I set the skis down, points upwards, in a drift and looked back at the blaze. As I did so, one of the pine supports near the entrance to the machine-room splintered and flared. The blazing floor above it sagged dangerously. A moment later several supports gave with loud cracks and a burst of flame. The flooring, which they supported, slowly buckled, and then the whole blazing facade above folded inwards and sank with a roar of flame and broken wood. A myriad sparks rushed into the night and the flames roared up through the gap in a solid sheet.
Joe came round the end of the building then. I beckoned to him and began to unfasten the skis. When he came up, he said, ‘How did this fire start, Neil?’
‘Petrol,’ I said, fastening on a pair of skis. ‘Carla set light to it.’
‘Good Lord! Whatever for?’
‘Revenge,’ I told him. ‘Mayne had double-crossed her and jilted her. He’d also planned to murder her.’
He stared at me. ‘Are you making this up?’ he asked. ‘Where’s Valdini?’
‘Mayne shot him.’ I had finished putting on the skis. I straightened up then and found Joe’s face a picture of incredulity in the ruddy glare. ‘I’ve got to get down to Tre Croci,’ I told him. ‘I must get to a phone. I’ll take the slalom run. Will you follow me? I’ll tell you all about it down at the hotel.’ I did not wait for his reply. I put my hands through the leather thongs of the sticks and started off across the snow.
The slalom wasn’t an easy run. It was very steep, following pretty much the line of the slittovia, snaking down almost parallel to it. I took it as slowly as possible, but the fresh snow was deep and I was only able to break my speed by snow-ploughing in places. Stem turns were difficult and I often had to brake by running into the soft snow at the side of the run or by falling.
After the lurid light and the roar of the flames at the hut, it was strangely dark and silent going down through the woods. Moonlight filtered through the feathery web of the pine branches and the only sounds were the wind whipping the topmost branches and the hiss of my skis through the snow.
I suppose it took me about half an hour to get down that run. It seemed much longer, for my ski suit was wet through and it was very cold. But my watch showed the time to be only one forty-five as I passed the hut where Emilio lived at the bottom of the slittovia. I looked up the long white avenue of the cable track gleaming brightly in the moonlight. At the top, the white of the snow seemed to blossom into a great, violent mushroom of fire. It was no longer possible to discern the shape of the hut. It was just a flaming mass, white at the centre, fading to a dull orange at the edges and throwing out a great trailer of sparks and smoke, so that it looked like a meteor rushing through the night.
When I reached the hotel I found everybody up and bustling to form a party to go up and fight the flames. I was immediately surrounded by an excited crowd, all dressed in ski clothes. I asked for the manager. He came fussing through the group round me, a stout, important-looking little man with a sallow, worried face and lank, oily hair. ‘You all right, signore? Are there any hurt?’
I told him the fire had hurt no one, that it was quite beyond control and would soon burn itself out. Then I asked if I could use his office and his telephone. ‘But of course, signore. Anything I can do, you have but to command.’ He put two electric fires on for me, had a waiter bring me a drink and a change of clothing and had a hot meal conjured up for me out of the kitchen, all in an instant. It was a big moment for him. He was showing his guests how good and generous a host he was. He nearly drove me frantic with his constant enquiries after my health. And all the while I had the telephone pressed to my ear. I spoke to Bologna, Mestre, Milan. Once a line was crossed and it was Rome talking to me. But Trieste or Udine — no.
Joe came puffing in just as I was talking to Bologna for the third time. He looked as though he had had a lot of falls. He was wet with snow and flopped exhaustedly into an arm-chair. He had his baby camera still slung round his neck. He gave the little manager fresh scope. Brandy was rushed to the scene. He was stripped of his ski suit and swathed in a monstrosity of a dressing-gown decked with purple-and-orange stripes. More food was brought. And whilst all this was going on and in the intervals of my telephonic tour of the main exchanges of Italy, I tried to give him some idea of what had been happening up at Col da Varda. I did not mention the gold, and this omission left loopholes in the story, so that I do not think he really believed it all.
