Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

“Mark didn’t know the details. Just that it involved smuggling watches in a way that he reckoned would be easy enough — and that we’d be fools to refuse. He — Mark — had been told not to say anything to me about it.”

“Be glad he told you,” said David, glancing at his sister. It seemed they’d found even more trouble than they’d expected. “Did the man in the bar have a name?”

“Mark didn’t tell me. Then... well, we quarrelled about it Yes, we could use the money — neither of us is exactly loaded, we’ve needed everything we had to set up a home.” She bit her lip. “Even so, I told him he was crazy, it was too risky, that I didn’t want to know.”

Nothing more had happened until Mark had vanished. The telephone call had come to the guesthouse that afternoon.

“It was a man’s voice, a stranger’s voice. He said he had a message for Lollipop.” Susan’s voice almost broke. “Only Mark calls me that — it’s special between us. No one else could know it. Do you understand?”

Helen nodded. “What else did he say?”

“That I had to keep my mouth shut about what they’d wanted Mark to do. If I did, maybe things could get better. Then whoever he was hung up.”

Faced with a gnawing blend of doubt and fear in a country where she knew no one, the young American bride had until then been too concerned about her husband’s disappearance to even consider the smuggling offer as a link. When she did, the new situation brought possible hope — and with that hope came new fears, yet no further call to Lollipop.

“But suppose there’s some kind of miracle and Mark does turn up,” she said with a remnant of stubborn defiance. “And suppose I’d already told the police, what would happen to him?”

“You’ve got it wrong, Susan,” said David gently. “Even if Mark were sitting on a thousand Swiss watches, he’s not a smuggler until he tries to smuggle them into some other country.” He turned to his sister. “Go over it all again with her. Find out anything we’ve maybe missed.”

“While you do what, brother?” asked Helen dryly.

“Someone has to make new noises to the police. Like now.”

Police Sub-Inspector Josef Bart showed little surprise when he heard Bannerman’s story. He sat back in his office chair.

“It happens, Herr Bannerman.” He shrugged. “This kind of smuggling, using tourists, is not new. But would a watch smuggler kill a tourist just because they disagreed? I don’t see it.”

“And the telephone call?”

“To Lollipop.” Bart sucked hard on his lips. “Maybe her pet name wasn’t as secret as she thought. It could have been a malicious crank—”

“Do you believe that?” Bannerman leaned his knuckles on the edge of the Swiss officer’s desk. “Do you still think he’s just buried under a snowdrift?”

“I am sorry.” The sub-inspector grimaced. “I would need more. This close to the Eiger there is nothing unusual about visitors being killed in accidents.” He paused, frowned, and rubbed his chin. “But—”

“But?” encouraged Bannerman.

“If you still want to talk with a smuggler, try an Italian named Carlo Belzoni. Belzoni visits here a lot. This time he arrived about a month ago from Lucerne. He’s — well — liked by most people. He was a top professional footballer in the Italian premier league, was even selected for international sides until he was badly injured in a car crash. No more football after that — so he became a smuggler.” The sub-inspector snapped his fingers. “I could have him picked up if you want.”

Bannerman shook his head. “If I go to him, it might be easier.”

“Then try the Cafe Kleine Mönch. The man almost lives there.”

The Kleine Mönch was shabby but warm and spotlessly clean. At that hour of the morning it was still almost empty, and as Bannerman entered, a waiter in a white jacket appeared at his elbow.

“I’m looking for someone.” David Bannerman spoke loudly. “Someone named Carlo Belzoni.”

“Over here.” A tall, slim man at one of the tables set down the mug of coffee he’d been sipping and beckoned. There was a speculative glint in his eyes. “I am Carlo Belzoni. How can I help you, signor?”

Bannerman took a chair opposite him. Dressed in denim trousers with a green wool shirt and a dark leather jacket, Belzoni had thick black hair, a compact, muscular build, and a fine-boned face with an easy-going smile.

“Rumor has it you’re in the smuggling business,” said Bannerman without preliminaries.

“So I’ve heard.” Belzoni gave a mild chuckle. “I’ve also heard about a couple newly arrived from Scotland to seek the unfortunate Signor Adams.” He produced a small black cheroot, stuck it between his bps, and lit it with the flame from a gunmetal lighter. “I like your Scotland — except for the last time. I was a temporary guest in your Barlinnie Prison, which is cold and damp.” He let the cheroot dangle and grimaced. “Ah — Signor Bannerman, isn’t it?”

Bannerman nodded. “You’ve good contacts.”

“I try,” said Belzoni modestly. “But, my friend, I know nothing about your missing man. I might have made an arrangement with him, but — no, he said it would anger his new wife.”

“Women,” said Bannerman sadly-