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

He left the Renault behind a hump of rock and continued on foot through the snow until at last he was close to the Braunheim chalet. It was an old wooden structure with a high-peaked roof and small shuttered windows. The wheel tracks led past its front door and round to a barn at the rear. Bannerman worked his way around again, got even closer, cleared snow from the barn’s single window, and was surprised to look in at a modem, well-equipped garage. He could even see what looked like a portable welding plant.

He switched his attention to the chalet. A thin curl of smoke was rising from the main chimney. There was no other sign of life of any kind, but there was only one way to be certain. Crossing to it, he used a billet of wood to smash a ground floor window. He reached in, freed the lock, and seconds later was standing in the chalet’s kitchen near the glowing warmth of a wood stove.

Swiftly, with growing confidence, he checked the other rooms. They were empty but with signs that the place was being used, and when he returned to the kitchen, he heard a strange thumping that seemed to come from under the floor. The thumping led him to a cellar trapdoor. When he drew back the bolts and raised the lid, a pale, unshaven face peered up from the darkness.

“And who the hell are you?” asked the man below in a weary yet hopeful voice.

“Call me the cavalry — if you’re Mark Adams.” Bannerman offered a hand to help him out. “Right now you’re supposed to be dead.”

“I’m Adams.” The missing bridegroom emerged into the light, blinking and unshaven, his clothes grubby and crumpled. “And no, I’m not dead.”

“Did you tell Gelling that your pet name for Susan was Lollipop?”

“Yes.” Adams moistened his lips. “He said he’d get word to her to do what she was told; then I’d be okay.”

He swallowed and looked around. “Where are they? I heard them going out—”

“Them? How many?”

“Gelling and two others. They’re armed.”

“Then let’s move. The police are on their way.”

He hustled Adams towards the open window. They were through it and outside when they heard the sound of an approaching car and the rattle of its chains. It stopped outside the chalet, and its passengers climbed out.

“Run!” ordered Bannerman. “Head up the slope!”

Thrashing through the snow, they’d covered some two hundred yards before the men boiled out of a rear door of the chalet. Shouts showed they’d been seen; two pistol shots barked wildly at them from below. Startled, Mark stumbled and fell, and as Bannerman helped him up again, Gelling and his men toiled towards them.

A sudden intervention came from a rock ledge only twenty feet or so above Bannerman’s head.

“Attenzione, stay down there!” Carlo Belzoni was standing out in the open. In one hand he held a lightweight grenade. He gave Bannerman a grin, then shouted again. “You can see what I’m holding, Gelling. Behave!”

The men had halted as if frozen. A long, broad overhang of snow loomed above them, yet Belzoni was safe on a jutting outcrop of rock. The same outcrop could protect Bannerman and Adams. The Italian smuggler beckoned, and first Bannerman, then Adams, joined him on the ledge.

“Belzoni—” John Gelling took a few steps forward on his own, his voice echoing upwards “—we could do a deal.”

“A deal like you handed to my good friend Guido — who wasn’t ready for dying?” countered Belzoni curtly.

“Guido!” Mark Adams gave a gasp. “You knew him?”

“He was my partner,” said Belzoni softly, keeping one eye on the men below. “He was watching Gelling, knowing he was moving into our territory.” He sighed. “It’s good to see you again, Signor Adams. Do you know what happened to Guido?”

“Yes. Except I didn’t know his name until afterwards.” Adams gave an unhappy nod. “It was when I took the Volvo to the chalet to have the fake fuel tank fitted. They spotted someone sneaking around. Once they’d changed fuel tanks, I was told to drive the Volvo back to the service station—”

Guido had followed him. But Gelling and his men came along, too, using Mark Adams as bait. In the struggle that followed, Belzoni’s partner was shot and killed by Gelling. Adams was seized because he’d seen too much.

“They said they’d dump the body and fake an avalanche. Then they locked me in the cellar.” The rescued bridegroom stopped and gave a warning gasp. “Watch out—”

Below, Gelling and his men were running, making a dash for safety. Unemotionally Carlo Belzoni flicked the safety pin from the grenade and threw the grenade in an arc. Briefly it was a black speck curving above the snow.

A loud blast sounded, and seconds later a gathering, growling slide of white was on the move, sweeping its way downhill. One moment Gelling and his men were still running, still trying for safety. The next, they had vanished.

And all that was left was silence.