“That won’t be necessary,” Max said. “Société Chamoniarde de Secours en Montagne, Place du Mont Blanc, five-three-one-six-eight-nine. Or the clinic in Route du Valais, five-three-zero-one-eight-two.”
The sergeant was still staring, long after Max had disappeared through the door.
The Société Chamoniarde de Secours was in the charge of a dark, athletic-looking young man seated behind a battered pine desk. He looked up as Max walked in. and his instant thought was that he hoped this odd-looking visitor did not plan to climb a mountain.
“Can I help you?”
“Detective Max Hornung.” He showed his warrant card.
“What can I do for you, Detective Hornung?”
“I am investigating the death of a man named Sam Roffe.” Max said.
The man behind the desk sighed. “Ah, yes. I liked Mr. Roffe very much. It was an unfortunate accident.”
“Did you see it happen?”
A shake of the head. “No. I took my rescue team up as soon as we received their distress signal, but there was nothing we could do. Mr. Roffe’s body had fallen into a crevasse. It will never be found.”
“How did it happen?”
“There were four climbers in the party. The guide and Mr. Roffe were last. As I understand it, they were traversing an icy moraine. Mr. Roffe slipped and fell.”
“Wasn’t he wearing a harness?”
“Of course. His rope broke.”
“Does a thing like that happen often?”
“Only once.” He smiled at his little joke, then saw the detective’s look and added quickly, “Experienced climbers always check their equipment thoroughly, but accidents still happen.”
Max stood there a moment, thinking. “I’d like to speak to the guide.”
“Mr. Roffe’s regular guide didn’t make the climb that day.”
Max blinked, “Oh? Why not?”
“As I recall, he was ill. Another guide took his place.”
“Do you have his name?”
“If you’ll wait a minute, I can look it up for you.”
The man disappeared into an inner office. In a few minutes he returned with a slip of paper in his hand. “The guide’s name was Hans Bergmann.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He’s not a local.” He consulted the piece of paper. “He comes from a village called Lesgets. It’s about sixty kilometers from here.”
Before Max left Chamonix, he stopped at the desk of the Kleine Scheidegg hotel and talked to the room clerk. “Were you on duty when Mr. Roffe was staying here?”
“Yes,” the clerk said. “The accident was a terrible thing, terrible.”
“Mr. Roffe was alone here?”
The clerk shook his head. “No. He had a friend with him.”
Max stared. “A friend?”
“Yes. Mr. Roffe made the reservation for both of them.”
“Could you give me the name of his friend?”
“Certainly,” the clerk said. He pulled out a large ledger from beneath the desk and began to turn back the pages. He stopped, ran his fingers down a page and said, “Ah, here we are…”
It took almost three hours for Max to drive to Lesgets in a Volkswagen, the cheapest rental car he could find, and he almost passed through it It was not even a village. The place consisted of a few shops, a small Alpine lodge, and a general store with a single gas pump in front of it.
Max parked in front of the lodge and walked in. There were half a dozen men seated in front of an open fireplace, talking. The conversation trailed off as Max entered.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I’m looking for Herr Hans Bergmann.”
“Who?”
“Hans Bergmann. The guide. He comes from this village.”
An eldely man with a face that was a weather map of his years spat into the fireplace and said, “Somebody’s been kidding you, mister. I was born in Lesgets. I never heard of any Hans Bergmann.”
CHAPTER 34
It was the first day that Elizabeth had gone to the office since the death of Kate Erling a week earlier. Elizabeth entered the downstairs lobby with trepidation, responding mechanically to the greetings of the doorman and guards. At the far end of the lobby she saw workmen replacing the smashed elevator car. She thought about Kate Erling, and Elizabeth could visualize the terror she must have felt as she plunged twelve interminable stories to her death. She knew that she could never ride in that elevator again.