Hammond Innes - The Lonely Skier

I rolled quickly in the heat-thawed snow till my clothes were sodden. Then, with a wet handkerchief tied round my face, I sloshed through the melting snow and in through the black, gaping doorway. The inside of that concrete room was like an oven. It was full of smoke. I couldn’t see a thing. I stumbled over the pick Engles had used to batter in the door and felt my way to the corner where we had put the skis. Several fell as I touched them. But the clatter they made was scarcely audible above the roar of the flames overhead. I felt along the warm concrete wall with my hands and found a bundle still tied together. With these over my shoulder, I stumbled through the red gap of the doorway, out through the blazing pine supports and into the cold, sodden snow.

I set the skis down, points upwards, in a drift and looked back at the blaze. As I did so, one of the pine supports near the entrance to the machine-room splintered and flared. The blazing floor above it sagged dangerously. A moment later several supports gave with loud cracks and a burst of flame. The flooring, which they supported, slowly buckled, and then the whole blazing facade above folded inwards and sank with a roar of flame and broken wood. A myriad sparks rushed into the night and the flames roared up through the gap in a solid sheet.

Joe came round the end of the building then. I beckoned to him and began to unfasten the skis. When he came up, he said, ‘How did this fire start, Neil?’

‘Petrol,’ I said, fastening on a pair of skis. ‘Carla set light to it.’

‘Good Lord! Whatever for?’

‘Revenge,’ I told him. ‘Mayne had double-crossed her and jilted her. He’d also planned to murder her.’

He stared at me. ‘Are you making this up?’ he asked. ‘Where’s Valdini?’

‘Mayne shot him.’ I had finished putting on the skis. I straightened up then and found Joe’s face a picture of incredulity in the ruddy glare. ‘I’ve got to get down to Tre Croci,’ I told him. ‘I must get to a phone. I’ll take the slalom run. Will you follow me? I’ll tell you all about it down at the hotel.’ I did not wait for his reply. I put my hands through the leather thongs of the sticks and started off across the snow.

The slalom wasn’t an easy run. It was very steep, following pretty much the line of the slittovia, snaking down almost parallel to it. I took it as slowly as possible, but the fresh snow was deep and I was only able to break my speed by snow-ploughing in places. Stem turns were difficult and I often had to brake by running into the soft snow at the side of the run or by falling.

After the lurid light and the roar of the flames at the hut, it was strangely dark and silent going down through the woods. Moonlight filtered through the feathery web of the pine branches and the only sounds were the wind whipping the topmost branches and the hiss of my skis through the snow.

I suppose it took me about half an hour to get down that run. It seemed much longer, for my ski suit was wet through and it was very cold. But my watch showed the time to be only one forty-five as I passed the hut where Emilio lived at the bottom of the slittovia. I looked up the long white avenue of the cable track gleaming brightly in the moonlight. At the top, the white of the snow seemed to blossom into a great, violent mushroom of fire. It was no longer possible to discern the shape of the hut. It was just a flaming mass, white at the centre, fading to a dull orange at the edges and throwing out a great trailer of sparks and smoke, so that it looked like a meteor rushing through the night.

When I reached the hotel I found everybody up and bustling to form a party to go up and fight the flames. I was immediately surrounded by an excited crowd, all dressed in ski clothes. I asked for the manager. He came fussing through the group round me, a stout, important-looking little man with a sallow, worried face and lank, oily hair. ‘You all right, signore? Are there any hurt?’

I told him the fire had hurt no one, that it was quite beyond control and would soon burn itself out. Then I asked if I could use his office and his telephone. ‘But of course, signore. Anything I can do, you have but to command.’ He put two electric fires on for me, had a waiter bring me a drink and a change of clothing and had a hot meal conjured up for me out of the kitchen, all in an instant. It was a big moment for him. He was showing his guests how good and generous a host he was. He nearly drove me frantic with his constant enquiries after my health. And all the while I had the telephone pressed to my ear. I spoke to Bologna, Mestre, Milan. Once a line was crossed and it was Rome talking to me. But Trieste or Udine — no.

Joe came puffing in just as I was talking to Bologna for the third time. He looked as though he had had a lot of falls. He was wet with snow and flopped exhaustedly into an arm-chair. He had his baby camera still slung round his neck. He gave the little manager fresh scope. Brandy was rushed to the scene. He was stripped of his ski suit and swathed in a monstrosity of a dressing-gown decked with purple-and-orange stripes. More food was brought. And whilst all this was going on and in the intervals of my telephonic tour of the main exchanges of Italy, I tried to give him some idea of what had been happening up at Col da Varda. I did not mention the gold, and this omission left loopholes in the story, so that I do not think he really believed it all.

But in the midst of his questions, Trieste suddenly asked me why I did not answer. I asked for the military exchange and got through to Major Musgrave at his hotel. His voice barked at me sleepily down the line. But annoyance changed to interest as I mentioned Engles’ name and told him what I wanted. ‘Right-ho,’ was the reply, thin and faint as though at a great distance. ‘I’ll ring Udine and have ‘em move off at once. The carabinieri post at Cortina, you say? Okay. Tell Derek they ought to be there about nine-ish, unless the road is blocked.’ It was all settled in a matter of a few minutes, and I put the phone down with a sigh of relief.

The little manager had exhausted himself by then. Everyone had gone back to bed. I looked out into the hall. The hotel was quiet again. The porter slept, curled up in a chair by the stove. A big clock ticked solemnly below the staircase. It was ten past four. I went back into the office. Joe was asleep in the arm-chair, snoring gently. I pulled the heavy curtains aside and peered out. The moon was setting in a great yellow ball behind the shoulder of Monte Cristallo. The stars were brighter, the sky darker. Only the faintest glow showed at the top of the slittovia. The fire was burning itself out. I pulled a chair up to one of the electric heaters and settled myself down to await Engles’ phone call.

I suppose I must have dozed off, for I don’t remember the passage of time and it must have been after six when I was woken by the sound of voices in the hall. Then the door of the room was thrown open and Engles staggered in.

I remember I started to my feet. I hadn’t expected him. His face was white and haggard. His ski suit was torn. There was blood on the front of his windbreaker, and a great red stain just above the left groin. ‘Get through to Trieste?’ he asked. His voice sounded thin and exhausted.

‘Yes,’ I said. They’ll be at the carabinieri post about nine.’

Engles gave a wry smile. ‘Won’t be necessary.’ He stumbled over to the desk and collapsed into the leather-padded swivel-chair. ‘Keramikos is dead,’ he added.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

He stared vacantly at the typewriter that stood on the polished mahogany. He lurched slowly forward and removed the cover. Then he pulled the typewriter close to him and inserted a sheet of paper. ‘Give me a cigarette,’ he said. I put one in his mouth and lit it for him. He didn’t speak for a moment. He just sat there with the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and his eyes fixed on the blank sheet of paper in the typewriter. ‘My God!’ he said slowly. ‘What a story! It’ll make film history. A thriller that really hap pened. It’s never been done before — not like this.’ His eyes were alight with the old enthusiasm. His fingers strayed to the keys and he began to type.