with a splash, his back against the granite. And there he stayed, because the point of the pike was planted in the center of his chest.
I got the gun out. Don’t ask me how. I was pleased to see that my hands were dead steady as I sidled sideways, away from the smoke, to a spot from which I could get a clear sight.
My voice wasn’t as steady as my hands. “Drop it,” I squeaked. “
At first I was afraid I had made a slight tactical misjudgment; the graceful hooded figure started, and a dark circle spread out around the tip of the pike—accompanied, I must add, by a yelp from John. Then the shaggy muzzle turned toward me.
The vocabulary of violence is limited. I heard myself repeating the most ghastly cliches.
“I’ve got you covered,” I pointed out. “You’re dead meat, mister—uh—miss…uh…Go ahead, make my day.”
John’s eyes, the only part of him he dared move, rolled wildly in my direction. “For Christ’s sake, Vicky!” I don’t know whether he was objecting to the sentiment or to the hackneyed phrase in which I had expressed it.
The masked head tilted slightly, as if considering the options. A stand-off, I thought, still sticking to cliches. Now what do I do? I can’t shoot…The top of the pike wasn’t in very far, but one quick push would drive it home. The bloodstain continued to spread.
I don’t suppose it took the other more than a split second to come to a decision, but it seemed lots longer than that to me. He didn’t release his hold on the pike. His left hand moved, pushing his hood back and pulling the mask from his face.
“You,” I said.
The terrible thing was that he looked like the same good old comedian, rosy-cheeked, broadly grinning. “You didn’t recognize me, did you?” he said. “These latex masks are wonderful. Keep the face warm, too.”
“Please, Dieter. Put down the pike.”
“But if I do, he may get away.” Dieter’s smile stiffened. “You know who he is, don’t you?”
“I…yes, I know. How do you know?”
I fought to control my voice and my nerve, but it wasn’t easy—there was something so grisly about Dieter’s nonchalance, as he held John pinned against the tombstone, casual as a naturalist about to impale a beetle or a butterfly. He looked marvelous on skis, his usual clumsiness transformed.
“Why, I saw the rascal in court, when I testified against him in a case of fraud a few years ago,” Dieter explained. “He had substituted a forgery for a valuable painting; the poor woman had kept it for years as insurance for her old age, and when she was forced to sell it, the truth came out. Such a filthy swindle. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw him yesterday in Bad Steinbach. It is good you have the gun; keep him covered while I tie him up, and then we will go for the police.”
The bloodstain was the size of a small saucer. John didn’t say anything. He just looked at me.
Dieter’s smile faded. He said awkwardly, “I am sorry, Vicky, if he was…If you were…It’s the treasure he wants, you know. If he told you otherwise, he lied to you.”
I said, “He’s been lying all along.”
“Vicky—” John began.
“You made a number of slips,” I said. “That casual comment about how Hoffman turned up in Bavaria and married the innkeeper’s daughter—how did you know it was his wife’s father who owned the hotel? I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know myself, until later.”
Dieter was smiling again. His fingers tightened on the handle of the pike; the bloodstain oozed outward, a scant millimeter at a time.
“There were other things,” I said quickly. “You knew Tony’s last name. You were too sure about too many things for which there was little or no evidence. You told me the matter wasn’t worth pursuing, but you stuck close enough to me to be on hand when—when…Dieter, please—don’t.”
“Then give me the gun,” Dieter said, grinning.
There was nothing else I could do. I said, “I’ll trade you.”
Dieter laughed aloud. “Try it, it’s fun. There is satisfaction in inflicting pain on someone who has hurt you— your pride, your ego.” With a brutal twist he wrenched the pike out of padding and flesh, and snatched the Colt from my hand.
I reached for the pike but it fell to the ground, brushing my outstretched fingertips. Dieter turned, took aim, and fired at point-blank range.
Eleven
I HADN’T EXPECTED HIM TO ACT SO quickly. He had been having such a good time tormenting his victim, like a nasty little boy pulling wings off butterflies. The sound of the shot, less than three feet from my ears, threw me off balance; I went sprawling in the snow, groping for the handle of the pike. When I sat up, Dieter was pointing the gun at my stomach. John had fallen sideways, face down, across Hoffman’s grave.
“Now you,” Dieter said. “I would like very much to hold you in suspense awhile, as I did Albrecht—”
“Albrecht?”
“Perhaps you knew him by another name. He had many.”
“Yes, I know.”
I drew my feet up under me. My fingers closed around the butt of the pike. It left a delicate smear of blood on the snow as I pulled it toward me. Dieter pivoted, planting his pole, gliding out of range. “Amuse yourself,” he said. “I wish I had more time, but I must not linger—much as I am enjoying your desperate attempt to save yourself….”
“I hurt your stinking little ego rather badly, didn’t I? I guess there’s something to be said for feminine intuition; deep down inside, I knew you made me sick to my stomach.”
His lips drew back over his teeth. Funny, I had never noticed how long and sharp they were. “If I am careful where I put the bullet, it will take you a long time to die,” he mused. “Think of Dieter the joker, the butt of your laughter, as you lie bleeding in the snow by the corpse of your lover. Think of me enjoying the treasure you were good enough to find for me.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so, Dieter.”
The damned pike wasn’t heavy, but it was long and hard to balance. I got my feet and swung the thing into position. Dieter stepped back, grinning. For all my bravado, I was beginning to feel a wee bit uneasy. Could I have made some ghastly mistake? Surely not…. But John hadn’t moved, not so much as a fingertip.
Dieter fired. I couldn’t help cringing. It is unnerving to have a gun go off practically in your face, even though you know it is loaded with blanks.
I’d have done more than cringe—fainted, for example—if I had realized that the harmless sounding blank cartridges were capable of inflicting a considerable degree of damage when fired at close range. Luckily for me, Dieter aimed at my midsection, not at my face. The wadding bounced harmlessly off the thick layers of my padded jacket; sparks from burned powder set tiny spots of cloth smoldering.
The expression on Dieter’s face when he saw me still upright and unharmed almost made up for the unpleasantness of the past few minutes, and for the ruin of my expensive ski jacket. I lunged at him, and missed by a mile. He was off-balance too; in a kind of frenzy, he emptied the magazine. The rolling echoes of the shots were followed by a deeper and more ominous rumble, high on the mountain. He’d start an avalanche if he wasn’t careful….
As I turned for a second try, Dieter threw the empty gun at me—a spiteful, childish gesture that gave me a certain amount of equally childish satisfaction. I ducked. Dieter planted his pole and skated away from me across the open ground. I started after him, but I knew it was hopeless. Once he reached the road, he had a straight downhill run—not the best of slopes, but well within the capability of a skier of his skill. Anybody who could have made it down the three-encumbered hillside had to be first-rate. As John had said…
John.
He hadn’t moved. A few of the blackened spots on his ski cap were still smoking, and the acrid stench of singed wool stung my nostrils as I tugged at him, trying to turn him over. He was dead weight, heavy and unresponsive. Could I possibly have slipped up when I replaced the cartridges in the Colt—left one live one in the
