No, I decided finally. Murder was impossible, of course, and the note had been planted either as a joke or as a red herring. But what about robbery? Who was worth robbing here? So far as I could tell, there were two wealthy people in the inn: Moses and the owner. Okay. All right. Both lived on the first floor. The Moseses’ room was in the southern wing, the owner’s safe was in the northern one. They were divided by a lobby. If I set myself up in the lobby… Then again, you could get to the owner’s office from upstairs, by coming down from the dining room into the kitchen, and then the pantry. If I secured the pantry door… It’s settled then: I’ll spend the night in the lobby, and tomorrow we’ll see. Suddenly I remembered the one-armed stranger. Hmm… Now that I think about it, being a friend of Hinkus’s, he’s probably in on it. Maybe he got in a real accident, but maybe this is all a farce, like the snowman on the roof… No, you won’t fool us, sir!
I went down the hall. Nobody was in the shower, but Kaisa was standing in the middle of the lobby with an addled look on her face, wearing her nightgown (the skirt of which was wet) and holding the stranger’s wet and crumpled clothes in her arms. In the corridor of the southern wing a light was on; from an empty room opposite the den I could hear the muffled bass voice of the owner. He had apparently set the stranger up in here, which was probably just what the one-armed man wanted. It had been smartly done: nobody would drag a half-dead man up to the second floor…
Kaisa came to herself finally and started making her way off to the owner’s quarters, but I stopped her. I took the clothes from her and searched through the pockets. To my great surprise, there was nothing in the pockets. Absolutely nothing. No money, no identifying documents, no cigarettes, no handkerchief—nothing.
“What’s he wearing now?” I asked.
“How do you mean?” Kaisa asked. I didn’t press it.
I gave the clothes back and went to see for myself. The stranger was in bed, wrapped in blankets up to his chin. The manager was feeding him something hot with a spoon, saying, “You have to work up a sweat, sir, you have to, you have to get a good sweat going…” In all fairness, the stranger looked terrible. His face was blue, the end of his pointy nose was white as snow; one eye was squinting painfully, the other was shut completely. With every breath he let out a feeble moan. If he’s someone’s accomplice, he’s not doing a very good job of it. Still, I had a few questions to ask him. Just in case.
“Did you come here alone?” I asked.
He looked at me with his squinting eye, and moaned quietly:
“Is anyone still in the car?” I asked, enunciating my words. “Or were you traveling alone?”
The stranger opened his mouth, took a small breath and then closed his mouth again.
“He’s weak,” said the owner. “His body’s like a bundle of rags.”
“Dammit,” I muttered. “And now someone has to go to Bottleneck.”
“Yes,” agreed the owner. “What if someone was left behind… They might have gotten trapped under the avalanche.”
“You’ll have to go,” I said decisively, and at that moment the stranger spoke.
“Olaf,” he said expressionlessly. “Olaf And-va-ra-fors… Get him.”
I felt another shock.
“Aha,” said the owner and set the mug of liquid on the table. “I’ll get him right away.”
“Olaf…” the stranger repeated.
When the owner left, I took his place. I felt like an idiot. At the same time, I was pretty relieved: the depressing plot that I’d worked to a point of believability had collapsed.
“Were you alone?” I asked again. “Was anyone else hurt?”
“One…” the stranger groaned. “An accident… call Olaf… where is Olaf Andvarafors?”
“He’s here, he’s here,” I said. “He’s coming soon.”
He closed his eyes and grew quiet. I leaned back in the chair. Well, all right. But then what had become of Hinkus? And how is the owner’s safe doing? My brain had turned to mush.
The owner returned with his eyebrows raised and his lips pursed. He leaned towards my ear and whispered:
“Peter, it’s the strangest thing. Olaf isn’t answering. His door is locked, there’s a draft coming from underneath it. And my spare keys seem to have gone missing somewhere…”
I quietly took from my pocket the bunch that I’d stolen from his office, and handed them to him.
“Ah,” the owner said. He took the keys. “Well, anyway. You know, Peter, maybe we should go together. Something doesn’t seem right to me…”
“Olaf,” the stranger groaned. “Where’s Olaf?”
“Soon, soon,” I told him. My cheek had started to twitch. The owner and I went out into the corridor. “Here, Alek,” I said. “Call Kaisa. Have her sit next to this guy and not move until we come back.”
“Ah,” the owner said again, wiggling his eyebrows. “So that’s how it is… Something’s afoot…”
He jogged down to his quarters, and I slowly made my way to the stairs. I’d already gone a few steps when the owner said sternly behind me:
“Come on, Lel. Sit here… Sit. Don’t let anyone by. No one.”
I was already in the second floor hallway by the time he caught up with me, and together we went to Olaf’s room. I knocked, seeing just as I did so a note pinned to the door. The note was stuck with a pin right at eye level. “I WAS THERE, AS WE ARRANGED, BUT YOU WERE NOT. IF YOU STILL DESIRE REVENGE, I AM AT YOUR DISPOSAL UNTIL ELEVEN O’CLOCK. DU B.”
“Did you see that?” I asked the owner quickly.
“Yes. I just didn’t get a chance to tell you.”
I knocked again and, not waiting for a reply, grabbed the bunch of keys from the owner.
“Which one is it?” I asked.
The owner pointed it out. I stuck the key in the keyhole. Just my luck: the door was locked from the inside, and someone had left the key in it. While I worked at it, pushing, the door to the next room over opened and a sleepy and calm-looking Du Barnstoker came out into the hall, tightening the belt of his bathrobe.
“What’s going on, gentlemen?” he asked, “Is it now prohibited for the guests to get some sleep?”
“A thousand apologies, Mr. Du Barnstoker,” the owner said. “But events have occurred that require decisive action.”
“Is that so?” Du Barnstoker said with interest. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
I managed to make a clear path for the key, and straightened up. From beneath the door a winter chill emerged, and I was totally sure that the room would be empty, just like Hinkus’s. I turned the key and opened the door. A wave of cold air washed over me, but I hardly felt it. The room was not empty. A man was lying on the floor. The light from the hallway wasn’t enough to see who it was. All I saw were the soles of two gigantic shoes on the entryway threshold. I stepped into the entryway and turned on the light.
It was Olaf Andvarafors, manly god and descendent of ancient Scandinavian kings. He was clearly, utterly dead.
8.
After making sure to lock each of the window latches, I picked up his suitcase and, stepping carefully over the body, went out into the hallway. The owner was already waiting for me with glue and strips of paper. Du Barnstoker hadn’t left, he was still standing there with his shoulder propped against the wall. He looked twenty years older. His aristocratic jowls drooped and quivered pitifully.
“Horrible!” he muttered, staring at me with despair. “A nightmare…!”
I locked the door and sealed it with the five strips of paper, each of which I signed twice.