The Dead Mountaineer's Inn Read Online Free Page B

circuses …”
    â€œBarnstoker?
The
Barnstoker?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe. He’s a hypnotist … And then there’s Brun …”
    â€œWho’s that—Brun?”
    â€œThe one who rides the motorcycle in those pants. Another troublemaker, but young.”
    â€œIs that all?”
    â€œNo, there’s someone else. He came not long ago. Only it’s just … He’s just here. He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t eat. All we know is that he’s here …”
    â€œI don’t understand,” I confessed.
    â€œNobody understands. He exists—that’s all I know. He reads newspapers. The other day he stole Mr. Du Barnstoker’s shoes. We looked everywhere, but we couldn’t find them. He’d taken them to the museum and left them there. And he leaves footprints everywhere …”
    â€œWhat kind of footprints?” I wanted to understand her.
    â€œWet ones. Up and down the hallway. And he always calls me. First I get a call from one room, then it’s from another. I go, and there’s no one there.”
    â€œAll right,” I said with a sigh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Kaisa. But that’s all right. I think I’d better take a shower.”
    I put out my cigarette in the virginally clean ashtray and went into the bedroom to get underwear. Once there, I put a stack of books on the side-table at the head of the bed,thought briefly that maybe I’d brought them along with me in vain, kicked off my shoes, stuffed my feet into a pair of bathroom slippers, grabbed a bath towel and went to the shower. Kaisa had already left, and the ashtray on the table once again shone with cleanliness and purity. The sound of billiard balls clicking reached me from somewhere down the deserted hallway—that must be the “dull troublemaker.” Mentally speaking. What had she said his name was? Simone.
    The door to the shower was at the top of the stairs. It appeared to be locked. I stood there indecisively for a few minutes, carefully twisting the plastic doorknob back and forth. Heavy, unhurried steps were coming towards me down the hallway. You could always use the one downstairs, I thought. Or, come to think of it, you could do something else. You could try a few runs on those skis. I stared absentmindedly at the wooden staircase, which appeared to lead all the way up to the roof. Or you could go up on the roof and take a look at the view. They say that the sunsets and sunrises here are indescribably beautiful. And then again, what the hell was with the shower door being locked? Or is someone sitting in there? It’s quiet … I tried the handle again. All right. Never mind the shower. There’s no need to hurry. I turned around and went back.
    I could tell immediately that something was different in my room. After a second I understood: there was a smell of pipe smoke, the same one I’d smelled in the inn’s museum. I glanced quickly at the ashtray. There was no burning pipe—just a tiny mound of ash with particles of tobacco in it. He’s just here, I remembered. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t eat—he just leaves footprints.
    And then someone nearby yawned loudly. The sound ofclicking claws came lazily from the bedroom, as Lel the St. Bernard gave me a look and then stretched with a grin.
    â€œSo you’re the one who’s been smoking?” I said.
    Lel blinked and wagged his head. Like he was shaking a fly off.

2 .
    Judging by the footprints in the snow, someone had already tried to ski here. They’d made it fifty meters, falling at every step, and then turned around, sunk to their knees by this point, and lugged their skis and poles back, dropping them, picking them back up and dropping them again. Their frost-covered curses had not yet settled over the blue gouges and scars in the snow. But the rest of the snow-covered