Hammond Innes - The Lonely Skier

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. Ť ‘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 coldblooded 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 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, rilled 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 skiing. 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.’