Dead Men Don't Ski Read online

  Henry agreed that it was monstrous, and added, "You knew Herr Hauser personally?"

  Signora Vespi nodded vigorously. "But of course. He was born in the village. I remember him as a little boy..." Here Henry was treated to a flood of reminiscence about the young Hauser, his unusual brilliance and precocity, even as a child, and his subsequent, well-deserved success in the world. "So kind, so generous a man ... so polite and sympathetic..."Of all the people Henry had spoken to so far, only Rosa Vespi seemed to have been genuinely fond of Hauser, and to regret his death.

  "This has certainly been a tragic year for your family," he said. "First, your son "

  "Ah, Giulio ... my poor Giulio ... crazy for skiing, like all the Vespis. What can a woman do with such men, signore? When Mario hurt himself so badly, I said to him in the hospital—" She broke off to sell two picture postcards and a bar of chocolate to a stout German in purple vorlagers, and resumed as if nothing had intervened— u ' Mario ', I said, * I am glad this has happened ... yes, glad. For otherwise you would have killed yourself—just as your father did/ nd so he would. All the Vespi's are the same. My Giulio #as the best skier in the valley, but crazy ... crazy..."

  Taking a long shot, Henry said, "Giulio was very friendly with Fritz Hauser, wasn't he?"

  "We all were." Signora Vespi sighed again. "When I think how he would come and share a simple meal with us, even when he was rich and famous ... Why only—" Her attention was again distracted by a customer: this time an elegant French girl in search of sunglasses. She failed to make a sale, however—her selection being dismissed as hopelessly un-chic. Before the shop door had closed, she started again. "Poor dear Fritz. Many times, he used to say to me, 'Rosa, you should be proud of your sons. They have stayed in the valley, but they are cleverer than I.' It was not true, of course, but I loved him for it. And certainly Giulio was clever—very clever. You knew my Giulio, stgnore?"

  "Alas, no," said Henry. "I wish I had. I have heard 80 much about him."

  "Ah, you are molto simpatico. Perhaps you would like to see Giulio's picture? Come, I will show you. Maria!"

  In response to Signora Vespi's sudden scream, a pretty, fair-haired girl came clattering down the stairs, and into the shop from the door that led to the rest of the house.

  "My daughter," said Rosa. "She will look after the shop for me."

  Maria smiled shyly at Henry, as Signora Vespi ushered him into the inner room. Dutifully, he admired the outstanding good looks and obviously sterling qualities of the youth who gazed out so confidently from the black-draped shrine on the mantelpiece. Then he remarked appreciatively on the charm of the cluttered parlour, and ended up by enlarging on the splendour of the new radiogram.

  "That was Giulio's," said Rosa Vespi, with sad pride. "He had it sent all the way from Milano. Yes, he was very clever—he earned much money from the tourists. The car, we gave to Pietro, for we are too old for such things. But the radio ... it is magnificent, no? And very valuable. Mario keeps it locked up. When he comes in, I will get him to open it and show you..."

  She had her hand on the lid of the radiogram when a sharp voice from the doorway said, "Rosa! "

  Henry turned, and saw Mario. In his own home, the old man had a dignity and authority that Henry had not suspected. He looked drawn and worried, but he smiled wanly as he said, "Welcome to my home, stgnore. I hope my wife has not been boring you with her chatter."Turning to Rosa, he added, "The gentleman does not want to be bothered with radios at such a time. He wishes to talk about the murder, no?"

  "I did hope to have a word with you, Mario," said Henry. 4C I was going to suggest we might take a drink together."

  "Rosa ... vermouth ... wine ... quickly."

  "No, no," Henry protested. "You must drink with me. I thought we might take a glass in the Bar Schmidt."

  Mario looked at Henry sharply. "As you wish, signore. A great pleasure."

  The Bar Schmidt was crowded with villagers taking their midday drinks. A rich aroma of garlic, black tobacco and stale vermouth hung like a pall over the shabby, wooden-walled , bar-room, whose windows, Henry surmised, had not been opened since the previous summer, if then. In the medley of voices, Italian, German and the local mountain dialect, Ladino, were discernible in roughly equal proportions.

  Mario was greeted by the other occupants of the bar with obvious friendliness not unmixed with curiosity—which turned to embarrassed respect when they saw Henry. Room was made for the newcomers on one of the well-worn benches, and Henry procured two glasses of sweet, dark vermouth from the bar.

  When the appropriate "Salute" had been exchanged, and the glasses duly clinked together, Henry said: "I wanted a chat with you, Mario, because I felt sure you could help me to get an idea of what Fritz Hauser was really like. I understand from your wife that you knew him well, which is a piece of great good fortune. Tell me about him."

  A sudden quiet had fallen over the bar, and Henry could feel every man there holding his breath, waiting for Mario's answer. The old man twisted his glass slowly in his gnarled fingers. Then he said, "I am afraid that all women talk too much, signore. Hauser came to see us once in a way—his father and mine were friends, and he visited us for old times' sake. My wife was very proud that he came, and now she likes to make out that we were great friends. It is not true."

  Across the room, a group of men began talking in low voices, and one of them laughed and spat.

  Henry said, "At least, you can tell me what sort of man he was."

  Again the whole bar waited, uneasily, for the answer.

  After some thought, Mario said, "He was a very clever man, and to us he was always polite and kind."

  "And generous?"

  "Generous? I do not understand."

  "I thought," said Henry, "that since he was so rich, he might have given you some presents—you or your sons."

  Mario shook his head firmly. "Never," he said. And added, "Hauser was not the kind of man to give things away."

  Henry did not press the point. "I hope this affair will not be bad for the village—as far as the tourists are concerned, I mean," he said.

  The atmosphere in the bar relaxed, like a sigh. Conversations sprang up, quietly at first, but soon gathering volume, and bursting into gesticulation. Mario said: "The tourists will come more than ever, I expect. In any case they only want to ski, and a murder does not spoil the snow." He smiled, a little grimly. "An accident to the ski-lift, or a bad avalanche—those would be disasters to us. Not this."

  "I'm glad to hear it," said Henry, cheerfully. "I suppose most of the village lives by tourism."

  "Yes," said Mario, shortly.

  "It must be a good living, in the season—especially for the ski instructors."

  "Tourists are foolish with their money," said Mario. Then, unexpectedly taking the initiative, he added, "I know what you are thinking, Signor Tibbett. I heard my wife talking to you of radios and cars. You are asking yourself how an instructor can earn as much as Giulio did."

  "Yes," said Henry. "I was."

  Four men who were playing cards at the next table suddenly lost interest in their game: the barman, in the middle of serving a round of drinks, put the bottle of vermouth down quietly and strolled to a better vantage point behind the bar.

  Mario said: "There have been many rich, stupid women —Americans. I did not like it, I was ashamed that my son should behave ki such a manner. But what could I do? You know the Americans..."

  The card players all grinned broadly, and one of them leant towards Henry, breathing a pungent whiff of garlic into his face, and rubbed his fingers together in the time-honoured Italian gesture that means "money". "Americans," he said, in a thick country accent. "We've all seen them—haven't we?"

  A chorus of assent went up from the bar in general. Was it their fault if the Americans chose to spend like lunatics? If the women had more money than sense? Let them spend if they wished—it was good for the village...

  "I know, I know," said Henry, smiling. The
n he glanced at his watch, exclaimed at the lateness of the hour, and excused himself. As he went out into the snowy brightness of the street, he saw out of the corner of his eye that the card players—and several other men as well—had converged on Mario. All were smiling, and one of them thumped the old man encouragingly on the back.

  "That should have stirred something up," Henry reflected, with satisfaction, as he walked towards the Olympia. He was also gratified to notice, as he passed the Vespi's house, the flutter of a lace curtain dropped hastily back into place over the parlour window.

  The Olympia was almost empty. Behind the bar, Alfonzo, the white-coated barman, was polishing a glass lethargically. Henry perched on a stool and ordered a Campari to take away the taste of the sweet vermouth.

  "Much excite in the village, this murder," said Alfonzo, conversationally. He spoke quite creditable English, and never missed an opportunity of airing it.

  Henry nodded, abstractedly. Then he said, "Do you get many Americans here, Alfonzo?"

  "Americans? One in some while. No, no Americans here."

  "I don't mean now, this moment. I mean, during the season ... last year ... the year before..."

  "Was a family Americano, three—four year past," said Alfonzo helpfully. But the subject clearly bored him, and he went on, "You know who shoot this Hauser, no? You are great policeman from London, everybody speak of it."

  "I'm not a great policeman, and I have no idea who shot him," said Henry. "I'm sorry to disappoint you. Can I get some lunch here?"

  "But of course, signore. Any table you wish."

  "Thanks, Alfonzo." Henry put the money for his drink down on the bar, and climbed off his stool, saying, "If you remember any more Americans, you might let me know."

  "Si, si, signore." Alfonzo was obviously puzzled, but prepared to humour the eccentric Englishman. As Henry walked over to a table, he called after him. "Was a lady from Cuba one year—ooh-la-la! " He laughed happily at the recollection.

  "When was that?"

  "I don't remember. My father tell me."

  Supressing as unworthy and irrelevant a strong impulse to abandon his murder investigations in favour of finding out more about the legendary lady from Cuba, Henry sat down to an excellent lunch. After which he took the ski-lift back to the hotel.

  Capitano Spezzi was in his room when Henry returned, wading doggedly through oceans of paper to compile his reports. He seemed glad of an excuse to stop work for a while, and welcomed Henry cordially, inviting him to partake of a villainous-looking cigarette. Henry declined politely, and lit his pipe.

  "Well, what news have you for me?" Spezzi asked, stretching his long legs luxuriously, and blowing smoke through his nose.

  "A cable from London with some background details of the English contingent," said Henry. He glanced at his diary. "Roger Staines. Son of Mortimer Staines, the financier who clashed and shot himself five years ago. The son was brought up in great luxury and then left penniless at the age of twenty-eight—the Nancy Maud was just about the only thing of his father's that he managed to keep. He's thirty-three now—doesn't look it, I must say. Fine war record—joined the Navy in 1943, and made a name for himself carrying out lunatic escapades in small boats, mostly in the Med. D.S.O. and bar. Since his father's death, nobody knows quite how he's managed to exist. He apparently tried several jobs—selling Encyclopaedias, ferrying yachts, and a short spell in an advertising agency. Didn't stick to any of them. However, he manages somehow to keep in with the smart, rich young set in London. I suppose," added Henry, "that he's in demand with society hostesses because he's a very personable bachelor, but none of them want him for a son-in-law for the simple fact that he's always chronically short of money."

  "Yet he hopes to marry Miss Whittaker," Spezzi remarked.

  "Apparently it's common gossip in London that he's determined to marry her," Henry said, "and the unkinder element takes it for granted that he's after her cash. Sir Charles has already protested vigorously, but Caro's mad about Roger, and the general opinion is that the old man is softening. Also, which is interesting, Staines has been spreading it around town that he's on to a good thing, and will shortly be in funds."

  "Interesting indeed," Spezzi murmured.

  "Yes," said Henry. "But if, as I imagine, Hauser was proposing to enroll him as a smuggler, I'd say that Roger Staines must be one of the few people who's really sorry that he's dead."

  "Don't forget the blackmail, my friend," said Spezzi.

  "That puzzles me," said Henry. "I can't see where it fits in. Unless, of course, Roger is actually telling the truth."

  "Highly unlikely, in my opinion," said Spezzi, a trifle grimly. "Go on."

  Henry consulted his diary again. "Colonel Arthur Buckfast, Royal Wessex Regiment, retired eight years ago. Member of the Army Ski Team from 1933 to '39. Hobbies, skiing and philately. Married in 1921, Rosamund Handford-Bell, daughter of the late General Sir Robert Handford-Bell. Since the Colonel's retirement, the Buckfasts have lived in a small house in Bayswater "

  "Where is this, please?" Spezzi asked.

  "Just where you'd expect them to live," said Henry, with a grin. "Respectable residential quarter of London, neither very smart nor very expensive. Both the Buckfasts considered to be pillars of society. Just goes to show you never can tell."

  "Indeed you can't," said Spezzi, rather sadly.

  "Who's next? The Whittaker girl—we know about her. Jimmy Passendell, youngest son of Lord Raven, member of Lloyds, plenty of money and generally popular. A very old friend of the Whittakers. Incidentally, rumour has it that old Whittaker only agreed to this holiday on condition jimmy came along to keep an eye on Caro." He closed his diary. "That's the lot. Nothing very sensational. Any news from Rome?"

  "Not yet. I expect to hear to-morrow." Spezzi glanced quizzically at Henry. "Well, what's your opinion?"

  "I've got what I think is a pretty good idea," said Henry, slowly. "But it'll need a lot more working out before I can prove anything, so I'll keep it to myself for the moment, if you don't mind. And you? Still got your money on Gerda?"

  "I wish," said Spezzi, "that I could think of a good reason why it should not have been her. I ... I pity the girl. But there it is."

  "How do you suggest she got hold of the gun?" Henry asked. "You know, I have a hunch she meant it when she said she didn't know it existed."

  "She could have taken it just as easily as anyone else," said Spezzi, mournfully. "Didn't Mr. Passendell tell us it was left out on the table for all to see the night before the murder?"

  "If Gerda—or anyone else—stole the gun that evening," said Henry, "doesn't it strike you as odd that Hauser was apparently quite unconcerned about it, and made no attempt to get it back?"

  "He had no right to carry a gun. He would not have dared to complain."

  "Not to the police, of course. But I can't help feeling that..."

  "You are sentimental, dear Enrico," said Spezzi. "You are trying to find loopholes for the girl. I sympathise, but I cannot let emotion rule me. I am a policeman."

  "So am I," said Henry, slightly stung. "All right. Go ahead. Arrest her if you like. I'm sure the Baron would be delighted."

  Spezzi looked stern. "I confidently expect to make an arrest within a day or two," he said.

  "Well, bully for you," said Henry, in English. Then, in Italian, he added, "I'm off now. I want a few words with Signor Rossati."

  He was not destined to have them until later, however. Hardly had he closed the door of Spezzi's bedroom behind him, than a door across the corridor opened a crack, and Maria-Pia peeped nervously out.

  "Henry," she said, in an urgent whisper. "Henry, I must talk to you."

  "A pleasure," said Henry. "Not skiing today?"

  Maria-Pia grabbed his hand, and pulled him into the sitting-room of her suite, quickly closing the door behind him. Henry was relieved to see that the Baron was not there.

  "lam supposed to have a headache," she said, bitterly. "Actually, Hermann r
efuses to let me ski. He is keeping me here like a prisoner."

  Henry could not think of any suitable reply to this melodramatic statement, so he made a sympathetic noise, and waited for Maria-Pia to go on.

  "I had to talk to you," she said. "I have been waiting all day for the chance. Hermann will be back soon—he has taken the children out for a walk. He is not afraid to leave me when he knows that Franco is out skiing."

  She paused, and lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. "I am nearly crazy with worry," she said. "You see, Henry, I am in love with Franco."

  "I had actually guessed as much," said Henry, kindly.

  "Hermann suspected it," Maria-Pia went on. "There was no way we could meet. Then Franco found this place, and each winter for three years we have had a wonderful holiday together. It is all I live for. Do you think I am a terrible woman?" she added, looking at Henry shyly.

  "Not terrible," said Henry. "A little foolhardy, perhaps. Never mind. Go on. What made you realise the Baron knew?"

  "I overheard him talking to someone on the telephone, the morning I left Innsbruck. I had gone out shopping, but I forgot my purse, and had to go back. Hermann didn't hear me come in again. He was saying "—she repeated the words like a hated but well-learned lesson—"* I shall expect a full report on them both, with definite evidence.' And then the other person said something, and Hermann said, 4 We have already discussed the question of payment. There is no more to be said.' I knew then that he was putting someone to spy on me. When you spoke to me in the train, I thought for a moment that it might be you. Forgive me."

  "Not at all," said Henry. "I wondered at the time what you were so frightened about."

  "So when I got here,"Maria-Pia went on, 4< I tried to persuade Franco to go back to Rome, but he wouldn't. So I told him we must be very discreet. And so we were."