The Lonely Skier (11 page)

‘You are certain it is here?' Keramikos asked.

‘Why else did Stelben buy the place? Why else did his mistress want to buy it? It's here all right.'

Keramikos nodded. Then he said, ‘You didn't trust me before. Why should you trust me now? And why should I trust you?'

‘Case of necessity,' was the reply.

Keramikos seemed to consider. ‘It is neat,' he said. ‘That would dispose of Valdini and the Contessa. And then—' He stopped abruptly. He was gazing straight at me. ‘I thought you shut the door. There's a draught coming through it.' He got to his feet. The torch followed him as he moved towards the door.

I slipped quickly into the shadows among the piles. The door was thrust open and the light from the torch made the snow glisten. I peered out from behind the support that sheltered me. Keramikos was examining the ground outside the door. He bent down and felt the snow.

‘Anything wrong?' The other's voice sounded hollow from the interior of the concrete room.

‘No,' replied Keramikos. ‘I suppose it was not latched properly.' He closed the door. It was dark again and the silence of the night drew closer to me.

A few minutes later they came out. A key grated in the lock of the door and the two shadowy figures disappeared along the path that led back to the belvedere.

I WAITED THERE
for perhaps half an hour. It was very cold and rather eerie in that white silence with only the stars for company. But I was determined to take no chances. Keramikos must not see me return. And I had plenty to occupy my mind as I stood there in the chill darkness.

But at last the cold drove me in. I moved quietly, keeping to the shadows. I crossed the belvedere in the shadow of a fir tree that had crept across it, for the moon was getting low. The bar room seemed warm and friendly after the cold of the night. I crossed to the bar and poured myself a stiff, neat cognac. It was fire in my chilled stomach. I poured myself another.

‘I have been waiting for you, Mr Blair.'

I nearly dropped the glass. The voice came from the shadows in the corner by the piano. I swung round.

It was Keramikos. He was seated on the piano stool. His figure was shadowy in the darkness of the corner, but his glasses reflected the single bar light. He looked like a great toad.

‘Why?' I asked, and my voice trembled.

‘Because I saw the print of a pair of shoes outside that door. When I touched the prints the snow was wet. It had to be either you or Valdini. Valdini's room is next to mine. He snores. Your door was open. That was careless, I think.' He got up. ‘Would you be so kind as to pour me a cognac. It has been cold, waiting for you. Though not as cold, doubtless, as you found it, waiting outside.'

I poured him a drink.

He came over and took it from my hand. His hand was large and hairy. It was much steadier than mine.

‘Your health,' he said with a smile and raised the glass.

I did not feel in the mood for such a gesture.

‘Why did you wait up for me?' I asked. ‘And where's the Austrian fellow?'

‘The Austrian fellow?' He peered at me through his glasses. ‘You did not see him, eh?' He nodded as though satisfied about something. ‘He's gone,' he said. ‘He does not know you were there. I waited up for you because there are some questions I would like to ask you.'

‘And there are a few I'd like to ask you,' I said.

‘I've no doubt,' he replied curtly. ‘But you would be a fool to expect me to answer them.' He considered me for a moment as he poured himself another drink. ‘You speak German, eh?' he asked.

‘Yes,' I said.

‘You were listening to our conversation. It is not good, Mr Blair, to meddle in matters that are of no concern to you.' His voice was quiet, his tone reasonable. It was difficult to realise that there was an implied threat.

‘Murder is a matter that concerns everybody,' I responded sharply.

‘The
slittovia
, eh? So you heard that. What else did you hear?' There was no mistaking the menace in his voice now, though the tone was still quiet.

‘God!' I cried. ‘Isn't that enough?'

He gazed at the drink in his glass. ‘You should not leap to conclusions, Mr Blair,' he said. ‘You only heard part of the conversation.'

‘Listen, Keramikos,' I said. ‘You can't fool me by suggesting that I didn't hear all the conversation. That little scrap was complete in itself. The Austrian was proposing cold-blooded murder.'

‘And do you know why?'

‘Because you're searching for something,' I snapped back, angered by the casualness of his manner. ‘What is there to search for that's so important you'll commit murder in order not to be interrupted?'

‘That, my friend, is none of your business,' he replied quietly. ‘If you believe you have correctly interpreted the scrap of conversation you have overheard, then I suggest you avoid travelling on the
slittovia
. And confine your curiosity to your own affairs. My advice to you is—get on with your film story.'

‘How the hell do you expect me to write a film script in these circumstances,' I cried.

He laughed. ‘That is for you to consider. In the meantime, be a little less curious. Good-night, Mr Blair.' He nodded to me curtly and walked out of the room. I heard his feet on the stairs and then the sound of a door closing.

I finished my drink and went up to my room. The door stood open as Keramikos had said. I was certain I had closed it when I left. The room looked just the same. There was no indication that any one had been in it. I sat down on the bed and switched on the electric heater. I was puzzled and, I think, a little frightened. Keramikos had not been angry, but there had been a quiet menace in his words that was even more disturbing.

To try and sleep was out of the question. I decided to add to my report to Engles. I picked up my typewriter and lifted the cover. I was just going to remove the sheet of paper on which I had already typed the day's report when I noticed that the top of it had been caught between the cover and the base. The paper was torn and dirtied by the catches. Now I am always most careful to adjust the paper so that this does not happen when I am putting my typewriter away with copy in it. It is quite automatic. Somebody had read that report and had failed to adjust the paper properly before putting the lid back on to the typewriter. I made a quick search of the room. My things were all in place, but here and there they had been moved slightly—a bottle of ink at the bottom of my suitcase was on its side, some letters in a writing case were in a different order and several other small things were out of place. I became certain that Keramikos had searched my room. But why had he left the door open? Was he trying to frighten me?

The only thing that mattered was the report to Engles. Fortunately there was no address on it. It read like part of a diary. It was quite innocuous, merely recording my conversations with Carla and Keramikos that afternoon. But it showed my interest. I suddenly remembered that cable from Engles. But it was all right. It was in the wallet in my pocket. The photograph of Carla was also there.

I sat down then and penned an account of the night's happenings for Engles.

When I came down to breakfast, after only a short sleep, I found Mayne at the piano. ‘Know this, Blair?' he asked. He was as full of sunlight as the morning. The notes rippled from his fingers like the sound of a mountain stream.

‘Handel's
Water Music
,' I said.

He nodded. He had a beautiful touch. ‘Do you like Rossini for breakfast?' he asked. And without waiting for an answer, he slid into the overture of
The Barber of Seville
. Gay, subtle humour, full of mockery and laughter, filled the sunny room. ‘There is more of Italy in this music, I think, than in the works of all her other composers put together,' he said. ‘It is gay, like Anna here.' The girl had just come in to lay the breakfast and she flashed him a smile at the sound of her name. ‘Do you know this piece, Anna?' he asked in Italian, switching into the first act. She listened for a second, her head held prettily on one side. Then she nodded. ‘Sing it then,' he said.

She smiled and shook her head in embarrassment.

‘Go on. I'll start again. Ready?' And she began to sing in a sweet soprano. It was gay and full of fun.

‘That is the Italian side of her,' he said to me through the music. He suddenly left her flat and thumped into the priest scene. ‘But she does not understand this,' he shouted to me. ‘She is Austrian now—and a good Catholic. This mocks at the Church. Only the Italians would mock at their Church. Here it is—the foolish, knavish priest enters.' The notes crashed out mockingly.

He struck a final chord and swung round on the stool. ‘What are you doing today, Blair?' he asked. ‘Yesterday you introduced me to a very good entertainment at that auction. Today I would like to return your kindness. I would like to take you ski-ing. It is early in the season and there is a lot of snow still to fall. We should not waste a fine day like this. Besides, the forecast is for snow later. What about coming up Monte Cristallo with me?'

‘I'd like to,' I said. ‘But I feel I ought to do some work.'

‘Nonsense,' he said. ‘You can work all this evening. Besides, you ought to have a look at one of the real mountains up here. I can show you a glacier and some very fine avalanche slopes. Your fat friend is only taking pictures of the ordinary ski runs. You ought to take a look at the real mountains. There's good film stuff up there.'

‘Really,' I said, ‘I must work.'

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘My God, you take life seriously. What does a day more or less matter? You should have been born in Ireland. Life would have been more fun for you.' He swung back to the piano and began thumping out one of Elgar's more solid pieces, looking at me over his shoulder with a twinkle in his eyes. He quickly changed into a gay Irish air. ‘If you change your mind,' he said, ‘I'll be leaving about ten.'

The others were drifting in now, attracted by the music and the smell of bacon and eggs frying. Conscious of a growing audience, Mayne switched to Verdi and began to play seriously again. Only Joe was not interested. He looked tired and liverish. ‘Does he have to make a damned row so early in the morning?' he grumbled in my ear. ‘Like talking at breakfast—can't stand it.' His face looked grey in the hard sunlight and the pouches under his eyes were very marked.

The mail came up, after breakfast, on the first sleigh. With it was a cable from Engles. It read:
Why Mayne Keramikos unmentioned previously. Full information urgent. Engles
.

A few minutes later Mayne came over to me. He had his ski boots on and was carrying a small haversack. ‘What about changing your mind, Blair?' he said. ‘We needn't make it a long day. Suppose we're back by three, would that be all right for you? It's not much fun going for a ski run by one's self.'

I hesitated. I did want to get some writing done. On the other hand, I couldn't bear the thought of being cooped up in the hut all day. And Engles wanted information about Mayne. It would be a good opportunity to find out about the man. ‘All right,' I said. ‘I'll be ready in about ten minutes.'

‘Good!' he said. ‘I'll have Aldo get your skis ready. No need to worry about food. We'll get it at the hotel at Carbonin.' His eagerness was infectious. Any one less like a man who had once led a gang of deserters I could not imagine. And suddenly I did not believe a word Keramikos had said. It was too fantastic. The Greek had just been trying to divert my attentions from himself.

As I came down in my ski suit and boots, Joe raised his eyebrows. He did not say anything, but bent over the camera he was loading. ‘Care to lend me that small camera of yours, Joe?' I asked.

He looked up. ‘No,' he said. ‘I wouldn't trust that camera to any one. Why? Think you can get some shots that I can't? Where are you off to?'

‘Monte Cristallo,' I told him. ‘Mayne says he can show me a glacier and some fine avalanche slopes. I thought they might produce some good shots. It would be grander stuff than you can get down here.'

Joe laughed. ‘Shows how little you know about camera work,' he said. ‘It's all a matter of angles and light. I haven't been more than a thousand yards from this hut, but I've got everything. I don't need to go trapesing all over the Dolomites to get my background.'

‘I wish I had your sublime self-confidence,' I said.

I suppose I had spoken with a shade of bitterness, for he looked up and patted my arm. ‘It'll come,' he said. ‘It'll come. A couple of successes and you'll never listen to advice again—until it's too late. I'm at the top now. Nobody can teach me anything about cameras. But it won't last. In a few years' time younger men will come along with new ideas which I shan't be able to see, and that'll be that. It's the way it goes in this racket. Engles will tell you the same.'

I left him then and went out on to the belvedere. Mayne was waiting for me there. Just a couple of successes! It was so easy to talk about it. And I hadn't even begun a script. The wood of my skis was actually warm to the touch as they stood propped against the balustrade in the sun. But though the sun was warm, it made little or no impression on the snow, which remained hard and frozen.

We started up across virgin snow until we hit the track to the Passo del Cristallo. It was not really a track—just a few ski marks lightly dusted over with a powder of snow that had drifted across them during the night. The run looked as though it was little used. ‘You know the way, I suppose?' I asked Mayne.

He stopped and turned his head. ‘Yes. I haven't done it this year. But I've done it often before. You don't need to worry about having no guide. It's quite straightforward until we get up near the top of the pass. There's a nasty bit of climbing to do to get to the top of it. We'll be just on ten thousand feet up there. We may have to do the last bit without skis. Then there's the glacier. That's about a kilometre. There should be plenty of snow on it. After that it's quite a simple run down to Carbonin.' He turned and plodded on ahead of me again, thrusting steadily with his sticks.