White Silence: Murder in the Alps

Hochgrat, October 1950. A cable car hums in the dark above a snowbound mountain town, and beneath it lies Viktor Hallmann — the hotelier who built half this valley. The doctor calls it a fall. The town calls it the mountain's doing. You are Inspector Vera Kessler, sent up from the valley because someone upstairs doesn't believe the mountain.

Walk the town. Work the scene. Start at the taped-off station terrace: a stopped watch, scraped steps, a station log with a line that shouldn't exist. Then the case opens up — a grand hotel glowing on its terrace, a market square with a frozen fountain, a church knoll, a quiet residence row. Ten clues wait in the snow, on desks, in a brazier, under a coat that smells of engine oil.

Question five people with five reasons to lie. The housekeeper who sees everything. The doctor who signed too early. The operator with a grudge and a solid alibi. The chanteuse who hears more than she sings. And the nephew who inherits. Every clue you log opens new questions; every contradiction you catch pushes a story until it cracks.

Then say the name. On the Alpenrose terrace, choose the killer — and back the accusation with three pieces of evidence. The right name with nothing behind it walks free. The wrong name ends the case for good. Connect the threads in your notebook, and dawn finds Hochgrat with nowhere left to hide.

A complete one-sitting mystery — about 30–45 minutes — built for a phone: left thumb to walk, right thumb to look, one brass button for everything that matters.