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

“Women!” Belzoni made a noise like a sigh. “You have the wrong man, Mr. Bannerman — yet maybe I am the right choice in a different way. Can you be told something, then forget who told you?”

“When it helps.”

“Buono.” Belzoni gave a lopsided grin. “I would deny it anyway. It is true I come here now and again. To make contacts, then move on again. In my business it doesn’t pay to stand still for too long — and the last thing I need is to be dragged into any part of the hunt for this Mark Adams. You understand?”

“I do.”

“The local sub-inspector of police is efficient — but maybe this time he misses something. At this moment there is a John Gelling living in the same guesthouse as the Adamses. He has an English passport, but I say he is not English. Now, I ask you, why does this ‘not Englishman’ carry a gun?”

“You’re sure?”

“In my business you learn to spot things — the bulge under a jacket, the line of a leather harness.” The smuggler signaled the waiter. “Grazie... two beers, Hans.”

Belzoni gave a small smile. “This Gelling is not in the watch business. If he was, I should know. And there is something else.”

“Hans.” As the waiter returned with the beers, Belzoni laid a hand on his arm. “I was telling my friend of the unfortunate Signor Adams, the man who disappeared. You remember him?”

“Ja.” The waiter picked up the ashtray and replaced it with a dean one. “A great pity, whatever happened.”

“I met him here,” mused Belzoni. “What about other people?”

“Others?” The man shrugged. “A couple of times I saw him with Herr Gelling.” He saw the doubt on Bannerman’s face. “It is easy enough to remember. Grindelwald is only a village. Right now we have few visitors.”

They sipped their beers in silence until Bannerman sensed it was time to go.

“I’m grateful,” he said, rising.

Belzoni smiled and lit another cheroot.

Outside, there were new snow-flecks in the air. But that didn’t deter a wandering street photographer, who clicked his camera, then stuffed a leaflet into Bannerman’s hand. The main winter tourist season was over, customers were obviously scarce.

When Bannerman got back to the guesthouse, he found his sister helping Susan go through her missing husband’s belongings. Helen looked up as he entered. “Any luck?” she asked.

“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Bannerman indicated the scattered clothing. “What’s going on?”

“I had the bright idea that there might be something in his pockets.” She scowled. “So far there isn’t. How did the police react?”

“To the smuggling story?” Bannerman shrugged. “They listened, they didn’t pay much attention.” He turned to the fair-haired, sad-faced girl who had gone from being a bride to probably being a widow. “How many people have suggested you go home?”

“Just about everyone,” she said wearily. “Including you.”

“How about John Gelling?”

“Including John Gelling,” she agreed. “But I’m staying.”

“Good,” said Bannerman softly. “Because I’ve changed my mind. Where’s Gelling right now?”

“I saw him go out,” said Helen blandly. “If you’re interested, his room is third on the left, down the hall.”

The hallway was deserted, and a strip of credit card plastic was enough to open the springlock on Gelling’s door. Closing the door behind him, David began a quick, methodical search. Gelling traveled light but when Bannerman checked drawers in a chest and looked beneath some shirts, he found a small cardboard box. When he opened it, he saw he was right. It held two spare clips of Luger ammunition.

“Dave.” His sister’s low, urgent whisper reached him from outside the door. “Move. He’s coming back.”

Bannerman replaced the box, closed the drawer, and left the room. He heard Gelling’s footsteps on the stairway, and they passed each other a moment later.

“Well?” Gelling greeted him hopefully. “Have you managed to persuade her to leave?”

“Not yet.”

“Keep trying,” urged Gelling. “For her own good.”

Bannerman reported to his sister and Susan Adams a little later and told them what he’d found. “Susan, can you show us where the police say this avalanche happened?”

She nodded. “We can use our car — it’s in a service station along the road. Mark put it in for an oil change, and I haven’t used it since.” At the service station Mark’s Volvo was ready. Bannerman paid the oil change bill, then slid into the driver’s seat while the other two got aboard. From the service station they drove out of the village towards the white of the mountains; soon Susan guided them onto a narrow track that led towards the Eiger’s lower slopes.

“Stop here,” she said at last.

They stopped not far from one of the inevitable high-roofed chalets. As they got out, they could hear a tinkle of cowbells coming from a barn, where cattle were installed in their winter quarters. As they neared it, a farmer left the barn, and they stopped him.