The Dead Mountaineer's Inn Read online

  I left them to reflect on these nuggets of inspectorial wisdom, and went down the hallway.

  “You’ve been rehabilitated, Alek,” I announced to the owner.

  “I had no idea I’d been convicted,” he said, looking up with surprise from his adding machine.

  “What I mean to say is that I’ve taken all suspicion off you. You have an airtight alibi now. But don’t think that gives you the right to clog my head with all your zombie mumbo-jumbo … Don’t interrupt me. Right now you’re going to stay here and remained seated until I permit you to get up. Don’t forget that I have to be the first person to talk to the one-armed fellow.”

  “And if he wakes up before you do?”

  “I am not going to sleep,” I said. “I want to search the building. If that poor sap wakes up and calls for anyone, even his mother, get me immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the owner. “One question. Is the inn’s schedule to remain the same as before?”

  I thought about this.

  “I suppose so. Breakfast at nine. And then we’ll see … By the way, Alek, when in your opinion should we expect anyone from Mur to arrive here?”

  “Hard to say. The excavation of the avalanche could begin as early as tomorrow. I remember times when things have happened this efficiently … But then again, they know full well that we’re not in any danger here … It’s possible that in two days Tsvirik the mountain inspector will arrive by helicopter … If the other locations are doing all right. The whole problem is that first they need to hear about the avalanche somewhere … In short, I wouldn’t count on anything happening tomorrow …”

  “You mean today?”

  “Yes, today … But tomorrow someone could fly in.”

  “You don’t have a radio transmitter?”

  “Where would I get one? And more importantly, why would I have one? It’s not worth the cost for me, Peter.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Tomorrow, then …”

  “I won’t say tomorrow definitely either,” the manager said.

  “Then in the next two or three days … All right. Now, Alek—suppose you wanted to hide in this building. For a long time, several days. Where would you hide?”

  “Hm …” the manager said skeptically. “You still think that there’s an outsider in the inn?”

  “Where would you hide?” I repeated.

  The manager shook his head.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree,” he said. “Honestly. There’s nowhere to hide here. Twelve rooms, only two of which are empty—but Kaisa cleans them every day, she would have noticed something. People always leave trash behind them, and she’s a stickler for cleanliness … As for the basement, I locked it from the outside, with a padlock … There isn’t any attic, in the space between the roof and the ceiling there’s barely room for your hand … The service rooms are all locked from the outside too, and anyway, we spend all day running around there, sometimes me, sometimes Kaisa. And that’s everything.”

  “How about the upstairs shower?” I asked.

  “Good point. There is an upstairs shower, and we haven’t checked it in a long time. Also, it might be worth looking at the generator room—I don’t look around there that much either. Go look, Peter, snoop around …”

  “Give me the keys,” I said.

  I looked and I snooped. I clambered around in the basement, peeked into the shower, examined the garage, the boiler room, the generator room—I even took a look at the underground oil tank. Nothing. Naturally, I hadn’t expected to discover anything, that would have been too simple, but my damned bureaucratic integrity wouldn’t let me leave any stone unturned. Twenty years of impeccable service are twenty years of impeccable service; anyway, it’s always better to look like a scrupulous blockhead rather than the slapdash man of talent in the eyes of one’s superiors, not to mention subordinates. So I groped, crawled, wallowed, breathing in dust and trash, pitying myself and cursing my stupid fate.

  When I made my way out of the underground tanks, upset and filthy, it was already dawn. The pale moon was leaning to the west. The huge grey cliffs were covered in a purple mist. And what fresh, sweet, frosty air had filled the valley! Damn it all!…

  I had just made it back to the inn when the door swung open and the owner came out onto the porch.

  “Aha,” he said, catching sight of me. “I was just going to get you. Our poor man woke up and is asking for his mother.”

  “I’m coming,” I said, shaking my jacket off.

  “Just kidding,” the manager said. “He didn’t ask for his mother—he asked for Olaf Andvarafors.”

  12.

  When he caught sight of me, the stranger leaned forward eagerly and asked, “Are you Olaf Andvarafors?”

  I wasn’t expecting this question. I wasn’t expecting it at all. I looked around for a chair, pulled one up to the side of the bed, sat down slowly and only then looked at the stranger. I was very tempted to answer in the affirmative and see what happened. But I am not a detective and not in counterintelligence. I’m an honest police bureaucrat. So instead I answered:

  “No. I am not Olaf Andvarafors. I am a police inspector, and my name is Peter Glebsky.”

  “Really?” he said, surprised but unruffled. “But where’s Olaf Andvarafors?”

  Apparently he had recovered completely from yesterday’s events. His thin face had become rosy; the tip of his long nose, which had been so white last night, was now red. He sat on the bed, a blanket pulled up to his waist. The neck of Alek’s nightshirt (which was clearly too big for him) hung open, revealing his sharp collarbone and the pale hairless skin of his chest. His face was hairless too—only a few whiskers where his eyebrows should be and sparse white eyelashes. He sat, leaning forward, his left hand absentmindedly gathering up his empty right sleeve.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But first I have to ask you a few questions.”

  The stranger didn’t say anything to this. His face took on a strange expression—so strange that at first I didn’t understand what was happening. But then I realized that one of his eyes was fixed on me, while the other eye had rolled up in its socket, so that I could barely see it. Some time passed in silence.

  “Well, then,” I said. “Before anything else I would like to know who you are and what your name is.”

  “Luarvik,” he said quickly.

  “Luarvik … And your first name?”

  “First name? Luarvik.”

  “Mr. Luarvik Luarvik?”

  He was quiet again. I struggled with the feeling of discomfort that one always gets when dealing with very cross-eyed people.

  “More or less, yes,” he said finally.

  “What do you mean ‘more or less’?”

  “Luarvik Luarvik.”

  “Very well. If you say so. Who are you?”

  “Luarvik,” he said. “I am Luarvik,” He was quiet. “Luarvik Luarvik. Luarvik L. Luarvik.”

  He looked healthy enough, and, what was more surprising, completely serious. But I’m not a doctor.

  “I would like to know your occupation.”

  “I’m mechanic,” he said. “Mechanic and driver.”

  “A driver of what?” I asked.

  Here he stared at me with both his eyes. He clearly did not understand the question.

  “All right, we’ll put that aside for now,” I said quickly. “You’re a foreigner?”

  “Very much,” he said. “For the most part.”

  “A Swede, most likely?”

  “Most likely. A Swede, for the most part.”

  Was he mocking me, I wondered? Probably not. He looked like a man with his back up against the wall.

  “Why did you come here?” I asked.

  “Olaf Advarafors is here. He will tell you everything. I can’t.”

  “You were coming to see Olaf Andvarafors?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were caught under the avalanche?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were t
raveling by car?”

  He thought about this.

  “By car,” he said.

  “Why do you need to see Andvarafors?”

  “I have business.”

  “What kind of business exactly?”

  “I have business,” he repeated. “With him. He will tell you.”

  The door creaked behind my back. I turned around. On the doorstep, holding his mug at arm’s length, was Moses.

  “You’re not allowed in here,” I said sharply.

  Moses stared at the stranger from underneath his bushy eyebrows. He wasn’t paying any attention to me. I jumped out of my seat and walked directly up to him.

  “I am asking you to leave immediately, Mr. Moses!”

  “Don’t scream at me,” he said in an unexpectedly pacific voice. “Can’t I inquire about whom you have put in my room?”

  “Not now. Later …” Gradually, but forcefully, I managed to close the door.

  “All right, all right,” Moses muttered, as he was pushed into the hallway. “I could object, of course …”

  I closed the door and turned again to Luarvik L. Luarvik.

  “Was that Olaf Andvarafors?” Luarvik asked.

  “No,” I said. “Olaf Andvarafors was killed last night.”

  “Killed,” Luarvik repeated. There was no emotion in his voice. No surprise, no fear, no grief. It was as if I had told him that Olaf had just stepped out and would be back in a minute. “He’s dead? Olaf Andvarafors?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” said Luarvik. “Your information is inaccurate.”

  “My information is completely accurate. I saw his body myself.”

  “I would like to see.”

  “Why do you want to see it? So far as I understand it, you did not know him personally.”

  “I have business,” said Luarvik.

  “But I am telling you: he has been killed. He is dead. Someone murdered him.”

  “Fine. I would like to see.”

  Suddenly I remembered: the suitcase.

  “Was he supposed to give you something?”

  “No,” he answered indifferently. “We were supposed to talk. He and I.”

  “About what?”

  “He and I. Me and him.”

  “Listen, Mr. Luarvik,” I said. “Olaf Andvarafors is dead. He has been murdered. I am investigating his murder. I am looking for the murderer. Do you understand? I need to know as much as possible about Olaf Andvarafors. I am asking you to be candid about this. Sooner or later you are going to have to tell me everything. Better sooner than later.”

  Suddenly he pulled the blanket up to his nose. His eyes drifted apart again.

  “I can’t tell you anything,” he said. His voice was muffled by the blanket.

  “Why not?”

  “I can only tell Olaf Andvarafors.”

  “Where are you coming from?” I asked.

  He was quiet.

  “Where do you live?”

  Silence. Quiet sniffling. One eye looked at me, the other at the ceiling.

  “Are you following orders?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose, exactly?”

  “Why do you want to know this?” he asked. “My business isn’t with you. Your business isn’t with us.”

  “I am asking you to understand,” I said earnestly. “If we find out something about Olaf, we will be able to find out who his murderer is. Granted, you apparently don’t know Olaf. But whoever sent you to him, they might know something.”

  “They also do not know Olaf,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They don’t know Olaf. What do you mean?”

  I rubbed the stubble of my unshaven cheeks.

  “You’re not making any sense,” I said gloomily. “Some people who don’t know Olaf sent you, who also doesn’t know Olaf, with some sort of business for Olaf. How is this possible?”

  “It’s possible. It is.”

  “Who are these people?”

  Silence.

  “Where are they?”

  Silence.

  “Mr. Luarvik, you may be in big trouble.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “When a murder is being investigated, good citizens have a responsibility to provide the police with the desired information,” I said strictly. “Failure to do so could be seen as complicity.”

  Luarvik L. Luarvik did not react to this.

  “It is not impossible that you might be arrested,” I added. It was clearly illegal to threaten him this way, and I hurried to add, “In any event, your stubborn resistance will hurt you a great deal during the trial.”

  “I would like to wear clothes,” Luarvik said suddenly. “I do not want to lie here. I want to see Olaf Andvarafors.”

  “For what reason?” I asked.

  “I want to see him.”

  “But you don’t know what he looks like.”

  “I don’t care what he looks like,” Luarvik said.

  “Then what do you want with him?”

  Luarvik crawled out from under the blanket and sat up again.

  “I want to see Olaf Andvarafors!” he said very loudly. His right eye was twitching and rotating. “Why all these questions? Why more questions? So many questions. Why don’t I see Olaf Andvarafors?”

  I was losing patience too.

  “You want to identify the body? Is that how I’m supposed to understand you?’

  “Identify … You mean recognize him?”

  “Yes! Recognize him!”

  “Yes. I want to see him.”

  “How do you expect to recognize him,” I said, “if you don’t know what he looks like?”

  “What do you mean what he looks like?” Luarvik yelled. “Why do you ask me what he looks like? I want to make sure this is not Olaf Andvarafors, that it is someone else!”

  “Why do you think that it’s someone else?” I asked him quickly.

  “Why do you think that it’s Olaf Andvarafors?” he answered.

  We stared at each other. I had to admit, this strange person had a point. I couldn’t have sworn that this Viking with his twisted neck was the same Olaf Andvarafors as the one that Luarvik L. Luarvik was looking for. It might not be that Olaf Andvarafors—it might not be Olaf Andvarafors at all. On the other hand, I did not understand what sense there was in showing Olaf’s body to someone who didn’t know what he looked like. Face to face … But then come to think of it, what was so important about the face? Maybe he had to be recognized by his clothes, or a signet ring, or let’s say a tattoo …

  There was a knock at the door, and Kaisa’s voice squeaked, “Clothes, sir …” I opened the door and took the stranger’s dried and ironed suit from Kaisa.

  “Get dressed,” I said, laying the suit on the bed.

  I walked over to the window and proceeded to look out on the Dead Mountaineer’s toothy cliffs, already lit with the rosy light of the rising sun; on the pale dot of the moon; on the clear blue sky. Behind me there was rustling, mumbling, scraping; for some reason a chair was being moved (apparently, it was not so easy to get dressed with both one arm and a squint). Twice I felt the urge to turn around and offer some help, but I held myself back. Then Luarvik said, “Dressed.”

  I turned around. I was surprised. I was very surprised, but then I remembered what this man had lived through overnight, and stopped being surprised. I walked up to him, straightened and buttoned his collar, rebuttoned his jacket, and slid the manager’s slippers over to him. While I was doing all this he stood there submissively, holding out his lone hand. The empty right sleeve I put in his pocket. He looked at the slippers and said doubtfully:

  “These aren’t mine. I don’t have ones like these.”

  “Your shoes haven’t dried yet,” I said. “Put them on, let’s go.”

  You would have thought he’d never seen a pair of slippers before in his life. He tried twice, and failed twice, to drive his feet into them with a sweeping motion, losing his balance each time. Hi
s equilibrium seemed off in general—clearly he’d been through a lot, and wasn’t yet himself. I understood this well: I’d had similar experiences myself …

  Some kind of machine must have been spinning away silently in my subconscious, because suddenly I was struck by a wonderful idea: what if Olaf wasn’t Olaf, but Hinkus, and Hinkus wasn’t Hinkus, but Olaf? What if he’d summoned this strange man via telegram? But nothing came of this transmutation of names, and I shook the thought out of my head.

  Hand in hand we went out into the hall and up to the second floor. The owner, who was sitting at his post as he had been earlier, gave us a thoughtful look. Luarvik didn’t pay him any attention. He was focused completely on the stairs. I held on to his elbow just to be careful.

  We stopped in front of the door to Olaf’s room. I carefully inspected the tape I’d put up: it was all in order. Then I took out the key and opened the door. A sharp unpleasant odor struck my nose—a very strange odor, not unlike the smell of disinfectant. I lingered in the doorway, trying to pull myself together. But everything in the room was just as it had been. Only, the face of the dead man seemed darker to me than it had the night before, possibly because of the lighting, and I could barely see the bruises anymore. Luarvik was nudging me insistently between the shoulder blades. I walked into the entryway and stepped aside so that he could see.

  He might have been a mortician, instead of a mechanic and driver. He stood over the body with a completely indifferent look on his face; he bent low, placing his single hand behind his back. There was no disgust, no fear, no awe: this was just a businesslike inspection. Strangest of all was what he said next.

  “I’m surprised,” he said in an utterly flat tone. “This really is Olaf Andvarafors. I don’t understand.”

  “How did you recognize him?” I asked immediately.

  Still bending over, he turned his head and looked at me with one eye.

  He was standing there bent, with his feet far apart, looking up at me quietly.

  This lasted so long that my neck began to hurt. How could he remain in that ridiculous position? Was he having lower back problems, or what? Finally he said:

  “I remembered. I’ve seen him before. At that time, I did not know it was Olaf Andvarafors.”

  “And where did you see him before?” I asked.