ‘'Fraid I'll have to tear myself away from this cheerful gathering.' And when nobody showed any desire for him to stay, he went back to his developing.

Mayne got up then and went upstairs. We heard the key turn in the lock of Valdini's room and the sound of his boots crossing to the window. Then the door shut and the key was turned in the lock again. When he came back into the room, he said, ‘Now we can get started. Come with me, will you, Engles.'

Keramikos and I were left alone. We looked at each other. ‘Can't we do something?' I said.

Keramikos shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is difficult when you are dealing with a man who is armed and who will not hesitate to shoot. You might take up a chair and try to brain him as he comes in through the door again. Or you might throw a bottle at him and hope to stun him. Or again you might walk out through that door into the snow and try to get down to the bottom of the
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. For myself, I prefer to wait. Mayne is not the only one who has a gun. I took the precaution some time back of preparing for just such an eventuality. I have been in many difficult situations in my life. And I have discovered that always there is the moment. We shall see.' He was very pale and the lips of his small mouth were pressed close together so that they were the same colour as his skin.

‘I'd rather take a chance than be shot like Stelben shot those men,' I said.

Again he shrugged his shoulders. He was not interested. I looked down the passage to the kitchen. There was no sign of Mayne. I glanced at the window facing the
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. Keramikos had his gun—but would he use it to assist us? I didn't trust him. My mind was suddenly made up. I crossed to the window and opened it. There was a deep bed of snow on the wooden platform below. And beyond the platform, the sleigh track, piled with drift snow, fell away into the murk of driving snow. ‘Shut the window after me, will you,' I said to Keramikos.

‘Do not be a fool, Blair,' he said as I climbed up on to the sill. ‘He will see your tracks. It will do no good.'

But I ignored his advice. Anything was better than just waiting for the end. I stood up in the open window space and jumped. I landed quite softly. I was pitched forward on to my knees so that my face was buried in the snow. I raised my head and wiped the snow from my eyes. It was icy cold. I was facing straight down the sleigh track. I scrambled to my feet and plunged forward on to the track. The snow was thick for a bit and moved with me in a small avalanche, so that it was not unlike scree walking, which I had often done in the Lake District at home. But then I reached a patch where the snow had been blown clear of the track. My feet slipped from under me and I found myself sliding on my back. I must have fallen thirty feet or more before I fetched up in a bank of snow. I fought my way out of it and stood upright again.

There was a shout behind me. I glanced back and was surprised to see how near I still was to the hut. A ploughed-up track in the virgin snow showed the way I had come. A pistol shot cracked out and a bullet whipped into the snow just beside me. A voice called to me again. The words were lost in the roar of the wind through the trees. I turned and plunged on down the track.

No more bullets followed me. And, when next I looked back, the hut was no more than a vague, blurred shape. I began to feel excited. I was sheltered from the wind and, though I was already wet through, my exertions kept me warm.

I made steady progress now, sometimes wading through banks of deep snow, sometimes riding a moving sea of it, standing upright, and sometimes, in places where the track was clear, sliding down on my back.

I had just slid down one of these clear patches and nearly smothered myself in a deep drift, when I looked back. The hut had now completely disappeared from view, but coming out of the snow was the figure of a ski-er. He was taking the slope in quick zigzags. On the soft snow he did a jump turn and with his skis parallel to the slope, rode the snow as it spilled down as though he were surf-riding.