It was a cold January evening. The restaurants and bars of the small Italian ski resort were noisy and bustling with activity as Italians and foreign tourists alike enjoyed the après ski. The resort of Sauze d’Oulx, high up in the Italian Alps and close to the French border, was very popular with foreign tourists.
In the Hotel Torino, groups of foreigners were enjoying drinks and relaxing in the warmth of the hotel bar. In one corner a log fire was roaring. The Stone family from England were gathered around a table in front of the fire. At another table not far away sat Chuck and Chrissie Schumann from the United States. At the bar two young New Zealanders, Tim Hall and Simon Mills, were enjoying a few beers. Some of the other tables were occupied by Italians. The barman, Luigi, stood behind the bar cleaning glasses.
Suddenly two police officers came into the bar and called Luigi to one side. An animated conversation in Italian ensued. As Luigi talked with the officers, he glanced anxiously around the bar looking at each group of tourists in turn. After a few moments the conversation ceased; then one of the policemen spoke out loud in Italian, addressing the local people in their own tongue. Luigi was then asked to translate for the benefit of the tourists.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I have some distressing news. Dietmar Wöhlers has been found dead on the slopes late this afternoon. Apparently he has been stabbed.” Gasps were heard around the room, and then Luigi continued. “The police are investigating and they have instructed that no one is permitted to leave the resort for the next forty eight hours.”
After the police officers had left, there was a stunned silence in the bar as the holidaymakers pondered over the sad news.
The silence was broken by one of the little Stone girls, Maria; “Daddy, who’s Deetma Verlers?”
“Why, he’s a very famous skier from Germany. He represented his country at the last Winter Olympics.”
“What’s he doing in Italy, Daddy?” asked Elizabeth, the other daughter of Albert Stone.
“I think he’s on holiday like us,” replied Mary Stone, interrupting her husband. “I’ve heard that he’s here with his family, just like us.”
A few minutes later the bar was almost deserted, most people preferring to retire early, having lost the mood for enjoying themselves. Only Tim and Simon remained at the bar, talking with Luigi.
“Why would anyone want to kill Wöhlers?” asked Simon.
“Beats me,” replied Tim. “I’ve heard that he’s a real neat guy; does a lot for charity and that sort of thing.”
Luigi nodded in agreement.
* * * * *
The next day the town was abuzz with the news. The ski lifts were closed and no one was allowed on the upper slopes; a few youngsters were enjoying themselves sledging on the nursery slope close to the town, but most people spent the day doing some souvenir hunting, sipping coffee or glühwein, or just stayed in their hotel rooms.
Just before lunch, Chuck Schumann entered the bar of the Hotel Torino. He saw Albert Stone sitting alone at a table. Albert, a short, plump bespectacled man, seemed to be brooding. The two men didn’t really know each other, but had exchanged a ‘Good morning‘ a few times. Since there was no one else in the bar, Chuck decided to approach the Englishman.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.
Albert’s face lit up as he welcomed some company. Thank you,” he replied. “I’ll have a glühwein.”
“Two glue wines over here please, Luigi.”
The other man extended his hand. “My name’s Stone, Albert Stone. Thank you so much for the drink.”
“You’re welcome,” replied Schumann. “Mine’s Schumann, but call me Chuck.”
As the American introduced himself, Albert Stone twitched nervously. He stared hard at the tall, blond, athletic American. “You don’t sound like a German,” he mumbled.
“No, no, I’m from the US of A, third generation. My grand-daddy was from Switzerland.”
Stone looked more relaxed at Chuck’s reply. They went on to discuss the previous evening’s news, then continued with small talk, exchanging information about their homes, the resort, the skiing, the weather, until it was time for lunch.
* * * * *
The next day, the ski lifts were open again and most people were ready to resume their holiday. Wöhlers’ body had been taken away for forensic examination. The police were continuing their investigation, but as yet had found no clues.
Simon and Tim were amongst the first to ski off from the top of the second chairlift. They were both experienced skiers; Simon short and stocky with a beard, Tim lean and balding the taller of the two. Five minutes later, they were halfway down the red run. Tim was leading when Simon saw him veer off course, swerving to the left and coming to a halt at the top of a small ridge overlooking a gully. When Simon joined him, Tim lifted one of his sticks and pointed with it to a spot fifty or so metres below where a roped off area was being guarded by two policemen. Red stains in the snow marked the spot where the body of Wöhlers had lain.
Meanwhile the Stone family had reached the nursery slope at the top of the first chairlift. Mary and Albert were trying to help little Maria to stand up on the baby button lift. She had made several attempts, but had so far found it hard to keep her balance. Elizabeth had already got the knack and teased her little sister: “Don’t sit on it, silly, stand up,” she called out.
Two days earlier, Albert and Mary had spent the morning helping their daughters to learn the basics of the snowplough turn. Then as now, Albert was frustrated and tired of teaching the two little girls. He wanted to ski down the mountain.
“Do you mind if I go off on my own after lunch?” he asked his wife.
“Of course not,” she replied. “Go off and enjoy yourself, but be careful not to split your trousers again like you did on Tuesday!”
After lunch Albert set off up the second chairlift and then followed the same piste down the mountain that the two New Zealanders had taken earlier in the day. After a while he arrived at the ridge, stopped, and looked down at the spot where the body had lain. He stood motionless on his skis for several minutes before he was startled by the arrival of the American, Schumann, who skidded to a halt beside him.
“How ‘ya doing?” asked Chuck.
Stone looked up nervously. “Terrible business,” he said, shaking his head. “Whoever would want to do a thing like this?” He punched his left ski pole several times into the snow in apparent anger.
“Beats me,” replied the American.
“I say, would you mind accompanying me back to the restaurant? I feel quite faint.”
Schumann looked at the Englishman’s face. It appeared white even against the backdrop of snow. “Sure,” he replied.
They continued down until they reached the restaurant at the top of the first chairlift. As Albert rejoined his family, Chuck set off to do the run again.
* * * * *
That evening the police again visited the hotel, but this time only Luigi was aware of their presence. They had a lead. The pathologist’s report had shown that Wöhlers had been stabbed repeatedly by a blunt metal spike, probably a ski pole. Luigi escorted the two policemen to the basement where the guests’ ski equipment was stored. All the ski poles were taken away for examination. Since each pair of poles was either named or, if hired, had a number inscribed on them, it would be easy to identify the owner of the pole if any clue should be found. Any trace of blood or thread of material from the dead man’s clothes should still be detectable even after a day’s skiing.
* * * * *
During breakfast the following morning, Albert Stone was called to the telephone. He went out to the hotel reception area to take the call, but was intercepted by an Italian wearing a dark grey coat and a trilby hat.
“Albert Stone?” enquired the Italian.
“Yes.”
“My name is Inspector Rossi. You are under arrest for the murder of Dietmar Wöhlers on January 15th. You are not required to say anything until you have consulted a lawyer. Please come with me.”
* * * * *
That evening the table in front of the log fire was empty.
Tim and Simon were engaged in conversation with Luigi at the bar.
“It seems,” said Luigi, “that his real name is Stein and he is a Jew by birth. His father died in a Nazi concentration camp during the war, and the commandant of the camp was a man by the name of Wöhlers.”
