It was a precipitous climb. The snow was soft and as soon as we had made any height, we had to pack it down with our skis at each step in order to get a grip on the slope. And each time we trampled it solid, I thought the whole slope would slide away from under our feet.
But at last we reached the body. It was huddled in an untidy heap, its face buried in the snow, one arm broken and twisted unnaturally behind its back. We turned it over. It was Keramikos all right. He was stiff and cold. Only his head was unaffected by rigor. The neck was broken. I took off my gloves and searched through his clothing, which was frozen hard. He had no gun on him. But in his breast pocket I found his wallet. It contained nothing of interest except the statement by Korporal Holtz. This I put in my pocket.
We managed to slide the body down to the rock outcrop at the bottom. There we left it to be collected later, and made our way back to Tre Croci. It was beginning to snow again by the time we reached the hotel.
And that was how Engles and Keramikos died. And that was how we finished the film, up there on the cold slopes of the Tondi di Faloria.
Before I left Cortina, I made one trip up to Col da Varda. The hut, where so much of it had happened, was a gaunt, tumbled heap of blackened beams, already covered with a light crust of snow. The burnt-out ruins had spilled right over the concrete housing of the slittovia plant. Mayne, who had bought the place, left no will, and I fancy the place has reverted to the Italian Government.
Nearly a year has passed now since the night of the fire. But I am told that the ruins of the hut still lie sprawled over the concrete machine-room, and that the slittovia is not used any more.
And the gold? I suppose I am the only person left who has any idea where it is. I think I know. But I'm not certain. And anyway I have no interest in it. It has been the cause of too many deaths already. If it is there, then let it lie and rot with the rest of Col da Varda.