The Lonely Skier

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.

‘Joe woke with a grunt at the sound of the typewriter and stared at Engles with his mouth open, as though he had seen a ghost.

I watched over Engles’ shoulder. He wrote:

SCENARIO OF A THRILLER THAT REALLY HAPPENED

The click of the keys slowed and faltered.The cigarette dropped from his lips and lay on his lap, burning a brown mark on the white of his ski suit. His teeth were grinding together and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He raised his fingers to the keyboard again and added another line:

by Neil Blair He stopped then and stared at it with a little smile. A froth of blood bubbled at his lips. His wrists went slack so that the fingers raised a jumble of type arms. Then he gently keeled over and slipped to the floor before I could catch him.

When we picked him up, he was dead.

CHAPTER TEN

THE LONELY SKIER

I was filled with a bitter hatred for that gold as I looked down at Engles’ body, sprawled limp in the easy-chair in which we had placed it.

What was there in gold? Little bricks of a particularly useless metal — no more. It had no intrinsic value, save that its rarity made it suitable for use as a means of exchange. Yet, though inanimate, it seemed to have a deadly personality of its own. It could draw men from the ends of the earth in search of it. It was like a magnet — and all it attracted was greed. The story of Midas had shown men its uselessness. Yet throughout history, ever since the yellow metal had first been discovered, men had killed each other in the scramble to obtain it. They had subjected thousands to the lingering death of phthisis to drag it from deep mine shafts, from places as far apart as Alaska and the Klondyke. And others had dedicated their lives to a hard gamble in useful products in order to procure it and store it back in underground vaults.

To get hold of this particular little pile of gold, Stelben had slaughtered nine men. And after his death, though the gold was buried in the heart of the Dolomites, it had attracted a group of people from different parts of Europe to squabble and kill each other over it.