“He was on the trail of something all right.” Vine took out the clipping. “Read that.”
Prouty went through it, his lips forming the French words as he read.
“Holy cats,” he exclaimed. “Somebody pulled a butchery just like that over at Chamonix. Only this man who was killed. He was a jeweler’s messenger?”
“Got the top of his head caved in before he had a chance to deliver a necklace of matched diamonds to some society dame,” Vine agreed. He watched curious little beads of perspiration spring out on Prouty’s forehead. “Happen to know if this St. Moritz four ever played Chamonix?”
“I think they did. But cripes almighty, Mister Vine, if any of them had gotten away with a hundred and sixty thousand dollars worth of diamond necklace, he wouldn’t be skating five-six nights a week for a lousy two hundred bucks.”
Vine put the clipping back in his pocket.
“Might. There’s a war on over there. The killer couldn’t sell those stones in open market, and they tell me most of the fences have shut up shop, now the boys’re hanging out the washing on the Maginot Line.”
Prouty mopped his face with a silk handkerchief.
“His best bet would be to come over here, try to sell the stones in the u.S.A.?”
“Sure,” Vine said. “Don’t bother to check in just yet. Have your bag sent up to my room if you want. Come on upstairs, I got something to show you.”
Chapter IV
Crimson Snow
Prouty stood by Rachau’s body, mouth agape, eyes bulging.
“Same way Corinth was killed!”
“Not quite,” Vine said through his teeth. “Murderer used the cold-chisel, this time.”
Prouty looked away from the body, gulped.
“What was he doing with all those tools?”
“Safe-cracking, maybe.” Vine was enigmatic. “It’s a good bet he didn’t get what he was after.”
Out on the lake, a rocket exploded, sending booming echoes shuttling back and forth between the mountain peaks. A red glare made the snow a crimson mist.
“That’s the signal,” Prouty said, “for the beginning of the carnival.” His eye twitched, spasmodically. “It’s the end of it for me — and the troupe.”
“Still worrying about your bookings, Prouty? With two men murdered in the last twenty-four hours?”
Prouty shook his head in horror.
“No, no. Of course not. But, aside from business, I liked these people. This Neck-breaker” — he shuddered — “wasn’t a bad guy. Maybe he pawed over Ilma a little too much, but he’d do anything for you, if he liked you. Lagand’s a pretty swell gent, too, when you get to know him.”
Vine picked up the hacksaw, slid it in his coat pocket.
“I’ve known him longer than you have. I’ve got him in my room, down the hall now. Let’s see what he says about this.”
What Lagand said, when he saw Prouty, was:
“Mike, my friend! Now, maybe you fix things so the show, she go on, eh? Jon and Ilma, they just now go down to the lake in costume. Wolf and I, we are due for our act in ten minutes.”
Prouty put a forefinger up to keep his eyelid from jerking.
“Wolf is due for a session with the embalmer, Charlie. He’s on the floor in his room with the top of his head chopped to mincemeat.”
Lagand’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinned.
“Who?” he said, softly. “You know who did this?”
Vine climbed into his overcoat, slipped on his hat.
“You tell us who’s hiding a hundred and sixty grand worth of glitter, and we’ll go on from there. Come along. Get your things on.”
Lagand was incredulous. “You charge me with such a crime? Impossible!”
The detective pushed him through the door, along the hall.
“I’m not horsing around with charges, Cherbourg. I’m after proof. Let’s go.”
The stunt skater made no protest. He seemed more puzzled than worried. When they went downstairs, Prouty and Lagand went first, Vine brought up the rear, hand in coat pocket. He stopped at the desk.
“You better ring that deputy, after all. Tell him to double-time it over here and look me up down at the lake. It’s important.”
Then the three men went out, joined the gay throng moving down the slope toward the cleared surface of the lake. Red, blue and yellow electric lights, set in five-foot cubes of ice, made a rainbow of the snow-covered ground. A loudspeaker sent over the countryside the rhythmic melody of ‘Winter Wonderland.” All about them bells rang, horns blew, people laughed and shouted.
“Going to arrest the whole troupe, Mister Vine?” Prouty muttered.
“Going to round up what’s left of it, Prouty.”
Lagand swore obscenely in French.
“It makes one astonished, you are so certain this killer is one of us!”
“The killer,” Vine said sharply “is one of two persons” — he could hear the hissing intake of their breath as they waited — “either the one who has those damned diamonds and is trying to keep anyone else from getting them. Or the one who knows who does have them and is trying to get them.”
Across the rink they saw Jon and Ilma. Vezel was kneeling, his head down, lacing tip the girl’s fancy-skating shoes. Vine half-paused in his stride, breath hissed through his taut lips.
The man glanced up, saw them coming. Hastily, he finished the boot-lacing, stood up on his skates. The girl had not noticed them. She executed a short outside curve and a ballet dancer’s pose, swung gracefully into a dizzy spin. She came to an abrupt stop as she recognized Prouty.
“Michel!” she squealed in delight. She ran daintily toward him on skate-toes, flung her arms about his neck, embraced him rapturously. “It is good to see you. I did not think you would be here when we open tonight.”
The booking agent disengaged her arms, dejectedly.
“We’re not going to open tonight, Ilma.”
“No. But why? Why? Nom d’un nom, Charles, why do you stand there so strange, so solemn?”
She backed away from Prouty, and stared in growing uneasiness from one to the other.
“Rachau’s been murdered,” Vine said bluntly.
The girl screamed, once, piercingly, put her fists to her mouth in horror. The detective had no time to pay attention to her. He was moving after Jon. Ilma’s partner had skated, with casual indifference, a few yards further down the rink. He did a backward inner circle, passed close in front of an iron bench placed at the edge of the rink. As he swung past, he reached down, nonchalantly, and picked up the black leather skate-bag, tucked it under his arm.
“Vezel!” Vine shouted. “Drop it!”
He drew his gun, started to sprint.
The figure-skater had a twenty yard head-start. He made good use of it. He crouched low, leaned his lithe body forward, drove his blades up the ice toward the circular path which had been cleared on the ice for the speed trials the next day.
“You’ll never catch him!” yelled Prouty. “He’s fast as hell!”
Vine knew he would be outdistanced in a matter of seconds, raised his gun to fire a warning shot. Past him flashed a green-clad figure on flying blades.
“Ilma!” cried Lagand, “Prenez garde! He will kill!”
Vine saved his breath and ran. He couldn’t keep pace with either of the skaters, but there would be an end to the clear ice and then he would have his advantage in the deep snow.