Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 21, No. 4, September 1967

The Contract by Jerry Jacobson

He watched four men ski down the slope. Soon — there would be only three.

The warming hut lay in the center of a flat hill of spring snow midway between the top of Honey Mountain and the ski lodge in the valley below. Skiers coming down one of the mountain’s runs often stopped off at the hut to thaw out and take coffee or a snack before challenging the remainder of the downhill run.

The hut’s two stories were chalet-like and low-eaved, fashioned of cedar and angled glass. On a clear day, with a powerful pair of binoculars, one could make out the faces of the skiers in the lodge a mile below.

Hahn came in off the hill and brushed the bottoms of his ski pants free of heavy, wet snow. He snapped his feet free of his bindings and stood watching a cluster of four skiers as they moved into serpentine action at the top of the mountain.

The man in the white parka was Buzas and the three others his bodyguards. There would be more bodyguards in the ski lodge in the Valley, just as there probably would be some in the warming hut as well. For a minute Hahn watched as the four skiers fell into a protective pattern of 2-1-1 around Buzas. Buzas always took great care to be well protected.

Hahn jammed his skis and poles in a mound of old snow and went quickly into the warming hut. Oh the first floor there was a small bar and a sandwich counter and a large, open living room scattered with wood, lounge chairs. There was a fireplace crackling with thick-chunks of cedar. On the second floor was a coffee bar and a smaller lounge and an observation deck of board railings and thick oak planks collared out over the snow on all four sides.

Hahn took off his ear-warmers and glasses and gloves and looked casually about the hut, picking out the things he had been briefed about. He saw the bar and the hallway leading to the observation deck and the short squad of pay telephones, not switchboard connected, halfway down.

He moved across the room to the bar and slipped into a leather chair. He sat quietly next to the two men he had caught looking at him through the bar’s mirror when he came in.

He placed his things on the bar near his left elbow and ordered a hot-rum with an dunce of scotch. The man next to Hahn was looking at him, checking him over. He was stout, with a wrestler’s thick neck and a fighter’s short legs and he sat stiff-backed on his chair like a winning boxer waiting out the time between rounds.

“I saw you come in,” the man said to Hahn. “Did you come in off the hill? Have you been skiing?”

“Yes, I have,” Hahn told him. He had noticed the actions of the second man. He had gone outside, probably to check over Hahn’s gear. He could search all day and not find the rifle.

“Is the altitude any bother?” said the squat man, making conversation.

“Not to me,” Hahn said.

“And how is the snow? Is it to your liking?”

“I like it any way.”

“What is it like today?”

“Spring snow,” Hahn said. “Mostly spring snow.”

“That’s the best kind, I hear,” said the man, testing Hahn’s authenticity as a skier.

“No,” said Hahn, “it’s not, actually. It makes a deep crust and is very treacherous.”

“Of course. How stupid. I was thinking of another kind.”

Hahn had a quick peek into the mirror and saw the squat man’s partner coming back to the bar. He gave an almost imperceptible shake with his head, as if to say Hahn was all checked out and harmless. He sat down in the seat next to the squat man, looked at Hahn and smiled.

“I’ve been talking to an expert skier,” said the squat one to his friend. “He is probably some champion or other and I don’t even know it.”

“Ahh,” said the squat one’s friend, nodding politely. “Mister—”

“Drake,” said Hahn. “Paul Drake.”

“Do you come here often, Mr. Drake?” asked the taller one.

“Yes, quite often,” Hahn told him. “Once or twice a month during the entire season. I’ve been doing it for years.”

“Then you must know this area like the palm of your hand,” said the taller one.

“Pretty well,” Hahn said. “I’ve been down most of the forty-three runs and nearly all of the lifts.”

“They have many lifts here?” asked the squat one.

“Yes, more than any other resort,” Hahn told him. “Fifteen.”

“Fifteen,” repeated the taller one, with slight wonder. “I had no idea there were that many.”

All at once the three men Hahn had seen on the hill came into the wanning hut. Hahn was careful not to react to their appearance, but watched them in the bar mirror. One went immediately for the hallway leading to the observation deck. The other two stayed by the front door to the hut, obviously waiting for Buzas.

“Do you two do much skiing?” Hahn asked into the faces in the mirror.

“No not much,” the squat one said, preoccupied.

“We just come up for the relaxation,” said the other, also slightly preoccupied.

Hahn saw their eyes flick when Buzas appeared from outside. Buzas was wearing that white parka and underneath a black neck-warmer of heavy wool. It would be easy picking Buzas out in the lodge in the valley from the observation deck of the warming hut. The white sweater and the black neck-warmer would be unmistakable.

The two bodyguards across the room, with Buzas, went down the hallway to the sandwich bar, where Buzas devoured a sandwich and drank some coffee from a white, plastic cup. The two who had been sitting with Hahn at the bar had already left to join the cluster, of men across the room.

In another minute the four bodyguards and Buzas were joined by the fifth bodyguard, who had checked upstairs. They all stood around Buzas like a shield. Only Buzas ate and drank. The others just clustered and kept a watch on the people and waited for him to finish his lunch.

When Buzas had finished eating and the six of them left the warming hut for the last leg of steep slope down to the lodge. Hahn waited at the bar another minute, then crossed the lounge area to the hallway where the pay telephones were located. He slipped into one of the cubicles, closed the door and dialed the number of one of the pay telephones in the valley lodge.

After two rings a voice answered. “Yes?”

“Hahn,” Hahn said. “Belnick?”

“Belnick,” said the voice. “Go ahead.”

“They have just left the warming hilt,” Hahn reported, swiftly. “You should be able to see them coming down the slope. There are five plus Buzas.”

“Good,” said Belnick. “Then, I imagine you can do it any time you wish. When do you plan to do it?”

“I want to do it right away,” Hahn said. “As soon as possible. There is no telling when I might be found out.”

“Good,” said the voice. “Mr. Krause will be pleased. Where will you do it?”

“From the observation deck,” Hahn said. “I think that is the best place.”

“And you have your escape route all planned? If anyone were to find out who hired you it would be extremely embarrassing to Mr. Krause. And dangerous.”

“I have that all worked out,” Hahn told Belnick. “After it is over I plan to strike out cross-country on my skis. I have a map of all of the highways in this region. I will pick one not connected to the lodge, pretend to have car trouble and hitch a ride with someone. In a couple of hours I should be long gone.”

“Excellent, excellent,” came Belnick’s voice.

“About my money for the contract,” Hahn said.

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Hahn,” Belnick said. “The money will be waiting for you in Chicago when you return.”

“Good,” Hahn said. “Then I’ll see you in Chicago.”

“In Chicago, Mr. Hahn,” said Belnick. “Good-by. And good hunting.”

“Good-by.”

Hahn put up the phone, feeling very pleased with his negotiations and went to the back door of the warming hut. When the slope was empty of skiers he went out the rear door and down into a gulley of snow, where he dug up the watertight rucksack from its three-week old grave.

He went back inside and went up to the observation deck. For a moment he stood very quiet, looking down into the valley and the foursome of skiers diminishing in the distance. He sensed a certain danger on the observation platform.

It was entirely possible that someone would come out on to the observation deck for a breath of air or a look at the majestic view just as he was assembling the rifle or taking aim. That would be extremely embarrassing. A closer range seemed a preferable alternative — something around a thousand yards.

He scanned the slopes ahead and down toward the valley and spotted a likely looking side slope two hundred yards north and a thousand yards down the hill. It seemed the perfect spot. With the scope-sight Buzas’ chest would be a mile-wide at that distance. All he had to do was pull off his shot, disassemble the rifle and then strike out east across the snowy slopes. Smiling, he turned and started back downstairs to put on his skis.

“He’s gone from the observation deck, now,” said Belnick, the man who had talked with Hahn on the telephone. “Maybe something’s gone wrong.”

“Probably he does not like the distance,” said Krause, from the bed. “Probably he wants to get closer. Give him all the time he needs.”

The two men at the window and the one on the bed waited. Then Belnick said, “There he is. He’s coming from the hut. Now, he’s stopping and putting on his skis.” He adjusted the binoculars slightly. “Now, he’s moving off down the hill.”

“Good,” said Krause, “he’s coming in for an easier shot. Buzas and the others should be in the lodge by now. Hahn will have a thousand good glimpses of him. It will be like looking down at fish in a barrel. Where is he now?”

“He has stopped on a small side slope about a thousand yards from the warming hut,” Belnick announced. “He is off the main slope and there is no traffic. Now he is kneeling and removing his rucksack. Now, he’s assembling his rifle.”

“Excellent,” said Krause, not moving from the bed. “Good.” He shifted his eyes toward the third man who stood off to one side of the big windows of sliding glass.

“You better get ready,” he instructed.

The third man nodded grimly and walked to a spot on the wall where a rifle was leaning. He snatched it up and slipped a shell into the breach.

“Wait until he has drawn his bead on Buzas and fired,” Krause ordered from the bed. “That way the commotion will be perfect.”

“He’s kneeling to fire, now,” said Belnick.

“From this distance only a blind man could miss,” said the one with the rifle. “Push open the window.”

Belnick opened the window.