“Honey, honey…”

  “Yes, honey-honey?” she mimicked. “What, honey-honey baby?”

  Hawes grinned. “That’s a very lovely nightgown. My grandmother used to wear a nightgown like that.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” Blanche said sourly. “I put it on especially for you.”

  “I always liked the touch of flannel,” he said.

  “Get your big hands…” she started, and moved away from him swiftly. Folding her arms across the front of her gown, she sat in the center of the bed and stared at the opposite wall. Hawes studied her for a moment, took off his sweaters, and then began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “If you’re going to undress,” Blanche said evenly, “you could at least have the modesty to go into the…”

  “Shhh!” Hawes said sharply. His hands had stopped on the buttons of his shirt. He cocked his head to one side now and listened. Blanche, watching him, frowned.

  “What…?”

  “Shhh!” he said again, and again he listened attentively. The room was silent. Into the silence came the sound.

  “Do you hear it?” he asked.

  “Do I hear what?”

  “Listen.”

  They listened together. The sound was unmistakable, faint and faraway, but unmistakable.

  “It’s the same buzzing I heard last night,” Hawes said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Downstairs. To the ski shop,” he answered, and swiftly left the room. As he went down the corridor toward the steps, a door at the opposite end of the hall opened. A young girl wearing a quilted robe over her pajamas, her hair done in curlers, came into the hallway carrying a towel and a toothbrush. She smiled at Hawes and then walked past him. He heard the bathroom door locking behind her as he went down the steps.

  The lights were on in the ski shop. The buzzing sound came from somewhere in the shop, intermittent, hanging on the silent night air, ceasing abruptly, beginning again. He walked silently over the snow, stopping just outside the door to the shop. He put his ear to the wood and listened, but the only sound he heard was the buzzing. He debated kicking in the door. Instead, he knocked gently.

  “Yes?” a voice from inside called.

  “Could you open up, please?” Hawes said.

  He waited. He could hear the heavy sound of ski boots approaching the locked door. The door opened a crack. A suntanned face appeared in the opening. He recognized the face at once—Helmut Kurtz, the ski instructor who had helped him the night before, the man he’d seen today on the mountain just before he’d got on the chairlift.

  “Oh, hello there,” Hawes said.

  “Yes? What is it?” Kurtz asked.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  “I’m sorry, no one is allowed in the shop. The shop is closed.”

  “Yes, but you’re in it, aren’t you?”

  “I’m an instructor,” Kurtz said. “We are permitted…”

  “I just saw a light,” Hawes said, “and I felt like talking to someone.”

  “Well…”

  “What are you doing, anyway?” Hawes asked casually, and casually he wedged one shoulder against the door and gently eased it open, casually pushing it into the room, casually squeezing his way into the opening, casually shouldering his way past Kurtz and then squinting past the naked hanging lightbulb to the workbench at the far end of the room, trying to locate the source of the buzzing sound that filled the shop.

  “You are really not allowed…” Kurtz started, but Hawes was already halfway across the room, moving toward the other small area of light where a green-shaded bulb hung over the workbench. The buzzing sound was louder, the sound of an old machine, the sound of…

  He located it almost at once. A grinding wheel was set up on one end of the bench. The wheel was still spinning. He looked at it, nodded, and then flicked the switch to turn it off. Turning to Kurtz, he smiled and said, “Were you sharpening something?”

  “Yes, those skates,” Kurtz said. He pointed to a pair of white figure skates on the bench.

  “Yours?” Hawes asked.

  Kurtz smiled. “No. Those are women’s skates.”

  “Whose?”

  “Well, I don’t think that is any of your business, do you?” Kurtz asked politely.

  “I suppose not,” Hawes answered gently, still smiling. “Were you in here sharpening something last night, too, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, were you…”

  “No, I was not.” Kurtz walked up to the bench and studied Hawes slowly and deliberately. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name’s Cotton Hawes.”

  “How do you do? Mr. Hawes, I’m sorry to have to be so abrupt, but you are really not allowed…”

  “Yes, I know. Only instructors are allowed in here, isn’t that right, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “After closing, yes. We sometimes come in to make minor repairs on our skis or…”

  “Or sharpen up some things, huh, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “Yes. Like the skates.”

  “Yes,” Hawes repeated. “Like the skates. But you weren’t in here last night were you, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “No, I was not.”

  “Because, you see, I heard what could have been the sound of a file or a rasp or something, and then the sound of this grinding wheel. So you’re sure you weren’t in here sharpening something? Like skates? Or…” Hawes shrugged. “A ski pole?”

  “A ski pole? Why would anyone…?” Kurtz fell suddenly silent. He studied Hawes again. “What are you?” he asked. “A policeman?”

  “Why? Don’t you like policemen?”

  “I had nothing to do with Helga’s death,” Kurtz said immediately.

  “No one said you did.”

  “You implied it.”

  “I implied nothing, Mr. Kurtz.”

  “You asked if I were sharpening a ski pole last night. The implication is…”

  “But you weren’t.”

  “No, I was not!” Kurtz said angrily.

  “What were you sharpening last night?”

  “Nothing. I was nowhere near this shop last night.”

  “Ahh, but you were, Mr. Kurtz. I met you outside, remember? You were coming down the steps. Very fast. Don’t you remember?”

  “That was earlier in the evening.”

  “But I didn’t say anything about time, Mr. Kurtz. I didn’t ask you when you were in this shop.”

  “I was not in this shop! Not at any time!”

  “But you just said, ‘That was earlier in the evening.’ Earlier than what, Mr. Kurtz?”

  Kurtz was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Earlier than…than whoever was here.”

  “You saw someone here?”

  “I…I saw a light burning.”

  “When? What time?”

  “I don’t remember. I went to the bar after I met you…and I had a few drinks, and then I went for a walk. That was when I saw the light.”

  “Where do you room, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “In the main building.”

  “Did you see Helga at any time last night?”

  “No.”

  “Not at any time?”

  “No.”

  “Then what were you doing upstairs?”

  “I came to get Maria’s skates. Those.” He pointed to the figure skates on the bench.

  “Maria who?”

  “Maria Fiers.”

  “Is she a small girl with dark hair?”

  “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “I think I just saw her in the hallway,” Hawes said. “So you came to get her skates, and then you went for a drink, and then you went for a walk. What time was that?”

  “It must have been after midnight.”

  “And a light was burning in the ski shop?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t see who was in here?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “How well did you know Helga?”

  “Very well. We taught together.”

  “How well is very well?”

  “We were good friends.”

  “How good, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “I told you!”

  “Were you sleeping with her?”

  “How dare you…”

  “Okay, okay.” Hawes pointed to the skates. “These are Maria’s, you said?”

  “Yes. She’s an instructor here, too. But she skates well, almost as well as she skis.”

  “Are you good friends with her, too, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “I am good friends with everyone!” Kurtz said angrily. “I am normally a friendly person.” He paused. “Are you a policeman?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “I don’t like policemen,” Kurtz said, his voice low. “I didn’t like them in Vienna, where they wore swastikas on their arms, and I don’t like them here, either. I had nothing to do with Helga’s death.”

  “Do you have a key to this shop, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “Yes. We all do. We make our own minor repairs. During the day, there are too many people here. At night, we can…”

  “What do you mean by all? The instructors?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Then any of the instructors could have…”

  The scream was a sentient thing that invaded the room suddenly and startlingly. It came from somewhere upstairs, ripping down through the ancient floorboards and the ancient ceiling timbers. It struck the room with its blunt force, and both men looked up toward the ceiling, speechless, waiting. The scream came again. Hawes got to his feet and ran for the door. “Blanche,” he whispered, and slammed the door behind him.

  She was standing in the corridor outside the hall bathroom, not really standing, but leaning limply against the wall, her supporting dancer’s legs robbed of stance, robbed of control. She wore the long flannel nightgown with a robe over it, and she leaned against the wall with her eyes shut tight, her blonde hair disarrayed, the scream unvoiced now, but frozen in the set of her face and the trembling openness of her mouth. Hawes came stamping up the steps and turned abruptly right, and stopped stock still when he saw her, an interruption of movement for only a fraction of a second, the turn, the stop, and then a forward motion again, which carried him to her in four headlong strides.

  “What is it?” he said.

  She could not answer. She clung to the wall with the flat palms of her hands, her eyes still squeezed shut tightly, the scream frozen in her throat and blocking articulation. She shook her head.

  “Blanche, what is it?”

  She shook her head again, and then pulled one hand from the wall, as if afraid that by doing so she would lose her grip and tumble to the floor. The hand rose limply. It did not point, it only indicated, and that in the vaguest manner, as if it too were dazed.

  “The bathroom?” he asked.

  She nodded. He turned from her. The bathroom door was partly open. He opened it the rest of the way, rushing into the room, and then stopping instantly, as if he had run into a stone wall.

  Maria Fiers was inside her clothing and outside of it. The killer had caught her either dressing or undressing, had caught her in what she supposed was privacy, so that one leg was in the trousers of her pajamas and the other lay twisted beneath her body, naked. Her pajama top had ridden up over one delicately curved breast, perhaps as she fell, perhaps as she struggled. Even her hair seemed in a state of uncertain transition, some of it held firmly in place by curlers, the rest hanging in haphazard abandon, the loose curlers scattered on the bathroom floor. The hook latch on the inside of the door had been ripped from the jamb when the door was forced. The water in the sink was still running. The girl lay still and dead in her invaded privacy, partially clothed, partially disrobed, surprise and terror wedded in the death mask of her face. A towel was twisted about her throat. It had been twisted there with tremendous force, biting into the skin with such power that it remained twisted there now, the flesh torn and overlapping it in places, the coarse cloth almost embedded into her neck and throat. Her tongue protruded from her mouth. She was bleeding from her nose where her face had struck the bathroom tile in falling.

  He backed out of the room.

  He found a pay telephone in the main building, and from there he called Theodore Watt.

  Blanche sat on the edge of the bed in room 105, shivering inside her gown, her robe, and a blanket that had been thrown over her shoulders. Theodore Watt leaned disjointedly against the dresser, puffed on his cigar, and said, “Now you want to tell me exactly what happened, Miss Colby?”

  Blanche sat shivering and hunched, her face pale. She searched for her voice, seemed unable to find it, shook her head, nodded, cleared her throat, and seemed surprised that she could speak. “I…I was alone. Cotton had gone down to see what…what the noise was.”

  “What noise, Hawes?” Watt asked.

  “A grinding wheel,” he answered. “Downstairs in the ski shop. I heard it last night, too.”

  “Did you find out who was running the wheel?”

  “Tonight, it was a guy named Helmut Kurtz. He’s an instructor here, too. Claims he was nowhere near the shop last night. But he did see a light burning after midnight.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “I don’t know. Sheriff, he was with me when the girl was killed. He couldn’t possibly have…”

  Watt ignored him and walked to the door. He opened it, and leaned into the corridor. “Fred,” he said, “find me Helmut Kurtz, an instructor here.”

  “I got that other guy from down the hall,” Fred answered.

  “I’ll be right with him. Tell him to wait.”

  “What other guy?” Hawes asked.

  “Instructor in 102. Larry Davidson.” Watt shook his head. “Place is crawling with goddamn instructors, excuse me, Miss. Wonder there’s any room for guests.” He shook his head again. “You said you were alone, Miss Colby.”

  “Yes. And I…I thought I heard something down the hall…like…I didn’t know what. A loud sudden noise.”

  “Probably the bathroom door being kicked in,” Watt said. “Go on.”

  “And then I…I heard a girl’s voice saying, ‘Get out of here! Do you hear me! Get out of here!’ And…and it was quiet, and I heard someone running down the hall and down the steps, so I…I thought I ought to…to look.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “I went down the…the hallway and looked down the steps, but I didn’t see anyone. And then, when I…when I was starting back for the room, I…I heard the water running in the bathroom. The…the door was open, so I…Oh Jesus, do I have to?”

  “You found the girl, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Blanche said, her voice very low.

  “And then you screamed.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then Hawes came upstairs, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Hawes said. “And I called you from the main building.”

  “Um-huh,” Watt said. He went to the door and opened it. “Want to come in here, Mr. Davidson?” he asked.

  Larry Davidson came into the room hesitantly. He was a tall man, and he stooped as he came through the doorway, giving an impression of even greater height, as if he had to stoop to avoid the top of the doorframe. He was wearing dark trousers and a plaid woolen sports shirt. His hair was clipped close to his scalp. His blue eyes were alert, if not wary.

  “Guess you know what this is all about, huh, Mr. Davidson?” Watt asked.

  “Yes, I think so,” Davidson answered.

  “You don’t mind answering a few questions, do you?”

  “No. I’ll…I’ll answer anything you…”

  “Fine. Were you in your room all night, Mr. Davidson?”

  “Not all night, no. I was up at the main building part of the time.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Well, I…”

  “Yes, Mr. Davidson, what were you doing?”

  “I…I was fencing. Look, I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “You were what, Mr. Davidson?”

  “Fencing. We’ve got some foils and masks up there, and I…I was just fooling around. Look, I know Helga was stabbed, but…”

  “What time did you get back here, Mr. Davidson?”

  “About…about ten-thirty, eleven.”

  “And you’ve been in your room since then?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do when you got back here?”

  “I wrote a letter to my wife, and then I went to sleep.”

  “What time did you go to sleep?”

  “About midnight.”

  “Did you hear any loud noise in the hall?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear any voices?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear Miss Colby when she screamed?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I guess I was asleep.”

  “You sleep in your clothes, Mr. Davidson?”

  “What? Oh. Oh, no. Your fellow…your deputy said I could put on some clothes.”

  “What were you sleeping in?”

  “My pajamas. Listen, I barely knew those girls. I only joined the school here two weeks ago. I mean, I knew them to talk to, but that’s all. And the fencing is just a coincidence. I mean, we always fool around with the foils. I mean ever since I came here, somebody’s been up there fooling around with…”

  “How many times did you scream, Miss Colby?” Watt asked.

  “I don’t remember,” Blanche said.

  “She screamed twice,” Hawes said.

  “Where were you when you heard the screams, Hawes?”

  “Downstairs. In the ski shop.”

  “But you were in your room, right down the hall, Mr. Davidson, and you didn’t hear anything, hmmm? Maybe you were too busy…”

  And suddenly Davidson began crying. His face twisted into a grimace, and the tears began flowing, and he said, “I didn’t have anything to do with this, I swear. Please, I didn’t have anything to do with it. Please, I’m married, my wife’s in the city expecting a baby, I need this job, I didn’t even look at those girls, I swear to God, what do you want me to do? Please, please.”

  The room was silent except for his sobbing.

  “I swear to God,” he said softly. “I swear to God. I’m a heavy sleeper. I’m very tired at night. I swear. Please. I didn’t do it. I only knew them to say hello. I didn’t hear anything. Please. Believe me. Please. I have to keep this job. It’s the only thing I know, skiing. I can’t get involved in this. Please.”

 

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