The Dead Mountaineer's Inn (9 page)

I was so furious and dumbfounded by this that I had to read the note twice before I understood what it said. When I was finished I lit a cigarette and looked around the room. Naturally, I didn't find any footprints. I smoothed out the sign I'd crumpled up and compared it to the note. The letters on the sign were also in block print and clumsily written, but they'd been written with a pencil. Anyway, the business with the sign was clear: it had to be the kid's work. A simple joke. One of those stupid signs that the French scrawled on their Sorbonne. The note was something different, however. A practical joker might have slipped it under the door, or stuck it in the lock, or just left it on the table under something heavy, like an ashtray. You had to be either a complete cretin or a savage to ruin a perfectly good table for the sake of a stupid prank. I read the note again, took the deepest drag I could and then went to the window. There goes my vacation, I thought. There goes that freedom I've been waiting so long for …

The sun was already quite low in the sky, the shadow of the inn stretched out a good hundred meters. Mr. Hinkus, the dangerous gangster, maniac and sadist, was still loitering on the roof. He was alone.

I stopped in front of Hinkus's room and looked around carefully. The hallway was empty, as usual. A sound of clicking balls was coming from the billiard room—that was Simone. Du Barnstoker was still fleecing Olaf in Olaf's room. The kid was occupied with its motorcycle. The Moseses were in their room. Hinkus was sitting on the roof. Five minutes ago he had gone down to the pantry, grabbed another bottle, gone into his room, put on his fur coat, and now apparently intended to continue taking in the fresh air at least until lunchtime. As for me, I was standing in front of his room, trying key after key from the ring that I'd swiped from the owner's office, and preparing to commit a misdemeanor. Without a warrant I obviously had no right to break into someone else's room and perform a search there or even a quick inspection. But I felt that it was necessary, otherwise my sleep and even peace of mind could be at stake.

The fifth or sixth key clicked softly, and I slipped into the room. I did this just like a hero in a spy thriller would have—I didn't know how else to do it. The sun had almost gone behind the ridge, but it was light enough in the room. It appeared unoccupied: the bed was barely ruffled, the ashtray was empty and clean, and both of the trunks were standing right in the middle of the room. It was impossible
to imagine that someone was intending to stay here for two weeks.

The contents of the first and heavier trunk only increased my apprehension. It was your typical decoy bag: some rags, torn sheets and pillowcases and a bunch of books that had clearly been selected at random. Hinkus had obviously stuffed this trunk with whatever was at hand. The real luggage was in the second trunk. Here I found three changes of underwear, a pair of pajamas, a cosmetics bag, a bundle of money—a big bundle, bigger than the one I'd brought with me—and two dozen handkerchiefs. There was also a small silver flask (empty), a box with sunglasses and a bottle with a foreign label on it (full). And at the very bottom of the trunk, beneath the underwear, a massive gold watch with an intricate face, and a small woman's Browning.

I sat on the floor, listening. Right now everything was quiet, but I knew I didn't have much time to think. I examined the watch. An elaborate monogram of some kind had been engraved on the lid. It was real gold, pure, with a reddish sheen; the dial was decorated with the signs of the zodiac. There was no doubt about it: it was Mr. Moses's watch. I turned my attention to the pistol. A pretty little toy, pearl-handled and with a .25 caliber nickel-plated barrel: a weapon for close quarters, to be frank not much of a weapon at all … Nonsense: it was all nonsense. Gangsters don't waste time on trinkets like these. For that matter, gangsters don't steal watches, even ones as big and old as this—real gangsters, I mean, with names and reputations. Especially in an inn, on their first day there, where they could be caught red-handed.

All right, then, let's review the case. There was no evidence that Hinkus was a dangerous gangster, maniac and sadist, and plenty that someone wanted me to think of him that way. True, there was the false luggage … Okay, I'll deal with that later.
What about the pistol and watch? If I take them, and Hinkus really is the thief (though not a gangster), then he'll get away with it … If they've been planted … Damn, I can't figure it out … Not enough experience. I'm not Hercule Poirot … If I take them, then where am I supposed to put them? Carry them on me? I might be accused of stealing them … And I can't hide them in my room …

I listened, again. I could hear utensils clicking in the dining room—Kaisa was setting the tables. Someone stomped past the door. Simone's voice asked loudly: “But where's the inspector? Where's our White Knight?” Kaisa screeched sharply, chilly laughter shook the floorboards. It was time to make my getaway.

I couldn't think of anything else to do, so I hurriedly emptied the clip, put the cartridges in my pocket, and returned the pistol and the watch to the bottom of the trunk. I had barely managed to sneak out and turn the key behind me when Du Barnstoker appeared at the other end of the hall. Turning his aristocratic profile towards me, he spoke to someone—Olaf, it looked like.

“My dear fellow, what's there to talk about? When has a Du Barnstoker ever refused a rematch? Let it be tonight, if you wish! Ten o'clock, say, in your room …”

I tried to look casual (in other words, I took out a toothpick and began using it). Catching sight of me, Du Barnstoker gave a friendly wave.

“My dear inspector!” he shouted. “Victory, glory, riches! These are the Du Barnstokers' dues!”

I walked towards him, and we met outside the door to his room.

“You cleaned out Olaf?”

“Imagine that!” he said, smiling happily. “Our dear Olaf is too methodical, he plays like a machine, no imagination.
Boring, even … Hold on a second—what do we have here?” He reached deftly into my breast pocket and removed a playing card. “The same ace that I used to finish off poor Olaf …”

Poor Olaf came out of his room looking huge, rosy, light on his feet; he smiled good-naturedly as he passed us, and muttered, “A drink before dinner …” Du Barnstoker, smiling, followed him with his eyes and then grabbed me by the sleeve suddenly, as if he'd just remembered something.

“By the way, my dear inspector, do you know what new joke our dear departed friend has pulled on us? Come to my room for just a second …”

He pulled me into his room, shoved me into a chair and offered me a cigar.

“Where has it gone?” he muttered, patting his pockets. “Aha! Here, have a look at what I received today.” He handed me a crumpled piece of paper.

Another note. Written in clumsy block letters, with grammatical mistakes: “WE FOUND YOU. I GOTS YOU AT GUNPOINT. DONT TRY TO ESCAPE OR DO ANYTHING STUPID. I WILL SHOOT WITHOUT WARNINGS. F.”

Gritting my cigar between my teeth, I read through the message twice and then once more.

“Charming, no?” Du Barnstoker said, pouting at himself in the mirror. “It's even signed. We should ask the manager what the Dead Mountaineer's name was …”

“Where did this come from?”

“It was delivered to Olaf's room while we were playing. Olaf went to the pantry to get a drink, and I sat and smoked a cigar. There was a knock at the door, I said, ‘Yes, yes, come in,' but no one came in. I was surprised, and suddenly I saw that there was a note on the floor. Apparently someone had slipped it under the door.”

“Of course you looked out into the hallway, and of course you didn't see anyone,” I said.

“Well, it took me quite some time to pry myself out of the chair,” Du Barnstoker said. “Shall we? To be honest, I'm ravenously hungry.”

I put the note in my pocket, and we made our way to the dining room, having picked up the kid along the way, though without succeeding in persuading it to wash its hands.

“You have a sort of worried look about you, Inspector,” Du Barnstoker remarked, when we'd gotten to the dining room.

Looking into his bright old eyes, it occurred to me suddenly that he was behind this entire story about the notes. For a second I was seized by a cold fury; I wanted to stamp my feet and scream: “Leave me alone! Let me ski in peace and quiet!” But of course, I kept a hold on myself.

We entered the dining room. Apparently everyone was already there. Mrs. Moses was serving Mr. Moses, Simone and Olaf were puttering around the appetizers, the manager was pouring the liqueur. Du Barnstoker and the kid headed for their usual place at the table, and I joined the other men. Simone was lecturing Olaf, in an evil-sounding whisper, on the effects that edelweiss liqueur had on the human organs. He listed them: leukemia, jaundice, duodenal cancer. Olaf hemmed and hawed good-naturedly as he ate his caviar. Then Kaisa came in and proceeded to prattle away to the owner:

“He doesn't want to go, he says if we're not all here, then he won't show up. And when everyone shows up, he'll come too. That's what he said … Two empty bottles …”

“So then go and tell him that everyone's here already,” the owner told her.

“He won't believe me, I told him that already, that everyone's here, and he …”

“Who are we talking about?” Mr. Moses asked abruptly.

“We're talking about Mr. Hinkus,” the owner responded. “He's still on the roof, and I would like …”

“What do you mean ‘on the roof'?” the kid said in a husky bass. “He's right there—Hinkus!” It thrust a fork with a pickle on it at Olaf.

“My child, you are mistaken,” Du Barnstoker said softly, as Olaf offered a friendly grin and boomed, “Olaf Andvarafors, at your service, little one. You can call me Olaf.”

“Well, then what does he …?” The child thrust the pickle and fork in my direction.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” the owner said. “There's no need to argue. All of this is simple foolishness. Mr. Hinkus is taking advantage of a freedom that we allow all our guests—to be up on the roof—and Kaisa is now going to bring him down here.”

“But he won't come …”

“What the devil, Snevar!” Moses said. “If he doesn't want to come down, then let him freeze up there.”

“My esteemed Mr. Moses,” the manager said with dignity, “It is my deepest wish that we all be together at this point. I have some very good news to announce to my esteemed guests. Kaisa, quickly!”

“But he won't come …”

I set my plate of appetizers on the table.

“Hold on a second,” I said. “I'll get him.”

As I left the room I heard Simone say, “Excellent! Let the police do their job, finally,” and then burst into spooky laughter, which followed me up the attic stairs.

I climbed the stairs, pushed open an unfinished wooden door and found myself in a sort of circular pavilion with windows all around and narrow benches for resting lining the walls. It was cold in here, with a strange smell of snow and dust; there was a mountain of stacked deck chairs. A plywood door, leading outside, had been left ajar.

The flat roof was covered with a thick layer of snow, which was packed hard around the pavilion; further along there was a walkway leading out to the inn's crooked radio antenna. At the end of this walkway, a fur-coated Hinkus was sitting silently in a deck chair. His left hand held a bottle on his knee; his right was hidden against his chest, no doubt to keep it warm. His face was barely even visible, it was covered by his coat collar and the brim of his fur hat, from between which his watchful eyes shone out like a tarantula peering out of its burrow.

“Come on, Hinkus,” I said. “Everyone's down there.”

“Everyone?” he asked hoarsely.

I exhaled a puff of steam, walked closer and stuffed my hands in my pockets.

“Every single one. We're waiting for you.”

“So, everyone …” Hinkus repeated.

I nodded and looked around. The sun had hidden itself behind the ridge, the snow in the valley looked purple, in the dark sky a pale moon was rising.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Hinkus was watching me closely.

“Well, why wait for me?” he said. “They should have just started … Why all the fuss?”

“The owner has some sort of surprise, and he needs all of us together.”

“A surprise,” Hinkus said, and coughed. “I've got tuberculosis,” he said suddenly. “The doctors say I need to spend as much time as possible in the fresh air … And eat chicken. Dark meat,” he added, after a second of silence.

I was starting to feel sorry for him.

“That's too bad. Damn,” I said. “But all the same, you need to eat …”

“Of course,” he said and stood up. “I'll eat some dinner and
then come back out here.” He placed the bottle in the snow. “Do you think the doctors are lying? I mean, as far as the fresh air goes …”

“I don't think so,” I said. I remembered how pale and greenish he'd looked when he came downstairs that afternoon, and asked, “Listen, why are you drinking so much vodka? It can't be good for you.”

“Oooh!” he said, in quiet desperation. “How am I supposed to make it without vodka?” He was silent. We went downstairs. “Without vodka, I wouldn't have anything,” he said resolutely. “It would be terrible. I'd go out of my mind without vodka.”

“There there, Hinkus,” I said. “Tuberculosis is treatable now. This isn't the nineteenth century.”

“You're right,” he agreed slowly. We turned down the hallway. In the dining room, dishes were ringing out, voices were humming. “Go on ahead, I'm going to get rid of my fur coat,” he said, stopping outside his door.

I nodded and went into the dining room.