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

They got his story in a mix of Swiss-German and English. Yes, he remembered the avalanche on the day Mark Adams had disappeared. There’d been a loud noise just before it happened — and that noise, whatever it was, could have been enough to start the avalanche.

How loud? He shrugged. Loud just meant loud. He had no idea what had caused it.

“One of us should take a look,” said Helen pensively.

“And you want me to volunteer?” Her brother accepted the inevitable.

They obtained more directions from the farmer; then Bannerman set off on his own along a narrow hill path. It rose sharply and was covered in snow that had been trampled hard by a number of feet, showing that at least one of the search parties had come that way.

In a very few minutes he had climbed to where there were signs of a huge slide of snow. It had swept across the path and spent itself in a gully below.

The police account had been accurate. If a body lay buried beneath that fall, it wouldn’t be found until summer.

Bannerman stood for a moment breathing heavily after the climb, looking up at the heavy overhangs of snow still above him. He tensed as he saw a figure briefly appear, then duck out of sight higher up the slope.

The bang came seconds later. Then its echo was lost in a gathering growl as one of the largest snow overhangs began moving. Bannerman watched the giant white cornice topple and come racing down towards him.

The growl became a roar. Bannerman turned and ran, floundering when his feet sank in soft patches of snow, forcing every muscle to go faster, knowing he couldn’t afford to look round.

A cold wave of snow hit him, bowled him over, covered him in its dense white blanket. He struggled, fought, broke free and crawled his way out.

He had been close to the outer edge of the fall, and that had saved his life. Down below the new avalanche crashed to a halt on top of the old fall he’d seen earlier.

Half an hour later, a tumbler of the farmer’s fiery plum brandy inside him, his clothes rough-dried, he sat in the front passenger seat while Helen drove back to Grindelwald. Susan Adams sat pale-faced and quiet in the rear.

The Bannermans had taken a couple of rooms in the same guesthouse as Susan Adams. A change of clothing and another glass of local brandy left David feeling reasonably normal.

“Don’t ever do a damned fool thing like that again,” said his sister when she came into his room. “Who was it up there? Gelling or Belzoni?”

“My bet goes on Gelling,” mused Bannerman. “Belzoni isn’t the type who throws avalanches at people.”

“I’ve a longshot notion,” said Helen slowly. “Every time I’ve stuck my nose outdoors since we got here, I’ve seen a street photographer somewhere around.”

“I’ve noticed,” agreed Bannerman dryly, remembering his own earlier encounter. Then he understood. “You mean, like suppose one of them photographed Mark on the day he disappeared?”

“And maybe with company.” She nodded. “It’s worth a try. I’ll take a walk around the photo shops. Can you stay out of trouble until I get back?”

“I’ll try,” promised Bannerman. “And I’m going to talk to our subinspector of police about avalanches.”

Sub-inspector Josef Bart could listen without a hint of anything showing on his face. But by the time Bannerman had finished, his attitude had changed.

“We don’t tolerate murder, Herr Bannerman,” he frowned. “Among other things it is bad for our tourist trade. And I’m ready to believe all you say, but what proof do we have?”

“Not a lot,” admitted Bannerman. A new thought had struck him. “And even if someone was killed that way, that doesn’t mean it was Mark Adams.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” admitted Bannerman. “But it could explain some loose ends — including why Gelling must have a reason to want to be rid of me. Suppose we give him some rope?”

The sub-inspector gave a slow, slightly reluctant nod. “All right. But a warning, my friend. Be careful you don’t stick your own neck in a noose.”

When Bannerman left the police station, the temperature seemed to have taken another sudden drop. He turned up his coat collar, began walking briskly towards the guesthouse, then heard feet hurrying behind him.

“Slow down, for the love of God,” said a breathless Carlo Belzoni, limping to catch up with him in the gathering dusk. “First I risk my reputation waiting outside a police station, now you want me to risk a heart attack?”

“Sorry.” Bannerman grinned.

“I hear you are a very lucky man,” said Belzoni cheerfully.

“True.”

“There’s something else I heard, from... ah... someone else I know in the watch exporting business.” Belzoni gave Bannerman a deliberate glance. “This Signor Gelling has visited several tourist centers lately — never staying long at any.” He shrugged and sighed. “Mrs. Adams will be driving back to Scotland soon, I suppose? A sad journey.”

As suddenly as he had arrived, he turned and limped away.

David Bannerman was the first back at the guesthouse. But Helen arrived a little later, smiling.