Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

The Honeymoon Kill by Bill Knox

David Bannerman knew it as a sad, cynical truth. When you’re feeling happy, at the crest of a wave, hold on tight — there’s often a deep trough of misery lurking on the other side. He heard a sigh come from Helen Bannerman, his sister and business partner, and knew she felt the same.

Andrew Adams, the man seated opposite them, was in his fifties, well-dressed and prosperous, a director in a rock-solid Scottish stockbroking firm. He had arrived without an appointment at the Banner Agency, the small private investigation and security consultancy the Bannermans operated from the top floor of an old Georgian building in the heart of Edinburgh.

But Adams had a handwritten introduction from the banker who nursed the Bannermans’ joint overdraft through moments of crisis. So they’d listened, almost able to feel his despair.

Two weeks earlier the world had been bright for Andrew Adams. He and his wife had been in New York, where his only son was being married. Now they’d been told their son was dead, buried under an avalanche in Switzerland.

“Except you don’t believe it,” said Bannerman softly. “So you want us to find the truth.”

“Win or lose,” agreed his visitor tightly. “Will you try?”

David Bannerman glanced at his sister. She gave a fractional nod, which made it unanimous.

“We’ll try,” said David. He walked to the window and looked over the grey slate rooftops of the Scottish capital towards the medieval bulk of Edinburgh Castle.

“Let’s go over the basics again. Your son’s name is Mark, he’s a newly qualified lawyer, his bride’s name is Susan, she’s an American citizen from—”

“From New York,” nodded Andrew Adams. “They met when Mark was in the States on a graduate exchange scheme. Susan is a nurse.”

They’d met at a university party and been engaged within a month. The wedding was in New York; then Mark Adams had brought his bride back to Europe, to honeymoon in Switzerland. They had collected a Volvo in Edinburgh and had driven across Europe to the Bernese Alpine resort village of Grindelwald, close under the legendary Eiger mountain. Telephone calls to both sets of parents had said everything was fine. But it was now forty-eight hours since Mark had vanished. The last thing known was that he’d gone walking near the mountain while his bride had a hair appointment at the village beauty salon.

It was early spring; there’d been late snowfalls and risks of avalanches. The young lawyer had simply disappeared without a trace.

“I should be there,” said Andrew Adams in a weary voice. “But there is my wife to consider—”

Mark Adams’ mother had a weak heart and had collapsed on hearing her son was missing. She was in hospital, too ill to be moved. The other set of parents, now in regular telephone touch from New York, were getting ready to fly over to be with their daughter.

“But you say Susan wants everyone to wait until she has more news,” frowned Helen, puzzled.

“That’s what she says,” Andrew Adams nodded. “And all we can get from the police is that this was just another tourist accident.” His mouth tightened. “I know what that means. They’ll leave things until summer; they’ll look for a body when the snow melts.”

“There’s probably not a lot we can do,” warned David.

“Maybe not, but forget the cost.” The stockbroker clenched his fists. “On the phone Susan sounds near collapse. But something’s wrong. She’s no fool. It’s as if she’s holding something back. Something she’s frightened to tell me.”

“Give me a moment,” said Helen Bannerman. “I’ll be right back.”

By the time she returned, her brother had gathered more details and the stockbroker had produced a wedding day photograph of the couple. Mark Adams was a dark-haired man in his twenties with a plump, cheerful face. His bride Susan was about the same age, slim and attractive, with blonde, shoulder-length hair.

Andrew Adams left. Once he’d gone, the Bannermans exchanged a wry glance. “Better see when we can get a flight,” suggested David.

“I already did,” said Helen mildly. “I spoke to that redhead you know at the airport.”

“And?” said her brother warily.

“We’re booked on the next Swissair flight, at one A.M.” She grinned. “For you, says your redhead, anything.”

The night flight to Basel touched down at four A.M., and a chauffeur-driven BMW was waiting for them. Then they were off on the eighty mile drive to Grindelwald, most of it over snow-covered roads. Along the way Helen snatched some sleep, her head on Bannerman’s shoulder, and he looked down at his sister with the kind of smile he wouldn’t have let her see if she’d been awake. They were close, they always had been — they just didn’t like admitting it to anyone.

David Bannerman was exactly thirty years of age, Helen was two years younger, and an outsider wouldn’t have taken them for brother and sister. David was tall and whipcord thin with blue eyes, broad cheekbones, and fight brown hair. Helen was barely medium height with brown eyes and dark hair. Attractive lather than goodlooking, verging on plump, she often did the real thinking between them.

They’d inherited the Banner Agency from their father, a retired Edinburgh police inspector, who had signed it over to them when he and his wife retired to Florida. Bannerman Senior had built up a reputation for handling the odd and unusual, something that had continued.

This time? David shook his head. They’d find out soon enough.

They reached Grindelwald in the grey light of dawn, the last of the journey over a narrow, snow-covered mountain road where the tire chains bit with a soft, steady rattle. Their destination, a blend of old-style chalets and modem concrete hotels, was a village huddled spectacularly close under the famed north face of the Eiger, six thousand feet of nearly vertical Alpine rock climbed by the brave in midsummer but accepted as almost unapproachable during most of winter.

Susan Adams was waiting in her bridal suite — a two-room section of a quiet guesthouse. Her fair hair tied back with a thin leather thong, she wore tailored grey trousers and a loose blue sweater and was trying hard to keep control. She ordered breakfast for them and made them eat while she talked in a quick, tight, level voice.

“The police have searched almost nonstop. They brought in dogs, even a helicopter,” she told them. “They think Mark must have ignored the warnings about wandering off the regular paths. They keep talking about crevasses and rockfalls.” She shook her head. “We’d agreed to split up for the morning, and Mark planned to explore some of the trails outside the village. I had my hair done and did some souvenir shopping — then we’d arranged to meet for lunch. He... well, he didn’t show.”

There was a knock at the door, and Susan Adams went to open it. She returned with a round-faced man who wore a brown wool suit and had close-cropped grey hair.

“This is John Gelling,” she said. “He has helped me a lot.”

“There hasn’t been much anyone could do,” said Gelling gravely. His voice had a faint, hard-to-identify accent. “But I’m staying in the guesthouse, so I did what I could.”

“What do you think happened?” asked Helen bluntly.

“Much the same as everyone else does.” Gelling spread his hands sadly. “I’m sorry, but I think the best thing you can do is persuade Susan to go back to Britain. No one can do anything more here.”

“I can’t. I won’t.” Susan Adams gave a determined shake of her head.

Gelling sighed, made a slight grimace towards the Bannermans, then quietly left the room. Once he had gone, David Bannerman gave a small shrug.

“He could be right, Susan.”

“John Gelling means well, and he was out with the search parties.” Her voice was a whisper. “But I’m not leaving. I know Mark is alive — he must be. There’s—” she stopped short and moistened her lips.

“Go on, Susan. There’s what?” David looked at her for a moment, then his voice hardened. “You know why we’re here. You know how Mark’s father feels, what this has done to his mother, what it must be doing to your own family.” He ignored his sister’s gathering frown. “We were sent to help you. Our kind of help doesn’t mean holding your hand and making soothing noises.”

“I—” She swallowed.

“Be real” Bannerman saw her indecision and took a gamble. “What are you holding back? What is it the police don’t know?”

Susan gave a sob and buried her head in her hands.

“Ease back, Dave,” ordered Helen grimly. She laid a hand on the younger woman’s arm. “Susan, see sense. Use us.”

Reluctantly Susan raised her head. There were new tears in her eyes.

“I had a phone call,” she said slowly. “And I think Mark might still be alive.”

“You’d better tell us it all,” said David gently.

She was silent again, then nodded.

Everything had gone smoothly at first for the honeymoon couple. The journey to Switzerland had been without problems. Then, the third evening of their stay at Grindelwald, Mark Adams had left the guesthouse to explore for a couple of hours on his own while Susan wrote some postcards.

“When he came back, Mark did nothing hut talk about a man he’d met in a bar — a man who offered him a chance to clear all our honeymoon expenses.”

“How?” asked Helen.

“Mark didn’t know the details. Just that it involved smuggling watches in a way that he reckoned would be easy enough — and that we’d be fools to refuse. He — Mark — had been told not to say anything to me about it.”

“Be glad he told you,” said David, glancing at his sister. It seemed they’d found even more trouble than they’d expected. “Did the man in the bar have a name?”

“Mark didn’t tell me. Then... well, we quarrelled about it Yes, we could use the money — neither of us is exactly loaded, we’ve needed everything we had to set up a home.” She bit her lip. “Even so, I told him he was crazy, it was too risky, that I didn’t want to know.”

Nothing more had happened until Mark had vanished. The telephone call had come to the guesthouse that afternoon.

“It was a man’s voice, a stranger’s voice. He said he had a message for Lollipop.” Susan’s voice almost broke. “Only Mark calls me that — it’s special between us. No one else could know it. Do you understand?”

Helen nodded. “What else did he say?”

“That I had to keep my mouth shut about what they’d wanted Mark to do. If I did, maybe things could get better. Then whoever he was hung up.”

Faced with a gnawing blend of doubt and fear in a country where she knew no one, the young American bride had until then been too concerned about her husband’s disappearance to even consider the smuggling offer as a link. When she did, the new situation brought possible hope — and with that hope came new fears, yet no further call to Lollipop.

“But suppose there’s some kind of miracle and Mark does turn up,” she said with a remnant of stubborn defiance. “And suppose I’d already told the police, what would happen to him?”

“You’ve got it wrong, Susan,” said David gently. “Even if Mark were sitting on a thousand Swiss watches, he’s not a smuggler until he tries to smuggle them into some other country.” He turned to his sister. “Go over it all again with her. Find out anything we’ve maybe missed.”

“While you do what, brother?” asked Helen dryly.

“Someone has to make new noises to the police. Like now.”

Police Sub-Inspector Josef Bart showed little surprise when he heard Bannerman’s story. He sat back in his office chair.

“It happens, Herr Bannerman.” He shrugged. “This kind of smuggling, using tourists, is not new. But would a watch smuggler kill a tourist just because they disagreed? I don’t see it.”

“And the telephone call?”

“To Lollipop.” Bart sucked hard on his lips. “Maybe her pet name wasn’t as secret as she thought. It could have been a malicious crank—”

“Do you believe that?” Bannerman leaned his knuckles on the edge of the Swiss officer’s desk. “Do you still think he’s just buried under a snowdrift?”

“I am sorry.” The sub-inspector grimaced. “I would need more. This close to the Eiger there is nothing unusual about visitors being killed in accidents.” He paused, frowned, and rubbed his chin. “But—”

“But?” encouraged Bannerman.

“If you still want to talk with a smuggler, try an Italian named Carlo Belzoni. Belzoni visits here a lot. This time he arrived about a month ago from Lucerne. He’s — well — liked by most people. He was a top professional footballer in the Italian premier league, was even selected for international sides until he was badly injured in a car crash. No more football after that — so he became a smuggler.” The sub-inspector snapped his fingers. “I could have him picked up if you want.”

Bannerman shook his head. “If I go to him, it might be easier.”

“Then try the Cafe Kleine Mönch. The man almost lives there.”

The Kleine Mönch was shabby but warm and spotlessly clean. At that hour of the morning it was still almost empty, and as Bannerman entered, a waiter in a white jacket appeared at his elbow.

“I’m looking for someone.” David Bannerman spoke loudly. “Someone named Carlo Belzoni.”

“Over here.” A tall, slim man at one of the tables set down the mug of coffee he’d been sipping and beckoned. There was a speculative glint in his eyes. “I am Carlo Belzoni. How can I help you, signor?”

Bannerman took a chair opposite him. Dressed in denim trousers with a green wool shirt and a dark leather jacket, Belzoni had thick black hair, a compact, muscular build, and a fine-boned face with an easy-going smile.

“Rumor has it you’re in the smuggling business,” said Bannerman without preliminaries.

“So I’ve heard.” Belzoni gave a mild chuckle. “I’ve also heard about a couple newly arrived from Scotland to seek the unfortunate Signor Adams.” He produced a small black cheroot, stuck it between his bps, and lit it with the flame from a gunmetal lighter. “I like your Scotland — except for the last time. I was a temporary guest in your Barlinnie Prison, which is cold and damp.” He let the cheroot dangle and grimaced. “Ah — Signor Bannerman, isn’t it?”

Bannerman nodded. “You’ve good contacts.”

“I try,” said Belzoni modestly. “But, my friend, I know nothing about your missing man. I might have made an arrangement with him, but — no, he said it would anger his new wife.”

“Women,” said Bannerman sadly-

“Women!” Belzoni made a noise like a sigh. “You have the wrong man, Mr. Bannerman — yet maybe I am the right choice in a different way. Can you be told something, then forget who told you?”

“When it helps.”

“Buono.” Belzoni gave a lopsided grin. “I would deny it anyway. It is true I come here now and again. To make contacts, then move on again. In my business it doesn’t pay to stand still for too long — and the last thing I need is to be dragged into any part of the hunt for this Mark Adams. You understand?”

“I do.”

“The local sub-inspector of police is efficient — but maybe this time he misses something. At this moment there is a John Gelling living in the same guesthouse as the Adamses. He has an English passport, but I say he is not English. Now, I ask you, why does this ‘not Englishman’ carry a gun?”

“You’re sure?”

“In my business you learn to spot things — the bulge under a jacket, the line of a leather harness.” The smuggler signaled the waiter. “Grazie... two beers, Hans.”

Belzoni gave a small smile. “This Gelling is not in the watch business. If he was, I should know. And there is something else.”

“Hans.” As the waiter returned with the beers, Belzoni laid a hand on his arm. “I was telling my friend of the unfortunate Signor Adams, the man who disappeared. You remember him?”

“Ja.” The waiter picked up the ashtray and replaced it with a dean one. “A great pity, whatever happened.”

“I met him here,” mused Belzoni. “What about other people?”

“Others?” The man shrugged. “A couple of times I saw him with Herr Gelling.” He saw the doubt on Bannerman’s face. “It is easy enough to remember. Grindelwald is only a village. Right now we have few visitors.”

They sipped their beers in silence until Bannerman sensed it was time to go.

“I’m grateful,” he said, rising.

Belzoni smiled and lit another cheroot.

Outside, there were new snow-flecks in the air. But that didn’t deter a wandering street photographer, who clicked his camera, then stuffed a leaflet into Bannerman’s hand. The main winter tourist season was over, customers were obviously scarce.

When Bannerman got back to the guesthouse, he found his sister helping Susan go through her missing husband’s belongings. Helen looked up as he entered. “Any luck?” she asked.

“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Bannerman indicated the scattered clothing. “What’s going on?”

“I had the bright idea that there might be something in his pockets.” She scowled. “So far there isn’t. How did the police react?”

“To the smuggling story?” Bannerman shrugged. “They listened, they didn’t pay much attention.” He turned to the fair-haired, sad-faced girl who had gone from being a bride to probably being a widow. “How many people have suggested you go home?”

“Just about everyone,” she said wearily. “Including you.”

“How about John Gelling?”

“Including John Gelling,” she agreed. “But I’m staying.”

“Good,” said Bannerman softly. “Because I’ve changed my mind. Where’s Gelling right now?”

“I saw him go out,” said Helen blandly. “If you’re interested, his room is third on the left, down the hall.”

The hallway was deserted, and a strip of credit card plastic was enough to open the springlock on Gelling’s door. Closing the door behind him, David began a quick, methodical search. Gelling traveled light but when Bannerman checked drawers in a chest and looked beneath some shirts, he found a small cardboard box. When he opened it, he saw he was right. It held two spare clips of Luger ammunition.

“Dave.” His sister’s low, urgent whisper reached him from outside the door. “Move. He’s coming back.”

Bannerman replaced the box, closed the drawer, and left the room. He heard Gelling’s footsteps on the stairway, and they passed each other a moment later.

“Well?” Gelling greeted him hopefully. “Have you managed to persuade her to leave?”

“Not yet.”

“Keep trying,” urged Gelling. “For her own good.”

Bannerman reported to his sister and Susan Adams a little later and told them what he’d found. “Susan, can you show us where the police say this avalanche happened?”

She nodded. “We can use our car — it’s in a service station along the road. Mark put it in for an oil change, and I haven’t used it since.” At the service station Mark’s Volvo was ready. Bannerman paid the oil change bill, then slid into the driver’s seat while the other two got aboard. From the service station they drove out of the village towards the white of the mountains; soon Susan guided them onto a narrow track that led towards the Eiger’s lower slopes.

“Stop here,” she said at last.

They stopped not far from one of the inevitable high-roofed chalets. As they got out, they could hear a tinkle of cowbells coming from a barn, where cattle were installed in their winter quarters. As they neared it, a farmer left the barn, and they stopped him.

They got his story in a mix of Swiss-German and English. Yes, he remembered the avalanche on the day Mark Adams had disappeared. There’d been a loud noise just before it happened — and that noise, whatever it was, could have been enough to start the avalanche.

How loud? He shrugged. Loud just meant loud. He had no idea what had caused it.

“One of us should take a look,” said Helen pensively.

“And you want me to volunteer?” Her brother accepted the inevitable.

They obtained more directions from the farmer; then Bannerman set off on his own along a narrow hill path. It rose sharply and was covered in snow that had been trampled hard by a number of feet, showing that at least one of the search parties had come that way.

In a very few minutes he had climbed to where there were signs of a huge slide of snow. It had swept across the path and spent itself in a gully below.

The police account had been accurate. If a body lay buried beneath that fall, it wouldn’t be found until summer.

Bannerman stood for a moment breathing heavily after the climb, looking up at the heavy overhangs of snow still above him. He tensed as he saw a figure briefly appear, then duck out of sight higher up the slope.

The bang came seconds later. Then its echo was lost in a gathering growl as one of the largest snow overhangs began moving. Bannerman watched the giant white cornice topple and come racing down towards him.

The growl became a roar. Bannerman turned and ran, floundering when his feet sank in soft patches of snow, forcing every muscle to go faster, knowing he couldn’t afford to look round.

A cold wave of snow hit him, bowled him over, covered him in its dense white blanket. He struggled, fought, broke free and crawled his way out.

He had been close to the outer edge of the fall, and that had saved his life. Down below the new avalanche crashed to a halt on top of the old fall he’d seen earlier.

Half an hour later, a tumbler of the farmer’s fiery plum brandy inside him, his clothes rough-dried, he sat in the front passenger seat while Helen drove back to Grindelwald. Susan Adams sat pale-faced and quiet in the rear.

The Bannermans had taken a couple of rooms in the same guesthouse as Susan Adams. A change of clothing and another glass of local brandy left David feeling reasonably normal.

“Don’t ever do a damned fool thing like that again,” said his sister when she came into his room. “Who was it up there? Gelling or Belzoni?”

“My bet goes on Gelling,” mused Bannerman. “Belzoni isn’t the type who throws avalanches at people.”

“I’ve a longshot notion,” said Helen slowly. “Every time I’ve stuck my nose outdoors since we got here, I’ve seen a street photographer somewhere around.”

“I’ve noticed,” agreed Bannerman dryly, remembering his own earlier encounter. Then he understood. “You mean, like suppose one of them photographed Mark on the day he disappeared?”

“And maybe with company.” She nodded. “It’s worth a try. I’ll take a walk around the photo shops. Can you stay out of trouble until I get back?”

“I’ll try,” promised Bannerman. “And I’m going to talk to our subinspector of police about avalanches.”

Sub-inspector Josef Bart could listen without a hint of anything showing on his face. But by the time Bannerman had finished, his attitude had changed.

“We don’t tolerate murder, Herr Bannerman,” he frowned. “Among other things it is bad for our tourist trade. And I’m ready to believe all you say, but what proof do we have?”

“Not a lot,” admitted Bannerman. A new thought had struck him. “And even if someone was killed that way, that doesn’t mean it was Mark Adams.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” admitted Bannerman. “But it could explain some loose ends — including why Gelling must have a reason to want to be rid of me. Suppose we give him some rope?”

The sub-inspector gave a slow, slightly reluctant nod. “All right. But a warning, my friend. Be careful you don’t stick your own neck in a noose.”

When Bannerman left the police station, the temperature seemed to have taken another sudden drop. He turned up his coat collar, began walking briskly towards the guesthouse, then heard feet hurrying behind him.

“Slow down, for the love of God,” said a breathless Carlo Belzoni, limping to catch up with him in the gathering dusk. “First I risk my reputation waiting outside a police station, now you want me to risk a heart attack?”

“Sorry.” Bannerman grinned.

“I hear you are a very lucky man,” said Belzoni cheerfully.

“True.”

“There’s something else I heard, from... ah... someone else I know in the watch exporting business.” Belzoni gave Bannerman a deliberate glance. “This Signor Gelling has visited several tourist centers lately — never staying long at any.” He shrugged and sighed. “Mrs. Adams will be driving back to Scotland soon, I suppose? A sad journey.”

As suddenly as he had arrived, he turned and limped away.

David Bannerman was the first back at the guesthouse. But Helen arrived a little later, smiling.

“I got lucky at the fourth photo shop I tried,” she reported cheerfully. “Their street photographers proof print every photograph they take, then date stamp them.” She slid a brown envelope across the table. “This was taken on the morning Mark Adams vanished.”

Bannerman opened the envelope. The photograph inside showed two men walking down Grindelwald’s main street. One was Mark Adams; the other had deliberately turned his head away from the camera, one hand going up towards his face.

“Gelling?” suggested Helen.

“It could be,” frowned Bannerman. “He’s the same build. But that isn’t enough. Where’s Susan?”

“Probably in her room. I’ll check.”

She was gone briefly and brought Susan Adams when she returned.

“Susan says Gelling looked in on her while we were out.”

“And it was the same old time,” said Susan bitterly. “How sorry he was, how he really thought I should go home.”

“Belzoni made the same kind of noises.” Bannerman stared at the street photographer’s print again. “Maybe he was telling me something in his own roundabout way. You’ve had no more phone calls?”

She shook her head.

When Susan went home, the Volvo would go with her. He glanced at his wristwatch. The car was back in the service station, which by now would probably be closed for the night.

What they had to do could wait.

Next morning the Bannermans joined Susan for breakfast, made sure she didn’t plan to leave the village for the rest of the day, then went out on their own. By nine thirty they were at the service station, where a middle-aged mechanic was at work in the lubrication bay. He knew they’d taken the Volvo out the previous day.

“Did much need doing when you serviced her?” asked David.

“Very little, whatever he expected.” The mechanic shrugged. “We had it for a couple of days, just lying in a corner. Then he turned up, said he wanted to try the car, and drove it away for a spell. When he returned, he wanted the handbrake adjusted a little. I said okay, he went away—” he grimaced “—then came the avalanche.”

Helen frowned. “His wife told us that from the time the Volvo was left here it wasn’t taken out again until yesterday.”

“She was wrong.” The mechanic smiled down at her dark, earnest eyes.

“Was he alone when he collected his car?”

“Ja.” The man scratched his chin. “And still alone when he came back.”

It took a small wad of Swiss francs before the mechanic became enthusiastic. Then they began. First they checked the entire interior but drew a blank. The mechanic put the Volvo on a ramp and raised it almost shoulder-high, then examined the underside. When he reached the fuel tank, the Bannermans saw him hesitate.

“Found something?” asked Helen.

“I think so, fraulein.” He frowned. “This tank has small marks, as if something has been done to it.” He eyed them wisely. “Much can be done to a fuel tank if you are a smuggler. Shall we look?”

“Not yet.” She stopped him as he turned towards the tools on his workbench. “When a car comes in, do you make a note of the mileage readings?”

“Kilometers.” He nodded. “Always.”

“Can you bring it, and a good local map? And I need the car’s present reading.”

The man was gone for a couple of minutes, then returned with the Volvo’s service sheet and a map. He spread the map on his workbench.

“You’re the brains,” David told his sister. “Go ahead.”

She borrowed a stub of pencil from the mechanic and used a corner of the map for a scribbled calculation using the present reading, first subtracting the short distance they’d driven the previous day, then the Volvo’s recorded mileage when it first reached the service station. What was left meant that the car had traveled fourteen miles on the vital day. At a guess, that meant seven miles out, seven miles back again.

Seven miles — to where? They needed the mechanic’s help again.

He studied the map, then used an oily finger to trace a narrow road that ran close to the avalanche site.

“Maybe here,” he suggested. “The old Braunheim chalet. I’ve heard that new people have moved in there.”

“Good,” Helen said softly. She glanced at her brother. “And now we get hold of your friendly police sub-inspector?”

“Suppose you do that,” said her brother. “Have him here before that fuel tank is opened, and tell him the rest of it.” He gave her a grin. “I’ll go and take a look at this chalet.”

Bannerman borrowed the mechanic’s ancient Renault van and was on his way. Fresh light snow was falling, and the old van’s single windshield wiper slapped busily as it rattled along the narrow, empty road. Slowly the contours he’d seen on the service station map came to life, and at last he saw a turnoff just ahead and an old chalet at the end of it. Ruts in the snow showed that vehicles had used the track recently.

He left the Renault behind a hump of rock and continued on foot through the snow until at last he was close to the Braunheim chalet. It was an old wooden structure with a high-peaked roof and small shuttered windows. The wheel tracks led past its front door and round to a barn at the rear. Bannerman worked his way around again, got even closer, cleared snow from the barn’s single window, and was surprised to look in at a modem, well-equipped garage. He could even see what looked like a portable welding plant.

He switched his attention to the chalet. A thin curl of smoke was rising from the main chimney. There was no other sign of life of any kind, but there was only one way to be certain. Crossing to it, he used a billet of wood to smash a ground floor window. He reached in, freed the lock, and seconds later was standing in the chalet’s kitchen near the glowing warmth of a wood stove.

Swiftly, with growing confidence, he checked the other rooms. They were empty but with signs that the place was being used, and when he returned to the kitchen, he heard a strange thumping that seemed to come from under the floor. The thumping led him to a cellar trapdoor. When he drew back the bolts and raised the lid, a pale, unshaven face peered up from the darkness.

“And who the hell are you?” asked the man below in a weary yet hopeful voice.

“Call me the cavalry — if you’re Mark Adams.” Bannerman offered a hand to help him out. “Right now you’re supposed to be dead.”

“I’m Adams.” The missing bridegroom emerged into the light, blinking and unshaven, his clothes grubby and crumpled. “And no, I’m not dead.”

“Did you tell Gelling that your pet name for Susan was Lollipop?”

“Yes.” Adams moistened his lips. “He said he’d get word to her to do what she was told; then I’d be okay.”

He swallowed and looked around. “Where are they? I heard them going out—”

“Them? How many?”

“Gelling and two others. They’re armed.”

“Then let’s move. The police are on their way.”

He hustled Adams towards the open window. They were through it and outside when they heard the sound of an approaching car and the rattle of its chains. It stopped outside the chalet, and its passengers climbed out.

“Run!” ordered Bannerman. “Head up the slope!”

Thrashing through the snow, they’d covered some two hundred yards before the men boiled out of a rear door of the chalet. Shouts showed they’d been seen; two pistol shots barked wildly at them from below. Startled, Mark stumbled and fell, and as Bannerman helped him up again, Gelling and his men toiled towards them.

A sudden intervention came from a rock ledge only twenty feet or so above Bannerman’s head.

“Attenzione, stay down there!” Carlo Belzoni was standing out in the open. In one hand he held a lightweight grenade. He gave Bannerman a grin, then shouted again. “You can see what I’m holding, Gelling. Behave!”

The men had halted as if frozen. A long, broad overhang of snow loomed above them, yet Belzoni was safe on a jutting outcrop of rock. The same outcrop could protect Bannerman and Adams. The Italian smuggler beckoned, and first Bannerman, then Adams, joined him on the ledge.

“Belzoni—” John Gelling took a few steps forward on his own, his voice echoing upwards “—we could do a deal.”

“A deal like you handed to my good friend Guido — who wasn’t ready for dying?” countered Belzoni curtly.

“Guido!” Mark Adams gave a gasp. “You knew him?”

“He was my partner,” said Belzoni softly, keeping one eye on the men below. “He was watching Gelling, knowing he was moving into our territory.” He sighed. “It’s good to see you again, Signor Adams. Do you know what happened to Guido?”

“Yes. Except I didn’t know his name until afterwards.” Adams gave an unhappy nod. “It was when I took the Volvo to the chalet to have the fake fuel tank fitted. They spotted someone sneaking around. Once they’d changed fuel tanks, I was told to drive the Volvo back to the service station—”

Guido had followed him. But Gelling and his men came along, too, using Mark Adams as bait. In the struggle that followed, Belzoni’s partner was shot and killed by Gelling. Adams was seized because he’d seen too much.

“They said they’d dump the body and fake an avalanche. Then they locked me in the cellar.” The rescued bridegroom stopped and gave a warning gasp. “Watch out—”

Below, Gelling and his men were running, making a dash for safety. Unemotionally Carlo Belzoni flicked the safety pin from the grenade and threw the grenade in an arc. Briefly it was a black speck curving above the snow.

A loud blast sounded, and seconds later a gathering, growling slide of white was on the move, sweeping its way downhill. One moment Gelling and his men were still running, still trying for safety. The next, they had vanished.

And all that was left was silence.

“Only a baby-sized avalanche,” said Belzoni almost apologetically. “If people insist, I expect these three can be dug out alive.” He brushed some snow from his jacket. “Signor Adams, you were lucky not to end up dead beside my friend Guido — except that maybe they thought a live hostage might be useful.”

“Particularly if they had to persuade Susan Adams to drive the Volvo back to Britain,” Bannerman said. “She’d be a gift. Who’d want to make things awkward for a tragic widow traveling home?” He paused. “Belzoni, how the hell did you get here anyway?”

“I’ve been following you since first thing this morning,” said the onetime footballer cheerfully. “But now I’ll leave you. Too much publicity is bad in my business.” He gave a dry smile. “Signor Adams, this I know. It wouldn’t have been watches you carried for John Gelling.”

“Definitely not watches,” said Sub-inspector Josef Bart some time later.

Belzoni was gone before a three-car convoy of police reached the old chalet. The police quickly extracted their three prisoners from the snow, men too glad to be alive to have any fight left in them.

“You were foolish, Herr Adams,” said the sub-inspector once there was time to check. “Your Volvo’s altered fuel tank had acquired a new compartment that contained four kilos of heroin — a small fortune for any dealer.”

Susan Adams had also arrived and was holding onto her husband as if she’d never let go.

“I wish I could have thanked Belzoni,” she murmured.

Mark Adams shook his head. “I don’t think he’ll come near us again.”

He was wrong.

First there were family celebrations on both sides of the Atlantic — with an extra celebration as the news helped Mark Adams’ mother to recover. Then, a week after the Adamses finished their honeymoon break and returned home, a visitor limped into the Banner Agency office in Edinburgh.

Inevitably, it was Belzoni.

“Exactly what are you after?” asked David Bannerman suspiciously.

“Me?” Carlo Belzoni frowned and turned to Helen. “Do I deserve that, signorina?”

“Probably.” She winked at her brother. “Carlo, if you’re looking for any kind of a reward—”

“No need,” smiled Belzoni. He put an envelope in front of David. “The young lovebirds had their Volvo... ah... borrowed last night. This tells them where to find it, with only some incidentals removed.”

“Watches?” Bannerman groaned.

“What else?” Belzoni chuckled. “And an excellent profit for everyone — including the bride, of course. She deserved her share. We came to an agreement immediately after she got her husband back.”

Helen nursed her head in her hands for a moment and tried not to laugh. “Her husband doesn’t know?”

“Husbands should never know,” said Belzoni. He blinked as the daily one o’clock gun fired from Edinburgh Castle with a bang that vibrated through the room. “The unexpected is always best.” He considered Helen with an undisguised interest. “Now I would like to take both of you to lunch. Somewhere suitably expensive, eh?”

“My brother has a meeting.” said Helen Bannerman firmly. Her eyes twinkled. “But I haven’t — and I’m hungry. Lead on!”