That was the introduction.

  They had gone into the bedroom where the man was lying at the foot of the dresser. The man was fifty-three years old. He lay in his undershorts on the floor in the sticky coagulation of his own blood. He was a small man with a pinched chest. His hair was black and thinning, and bald patches showed his flaking scalp. He had probably never been handsome, even when he was a youth. Some men do not improve with age, and time and alcohol had squeezed everything out of this man, and drained him dry until all he possessed was sagging flesh and, of course, life. The flesh was still there. The life had been taken from him. He lay at the foot of the dresser in his undershorts, ludicrously piled into a heap of inert flesh, so relaxed, so impossibly relaxed. Someone had worked him over with a hatchet. The hatchet was still in the room, blood-flecked, entangled with thin black hair. The killer had viciously attacked him around the head and the throat and the chest. He had stopped bleeding by the time they arrived, but the wounds were still there to see, open and raw.

  Hawes vomited.

  He went into the bathroom and vomited. That was his introduction to death.

  He had seen a lot of death since, had come close to being dead himself. The closest, perhaps, was the time he’d been stabbed while investigating a burglary. The woman who’d been burglarized was still pretty hysterical when he got there. He asked his questions and tried to comfort her, and then started downstairs to get a patrolman. The woman, terrified, began screaming when he left. He could hear her screams as he went down the stairwell. The superintendent of the building caught him on the second floor landing. He was carrying a bread knife, and he thought that Hawes was the burglar returned, and he stabbed repeatedly at his head, ripping a wound over his left temple before Hawes finally subdued him. They let the super go; the poor guy had actually thought Hawes was the thief. And then they’d shaved Hawes’s red hair to get to the wound, which time of course healed as it does all wounds, leaving however a reminder of death, of the closeness of death. The red hair had grown white. He still carried the streak over his temple. Sometimes, particularly when it rained, death sent little signals of pain to accompany the new hair.

  He had seen a lot of death, especially since he’d joined the 87th, and a lot of dying. He no longer vomited. The vomiting had happened to a very young Cotton Hawes, a very young and innocent cop who suddenly awoke to the knowledge that he was in a dirty business where the facts of life were the facts of violence, where he dealt daily with the sordid and grotesque. He no longer vomited. But he still got angry.

  He had felt anger on the mountain when the young girl fell out of the chair and struck the snow, the ski pole bending as she dropped into that ludicrously ridiculous posture of the dead, that totally relaxed and utterly frightening posture. He had felt anger by juxtaposition, the reconstruction of a vibrant and life-bursting athlete against the very real image of the same girl, no longer a girl, only a worthless heap of flesh and bones, only a body now, a corpse. “Where’s the stiff?”

  He felt anger when Theodore Watt and his witless assistants muddied the residue of sudden death, allowing the killer a precious edge, presenting him with the opportunity for escape—escape from the law and from the outrage of humanity. He felt anger now as he walked back to the building that housed the ski shop and the rooms overhead.

  The anger seemed out of place on the silent mountain. The snow still fell, still and gentle. The wind had died, and now the flakes drifted aimlessly from overhead, large and wet and white, and there was a stillness and a peace to Rawson Mountain and the countryside beyond, a lazy white quiet which denied the presence of death.

  He kicked the packed snow from his boots and went up the steps.

  He was starting down the corridor toward his room when he noticed the door was slightly ajar. He hesitated. Perhaps Blanche had come back to the room, perhaps…

  But there was silence in the corridor, a silence as large as noise. He stooped and untied the laces on his boots. Gently, he slipped them from his feet. Walking as softly as he could—he was a big man and the floorboards in the old building creaked beneath his weight—he approached the room. He did not like the idea of being in his stockinged feet. He had had to kick men too often, and he knew the value of shoes. He hesitated just outside the door. There was no sound in the room. The door was open no more than three inches. He put his hand against the wood. Somewhere in the basement, the oil burner clicked and then whoooomed into action. He shoved open the door.

  Elmer Wollender, his crutches under his arms, whirled to face him. His head had been bent in an attitude of…prayer, was it? No. Not prayer. He had been listening, that was it, listening to something, or for something.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Hawes,” he said. He was wearing a red ski parka over his white shirt. He leaned on his crutches and grinned a boyish, disarming grin.

  “Hello, Mr. Wollender,” Hawes said. “Would you mind telling me, Mr. Wollender, just what the hell you’re doing in my room?”

  Wollender seemed surprised. His eyebrows arched. He tilted his head to one side, almost in admiration, almost as if he too would have behaved in much the same way had he come back to his room and found a stranger in it. But the admiration was also tinged with surprise. This was obviously a mistake. Head cocked to one side, eyebrows arched, the boyish smile on his mouth, Wollender leaned on his crutches and prepared to explain. Hawes waited.

  “You said the heat wasn’t working, didn’t you?” Wollender said. “I was just checking it.”

  “The heat’s working fine in this room,” Hawes said. “It’s the room next door.”

  “Oh.” Wollender nodded. “Oh, is that it?”

  “That’s it, yes.”

  “No wonder. I stuck my hand up there to check the vent, and it seemed fine to me.

  “Yes, it would be fine,” Hawes said, “since there was never anything wrong with it. I told you at the desk this morning that the heat wasn’t working in 104. This is 105. Are you new here, Mr. Wollender?”

  “I guess I misunderstood you.”

  “Yes, I guess so. Misunderstanding isn’t a wise practice, Mr. Wollender, especially with your local cops crawling all over the mountain.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the girl. When those imitation cops begin asking questions, I suggest…”

  “What girl?”

  Hawes looked at Wollender for a long time. The question on Wollender’s face and in his eyes looked genuine enough, but could there possibly be someone on the mountain who still had not heard of the murder? Was it possible that Wollender, who ran the inn, the center of all activity and gossip, did not know Helga Nilson was dead?

  “The girl,” Hawes said. “Helga Nilson.”

  “What about her?”

  Hawes knew enough about baseball to realize you didn’t throw your fastball until you’d tried a few curves. “Do you know her?” he asked.

  “Of course, I know her. I know all the ski instructors. She rooms right here, down the hall.”

  “Who else rooms here?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know.”

  “Just her and Maria,” Wollender said. “Maria Fiers. She’s an instructor, too. And, oh yes, the new man. Larry Davidson.”

  “Is he an instructor?” Hawes asked. “About this tall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hooked nose? German accent.”

  “No, no. You’re thinking of Helmut Kurtz. And that’s an Austrian accent.” Wollender paused. “Why? Why do you want to…?”

  “Anything between him and Helga?”

  “Why, no. Not that I know of. They teach together, but…”

  “What about Davidson?”

  “Larry Davidson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mean, is he dating Helga, or…”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Larry’s married,” Wollender said. “I would hardly think…”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You and Helga. Anything?”

  “Helga’s a good friend of mine,” Wollender said.

  “Was,” Hawes corrected.

  “Huh?”

  “She’s dead. She was killed on the mountain this afternoon.”

  There was the fastball, and it took Wollender smack between the eyes. “Dea—” he started, and then his jaw fell slack, and his eyes went blank. He staggered back a pace, collided with the white dresser. The crutches dropped from his hands. He struggled to maintain his balance, the leg with the cast stiff and unwieldy; he seemed about to fall. Hawes grabbed at his elbow and pulled him erect. He stooped down for Wollender’s crutches and handed them to him. Wollender was still dazed. He groped for the crutches, fumbled, dropped them again. Hawes picked them up a second time, and forced them under Wollender’s arms. Wollender leaned back against the dresser. He kept staring at the wall opposite, where a poster advertising the pleasures of Kitzbühel was hanging.

  “She…she took too many chances,” he said. “She always went too fast. I told her…”

  “This wasn’t a skiing accident,” Hawes said. “She was murdered.”

  “No.” Wollender shook his head. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Everyone liked Helga. No one would…” He kept shaking his head. His eyes stayed riveted to the Kitzbühel poster.

  “There are going to be cops here, Mr. Wollender,” Hawes said. “You seem like a nice kid. When they start asking questions, you’d better have a more plausible story than the one you invented about being in my room. They’re not going to fool around. They’re looking for a killer.”

  “Why…why do you think I came here?” Wollender asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you were looking for some pocket money. Skiers often leave their wallets and their valu—”

  “I’m not a thief, Mr. Hawes,” Wollender said with dignity. “I only came here to give you some heat.”

  “That makes it even,” Hawes answered. “The cops’ll be coming here to give you some.”

  He found the two loaders in the lodge cafeteria. The lifts had been closed at 4:30, the area management having reached the conclusion that most skiing accidents took place in the waning hours of the afternoon, when poor visibility and physical exhaustion combined to create gentle havoc. They were both burly, grizzled men wearing Mackinaws, their thick hands curled around coffee mugs. They had been loading skiers onto chairs ever since the area was opened, and they worked well together as a team. Even their dialogue seemed concocted in one mind, though it issued from two mouths.

  “My name’s Jake,” the first loader said. “This here is Obey, short for Obadiah.”

  “Only I ain’t so short,” Obadiah said.

  “He’s short on brains,” Jake said and grinned. Obadiah returned the grin. “You’re a cop, huh?”

  “Yes,” Hawes said. He had shown them his buzzer the moment he approached them. He had also told an outright lie, saying he was helping with the investigation of the case, having been sent up from the city because there was the possibility a known and wanted criminal had perpetrated the crime, confusing his own doubletalk as he wove a fantastic monologue that Jake and Obadiah seemed to accept.

  “And you want to know who we loaded on them chairs, right? Same as Teddy wanted to know.”

  “Teddy?”

  “Teddy Watt. The sheriff.”

  “Oh. Yes,” Hawes said. “That’s right.”

  “Whyn’t you just ask him?” Obadiah said.

  “Well, I have,” Hawes lied. “But sometimes a fresh angle will come up if witnesses can be questioned directly, do you see?”

  “Well, we ain’t exactly witnesses,” Jake said. “We didn’t see her get killed, you know.”

  “Yes, but you did load her on the chair, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right. We did, all right.”

  “And someone was in the chair with her, is that right?”

  “That’s right,” Jake said.

  “Who?” Hawes asked.

  “Seems like everybody wants to know who,” Jake said.

  “Ain’t it the damndest thing?” Obadiah said.

  “Do you remember?” Hawes asked.

  “We remember it was snowing, that’s for sure.”

  “Couldn’t hardly see the chairs, it was snowing that hard.”

  “Pretty tough to reckernize one skier from another with all that wind and snow, wouldn’t you say, Obey?”

  “Next to impossible,” Obadiah answered.

  “But you did recognize Helga,” Hawes suggested.

  “Oh, sure. But she said hello to us, you see. She said, ‘Hello, Jake. Hello, Obey.’ And also, she took the chair closest to the loading platform, the inside chair. The guy took the other chair.”

  “Guy?” Hawes asked. “It was a man then? The person who took the chair next to her was a man?”

  “Well, can’t say for sure,” Jake said. “Was a time when men’s ski clothes was different from the ladies’, but that don’t hold true no more.”

  “Not by a long shot,” Obadiah said.

  “Nowadays, you find yourself following some pretty girl in purple pants, she turns out to be a man. It ain’t so easy to tell them apart no more.”

  “Then you don’t know whether the person who sat next to her was a man or a woman, is that right?” Hawes asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Coulda been either.”

  “Did this person say anything?”

  “Not a word.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Well, we ain’t established it was a he,” Jake reminded him.

  “Yes, I know. I meant the…the person who took the chair. It’ll be easier if we give him a gender.”

  “Give him a what?”

  “A gen—if we assume for the moment that the person was a man.”

  “Oh.” Jake thought this over. “Okay, if you say so. Seems like pretty sloppy deduction to me, though.”

  “Well, I’m not actually making a deduction. I’m simply trying to facilitate…”

  “Sure, I understand,” Jake said. “But it’s sure pretty sloppy.”

  Hawes sighed. “Well…what was he wearing?”

  “Black,” Jake said.

  “Black ski pants, black parka,” Obadiah said.

  “Any hat?” Hawes asked.

  “Nope. Hood on the parka was pulled clear up over the head. Sunglasses over the eyes.”

  “Gloves or mittens?” Hawes asked.

  “Gloves. Black gloves.”

  “Did you notice whether or not there was an insignia on the man’s parka?”

  “What kind of insignia?”

  “An R-M interlocked,” Hawes said.

  “Like the instructors wear?” Jake asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “They wear it on their right sleeves,” Obadiah said. “We told you this person took the outside chair. We couldn’ta seen the right sleeve, even if there was anything on it.”

  Hawes suddenly had a wild idea. He hesitated before he asked, and then thought, What the hell, try it.

  “This person,” he said, “was he…was he carrying crutches?”

  “Carrying what?” Jake asked incredulously.

  “Crutches. Was his leg in a cast?”

  “Now how in hell…of course not,” Jake said. “He was wearing skis, and he was carrying ski poles. Crutches and a cast! My God! It’s hard enough getting on that damn lift as it is. Can you just picture…”

  “Never mind,” Hawes said. “Forget it. Did this person say anything to Helga?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Did she say anything to him?”

  “Nothing we could hear. The wind was blowing pretty fierce.”

  “But you heard her when she said hello to you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then if she’d said anything to this person, you might have heard that, too.”

  “That’s right. We didn’t hear nothing.”

  “You said he was carrying poles. Did you notice anything unusual about the poles?”

  “Seemed like ordinary poles to me,” Jake said.

  “Did both poles have baskets?”

  Jake shrugged. “I didn’t notice. Did you, Obey?”

  “Both seemed to have baskets,” Obadiah said. “Who’d notice a thing like that?”

  “Well, you might have,” Hawes said. “If there’d been anything unusual, you might have noticed.”

  “I didn’t notice nothing unusual,” Obadiah said. “Except I thought to myself this feller must be pretty cold.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the hood pulled up over his head, and the scarf wrapped almost clear around his face.”

  “What scarf? You didn’t mention that before.”

  “Sure. He was wearing a red scarf. Covered his mouth and his nose, reached right up to the sunglasses.”

  “Hmmm,” Hawes said, and the table went still.

  “You’re the fellow dropped his poles on the way up, ain’t you?” Jake asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Thought I remembered you.”

  “If you remember me, how come you can’t remember the person who took the chair alongside Helga?”

  “You saying I should, mister?”

  “I’m only asking.”

  “Well, like maybe if I seen a guy wearing black pants and a black hood, and sunglasses, and a scarf wrapped clear around his face, why maybe then I would recognize him. But, the way I figure it, he ain’t likely to be wearing the same clothes right now, is he?”

  “I don’t suppose so,” Hawes said, sighing.

  “Yeah, neither do I,” Jake answered. “And I ain’t even a cop.”

  Dusk was settling upon the mountain.

  It spread into the sky and stained the snow a purple-red. The storm was beginning to taper off, the clouds vanishing before the final triumphant breakthrough of the setting sun. There was an unimaginable hush to the mountain, and the town, and the valley beyond, a hush broken only by the sound of gently jingling skid-chains on hardpacked snow.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19