Snowfall Page 11

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said.

  Jane laughed. ‘Oh, he can be exasperating, like all children. I’ve three younger brothers, so I haven’t any illusions about them. But poor Bruno has been very unsettled, with different people looking after him for most of his life. He needs to be loved …’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ I thought wryly, but I hid my expression behind my coffee cup.

  ‘Anyway,’ Jane went on, ‘I thought that I was very lucky – it’s a bit risky, taking on a job like this as a result of a newspaper advertisement, but it seemed to be working very well. I didn’t have a formal contract or anything, but it was understood that I should stay until Jon and Bruno returned to Scotland in the summer. And then, yesterday, Jon went out ski-ing by himself instead of taking Bruno and me to Igls as he always does. When he came back, he said that he was sorry but he wouldn’t need me any more; he gave me three months’ wages in lieu of notice, and the money for my fare, helped me to pack and drove me and my trunk to the station. Just like that!’

  I shared Jane’s indignation wholeheartedly. ‘Then he’s a brass-faced liar! He told me, yesterday morning, that his au pair girl had walked out on him a few days ago. He even had the nerve to spin me a sob-story about his motherless child having a bad cold, when the boy’s as fit as I am. I told him right from the start that I wouldn’t consider taking on the job, not even for a few days – and now I know what a liar he is, and how abominably he’s treated you …’

  Words failed us both. Jane ordered more coffee, and two expensive and recklessly calorific slices of Sachertorte. ‘And we’ll have it on Jon Becker,’ she said darkly. ‘I intended calling this afternoon to return the money he gave me for my fare, because I’ve decided to stay in Austria after all, but I’ll send him what’s left by post. I’ve an Austrian boy-friend, you see,’ she explained. ‘His family runs a hotel at lgls, and when I rang him from the station to say goodbye, he insisted on fetching me. I’ll be staying there for the rest of the season, at least.’

  Jane’s face had turned a very happy pink. It was clear that as far as she was concerned, everything had worked out for the best. But it still left Jon Becker’s behaviour completely unexplained.

  Jane looked at me thoughtfully across her torte, and waved her sticky fork at me. ‘I know what it is, Kate – why didn’t I think of it sooner? Jon must be in love with you!’

  I laughed so loudly that the elderly customers rustled their newspapers in disapproval. ‘Good heavens, we’d never set eyes on each other until last Saturday night, and we’ve hardly spoken since!’

  She was not to be deflected from her theory. ‘Well … love at first sight?’

  I don’t believe in it. ‘Rubbish,’ I said firmly. ‘Besides, his whole attitude has been thoroughly disagreeable. He isn’t interested in me personally at all – but I tell you what, Jane, some very strange things seem to be going on at Kirchwald.’

  I put down my fork and started on my story. When I got to the bit about the man with the monkey face, Jane began to frown. When I told her about the frightening way he had followed me back to the Alte Post from the train, she interrupted me.

  ‘But that sounds like Fritzi – Fritzi Kraus. He and his wife live in the apartment just above Jon’s. They used to work for Jon’s uncle when he was alive, and Frau Kraus still does the housekeeping. I slept in a room in their apartment. Fritzi’s absolutely harmless – he’s retired, and spends most of his spare time carving little wooden angels, with a bit of ski-ing and mountaineering to keep fit. I wonder … perhaps Jon asked him to follow you to make sure that you got home safely …?’

  ‘And why should Becker do that, when I’m a stranger to him?’ I demanded. ‘Besides, you know what I think? Your Fritzi might have been the man who came ski-ing down the mountainside and caused the accident with the toboggan.’

  Jane began to look uneasy. ‘Oh, no … Look, Kate, Jon has behaved badly to both of us, but I’ve got to know him pretty well during the past six months and I’m quite sure he’d never be a party to anything like that.’

  I pushed my plate aside. The torte was sickeningly rich, but it wasn’t the combination of apricot jam with layers of chocolate that made me feel queasy. ‘Wouldn’t he?’ I said. ‘Wait till I finish telling you what happened today: a car was deliberately driven straight at me, here in Innsbruck on the Maria-Theresien-Strasse. It knocked me over. And guess who was at the wheel? Fritzi. He can drive?’

  ‘Yes – but he hasn’t a car –’

  ‘Jon Becker has, though?’

  ‘Yes. A white Mercedes.’

  We had to admit that we were baffled. None of it made sense. The only conclusion we could come to was that it seemed to be unhealthy for me to stay on alone in Kirchwald.

  ‘Why not come to Igls for the rest of the week?’ said Jane. ‘Or if you’ve really gone off Austria, why not take Jon’s money and get an early flight home? Only I hate to think of you staying on in Kirchwald when you’ve no one there to turn to for help.’

  We sat debating the practicality of her suggestions, and the ethics of using Jon Becker’s money. The short winter afternoon was almost over. Outside in the Altstadt the lights came on, and the café began to fill. Among the newly arrived customers, teasing each other over whether or not to indulge in cream cakes, were Rosemary and Phil Sloan.

  They saw me almost as soon as I saw them. We smiled and waved, and they headed immediately for the two vacant places at our table. I introduced them to Jane, and relaxed. Of course – silly of me to forget. I had no need at all to run away from Kirchwald, not when I had the friendship of such a pleasant and kind-hearted couple as the Sloans.

  After Jane had returned to Igls I spent the rest of the evening with my friends, first in Innsbruck and then back at the Alte Post. I brought them up to date with my happenings, and they shared my indignation over Jon Becker’s behaviour. They were shocked when they heard of the way his car had been driven at me deliberately.

  ‘I think you should go to the police,’ said Rosemary.

  ‘I agree. Trouble is, though,’ Phil reminded us, ‘you’d need a witness. Did anyone see what happened, do you think, Kate?’

  I shrugged. ‘Jon Becker said that he saw it himself, but of course he declares that it was an accident … I don’t see how the police can help.’

  ‘Well at least we can,’ said Rosemary warmly. ‘Don’t worry, Kate, and don’t let it ruin the rest of your holiday. After all, Phil wants to spend his time ski-ing and I don’t – so you’ll be doing us both a favour if you’ll keep me company. And as long as you’re with us, you’ll be perfectly safe.’

  I was grateful for all their kindness. Naturally I made a point of saying that I wanted an early night, so that they could spend at least part of the evening together; but they insisted on escorting me to the annexe and waiting in the hallway until I had opened the door of my room and checked that there had been no more break-ins. I went to bed feeling secure for the very first time since my arrival in Kirchwald.

  Next morning, the three of us set off for the Kirchwalder Alm together. Rosemary’s cold had turned to a dry cough, but she refused to be kept off the mountain any longer.

  Phil was the only one to take skis. Rosemary wasn’t fit enough to start lessons, and I was too much of a novice to be able to attempt such a long, steep descent. The intention was that the two of us would enjoy a leisurely sunbathe in the snow and then a ladylike return by chair lift, while Phil went down the bold way.

  As we waited for the lift we all made a point of looking among the other passengers for any glimpse of Becker or his monkey-faced accomplice. There was none. I rode up the mountainside in the company of a chatty German woman skier whose conversational flow was not in the least inhibited by the fact that I understood about two words in ten, while Phil and Rosemary followed in the next double chair.

  We spent a very pleasant morning, Rosemary and I, enjoying the experience of lolling in deckchairs and lifting our faces to sunshine whil
e our boots were ankle-deep in crisp snow. Phil, meanwhile, took the drag lift to the higher slopes, swooping down to join us for a mid-morning glass of hot spicy glühwein, and then making a second trip to the top. We all lunched together off sausages and rye bread, and then Phil suggested that while he had a well-earned rest in the sun, Rosemary and I ought to stir ourselves and take a walk along the high-altitude path.

  It was, I remembered, a walk that Stephen Marsh had recommended. I’d hardly given him a thought since our last meeting and I was relieved that he was not, as far as I could see, among the assembly of skiers at the top of the Alm. There was no sign at all of Becker or his man Fritzi, and although I thought that I caught a glimpse of Toni Hammerl I couldn’t be sure. With so many ski caps and snow goggles, identification was difficult. But at least no one appeared to be taking any interest in us at all.

  The walk proved exhilarating. The pathway, carved deeply through the snow, led us away from the noisy camaraderie of the restaurant and sun terrace, through a belt of pine trees and round the shoulder of the mountain. The sun was hot on our faces, the air as crisp as dry white wine. As we walked, the only sounds were the wind in the tops of the pines, the creak of snow under our boots, and the cheerful ‘Grüss Gott’s’ that we exchanged with an occasional fellow-walker. The views were magnificent. We could see southwards for miles through the thin clear air, all the way down the length of the valley that lay at the foot of the mountain, and beyond it to where peaks rose on peaks, and Alps on distant Alps.

  Rosemary was thrilled by the views, and I passed on the information that I had been given on my previous visit to the top of the Alm. ‘And that great bridge, striding across the valley, carries the autobahn that goes from Innsbruck through the Brenner Pass to Italy. It’s very impressive, isn’t it?’

  We walked on. Presently the path forked. Both routes were finger-posted, but the names meant nothing to us. ‘Phil came exploring when he was up here by himself yesterday morning,’ said Rosemary. ‘He told me that both these paths lead to mountain inns. The inn on the upper path is the most popular, and a bit nearer, but the other path has better views. Shall we settle for that?’

  The path we took was initially less attractive, since it plunged immediately into the gloom of a pine wood. Presumably that was why the other walkers were taking the upper path. But as soon as we emerged from the trees the ground seemed to drop away, giving us a dizzyingly bird’s eye view of the valley. I haven’t a very good head for heights and I was glad that, since we were walking in what was virtually a trench dug through the snow, there was a waist-high icy parapet to prevent us from slipping to certain death.

  But ski boots are not meant for walking in, and even the most splendid view can pall if your feet hurt. I was very glad when the smell of wood smoke announced the presence of the inn we were making for, an unpretentious building half-buried in snow, perched on a ledge of mountainside overlooking the valley and the Europabrücke. Rosemary sniffed the air too: ‘Coffee!’ she proclaimed. ‘I hate to think what they’ll charge for it, considering the distance they have to bring their supplies, but I’m having some anyway. And since it’s a longer walk than Phil made out, and I dragged you here, you must join me.’

  We seemed to be the only female guests at the inn. There were three men in the low-ceilinged main room, local skiers from the sound and deeply sunburned look of them, and they stared at us with interest as we entered. We ordered coffee, and then passed the time by examining a rack of picture postcards. Rosemary bought a couple, and decided to write them while we waited for the coffee.

  I was hot after my walk, and the stuffy air of the room combined with the pungent smell from the men’s thin, twiggy cigars seemed oppressive. I went outside again and leaned for a few moments on the rail of the wooden balcony, looking out over the view and thinking, for the dozenth time since yesterday, about Jon Becker’s inexplicable behaviour; and then someone seized my arm, and I found myself caught in a big whiskery distastefully familiar garlic-flavoured hug.

  ‘Let go, Herr Hammerl, please!’ I cried indignantly, struggling to free myself. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t do that – and it’s no use winking and nodding at me, because I haven’t the faintest idea what you keep going on about. Now please let me go back to my friend –’

  But old Otto Hammerl had other ideas. I wasn’t worried about my personal safety, since his embrace seemed to be nothing more than an initial greeting, but when he seized my hand in his vast calloused palm and drew me down a narrow path that led away from the inn, growling all the time in his incomprehensible Tyrolese, I knew that the time had come to abandon all thought of dignity. I opened my mouth to call for Rosemary, but at that moment a violent blow from behind sent old Otto staggering to his knees in the snow, dragging me down with him.

  I wrenched my hand from his grasp and scrambled up. Toni Hammerl, looking furious, was standing over his father. He was speaking a more comprehensible German, but the words he was using with bitter emphasis were not ones that had appeared in my English-German dictionary at school. After a few moments’ invective, Toni turned his back on the cowed old man and apologized to me courteously.

  I brushed snow from the knees of my ski pants. ‘Thank you, Toni, you came just at the right time. But what is your father doing up here? And what does he keep trying to tell me?’

  Toni shrugged. ‘I didn’t hear what he was saying to you. But my father often comes up here – this is his favourite mountain inn. It’s used chiefly by climbers, and he climbed as a young man.’

  That was straightforward enough. But Toni’s own arrival, grateful as I was for it, seemed an unlikely coincidence.

  ‘And is this your favourite mountain inn too?’ I challenged him.

  The sunburned skin crinkled at the corners of his blue eyes. ‘Not at all – I simply followed you.’

  I raised a surprised eyebrow. Toni grinned, charmingly: ‘Isn’t it usual, in England, for a man to follow an attractive girl?’ he asked, moving towards me.

  I backed instinctively. Unfortunately he was blocking the path to the inn. Since there were waist-high walls of snow on either side of the path, the only direction I could take was the one in which old Otto had been urging me.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It isn’t usual, anywhere, for a man to follow a girl he doesn’t know who obviously isn’t interested in him, when there are plenty of other, more attractive girls who would be glad of his company.’ I drew a deep breath of ice-cold air and stood my ground. ‘I’d like to get back to the inn. Will you let me pass, please?’

  He shook his blond head. He was wearing the clothes he had worn the last time we were on the mountain together, a black ski suit with a single dark red flash on the sleeve and a black and white woollen cap with a pair of snow goggles pushed up on it. Was it Toni who had caused the accident with the toboggan?

  ‘If you don’t let me pass, I’m going to shout for help,’ I threatened.

  He smiled and moved forward. ‘Shout as loudly as you like. The inn was built to withstand Alpine weather, and the windows are triple glazed. No-one in there will hear you.’

  I backed again. ‘What are you trying to do?’ I said nervously. ‘Why did you follow me here?’

  ‘To teach you a lesson. I warned you, didn’t I, to stay off the mountain?’

  ‘But I’m not doing anything to upset anyone!’ I protested. ‘I’m simply here on holiday –’

  This time his eyes were hard and unsmiling. ‘Oh no! I might have believed you if you had stayed near the top of the ski lift, but when you came to this inn to encourage my foolish old father –’

  ‘To encourage him! Good heavens, that’s the last thing – help! No, Toni – please – help me, someone!’

  He had lunged at me, but I wriggled from his grasp, turned and fled. There was only one way to go, on down the narrow path towards a wooden hut that was buried almost to the eaves in snow. But at least the door had been cleared.

  For a second, seeing the stoutness of the do
or and the massive hasp and padlock, I thought that I had no hope of entering; but the padlock was undone. I wrenched open the door, stumbled into the dark interior and shut myself safely inside.

  Safely?

  As I sank down to the floor, trying to regain my breath, I realized too late that I had run straight into a cage without bars. I heard Toni Hammerl laugh abruptly as he fastened the hasp and clunked the great padlock shut, locking me in.

  Chapter Eleven

  I don’t smoke, so I had no means of striking a light and inspecting my prison. The residual smell of cow suggested that the hut was used as a store and shelter by herdsmen when their cattle were up on the summer pastures. The building was solid, as it would need to be to withstand winter storms, but roughly constructed, and although there was no window a certain amount of light filtered through the gaps between the pine-log walls. My eyes gradually adjusted themselves to the gloom, and I began to take stock of my surroundings.

  The floor was of dirty rough-hewn planks. The whole of one side of the hut was occupied by a pile of mouldering hay, but apart from some coils of rope, a rusted lantern and a few cobwebby bottles – some that looked as though they might have contained veterinary products, and others that had definitely contained beer – there was nothing else at all.

  So why, I wondered, was the door so new that the pinewood shone white in the gloom? Why was it so solid, why the stout hasp and padlock?

  And why had old Otto Hammerl tried to bring me here? Why had Toni warned me off the mountain yesterday, and why was he now trying to teach me a lesson? What could incarceration in this wretched hut possibly teach me, except the futility of shouting for help until my throat was sore, and the pain of the splinters that had worked themselves under my fingernails as I tried to prise the log walls apart with my bare hands …?

  No-one came. The only sound was the whistling of the wind through the cracks in the walls. I might have panicked, in my loneliness, but for the thought of Rosemary. Surely she’d be searching for me and asking questions – unless of course Toni Hammerl had her shut up somewhere else. But then, Phil would be wondering where we were. There was no doubt that he would come in search of his wife, and move mountains to find her. So there was no point in my panicking; I might just as well sit down and wait quietly until help came.