The Dead Mountaineer's Inn (7 page)

People greeted me very warmly, for the most part. Mr. Du Barnstoker informed me that I appeared to have a worthy new rival, and Mrs. Moses shouted from the roof, in her voice like the tinkling of silver bells, that Mr. Olaf was gorgeous: a virile god of a man. This annoyed me; so I wasted no time making a complete fool of myself. When the kid (who was clearly a boy today: a kind of wild angel, devoid of manners or morals) proposed a race on skis dragged behind his motorcycle, I decided
to defy both fate and the Viking, and was the first to pick up the end of the cable.

A dozen years ago races like this had been a piece of cake for me—but that was before the industrialized world had come up with Bucephalus, and anyway, back then I'd been stronger. To make a long story short, three minutes later I found myself in front of the porch. I must not have looked so hot, because I heard Mrs. Moses ask in a frightened voice if I needed to be rubbed with snow. Mr. Moses wondered grimly if anyone knew of a substance that could rub out the memory of my disastrous skiing; meanwhile the owner quickly appeared, carefully hoisted me under the arms and began trying to convince me to swallow a swig of his personal magical elixir. “It's fragrant, strong, and will relieve pain and restore peace of mind.” Mr. Simone bellowed and whooped sarcastically from the top of the telephone pole; Mr. Du Barnstoker, apologizing, held a handsworth of splayed fingers against his heart. Hinkus the youth counselor excitedly jostled his way to the front of the crowd and whipped his head around, asking everyone if I'd broken any bones, and “where they'd taken him.”

They brushed me off, patted me down, massaged me, wiped my face, dug the snow out from underneath my collar and looked around for my helmet, as Olaf Andvarafors grabbed the end of the cable … at which point they threw me aside and turned their attention to this new wonder, which truly was quite spectacular. I was surprised how quick the turnaround was: I hadn't even finished picking myself up before the crowd began hoisting their new hero. But fortune doesn't care whether you're a blond snow-god or an aging police officer. At the height of his triumph, when the Viking was already towering over the porch, leaning picturesquely on one ski pole as he smiled dazzlingly at Mrs. Moses, fortune gave her wheel a little tap. Lel the St. Bernard made his way to
the winner, gave him an intent sniff and then suddenly, with a quick, precise gesture extended his right paw out directly over his ski boots. I couldn't have scripted it better myself. Mrs. Moses screamed, the crowd burst into a series of hearty curses, and I went back inside. I am not a gloating man by nature, but I love justice. In everything.

Back in the pantry I discovered from Kaisa (with no small difficulty) that the inn's showers, as it turned out, were working only on the first floor: I ran for fresh towels and underwear, but despite my haste I was too late. The shower had already been taken; the sound of rippling water and garbled singing emerged from behind the door, in front of which Simone stood, with his own towel draped over his shoulder. I took my place beside him; Du Barnstoker soon appeared beside me. We started smoking. Simone, choking with laughter as he looked around, started to tell a joke about a bachelor who moved in with a widow and her three daughters. Fortunately, however, Mrs. Moses appeared at exactly that moment and asked us whether we'd seen her lord and master Mr. Moses walking by. Mr. Du Barnstoker replied gallantly, and at length: no, alas. After licking his lips, Simone stared at Mrs. Moses with languid eyes, as I listened to the voice coming from the shower—suggesting finally that Mr. Moses might be found inside. Mrs. Moses received this suggestion with obvious skepticism. She smiled, shook her head and explained to us that in their house on the Rue de Chanelle, they had two bathrooms—one made of gold, and the other, I believe, made of platinum; having struck us dumb with this information, she told us that she would go look for Mr. Moses elsewhere. Simone immediately offered to go with her, leaving Du Barnstoker and myself behind. Lowering his voice, Du Barnstoker asked if I had witnessed the unfortunate scene that had taken place between Lel the St. Bernard and Mr. Andvarafors. I
allowed myself the small pleasure of telling him that I hadn't. At which point Du Barnstoker related the scene to me in full detail and, when I had finished throwing my hands up and clicking my tongue sadly, added mournfully that our good host had completely lost control over his dog, for only a day earlier the St. Bernard had relieved himself in the exact same way on Mrs. Moses herself in the garage. Once more, I threw my hands in the air and clucked my tongue (sincerely this time) but just then we were joined by Hinkus, who immediately started complaining about the fact that he was paying double the normal amount for a room in an inn with only one working shower. Mr. Du Barnstoker calmed him down by removing from within the folds of his towel a pair of lollipops shaped like roosters. Hinkus grew immediately quiet; his face changed completely, the poor man. He took the roosters, stuffed them into his mouth and stared at the great prestidigitator in horror and disbelief. Then Mr. Du Barnstoker, looking extremely pleased at the effect he'd produced, proceeded to entertain us with the multiplication and division of multidigit numbers.

Meanwhile the shower water continued to beat down, though the singing had been replaced now by unintelligible muttering. From the top of the stairs, Mr. Moses descended with heavy steps, hand in hand with the day's hero and victim of canine disgrace, Olaf. When they got to the bottom, they parted ways. Mr. Moses took his mug behind the door-curtains, sipping as he went, while the Viking took his place next to us in line without uttering a single unnecessary word. I looked at the clock. We'd been waiting for over ten minutes.

The front door slammed. The kid ran past us without stopping, leaping quietly up the stairs and leaving behind a smell of gasoline, sweat and perfume. I realized immediately that I could hear the voices of the owner and Kaisa in the kitchen,
and a sort of strange suspicion dawned on me for the first time. I stared indecisively at the shower door.

“Have you been standing here a long time?” Olaf asked.

“Yes, quite a long time,” Du Barnstoker said.

Suddenly, Hinkus muttered something unintelligible and, shoving Olaf's shoulder, rushed into the hall.

“Listen,” I said. “Did anyone else arrive this morning?”

“Only these gentlemen,” Du Barnstoker said. “Mr. Andvarafors and Mr.… um … the little fellow, who just left …”

Olaf objected. “We arrived last night,” he said.

I already knew when they had arrived. For a second, the image of a skeleton purring out songs beneath the stream of hot water as it washed its armpits flashed across my mind. I lost my temper and shoved the door. It opened, of course. And of course, no one was in the shower. The stream of hot water (which had been left at full blast) was making a lot of noise, there was steam everywhere, the Dead Mountaineer's infamous tarpaulin jacket was hanging from the hook, and beneath this, on the oak bench, an old transistor radio was whispering and muttering.

“Que Diablo!” Du Barnstoker cried. “Where's the owner? Come here at once!”

A ruckus erupted. Heavy boots thumped as the owner ran to us. Simone emerged as if sprung from the ground. The kid leaned over the railing with a cigarette dangling from its lower lip. Hinkus watched cautiously from the hall.

“Unbelievable!” Du Barnstoker exclaimed heatedly. “We've been waiting and waiting, for no less than a quarter of an hour—isn't that right, Inspector?”

“And someone's been lying in my bed again,” the child reported from above us. “And the towel's completely wet.”

Simone's eyes flashed with impish glee.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen …” the owner said, offering a
series of appeasing gestures. Before doing anything else he ducked into the shower and turned off the water. Then he took the jacket off the hook, picked up the radio and turned to us. His face was solemn. “Gentlemen!” he said in a low voice. “I can only speak to the facts. This is HIS radio, gentlemen. And HIS jacket.”

“Exactly whose …?” Olaf asked calmly.

“HIS. The dead mountaineer.”

“What I meant was, whose turn is it exactly?” Olaf asked, as calmly as before.

I silently maneuvered the owner out of the way, went into the shower and locked the door behind me. After I'd already taken my clothes off I realized that it wasn't my turn, but Simone's—but I didn't feel the slightest bit guilty. That was probably one of his, I thought furiously. Well, let him wait. The hero of national science. What a waste of water … No, jokers like him should be stopped. And punished. I'll teach you not to play tricks on me …

When I left the shower, the people gathered in the hall were still discussing what had happened. No new theories had been offered, so I didn't stick around. On the stairs I ran into the kid, who was still hanging over the railing.

“Madhouse!” it said to me defiantly. I passed without a word and went straight to my room.

The shower and a pleasant exhausted feeling soon caused my temper to disappear completely. I pulled the armchair up to the window, picked up my fattest and most serious book and sat down with my feet propped on the edge of the table. Before I'd finished the first page, I was asleep; by the time I woke up, maybe an hour and a half later, the sun had shifted considerably, and the shadow of the inn was lying beneath my window. I could tell from its silhouette that someone was sitting on the roof, and I decided sleepily that this must be
Simone, the great physicist, hopping from chimney to chimney and chortling over the entire valley. I fell asleep again, waking finally with a start when my book slipped off onto the floor. Now I could distinctly see the shadows of two people on the roof: one appeared to be sitting, while the other was standing in front of him. Tanning, I thought, and went to wash up. While I was washing, it occurred to me that a cup of coffee might be nice, a good pick-me-up, and that a snack wouldn't be a bad thing either. I lit a cigarette and stepped into the hallway. It was already almost three.

I met Hinkus on the landing. He had just come down the attic stairs, and looked strange for some reason. He was naked to the waist and shiny with sweat; his face was so white it was practically green; his eyes weren't blinking; he was clutching a ball of crumpled clothes to his chest with both hands.

Catching sight of me, he shuddered visibly and stopped.

“Tanning?” I asked, out of politeness. “Don't get burned. You look ill.”

Having expressed in this way concern for my fellow man's well-being, I walked past him downstairs without waiting for a response. Hinkus clonked his way down the stairs behind me.

“I need a drink,” he said hoarsely.

“Hot up there?” I asked, without turning around.

“Y-yes … Very hot.”

“Watch out,” I said. “March sun in the mountains is a bad idea.”

“I'm okay … I'll have a drink, and then I'll be okay.”

We went down to the lobby.

“You should probably get dressed,” I advised. “What if Mrs. Moses were there …”

“Right,” he said. “Sure. I completely forgot.”

He stopped and began hurriedly putting on his shirt and
jacket; I went down to the pantry, where I procured a plate of cold roast beef, some bread and coffee from Kaisa. Hinkus, dressed and looking much less green, joined me and demanded something stronger.

“Is Simone up there too?” I asked. The idea of whiling away some time with a game of pool had floated into my head.

“Up where?” Hinkus asked sharply, carefully bringing a full snifter to his lips.

“On the roof.”

Hinkus's hand trembled, scattering drops of brandy on his palm. He took a quick gulp, stuck his nose into the air and, after wiping his mouth with his hand, said:

“No. No one else is up there.”

I looked at him with surprise. His lips were pursed; he poured himself a second glass.

“That's strange,” I said. “For some reason it seemed to me that Simone was up there with you—on the roof, I mean.”

“Take a deep breath the next time anything ‘seems' to you—you'll make fewer mistakes that way,” the youth counselor replied, and drank. And then he poured himself another one.

“What's got into you?” I asked.

He stared at the full glass silently for a little while, before suddenly saying:

“Listen: do you want to suntan on the roof?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I'm afraid of getting burned. Sensitive skin.”

“You never go tanning?”

“No.”

He thought about this, grabbed the bottle, screwed the cap back on.

“The air's great up there,” he said. “And the view's gorgeous. The whole valley in the palm of your hand. The mountains …”

“Let's shoot some pool,” I suggested. “Do you play?”

His sick little eyes looked me straight in the face for the first time.

“No,” he said. “I'd rather get some fresh air.”

He unscrewed the cap again and poured himself a fourth glass. I finished off my roast beef, drank my coffee and got up. Hinkus stared languidly into his brandy.

“Well, don't fall off the roof,” I said.

He smiled curtly, but didn't respond. I went back up to the second floor again. I didn't hear any billiard balls clacking, so I made my way to Simone's room. No one answered my knock. Unintelligible voices were coming from behind the door to the next room, so I knocked on it. No Simone here, either. Du Barnstoker and Olaf were sitting at the table playing cards. In the middle of the table there was a tower of crumpled bills. When he saw me, Du Barnstoker made a sweeping gesture and exclaimed:

“Come in, come in, Inspector! My dear Olaf, you don't mind if the inspector sits in, do you?”

“Of course not,” Olaf said, without looking up from his cards. “With pleasure.” He called spades.