The Dead Mountaineer's Inn Read Online Free

jacket was draped over the back of an armchair; a newspaper was on the floor next to it.
    â€œHmm …” I said, puzzled. “It looks like someone’s already staying here.”
    The owner didn’t respond. His eyes were glued to the table. There was nothing out of the ordinary on it, except a large bronze ashtray, in which a straight-handled pipe lay. A Dunhill, I guessed. Smoke rose from the pipe.
    â€œStaying …” the owner said eventually. “Well, why not?”
    I didn’t know what to say to this, so I waited for him to go on. I couldn’t see my suitcase anywhere, but there was a checkered rucksack with a bunch of hotel-stickers on it in the corner. It wasn’t my rucksack.
    â€œEverything has remained as he left it before his climb,” the owner went on, his voice growing stronger. “On that terrible, unforgettable day six years ago.”
    I looked dubiously at the smoking pipe.
    â€œYes!” the owner cried. “There’s HIS pipe. That’s HIS jacket. And that over there is HIS alpenstock. ‘Don’t forget your alpenstock,’ I said to him that very morning. He just smiled and shook his head. ‘You don’t want to be stuck up there forever!’ I shouted, a cold premonition passing over me. ‘
Porquwapa
’, he said—in French. I still don’t know what it means.”
    â€œIt means ‘Why not?’ ” I said.
    The owner nodded sadly.
    â€œThat’s what I thought,” the owner said. “And there’s HIS rucksack. I refused to let the police rummage through his things …”
    â€œThat’s HIS newspaper, then,” I said. It was clearly yesterday’s edition of the
Mur Gazette
.
    â€œNo. Of course the newspaper isn’t his,” the owner said.
    â€œI got that impression too,” I agreed.
    â€œThe newspaper isn’t his, of course,” the owner repeated. “And someone else, naturally, has been smoking the pipe.”
    I muttered something about a lack of respect for the dead.
    â€œNot at all,” the owner retorted thoughtfully. “It’s much more complicated than that. It’s much more complicated, Mr. Glebsky. But we’ll talk about that later. Let’s get you to your room.”
    But before we left he peeked into the bathroom, opened the closet door and then closed it again, and walked over to the window. He swatted the curtains a few times. It seemed to me like he wanted to look under the bed too, but restrained himself.
    We went out into the hallway.
    â€œI remember Inspector Zgut telling me that he specialized in so-called ‘safecrackers,’ ” the owner said after a short silence. “And may I ask what your specialty is—if it’s not a secret?”
    He opened the door to room number four for me.
    â€œA boring one,” I said. “Bureaucratic crimes, embezzlement, forgery, fraudulent papers …”
    I liked my room immediately. Everything in it was squeaky clean, the air smelled fresh, the desk was absolutely dust-free, outside the clear window lay a view of the snow-covered valley and purple mountains.
    â€œA pity,” the owner said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I asked absently, as I glanced in at the bedroom. Kaisa was still there. She’d opened my suitcase and put away my things, and was busy fluffing the pillows.
    â€œThen again, it’s really not a pity at all,” the owner remarked. “Haven’t you ever noticed, Mr. Glebsky, how much more interesting the unknown is than the known? The unknown makes us think—it makes our blood run a little quicker and gives rise to various delightful trains of thought. It beckons, itpromises. It’s like a fire flickering in the depths of the night. But as soon as the unknown becomes known, it’s just as flat, gray and uninteresting as everything else.”
    â€œYou’re a poet, Mr. Snevar,” I