Ellis Peters - George Felse 05 - The Piper On The Mountain by Ellis Peters Page A

rooms on the landward side of the house, including lounge and bar, and not a window would be closed on a day like this. The English-speaking waiter was not in the dining-room; he might be in the bar, he might be in the kitchen, he might be almost anywhere, and out of Tossa’s reach, but at least the available rooms could be covered. Dominic was launched on a course from which he could not and would not turn back. If he had to listen from hiding he would do it, yes, or at keyholes if necessary, anything to feel that he had the knowledge to help Tossa when the need arose. If it never arose, so much the better, she need never know; and nobody else ever should.
    The garden was green, shrubby and wild, its lawns scythed instead of mown, as was the custom here. The thick, clovery grass swallowed his footsteps, and the level of the windows just cleared his head. He walked softly the length of the wall, listening for Tossa’s voice; and suddenly there it was, clear, urgent and low, sailing out from the open window above him.
    “But
why
should he leave like that?
Something
must have happened. Didn’t he say anything to account for it?”
    “No, madame, nothing at all.” A slightly beery bass, rich and willing to please. “All was as usual with him that morning, only the rain kept him indoors. Here he sat and waited, and read the English papers. There was nothing.”
    “But there were other people here. Did he talk to anyone?”
    “Only to me, madame. I was on duty here.” The waiter’s voice was patient, puzzled and reserved. Did she really think she could run round the district like this, asking fierce questions about the sudden death of a foreigner, and not call attention to herself? “We had not many callers, because of the rain. Only residents. There were a few, of course. Some herdsmen came in, local people, and drank coffee. They were playing cards, the English gentleman went over and watched them for a while. He was asking me about the pack they used, and the game they played. You have other games, this was strange to him. When the men left he picked up the paper on which they had been keeping the score, and examined it. But what is there in that?”
    “But then very soon he packed and left?”
    “About half an hour afterwards I saw him come down with his bag, and go to pay his account. He asked me about getting a car.” The note of constraint had become a softer, more deliberate intonation of wonder and interest. He went on answering questions almost experimentally. To see what she would ask next?
    “But he was interested? In these herdsmen and their game? Did you see this paper with the score on it? Was there anything special about it? But how could there be!” said Tossa hopelessly, and heaved a long, frustrated sigh.
    “I did not see it, madame. He put it in his pocket and took it away with him.”
    The silence was abrupt and deep, like a fall down a well, but not into darkness. After a moment Tossa said, in an eased voice: “I believe his widow came and collected all his things. You don’t know…” She drew back suddenly and warily from what she had been about to ask him, and said instead: “He asked you about the men, too? What about them?”
    “Simply who they were, from what place they came. I think he was interested in the dress. The two older men wore the old, traditional dress from Zdiar.”
    “And which of them was the one keeping the score?”
    “Oh, that was a young man I know well, but not from here, he comes from across the valley.”
    “Did you tell Mr. Terrell about him, too?”
    “I think he asked me his name, and where he came from, yes.”
    In the same muted voice, but now curiously slowed, as though she had reached the end of one stage of her journey,
    Tossa asked: “And what
was
his name?”
    “His name,” said the English-speaking waiter simply, “is Ivo Martínek. His father keeps a hut, over there in the Low Tatras.”
     
    to sec reached the hall in a frenzied dash, just