The Lonely Skier (14 page)

I stumbled on from outcrop to outcrop until I stood on the rim of that white basin out of which we had climbed. I set my skis up-ended in a drift and stared unhappily at that frightening slope. The tracks we had made were still there, a line of hachures that rose to meet me out of the grey murk of snow that filled the lower reaches of the pass. The ski marks were faint and dusted with snow. But they were still visible, like a friendly signpost, marking the way back to warmth and safe sleep.

I put on my skis again and then, very slowly, began the descent, side-stepping down into grey cotton-wool clouds of snow. I kept my eyes on my feet. Once and once only was I fool enough to look down the line of the faint ski marks I was following. They seemed to fall away from under my skis and my knees became weak and trembled, so that I dared not make the next step down for fear the upper ski would slip. It took me ten minutes, or thereabouts, to nerve myself to continue. After that I kept my eyes on my skis. My exhaustion was so great that I found difficulty in placing my skis properly and several times one or other of my skis began to slide from under me.

But I made it in the end. And it was a great relief to see the ski points sizzling through the snow of their own accord like the prows of two ships, thrusting the powdered snow back on either side. I felt safe then, even though the leaden grey cloud mist closed about me and the snow began to blow into my face.

I must have been about halfway down the pass, when figures loomed out of the driving snow. There were several of them. I forget how many. But I saw Joe's heavy bulk among them. I hullooed to them and waved one of my sticks. They stopped. I made straight for them, the snow fairly melting under my skis. They seemed to come towards me very fast out of a blur of snow. I remember seeing Joe crouch down, training his baby camera on me. Then the blur became a blank. Apparently I just fell unconscious in my tracks.

When I came to, rough hands were chafing at my legs and arms. I was lying on the snow and Joe was bending over me. The cold rim of a flask touched my lips and I nearly choked with the fire of brandy in my throat. Somebody had taken off my skis and a blanket had been spread over me.

‘What happened?' Joe asked.

‘Mayne,' I gasped. ‘Tried to—murder me.' I closed my eyes. I felt so tired.

As if from a great distance, I heard Joe's voice say, ‘Must be delirious.'

An Italian began talking. I could not hear what he was saying. I was only half-conscious. I wished they would go away and let me sleep. Then I was hoisted on to somebody's back and the wind was cold on my face again. That and the strain on my arms brought me to full consciousness. My cheek touched dark, thick-growing hair under a peaked cap. Out of the corner of my eyes I could see dark tufts growing in a man's ear. My direct line of vision was towards the points of his skis pushing fast through the dry snow. He was ski-ing without sticks, his arms under my knees and his hands locked in mine. It was a pretty frightening way to travel, though I learned later that he was one of the guides from Tre Croci and had often carried casualties in that manner down the mountains.

‘I think I'll be all right now,' I told him in Italian.

‘You will faint,' he said. ‘You are too weak.'

But I insisted and at length he stopped and set me down. They fixed my skis for me and then, with the guide travelling beside me, I continued under my own steam. He was quite right. I did feel faint and terribly weak. But, having said I could make it, I was determined to do so.

But I was very glad to see the snow-covered gables of Col da Varda. It seemed like coming home after a long journey. The guide and Joe helped me up to my room. Between them they got my clothes off and then started to massage my body to bring back the circulation. The pain in my hands and feet was indes-cribable as the blood returned to half-frozen veins. Then I was put to bed with hot-water bottles that Anna brought up, and I fell immediately into a deep sleep.

I woke to find Joe standing beside me with a tray of food. ‘It's past ten,' he said. ‘You've slept for nearly four hours. Better have some food now.' I sat up then. I felt much better; very stiff, but quite fit.

Joe went to the door. ‘Come in,' he said. ‘He's awake.'

It was Mayne who entered. ‘My God, Blair!' he said. ‘I'm glad to see you.' He sat down uninvited at the foot of the bed. ‘I've only just got back from Carbonin. I was in despair when we were searching up through the pass. We couldn't find a trace of you. Then, when we got back at nightfall, there was Wesson's message saying they'd picked you up on this side. I've never been so glad to get a telephone message. I'd almost given up hope. How do you feel? What happened?'

It was incredible. That charming, boyish smile. It was so natural. But it did not extend to the eyes. Those grey eyes of his were expressionless. They told me nothing. Or was that my imagination? He seemed so delighted to see me. He made it sound important to him that I was alive. But all I could think of was that wall of snow rushing up to meet me and the great swirl of snow where he'd Christied into the floor of the valley. ‘You should know what happened,' I said coldly. ‘You meant it to happen.'

He went on as though he had not understood my remark. ‘When I got to the end of that valley, I found I was on the edge of a glacier. It was the Cristallino Glacier. I knew then, of course, that we had struck much too far to the right. I waited there for a few minutes. When you didn't show up, I began to get worried. I started back up my ski tracks. But I hadn't realised how quickly the snow was covering up my tracks. By the time I'd gone back five hundred yards, there was no trace of them left. The valley wasn't clearly defined. Without any tracks to guide me, there were innumerable ways I might have come down. The snow had been so thick in my face that I could not remember the features of the ground. It was a maze of little valleys. I tramped up every one I could find. I climbed from one to the other, calling to you. And in the end I thought you must have had a spill, found my tracks covered and made your own way. I went on down to Carbonin then, and when I found you hadn't arrived I telephoned here for them to send out a search-party from this end, and then started back up the pass with all the decent ski-ers I could muster at the Carbonin Hotel. My God!' he said with an apologetic smile, ‘I don't think I've ever been so scared. You see, I felt it was my fault. I should have realised that my tracks were being covered up like that and kept closer touch with you. What did happen?' he asked.

I was staggered at his nerve. ‘You mean to say you've really no idea what happened?' I demanded angrily. ‘Christ! You've got a nerve, Mayne.' I was trembling. ‘Why did you take that steep slope as a direct run? You had to Christi at the bottom to avoid the soft snow on the other side of the valley. And you knew I couldn't Christi.'

‘But I didn't Christi,' he said, and looked me straight in the eyes, perfectly cool. ‘There was quite a nice banking turn at the bottom. I took it as a straight turn. I know it was a bit fast, but there was nothing difficult about it. I certainly didn't have to Christi.'

‘That's a lie,' I said.

He gazed at me in astonishment. ‘I repeat: I did not have to Christi. You'd made out so well, I thought you'd take that bit in your stride.'

‘You know very well I couldn't take it in my stride.' I felt calmer now. ‘You had to Christi and you knew I was bound to crash into that soft snow.'

‘Oh, for God's sake!' he said. ‘What are you trying to prove?'

I looked at him for a moment. Could I have been mistaken? But that swirl of torn-up snow in the bottom of that valley—the picture of it was so clear in my mind. I said, ‘Mind if I ask you a question?'

‘Of course not.'

‘You joined the Army in 1942. What happened to you after you landed in Italy?'

He looked puzzled. ‘I don't get what you're driving at, Blair,' he said. ‘I joined the Army in 1940, not 1942. Went overseas in '43—North Africa. I was a troop commander in an Ack-Ack Regiment. We landed at Salerno. I was taken prisoner, escaped and then joined UNRRA and went to Greece. But what's that got to do with—?'

‘Forget it,' I said. ‘I'm a bit strung-up, that's all.' And I lay back against the pillow.

‘Well, anyway,' he said, ‘I'm glad you're all right. I did everything I could. I'm terribly sorry about it. It was my fault. I realise that. But I honestly thought you'd have no difficulty at the bottom of that run. I blame myself for not realising that the tracks were being covered up so quickly.' He got up then.

I said, ‘Don't worry about it.'

When he had gone out of the room, Joe uncovered a plate of scrambled eggs and placed it beside me. ‘What the devil were you driving at, Neil?' he asked as I began to eat. ‘Why question him about his Army career?'

‘Because somebody told me he was a deserter,' I said, with my mouth full. It was good to taste food again. ‘One of them is a liar. I'll find out which before I'm through.'

‘Don't understand your attitude,' he grunted. ‘Mayne's a decent enough fellow. He couldn't have done more. Rang us up as soon as he got into Carbonin. I answered the phone. He was terribly worried. He must have been dog-tired after a bad run like that. But he went straight out again with a search-party he got together at Carbonin. Didn't get in till dark. It wasn't his fault he couldn't locate you.'

I shrugged my shoulders and went on eating. He seemed to be annoyed by my silence. ‘I think you're being damned uncharitable in the matter,' he went on. ‘Know what you said when you came to and I was giving you brandy? I asked what had happened. And you told me that Mayne had tried to murder you.'

I looked up at his heavy, friendly features. He was so sure of the world about him. It was just something to take pictures of. ‘You thought I was just unstrung by what had happened?'

‘Of course you were,' he said soothingly. ‘Believe me, that boy did all he could. It wasn't his fault that you went into some soft snow and that his ski tracks got covered up. Anything can happen up in the mountains when it comes on thick like that. The guide who carried you part of the way down, he told me several stories of people caught that way. Trouble was you tried to do too much when you were out of practice.'

I said nothing after that. What was the good? But Mayne had lied when he said he'd done a straight turn at the bottom of that run.

Joe left me then and I lay in bed, comfortably relaxed. I tried to read. But I could not concentrate. In the end, I put the book down and just lay there, trying to get things clear in my mind.

It must have been about an hour later that Joe came in. ‘Engles wants you on the phone,' he said. ‘He's down at the Splendido. Says he tried to contact you earlier, but couldn't get any sense out of Aldo. I told him you oughtn't to be disturbed, but he was insistent. You know what he's like,' he added apologetically. ‘If you were dying, he'd still want me to rout you out. I tried to tell him what had happened. But he wouldn't listen. Never will listen to anything in which he doesn't figure. Do you feel like coming down, or shall I tell him to go to hell?'

‘No, I'll come,' I said. I got out of bed and slipped a blanket round my shoulders over my dressing-gown.

‘Wonder what he's come over for,' Joe said as he followed me out of the door. My knees felt a bit weak and stiff. Otherwise I seemed all right. ‘Why the devil doesn't he leave us to get on with it on our own?' he grumbled behind me. ‘It's always the same. Feels he isn't doing his job unless he's goading everybody on. Have you got a synopsis for him?'

‘I haven't done too badly,' I said. But I was thinking of Engles' private mission, not of the script.

The telephone was on the bar, by the coffee geyser. Mayne and Valdini looked up as I came in. They were seated by the stove. Valdini said, ‘You feel better, Mr Blair? I am glad. I was afraid for you when I heard you had mislaid your way.'

‘I feel fine now, thanks,' I replied.

I picked up the receiver. ‘That you, Neil?' Engles' voice sounded thin over the wire. ‘What's all this Wesson was saying about an accident?'

I was conscious that both Mayne and Valdini were watching me and listening to the conversation. ‘I don't think it was quite that,' I replied. ‘Tell you about it tomorrow. Are you coming up?'

‘Snow's pretty thick down here,' came the reply. ‘But I'll be up if I have to come through on skis. I've booked a room. You might see that it's laid on. What have you discovered about Mayne—anything?'

‘Look,' I said. ‘I can't tell you the plot now. This telephone is in the bar. Give you a full synopsis when I see you.'

‘I get you. But I think I've recognised him from those pictures you sent. Had the roll developed the instant it arrived. It was that scar that gave me the clue. That's why I flew over. Watch him, Neil. If he's the bloke I think he is, he's a dangerous customer. By the way, I've got that little bitch, Carla, with me. She's had ten Martinis and is now telling me I'm nice and not a bit English. We'll see if our impressions of her so beautiful nature tally—yes?' He gave a quick laugh. ‘See you tomorrow, then.' And he rang off.

Joe thrust a drink across to me as I put down the phone. ‘Everything all right?' he asked.

‘Seems to be,' I said.

‘What's he come over for? Did he tell you?'

‘Oh, I think he just wants to look over the ground for himself,' I replied.

‘He would. Still, he's a bloody good director. Queer fellow. Mother was Welsh, you know. That's where he gets that love of music and that flashy brilliance of speech and intellect. They're all the same, the Welsh—flashy, superficial, no depth to them.'

‘There's a bit more to him than that,' I said.