Dead Men Don't Ski

What could be more pleasant, or indeed more healthy, than a skiing vacation high in the Alps at a delightfully secluded and quiet resort: or so thought Chief Inspector Tibbett and his wife, Emmy. Because one really didn't need to ski all that much--a token effort on the nursery slopes and then one could sit back and relax in the sun with a long drink and an exhausted air.

Not so.

Not when that exclusive little resort so neatly and conveniently set on a border may in fact be cover for the nefarious smuggling of who knows what kind of contraband--a delightful way-station for, say, drugs on their way to market via the innocuous bags and pocket books of innocent holiday-makers.

Or are they innocent?

One of them at least is not. For one of them is willing to kill.

And suddenly the sunny, snowy slopes, the high crevasses and hidden falls become ominous. Even the staid and safe-seeming chair lift is monstrously threatening, dangerous beyond the wildest nightmares of a timid skier.

For death is much longer lasting than a broken leg.