The Dead Mountaineer's Inn: (One More Last Rite for the Detective Genre)

11.

He stood there, grinning at me from the doorway.

“All right, then, come here,” I said. “Tell me.”

“What about the coffee?”

“To hell with the coffee! I can see you know something. Don’t play games with me, spit it out.”

He came back to the table, but didn’t sit down.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “All I can do is draw certain conclusions.”

“How did you know what Simone found?”

“Ah! My guess was correct, then…” He sat down and made himself comfortable. “Though, to be fair, I could see I’d guessed right by how blown away you looked, Peter. You must agree, that was a pretty effective delivery…”

“Listen, Alek,” I said. “I like you, I admit it.”

“I like you too,” he said.

“Shut up. I like you. But that doesn’t mean anything. I don’t think you’re a suspect, Alek. I don’t, unfortunately, have any reason to think you’re a suspect. But in this regard, you’re no different than anyone else… I don’t have any suspects. But I need one—it’s high time for me to start suspecting somebody.”

“Try to restrain yourself!” the manager said, lifting a fat finger.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up? Anyway, if you start fooling with my head, then I’m going to start suspecting you. You’ll be in trouble, Alek. I’m very inexperienced when it comes to these sorts of things, which means that you could get in quite a bit of trouble. You have no idea how much trouble an inexperienced policeman can cause a good citizen.”

“In that case,” he said. “Of course I’ll tell you everything. Let’s start with how I knew what Mr. Simone saw in Mrs. Moses’s bedroom…”

“Yes,” I said. “How did you know that?”

He sat there in his armchair, broad, heavyset, jovial, unbearably pleased with himself.

“All right, then—let’s start with a theory. The witch doctors and folk healers of certain little-known central African tribes have known for some time now how to return their dead fellow-villagers to some semblance of life.”

I groaned, and the owner raised his voice:

“This type of real world phenomenon—that is, a dead person who has the appearance of a living one, and who can execute, at first glance, quite rational and independent actions—is called a zombie. Strictly speaking, zombies are not dead…”

“Listen, Alek,” I said wearily, “none of this interests me. I understand: you’re rehearsing the speech you intend to give in front of the newspaper reporters. But none of this interests me in the least! You promised to tell me something concerning Mrs. Moses and Simone. So tell me!”

He stared at me sadly for some time.

“It’s true,” he said finally. “I thought as much. You’re not ripe yet… Well, all right, then.” He sighed. “Let’s put theory aside and look at the facts. Six days ago, when Mr. and Mrs. Moses flattered my inn with a visit, the following event took place. After making all the necessary marks in the passports of the aforementioned gentlefolk, I made my way back to Mr. Moses’s room with the object of returning their passports to him. I knocked. I was slightly distracted, which is why I opened the door without waiting for permission. My punishment for this transgression against social norms came immediately. In the armchair in the middle of the room I saw something that one might call Mrs. Moses, if they wanted to. But it wasn’t Mrs. Moses. It was a large, life-sized, and beautiful doll, which resembled Mrs. Moses very closely and was dressed exactly like her. Now you’re going to ask me how I am sure that it was a doll, and not Mrs. Moses. I could list some concrete specifics for you: the unnatural pose, the glassy eyes, the absolute immobility of the features, and so on. But in my opinion this isn’t necessary. It seems to me that any normal person is capable of recognizing, in the course of a few seconds, whether he’s looking at a model or a mannequin. And I had a few seconds. After which I was rudely grabbed by the shoulder and shoved out into the hallway. That impudent but completely justified action was executed upon my person by Mr. Moses, who’d apparently been looking over his wife’s room and attacked me from behind…

“A doll…” I said pensively.

“A zombie,” the owner gently corrected me.

“A doll…” I repeated, ignoring him. “What kind of luggage does he have?”

“A couple of the usual suitcases,” the owner said. “And this huge, iron-bound, antique wooden trunk. He brought four porters with him, and the poor fellows exhausted themselves trying to get it into the building. They made a wreck of my door post…”

“Well, so what?” I said, after I’d thought it over. “At the end of the day, it’s his business. I’ve heard of a millionaire who dragged his collection of chamber pots around with him wherever he went… If it pleases a person to have a full-size mannequin of his spouse… no doubt he has time and money to burn… By the way, it’s completely possible that he noticed what our Simone was up to and slipped him the doll instead of his wife… Hell, maybe he carries that doll around with him just for that purpose! Judging from the behavior of Mrs. Moses…” I imagined myself in Simone’s place and shuddered. “Good god, now that’s a first-rate joke,” I said.

“There you go: now everything’s been explained to your satisfaction,” the owner said quietly.

I didn’t like his tone. We watched one another for a few minutes. I still liked him. But damn it all, why did he have to do this—to clog my brain with all this African nonsense? I wasn’t a reporter, after all, and had no intention of advertising his establishment to the detriment of my own reputation… No, I’d had enough. I was done talking with Mr. Alek Snevar about these things. If he wanted to throw me off the scent, he wasn’t going to succeed. He was only making his situation worse. He didn’t want me paying that much attention to him.

“Look, Alek,” I said. “You’re messing me up. Sit here for a while; I’m going to go to the den. I have to think this over.”

“It’s quarter to five,” the owner reminded me.

“So what? We’re not sleeping today anyway. Keep in mind, Alek, I don’t think this is over yet. So stay here in the hallway and be ready.”

“All right. I suppose you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do,” the owner said.

I went into the den (Lel snarled at me again), picked up the poker and proceeded to jumble the embers. So, the incident with Simone had been more or less explained, and I could put it out of my head. Or was it the other way around, since if that had been a doll in the Mrs. Moses’s room at eleven o’clock, then where had Mrs. Moses been? A first-rate joke, of course… But there was something too cumbersome about it… Was it really a joke? Maybe an attempt to establish an alibi?… Not much of an alibi: it was night, dark, the only way anyone would have known it was her was by touch, and with touch it turned into a joke, not an alibi. Maybe what they were thinking was that poor Simone’s nerves would snap, he’d yell out in horror, get to his feet, stir up a scandal, a hullabaloo… and then what? Most importantly, what did the doll have to do with it? All this could have been done without the doll. So what, essentially, was bothering me about it? Only one thing: that Simone’s room was located next to Olaf’s. This allowed one to suppose, say, that the Moseses needed Simone’s room to be empty for a span of time after eleven o’clock. That’s what was bothering me. But they wouldn’t have needed a doll to distract Mr. Simone. Of course, hypothetically speaking, the doll could have caused Simone to fall into a long and deep faint… but then, to distract Simone, all you needed was Mrs. Moses. That would have been the most natural way, and the one with the greatest hope of succeeding. The only reason to resort to such an unnatural and unreliable method as a doll would be if Mrs. Moses had to be somewhere else. Mrs. Moses… a fragile socialite, pampered to the point of imbecility… No, this wasn’t getting me anywhere. It could still have just been a first-rate joke, after all, though I didn’t see how this story fit yet…

It was a particularly sticky situation. None of the strands led anywhere. First, there wasn’t a single suspect. Second, I had absolutely no idea how the crime had been committed. I didn’t understand the most important thing. Forget about the killer—how had it been done? How? An open window, but no traces on the sill, no footprints in the snow on the ledge. No way to approach the window from below, the right, or the left. That left only one way: from above. From the roof, using a rope. But then there would be traces on the edge of the roof. Of course I could go back up and examine it again, but I remembered it exactly: the snow had been disturbed only around Hinkus’s lounge chair. Of course there was always the possibility that the killer had stuck a propeller in his ass like Karlsson-on-the-Roof. He took off, snapped his countryman’s neck, flew away… So I had only two lousy possibilities. The first were secret passages, hidden doorways and double walls. And the second was that some genius had invented a new technological device that allowed one to turn a key from the outside, leaving no trace behind…

Both propositions led, among other places, directly to the owner of the house and a mechanical inventor. Well, all right. And how does this man’s alibi look to us? Until nine thirty he’d been sitting continuously at the card table. From five to ten until the moment the body was discovered, he had been either where I could see him or within earshot. That left only twenty to twenty-five minutes for him to commit the murder, during which he either hadn’t been seen, or had been seen only by Kaisa, who, according to his own testimony, he’d been yelling at. Hence he could, theoretically, be the killer, if he knew of a secret passageway or had the means to turn a key from the outside without leaving any trace behind… I couldn’t understand what the motive behind all this completely psychologically unjustified behavior might be (definitely not publicity!), but, I repeat, theoretically he could have been the murderer. Let’s make a note of this and move on.

Du Barnstoker. He didn’t have an alibi. But he’s a weak old man, he doesn’t have the strength to break a man’s neck… Simone. He didn’t have an alibi. He could break a man’s neck—he’s a strong fellow, not to mention a little off-kilter. I couldn’t work out how he might have gotten into Olaf’s room. And if he did get in, I couldn’t understand how he got out. Theoretically (of course) he might have stumbled accidentally over the alleged secret door. I didn’t understand his motives, didn’t understand his behavior after the murder. I didn’t understand anything… Hinkus… Hinkus’s double… Another cup of coffee would be nice. Then again, it’d be nice to spit on it all and go to bed…

Brun. Yes, here was one thread that hadn’t snapped yet. That child had lied to me. The child had seen Mrs. Moses, but had said that it hadn’t seen her. The child had been canoodling with Olaf at the door to his room, but had stated that it slapped him by the dining-room doors… And then suddenly I remembered. I’d been sitting here, in this chair. The floor had shaken, I’d heard the hum of the avalanche. I looked at the clock, it had been two minutes after ten, and then upstairs a door slammed loudly. One flight up. Someone had slammed that door—hard. Who? Simone was shaving at the time. Du Barnstoker was sleeping and, possibly, had just been woken up by the same sound. Hinkus was lying tied up under the table. The owner and Kaisa were in the kitchen. The Moseses were in their rooms. That meant that the door could only have been slammed by either Olaf, or Brun, or the murderer. Hinkus’s double, for example… I threw the poker down and ran upstairs.

The kid’s room was empty, so I knocked on Du Barnstoker’s door. The kid was sitting gloomily at the table, its cheeks propped on its fists. A tartan-wrapped Du Barnstoker was dozing in a chair by the window. Both of them practically jumped when I came in.

“Take your glasses off!” I ordered sharply, and the kid immediately obeyed.

Yes: a girl. A very pretty one, although her eyes were red and swollen from tears. Stifling a sigh of relief, I sat down opposite her and said,

“Listen, Brun. Stop withholding information. You personally are not in any danger. I don’t think you’re the murderer, so you have nothing to gain by lying. At nine ten, Mrs. Moses saw you and Olaf here… in the hallway, outside the door to his room. You lied to me. You and Olaf didn’t go your separate ways at the doors to the dining room. So where did you leave him? Where, when, and under what circumstances?”

She looked at me for some time, her lips trembling, her red eyes again filling up with tears. Then she covered her face with her hands.

“We were in his room,” she said.

Du Barnstoker moaned piteously.

“Don’t moan, uncle!” Brun said, immediately flaring up. “Nothing irreparable happened. We kissed, and it was pretty fun, only cold because his window was open the whole time. I don’t remember how long it lasted. I remember he pulled something that looked like a necklace out of his pocket—beads or something—and wanted to put it around my neck, but then there was a roar and I said, ‘Listen: an avalanche!’ and he suddenly let go of me and held his head as if he’d remembered something… You know how people hold their heads when they remember something important… It lasted a few seconds. He rushed to the window, but then came right back, grabbed my shoulders and literally threw me out into the hallway. I almost fell down, and he slammed the door immediately behind me. He didn’t even say anything, he just swore under his breath, and I remember that he turned the key in the door, too. I didn’t see him again. I was crazy with anger because he’d acted like a pig, he even swore at me, so I immediately went back to my room and got drunk…”

Du Barnstoker groaned again.

“All right,” I said. “He held his head as if he’d remembered something, and rushed to the window… Maybe someone called out to him?”

Brun shook her head.

“No. I didn’t hear anything, only the sound of the avalanche.”

“And you left immediately? You didn’t linger outside the door for a second?”

“Immediately. I was going crazy.”

“Good. And what happened after you and he left the dining room? Tell me again.”

“He said that he wanted to show me something,” she said, bowing her head. “We went into the hallway, and he began leading me to his room. I resisted, of course… but, you know, we were joking around. Afterwards, when we were already standing outside his door…”

“Stop. Before you said you saw Hinkus.”

“Yes, we saw him. As soon as we went into the hallway. He was turning from the hallway onto the stairs.”

“Right. Go on.”

“While we were standing outside Olaf’s door, the Moses woman showed up. Naturally, she pretended that she hadn’t seen us, but I was embarrassed… It’s annoying when people dawdle around and stare at you. Anyway… after that we made our way to Olaf’s room…”

“I understand.” I looked at Barnstoker. The old man was sitting, his eyes raised grievously towards the ceiling. It served him right. Uncles like him always imagine that they’re sheltering angels under their wings. Meanwhile those angels are making counterfeit bills. “Okay. You drank something at Olaf’s?”

“Me?”

“I’m interested in what Olaf drank.”

“Nothing. We didn’t drink, neither of us.”

“Now… hm… Did you notice… m-hm… Did you notice any strange smell?”

“No. The air in there was very clear and fresh.”

“I’m not talking about the room, dammit. When you kissed, did you notice anything strange? A strange smell is what I mean…”

“I didn’t notice anything,” Brun said angrily.

For a few moments I tried to think of a way to put my next question delicately, then I gave up and asked directly.

“There is the possibility that Olaf might have been given a slow-acting poison before being murdered. You didn’t notice anything that would confirm this possibility?”

“And what would I have noticed?”

“You can usually tell when someone feels sick,” I clarified. “Especially when someone is getting sicker and sicker before your eyes.”

“There was nothing like that,” Brun said decisively. “He was feeling great.”

“You didn’t turn the light on?”

“No.”

“And you don’t remember anything he said that sounded strange?”

“I don’t remember a thing he said,” Brun said quietly. “It was the usual patter. Jokes, one-liners, flirting… We talked about motorcycles, and skiing. He seemed like a pretty good mechanic. He knew his way around all sorts of engines…”

“And he didn’t show you anything interesting? After all, he said he wanted to show you something…”

“Of course not. Don’t you get it? He just said that… well, to say something…”

“When the avalanche happened, were you sitting down or standing up?”

“We were standing up.”

“Where?”

“Right by the door. I was already bored and was getting ready to leave. And then he started to try and put the necklace on me…”

“And you’re sure that he ran from you to the window?”

“How am I supposed to… He grabbed his head, turned his back to me, made a step or two towards the window… In the direction of the window… Well, I don’t know how else to put it, maybe not to the window, of course, but I just didn’t see anything else in the room other than the window…”

“Do you think that there could have been anyone else in the room other than you? Maybe now you remember some noises, strange sounds that you didn’t pay attention to at the time…”

She thought about this.

“No, it was quiet… There were a few noises, but on the other side of the wall. Olaf made a joke that Simone was in his room walking up the walls… But there wasn’t anything else.”

“And was the noise really coming from Simone’s room?”

“Yes,” Brun said confidently. “We were standing already, and the noise was coming from my left. Anyway, it was just normal noises. Steps, water from the faucet…”

“Olaf moved some furniture around while you were there?”

“Furniture?… Yes, he did actually. He said he wouldn’t let me out, and pulled a chair over to the door… Afterwards he pushed it out of the way, of course…”

I stood up.

“That’s all for now,” I said. “Go to bed. I won’t bother you again today.”

Du Barnstoker stood up too and moved towards me with outstretched arms.

“My dear inspector! You understand of course that I had no idea…”

“Yes, Du Barnstoker,” I said. “But children grow up. All children. Even children whose parents have died. From this point on, don’t let her wear dark glasses. The eyes are the mirrors to the soul.”

I left them to reflect on these nuggets of inspectorial wisdom, and went down the hallway.

“You’ve been rehabilitated, Alek,” I announced to the owner.

“I had no idea I’d been convicted,” he said, looking up with surprise from his adding machine.

“What I mean to say is that I’ve taken all suspicion off you. You have an airtight alibi now. But don’t think that gives you the right to clog my head with all your zombie mumbo-jumbo… Don’t interrupt me. Right now you’re going to stay here and remained seated until I permit you to get up. Don’t forget that I have to be the first person to talk to the one-armed fellow.”

“And if he wakes up before you do?”

“I am not going to sleep,” I said. “I want to search the building. If that poor sap wakes up and calls for anyone, even his mother, get me immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” said the owner. “One question. Is the inn’s schedule to remain the same as before?”

I thought about this.

“I suppose so. Breakfast at nine. And then we’ll see… By the way, Alek, when in your opinion should we expect anyone from Mur to arrive here?”

“Hard to say. The excavation of the avalanche could begin as early as tomorrow. I remember times when things have happened this efficiently… But then again, they know full well that we’re not in any danger here… It’s possible that in two days Tsvirik the mountain inspector will arrive by helicopter… If the other locations are doing all right. The whole problem is that first they need to hear about the avalanche somewhere… In short, I wouldn’t count on anything happening tomorrow…”

“You mean today?”

“Yes, today… But tomorrow someone could fly in.”

“You don’t have a radio transmitter?”

“Where would I get one? And more importantly, why would I have one? It’s not worth the cost for me, Peter.”

“I understand,” I said. “Tomorrow, then…”

“I won’t say tomorrow definitely either,” the manager said.

“Then in the next two or three days… All right. Now, Alek—suppose you wanted to hide in this building. For a long time, several days. Where would you hide?”

“Hm…” the manager said skeptically. “You still think that there’s an outsider in the inn?”

“Where would you hide?” I repeated.

The manager shook his head.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” he said. “Honestly. There’s nowhere to hide here. Twelve rooms, only two of which are empty—but Kaisa cleans them every day, she would have noticed something. People always leave trash behind them, and she’s a stickler for cleanliness… As for the basement, I locked it from the outside, with a padlock… There isn’t any attic, in the space between the roof and the ceiling there’s barely room for your hand… The service rooms are all locked from the outside too, and anyway, we spend all day running around there, sometimes me, sometimes Kaisa. And that’s everything.”

“How about the upstairs shower?” I asked.

“Good point. There is an upstairs shower, and we haven’t checked it in a long time. Also, it might be worth looking at the generator room—I don’t look around there that much either. Go look, Peter, snoop around…”

“Give me the keys,” I said.

I looked and I snooped. I clambered around in the basement, peeked into the shower, examined the garage, the boiler room, the generator room—I even took a look at the underground oil tank. Nothing. Naturally, I hadn’t expected to discover anything, that would have been too simple, but my damned bureaucratic integrity wouldn’t let me leave any stone unturned. Twenty years of impeccable service are twenty years of impeccable service; anyway, it’s always better to look like a scrupulous blockhead rather than the slapdash man of talent in the eyes of one’s superiors, not to mention subordinates. So I groped, crawled, wallowed, breathing in dust and trash, pitying myself and cursing my stupid fate.

When I made my way out of the underground tanks, upset and filthy, it was already dawn. The pale moon was leaning to the west. The huge grey cliffs were covered in a purple mist. And what fresh, sweet, frosty air had filled the valley! Damn it all!…

I had just made it back to the inn when the door swung open and the owner came out onto the porch.

“Aha,” he said, catching sight of me. “I was just going to get you. Our poor man woke up and is asking for his mother.”

“I’m coming,” I said, shaking my jacket off.

“Just kidding,” the manager said. “He didn’t ask for his mother—he asked for Olaf Andvarafors.”