Hammond Innes - The Lonely Skier

‘No, but you’ve got to put your clothes on out there in the snow,’ I said. ‘That should be funny enough for you.’

‘My God!’ he said. ‘My cameras!’

‘Where are they?’

‘Out the back. I should be able to get to them all right.’ But the thought seemed to spur him on and a moment later, puffing and blowing, he disappeared from sight. I leaned out of the window and saw the huge blue bulk of his pyjamas shamble off through the snow in search of his clothes. Then I, too, got my legs through that window. Though the door was shut, the room was getting very hot and smoke was coiling in around the edges of the door in grey wisps.

I landed quite softly and, as I scrambled to my feet, the report of a gun nearly deafened me. I spun round. Carla was standing on the belvedere, leaning over the wooden rail so that she could see along the front of the hut. She had a sporting piece in her hands — about a twelve bore — and smoke was curling up from one of the twin barrels. Her scarlet ski suit stood out like a smear of blood against the white background. She broke the piece and reloaded with a cartridge from her pocket. As she snapped back the breech, she noticed me. ‘You Stay away,’ she said. ‘This is not your business.’ The gun was pointed at me for a moment. She was like a jungle cat defending her young. Her eyes still had that wild look. She was beyond reason — in the grip of a kind of madness.

Her eyes quickly strayed from me back along the front of the building. She turned suddenly and waded through the snow to the steps. Then she disappeared from view.

I crossed to the rail and leaned over. She was making her way slowly along the front of the building towards the top of the slittovia, her head back so that she looked up to where the glow of the flames showed red in the farthest bedroom window.

Mayne’s head appeared at the window. There was a stab of flame as he fired. The scarlet ski suit was jerked back suddenly like a puppet on a string. It turned slightly and sagged. But it fetched up in a sitting position in the snow, and raised the gun. There was a blast of red-and-yellow fire, the crash of a shot and Mayne’s head was withdrawn. He fired at her twice after that as she sat huddled in the snow. The second time Carla did not reply.

A moment later Mayne’s legs appeared through the window. They were picked out quite plainly in the glow of the flames. Carla slowly raised her gun and fired both barrels. The distance was only a matter of some forty feet. There was a horrible scream of agony. The legs writhed convulsively and were withdrawn. Carla slowly broke the piece and reloaded. The flames brightened suddenly inside the bedroom and then burned red. The glow seemed to sweep right up to the glass of the window and then a great tongue of flame licked up out of the casement, hissing as it turned the snow that hung from the roof to steam. The white icing of snow that covered the roof seemed to draw back from the flames. It wilted visibly. A piece of the gabling fell in. A great column of steam rose hissing towards the cold curtain of the stars. A gout of flame followed it through the gaping rent in the roof. The trees glowed warmly and the snow all round the hut was coloured pink.

Mayne’s head suddenly appeared again amidst the flames at the window. He fired three times at Car la. The little stabbing flames of his gun were hardly visible in the glare. Carla fired one barrel. That was all. Then she rolled over and buried her face in the snow.

Mayne dropped his gun. He was pulling at the window frame, trying to drag himself out. He appeared to be wounded. When he was half-out, his stomach supporting him on the window sill, he began to scream. It was a horrible sound — very animal and very high pitched. A draught had been created by the hole in the gable roofing and a great wave of flame rolled over him and roared up out of the window. I saw his hair catch fire. It burned like a piece of furze. The skin of his face blackened.

He gave a convulsive, agonised heave with his hands and fell headfirst from the window, a human torch, his whole body blazing furiously. He hit a drift of snow beyond the slittovia platform. A cloud of steam rose from the spot. The flames were instantly extinguished. A great black hole was burned in the snow.

‘The poor devil!’ Joe said. He was standing beside me, half-dressed. ‘Is that damned contessa of yours mad?’

‘I think she’s dead,’ I said. ‘Finish putting on your clothes. I’ll go and see if there’s anything we can do.’

Another piece of the roofing went as I made my way to the head of the slittovia. Sparks and steam rose high into the night and were whipped away by the wind. Carla’s body was huddled in the snow close to the platform at the top of the sleigh track. It was quite still. The scarlet of her ski suit glowed brightly in the lurid light. I turned her over. Her eyes stared wide out of a face covered in wet snow. There was a patch of blood in the hollow her body had made in the snow. A bullet had shattered her shoulder. Two more had struck her in the chest. The stains were a darker red than her ski suit. She was dead.

I crossed the platform then and made for the dark hole where Mayne had fallen. His body lay right below the spot where the fire was fiercest. Great gouts of flame were licking through the broken gabling. The wind was driving the fire through the wooden building, fanning the flames so that they looked like the exotic petals of some fearful jungle flower, writhing in horrid carnivorous ecstasy. One glance at Mayne told me that there was nothing to be done for him. His body was a charred and blackened mass, lying in a pool of melted snow. It was twisted and unnatural. And where the clothing had fallen away from one arm, the unburned flesh was pock-marked with shot. His had been an unpleasant death.

Joe joined me then. ‘Dead?’ he asked.

I nodded. ‘Nothing we can do. Better go and get your cameras. I’ll give you a hand.’

Joe did not move. He was staring up at the flaming building. There was a crash. The whole gable that had roofed Mayne’s room seemed to crumple. We scrambled back through the snow just in time. It collapsed with a roar. The flames licked round this fresh wound with increasing fury. Sparks flew and were driven into the night. A set of beams, charred and eaten by the fire and still blazing, fell across Mayne’s body. They stood for a second, upended in the snow. Then they keeled over against the side of the building, their bases hissing and blackened, the upper ends still flaming. The wood of the hut flooring caught and began to burn. ‘Better hurry, Joe,’ I said.

But all he said was, ‘Christ! What a film shot!’

‘What about Aldo and his wife, and Anna?’ I said, shaking his arm.

‘Eh? Oh, they live downstairs. They’ll be all right.’

found them round the back, dragging their belongings out into the snow. At least, the two women were. Aldo was wandering about helplessly, wringing his hands and muttering, ‘Mamma mia! Mamma mia!’ I imagine he felt pretty sick at having helped Carla to escape.

We got Joe’s gear out and dumped it in the snow. It was whilst I was doing this that I suddenly remem bered the skis. Without them it would take me hours to get down to Tre Croci. I stumbled round to the front of the building. My heart sank at the sight of it. The whole front was ablaze now. Half the roof was gone and where the staircase had been the upper storey was nothing more than gaunt, blackened beams pointing flaming fingers at the moon. The door of the machine-room stood open as Engles and Keramikos had left it. It was already blackened with the heat and beginning to smoulder. The flooring above the concrete room was alight and the supports all round it flaming. At any moment the whole structure might collapse on top of it.