Top of the Hill, page 31
For a moment, Michael was tempted to tell the man that nothing in particular had happened or make up some harmless little lie of village gossip. But no matter how skillfully Ellsworth had worked at patching up the damage to the living room, he couldn’t have done enough to hide all evidence of the shooting. Heggener would know soon enough and it was better that he be prepared before he went into the house.
“All right,” Michael said. “There was a burglary. Or rather an attempted burglary.” Then he told Heggener the whole story, the car parked with no lights, his own scouting expedition, the two figures and the flashlight beam in the library, his moving toward the desk to get the pistol, then Eva’s sudden appearance and the wild shooting and the men’s flight.
“Good God,” Heggener said, “Eva handling a gun! Where did she get it?”
“I don’t know,” Michael said. “It’s a little pearl-handled thing. I have it in my bag. Didn’t you know she had it?”
“Certainly not.” Heggener sounded angry. “Didn’t I tell you that the Smith and Wesson was the only weapon in the house?”
“I thought you might have forgotten,” Michael said tactfully.
“You may think I’m an old man with a failing memory,” Heggener said, “but I would remember if my wife had a gun.”
“I didn’t call the police,” Michael said. “No real harm was done and Eva was in no condition to answer questions by policemen.”
“That was considerate of you, Michael,” Heggener said softly. “In fact, your whole performance makes me rather ashamed of myself. I wonder if I would have done as much.”
“I didn’t do anything much,” Michael said. “I was curious about the parked car and I went to investigate. That was one of the reasons you gave me the cottage, remember.”
“Yes, I know. But it didn’t include getting killed.”
“Sneak thieves in a place like Green Hollow weren’t likely to be carrying guns,” Michael said, although he remembered that the year before Bruno’s predecessor had been shot. “In fact, they went out the window so fast when they heard footsteps a greyhound wouldn’t have caught them. All I did was duck.”
“All I can say is that there won’t be more than one gun in that house from now on,” Heggener said grimly. “Not if I have to go through every drawer and look under every carpet and bed and behind every book in the house to make sure.”
“I’m positive Eva must have learned her lesson by now.”
“/ am not so positive,” Heggener said.
“Anyway, to avoid any further target practice,” Michael said, “I’ve moved out of the cottage.”
“I don’t blame you,” Heggener said. “Are you staying at the hotel?”
“I’m not staying anywhere at the moment.”
“Oh.”
“If you want me to hang around and ski with you, I’ll check in at the Monadnock.”
Heggener considered this for a long time. “Yes, I believe that would be better,” he said quietly. “The less Eva sees of you after what’s happened the better for all concerned. And I do want you to hang around and ski with me. I want it very much. I’m going to say thank you now and then not say it again.” His voice trembled as he talked and Michael made a point of keeping his eyes steadily on the road.
When they reached Green Hollow, Heggener surprised Michael by saying, “Why don’t we have dinner at The Chimney Corner to celebrate our homecoming? Do you know—I’ve never been there—in all the time I’ve been in this town—and I’d like to hear Rita sing.”
“She only sings on weekends.”
“Even so,” Heggener said. “I’ll call the house and tell Eva that we stopped at a roadside restaurant somewhere and I’ll be home around ten. I’d like to enjoy a little quiet dinner with you, and since Eva doesn’t know I’m coming, there won’t be anything to eat in the house.”
“Whatever you say. I’m starving,” Michael said and drove up to The Chimney Corner and parked. He did not relish the idea of a surprise confrontation with Eva Heggener and postponement, although he felt it was cowardly, had undeniable merits.
It was early and the restaurant was almost empty and Antoine had not yet come in. Davis, the headwaiter told Michael, was out of town for the day, but it had been a banner weekend, with full houses to hear Rita sing. “That kid isn’t going to stay in Green Hollow for long,” the headwaiter said. “You mark my words. She’ll be in New York or Hollywood before the season is over. That is, if her old man doesn’t chain her to the front porch.” He grinned. He was a young man and obviously his career hadn’t included the joys of parenthood.
Michael had a drink at the bar while Heggener went to telephone. The telephone was on the balcony, up the stairs down which Antoine had made his historic descent. Michael remembered how Tracy had rebuked him for thinking up the plot of the faked fall. It was the first time in more than a week that he had thought of her and he wished he hadn’t.
When Heggener came back to the bar, he looked grave.
“Anything wrong?” Michael asked.
“Not really,” Heggener said. He ordered a whiskey. “I talked to the maid. Miraculously, she heard the ring of the telephone. Trouble must have improved her hearing.”
“What trouble?”
Heggener sipped at his whiskey before answering. “Eva’s gone,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean—gone?”
“Packed and gone. With Bruno. Well, it’s her dog. A gift from me.
“Gone where?”
“Hulda doesn’t know. She says there’s an envelope for me.”
“Well, then, the hell with dinner.” Michael got off the bar stool he was sitting on. “I’ll drive you . . .”
Heggener put a restraining hand on his arm. “No hurry,” he said. “I invited you to dinner and I was looking forward to it. I insist. Sit down, Michael. You know this place. What is the best dish they have? And if you can prevail upon the headwaiter to bring the wine list, I’d like to order the best bottle of Bordeaux they have in their cellar.”
The dinner was good and Heggener pronounced the wine excellent and said, “I must come here more often. It’s a welcome change from Hulda’s cooking—which bears the full weight of centuries of Mit-teleuropa on every dish. And our cook at the Alpina, I’m afraid, has exhausted his repertoire.” He ate slowly and everything on his plate and then ordered coffee and brandy for both of them and a cigar for himself. He dawdled over the brandy and lit the cigar with loving care. Looking at Andreas, sniffing his brandy and lolling comfortably back in his chair, no one, Michael thought, could possibly think that here was a man who knew he had a message waiting for him just fifteen minutes away that might, conceivably, alter the entire course of his life.
When he finally paid the bill, Andreas said to the headwaiter, who was helping him on with his coat, “Thank you very much for a fine dinner. Will you tell Mr. Davis for me that his success here is fully deserved.”
“Thank you, Mr. Heggener,” the headwaiter said, pocketing the five dollar bill that Heggener had slipped into his hand, “I’m sure Mr. Davis will be pleased to have your opinion of his restaurant. And he’ll be sorry that he wasn’t here to welcome you himself.”
“Now that I’ve found the way,” Heggener said, “tell him I’ll be back often.”
Outside, he looked up at the starry sky, where a high moon made pale outlines of the crests of the hills. He breathed deeply. “Ah,” he said, “it’s good to be back in the mountains.”
They drove in silence, which held as they swung through the gate and past the dark cottage and up to the big house, its pillars gleaming ghostly in the moonlight. Before Heggener could get out his key to open the door, the door opened and the stooped, bulky figure of the maid, sobbing convulsively, stood in the glow of the hallway chandelier.
“There’s no need for you to come in, Michael,” Heggener said, taking his overnight bag from Michael’s hand. “I’ll have to spend at least fifteen minutes comforting Hulda. In German. Unless,” he said, smiling slightly, “you are in the mood for a lesson in that lovely language. And I enjoyed the day.” He spoke soothingly to Hulda, saying, “Aber, aber, Hulda, weinen hilft auch nicht ”
“Call me if you want anything,” Michael said. “I’ll be at the Monadnock.”
“It looks as though it’s going to be a fine day tomorrow,” Heggener said. “I would like to get back on skis.”
“At whatever time you say.”
“I’ll call you in the morning.” Heggener went into the house, closing the door behind him, stifling the sound of Hulda’s sobs.
He called the Monadnock at nine in the morning. “Michael,” he said, his voice calm, “it is a fine day, as I thought it would be. The skiing should be perfect. Is ten o’clock too early for you?”
“I’ll come and get you.”
“No need. The Ford is in the garage. I’ll meet you at the lift at ten.”
Michael was there ahead of time. Promptly on the hour, he saw the Ford drive up to the parking lot. Heggener got out and took his skis off the rack and carried them over his shoulder, swinging his poles jauntily as he came to the bottom of the lift. He looked fit and straight, and as if he had spent a peaceful and comfortable night. “Punctuality is the courtesy of princes,” he said, “or is it kings? I never can remember. I’ve never known a king, but I’ve known some very unpunctual princes, though. One of the things I found immediately endearing about America was the absence of both kings and princes.”
On the chair lift going up, Heggener breathed deeply, with evident relish. “I am finally getting the hospital smell out of my lungs,” he said. “Oh, Eva’s Mercedes arrived this morning. She kindly arranged to have it driven by a chauffeur from Kennedy.”
“Kennedy?” Michael said.
“Yes, she has flown to Austria.” Heggener spoke offhandedly as though reporting that his wife had gone to Saks Fifth Avenue on a shopping expedition. “In the note she left me, she said she is not coming back here. If I want to see her I must come to Austria.”
“Are you going?”
Heggener shrugged. “Perhaps when the season is over. Wives endure, snow melts.”
But much later in the day, when after hours of hard skiing they were sitting in the lodge having tea, he said, “If I go back to Austria I am sure I will die. I know that it must sound foolish to you, but I’m a superstitious man and when I am dying in my dreams it is always somewhere in Austria.”
oooo
It was the last thing he said on the subject. They continued to ski every day when the weather was good and they played backgammon in the evenings, for small stakes, with first one of them and then the other winning a little. Hulda had stopped crying and they dined together in the house two or three evenings a week, where Michael found Hulda’s cooking most satisfying, and other nights went to The Chimney Comer, where Heggener expressed great admiration for Rita’s singing and Antoine’s playing.
Antoine looked sallower than ever and was in a dour mood because the doctor had told him it would be at least another month before the cast could come off his leg and he was sure Jimmy Davis had bribed the doctor so that Antoine would have to stay on playing the piano in this accursed backwater, unchic village for what Antoine described as a meager crust of bread. Gratitude was not high on Antoine’s list of virtues and Michael decided that he was not as fond of the Frenchman as he had once been. Also, late one night, just before closing, when Antoine and Michael were alone at the bar, Antoine said accusingly, “So. When you were in New York, you saw Susan.” “How do you know?”
“I called her and she told me. And you did more than see her. The doorman at her apartment house is a friend of mine and I called him. He remembered you when I described you. You stayed almost a whole night. I hope you had a good time.”
“I had a very good time,” Michael said angrily. “And it’s none of your business.”
“You are a disloyal friend and dangerous to introduce to anyone,” said Antoine and got up from the bar and hobbled out.
After that, whenever Michael came into the bar, he and Antoine merely nodded coldly to each other.
The weeks passed and the end of the season approached and Heg-gener’s face turned a skier’s deep tan and he seemed to glory, to Michael’s profound relief, in his regained health. It was a good time, Michael felt, for himself as well as Heggener, peaceful and relaxed, with all problems held in abeyance and neither of them asking any questions about the future, not even the question of whether or not Michael would accept the manager’s job at the hotel. If Heggener was grieving about his wife’s absence, he made a perfect show of hiding it.
Michael’s feeling that he was entering a halcyon season was increased considerably when his lawyer, old Mr. Lancaster, called him into his office to say that Barlow’s suit against him had been dropped. Barlow, Lancaster told him through a cloud of cigar smoke, had been caught by two undercover federal agents posing as dealers, who had bought some heroin from Barlow and had arrested him, and found a switchblade knife on him and two guns in his home. After due consideration of all the facts, the law firm with four names in Montpelier had closed the case.
“That will be one hundred dollars for my trouble, Mr. Storrs,” Lancaster said and Michael happily wrote out the check, saying, “I guess it’s worth it, saving forty-nine thousand and nine hundred dollars.”
He got drunk with Jimmy Davis that night and in the morning awoke clearheaded, with no flicker of a hangover. Automatically, as soon as he got out of bed, he looked to see what the weather was. It was snowing hard, the snow driven in sheets by a northwest wind. He telephoned Heggener and said, “No skiing today. Build a big fire and sit near it and read a good book. I’ll do the same.” He had borrowed a copy of The Pickwick Papers from Heggener’s library and it was just the sort of weather for The Pickwick Papers.
When he went down for breakfast, Jerry Williams was in the lobby. “Hi, Jerry,” Michael said. “You come over here to tell me what a great day it is for hang-gliding?”
Jerry grinned. “If I said yes, you’d be just damn fool enough to believe me. No, it’s something else this time. There’s a guy I know, over at Newburg, does some free-falling. He’s organizing a jump for Saturday afternoon. It’s for some advertising concern that’s got an account for sports watches. He wants to get five guys and do a star.
He’ll jump and he’s got a friend. He wants five bodies altogether. I already have Swanson and myself and you’d be the fifth. I get a three-hundred-buck watch if we do it.”
“What do I get?” Michael asked.
Williams grinned again, his long drooping blond moustache giving him an evil appearance. “You get a free airplane ride and the thanks of the Green Hollow Hang-Gliding School.”
“I’d do anything for the Green Hollow Hang-Gliding School, you know that,” Michael said.
“You damn near did,” Williams said.
Michael thought for a moment. He felt the familiar electric tingle, even just thinking about it. “What time Saturday?”
“Noon,” Williams said. “High noon. At the Newbury airfield. If it ever stops snowing.”
“I’ll see you there,” Michael said.
“Don’t get drunk on Friday night,” Williams said and slouched out of the hotel front door, hunching into his coat and pushing up his collar against the whip of the snow.
After breakfast, Michael read all morning, lying on his bed and feeling deliciously lazy, chuckling from time to time. He had two drinks before lunch and a half bottle of wine as he ate, with the book propped up on the table in front of him. He had read The Pickwick Papers in English class at preparatory school, but it had just been another assignment then. Now he read with great enjoyment, marveling at how alive and vigorous the book remained after so many years.
The drinks and the wine and the food made him sleepy and he gave himself the luxury of a nap after lunch. When he awoke it was dark and still snowing. He turned on the light and picked up the book and was about to begin reading when the phone rang. It was Dave Cully. “Mike,” Cully said, “is Mr. Heggener with you?”
“No,” Michael said. “Why?” "
“Harold Jones just called me. Heggener’s Ford is still in the parking lot. And Jones saw him go up at three-thirty this afternoon.”
“Holy God! Alone?”
“Alone. I’m organizing a search party,” Cully said. “Flashlights, a sled, two guys from the patrol, Dr. Baines. I imagine you’ll want to come along.”
“Of course. Wait for me. I’ll go out to his house. Maybe he got a lift home and forgot his car.”
“I already called his house,” Cully said. “There was no answer.”
“The maid’s deaf. She probably didn’t hear the phone. I won’t be long. See you at the lift.”
He got into his ski clothes and boots swiftly and put on his heaviest anarac over a thick sweater, cursing under his breath. He hurried downstairs and got the Porsche out from the shed where it was parked to keep it out of the snow. He sped out of town, the snow hitting like thick white flour at the windshield, making it almost impossible to see the curves in the road. He skidded through the gate past the cottage and up to the house. He left the motor running and ran to the front door. It was locked and he knew it would be useless to ring. He ran around to the back of the house and saw that the kitchen was brightly lit. Through the window, he saw Hulda bending over the stove. He knocked on the windowpane and finally got her attention. She looked frightened until she recognized him and hurried to the back door and fumbled for what seemed minutes at the lock. Finally, she opened it. “Herr Heggener?” Michael shouted.
She shook her head. “Nicht hier” she said. “Skifahren ”
Michael turned and ran back to the Porsche and jumped in and wrenched it around and gunned the motor. He nearly hit a car as he sped out of the gate, but it wasn’t the Ford.
When he got to the lift, Cully and the others were there waiting for him. Harold Jones went into the control room and started the lift. The chairs swung dizzyingly in the wind as they went up in the darkness.
