Desmond Bagley - The Snow Tiger

‘His wife wouldn’t know him,’ said McGill bleakly. His face was pale.

The dog wagged its tail happily and trotted off across the snow, where it stopped and began to sniff and scratch again. ‘Cotton, you’re now the dog handler,’ said Rusch. ‘Harris, round up some able-bodied men and dig wherever that German shepherd scratches.’

McGill heard the familiar sound of skis hissing on snow and turned to see two men approaching. They stopped and the one in the lead pushed up his goggles. ‘What can I do to help?’ said Charlie Peterson.

McGill looked down at Charlie’s feet. ‘You can lend me your skis for a start. I’m going up the mountain.’

Miller pushed forward from behind Charlie and stared down at the body. ‘Christ!’ he said. ‘What happened to him?’ A retching sound came from him and he turned and vomited helplessly.

The body did not seem to worry Charlie. He looked down, and said, ‘It’s Rawson. What happened to him?’

‘How do you know who it is?’ asked Rusch. ‘The guy’s got no face.’

Charlie pointed. ‘He lost the first joint of the little finger of his left hand.’ He looked up at McGill. ‘Take Miller’s skis. I’ll come with you.’

‘That slope’s not the safest place in the world, Charlie.’

Charlie grinned crookedly. ‘You can get killed crossing the road. I said that before, didn’t I?’

McGill gave Charlie a level stare, then made up his mind.

‘Okay. Help me get them off him. He’s in no condition to do it himself.’

Five minutes later Rusch watched them go. He looked up at the slope and frowned. It wasn’t a job he would fancy doing. ‘Sir!’ called Cotton urgently. ‘We’ve got another one — alive and female.’

Rusch strode over. ‘Be careful with that shovel, Harris. Cotton, bring up that empty sled.’

The limp body of Liz Peterson was lifted on to the sled and covered warmly with a blanket. Rusch looked down at her. ‘Lovely girl,’ he commented. ‘Take her to the church. We’ve just started to earn our pay.’

The Canterbury Provincial Chamber was very quiet as Lieutenant-Commander Rusch gave his evidence, although there had been a shocked whisper as he described the finding of Rawson’s body.

‘The dog was a big help in that first hour, sir,’ said Rusch. ‘He found three victims, two of whom were alive. But then he lost interest. I think he was tired — the snow was very deep and hard to get through, and maybe his scent was failing. He wasn’t a trained animal, anyway.’

‘Did you find out whom the dog belonged to?’ asked Harrison.

‘His name was Victor and he belonged to the Scanlon family. There were no survivors from the Scanlon family.’

‘I hope Victor has found a good home.’

‘I believe he has, sir. Miss Peterson is looking after him.’

Harrison looked across the room towards the Petersons’ table. He smiled at Liz Peterson and nodded. ‘Most appropriate,’ he commented. He consulted his watch. ‘Our next evidence deals with the activities of the Civil Defence authorities. As it is getting late in the afternoon this hearing will adjourn until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

He turned to Rusch. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant-Commander. It only remains for me to thank you and your comrades for a job well done.’

The hard-bitten Rusch actually blushed.

‘Listening to that evidence gave me a cold grue all over again,’ said McGill. ‘I was too busy at the time to think about it much, but when you get it all laid out then it really hits you.’

‘A terrible experience,’ said Stenning.

They were standing at the desk in the hotel waiting for the receptionist to finish telephoning. ‘Where is Ian?’ asked Stenning.

‘Gone off somewhere with Liz,’ McGill smiled. ‘Have you come up with an answer to the question I asked? What happens if Ian marries her?’

Stenning shook his head. ‘That will take a great deal of thought.’

The receptionist came off the telephone and took keys from a board. ‘Mr Stenning. Dr McGill. There’s a letter for you, Dr McGill.’

‘Thank you.’ McGill tossed the letter lightly in his hand. ‘Care to join me in a drink?’

‘I think not,’ said Stenning. ‘I think I’ll take a short nap.’

Stenning went to his room and McGill went into the bar. He ordered a drink and then opened the letter. As he unfolded the sheets a cheque slipped out and fluttered to the bar counter. He picked it up, glanced at it, and his eyes widened as he saw the amount it was made out for. He laid down the cheque and his brows drew together as he read the first page of the letter. He flipped over the sheet and read absorbedly, the drink untasted at his elbow. He arrived at the final page then, turning back to the beginning, he read it all through again. Then he sat on the bar stool and looked ahead of him broodingly, which unnerved the bar-tender who happened to be at the focus of his blank stare.

‘Anything wrong with your drink, sir?’

‘What?’ McGill roused himself. ‘No, give me another — and make it a double.’ He picked up the glass and swallowed the neat scotch in one gulp.

When Ballard arrived McGill was waiting for him and steered him into the bar. McGill crooked his finger at the bar-tender. ‘Two more doubles. We’re celebrating, Ian.’

‘What’s there to celebrate?’

‘Guess what I’ve got in my pocket?’

‘How could I possibly guess?’ Ballard looked at McGill closely. ‘Mike, are you drunk? You look like a boiled owl.’

‘In my pocket,’ said McGill seriously. ‘In my pocket I have a steamroller. It arrived air mail from Los Angeles.’ He took the letter from his breast pocket and waved it under Ballard’s nose. ‘Read it, my friend. Read it and weep. I don’t feel like cheering even though it’s the saving of you.’

‘I think you are drunk.’ Ballard took the envelope and opened it. He glanced at the cheque and said, ‘What the hell is this? A bribe?’

‘Read,’ urged McGill.

Ballard started to read the first page and then, frowning, glanced at the bottom of the last page to find that the letter was from the American, Miller. Its contents were appalling.

‘Dear Dr McGill,

‘I have been wanting to write this letter for a long time but I have been putting it off because I guess I was scared. What happened has been on my conscience ever since the avalanche which caused so many deaths, including that of my good friend, Ralph Newman. A friend sent me newspaper clips about the inquiry into the Hukahoronui disaster. On reading the clips I relived that terrible experience and I know I have to speak up. I am having this letter notarized so that it may be used in evidence if you think it necessary, but I send it to you in the hope that you will not think it necessary. I leave it to your good judgment.

‘Early on the morning of that dreadful Sunday I went skiing with Charlie Peterson. There was a mist in the valley but he said there would be sun on the higher slopes. I was a bit nervous because I had heard talk of avalanches at the hotel, but Charlie laughed at me and said that someone was pulling my leg. We went up into the hills at the head of the valley and did some skiing but the slopes were not very good there, and Charlie suggested that we go to the slopes nearer Hukahoronui. This we did.

‘We finally arrived at the top of the west slope above the town and we saw a sign there saying that no skiing was allowed. I wanted to turn around and go another way, but Charlie said the land was Peterson land and that no one could stop him from doing what he wanted on his own land. He said all this talk of avalanches was nonsense and there had never been one in Hukahoronui. He laughed when he said the sign had been put up by boy scouts and it was just about their mark.