‘You said she doesn’t even ski.’
‘She’s good enough to fool around.’
‘But what’s she supposed to be doing up there?’
‘Taking pics of the royal party. Why not? He might even invite her for a drink.’
‘Yeah, why not? And when does she get to send the message — when she goes for a pee?’ Ryderbeit shook his head. ‘Those pocket R/Ts don’t work too well indoors.’
‘She’ll find a way. She’s not stupid, believe me.’
Ryderbeit nodded. ‘Yeah, I believe you. Okay, you bastard. When are you going to tell her? Or does she know already?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Are you going to tell her everything?’
‘If I have to.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t know the lady, mind, but if she’s anything like the rest of her type, I’d lay evens on her either getting all shirty and threatening to run to the law, or more likely just yapping her mouth off back in some flashy night spot in London Town. Those uppercrust bitches never could keep their fucking mouths shut! I suppose you’ll have to pay her?’ he added savagely.
‘That’s my business.’ Packer looked at his watch. ‘Time we got going.’ He turned and signalled for the bill. Again Ryderbeit made no effort to pay, but walked out in front of him through the door. Packer found him outside with his skis already strapped on, adjusting his goggles, gloves and sticks.
Ryderbeit pushed off first down the well-packed piste into the gathering gloom. Packer was not able to catch up with him.
CHAPTER 17
Packer looked for Sarah in the Chesa tearoom, and in the downstairs bar; then collected their key from the desk, where he was told there were no messages.
The maid had been to their room since he left: the sheets changed, Sarah’s clothes folded out of sight, her lotions and paints and accessories tidied into rows on the dressing-table. No whiff of scent, no fresh imprint on her bed. It was as though someone were trying to expunge all trace of her.
He went through and ran a bath, squirting in a few drops of Badedas, which Sarah never travelled without; then straightened up and looked in the mirror. Under the yellow light his eyes had that odd, wild look that Sarah said she so hated.
The hell with her, he thought, and leaned on the basin. God, I need a drink. Damn that Rhodesian Jew and his silly little ‘lady’s gun’. But then, what was a gun for if it wasn’t meant to make you feel nervous?
He turned off the bath, went into the bedroom, considered taking one of Sarah’s ten-milligram Valiums — another essential she never left behind — but decided against it; and with a sense of righteous self-denial stretched out on his bed. He had forgotten about the bath.
He dozed, eyes half open, and come to with a start. The light was still on, the room empty. He looked at his watch. 7.40. He was ten minutes late. He stood up and pulled on his anorak, with the map still folded inside; went downstairs, took another look round the tearoom, then handed in his key and went out into the chill dusk.
A sharp breeze had come up and the slush was already freezing on the short slope down to the Silvretta Hotel. To his right, behind the railway station, the cables of the Gotschnabahn whined against the black wall of mountain. The last car had come down at 6.00 p.m.
Inside the hotel he collided with a woman going out, and swore before apologizing. He blinked round the bright lobby and for a moment had trouble getting his bearings. The desk clerk surveyed him with discreet disapproval. ‘I have come to see Monsieur Cassis,’ said Packer.
‘Your name, please?’
‘Burton. B-u-r-t-o-n.’
The clerk consulted a list, lifted a house telephone, glanced down and murmured into the mouthpiece, then hung up. He nodded at Packer. ‘Monsieur Cassis will see you. Room 104.’
Packer walked away to the lift.
‘Ah, come in — my friend! Please, be comfortable!’ Pol held the door open, shuffling sideways in a pair of flipflops that were several sizes too large for his tiny feet. He waved Packer towards a wingchair covered in shiny brown rayon.
It was a big room, full of ornamental drapes and reproduction furniture, now strewn with the same disorder that Packer had found in Pol’s room in Amsterdam. One Louis Vuitton suitcase stood open and only half unpacked in the middle of the floor. Packer found a chair and sat down, after removing a brand-new shirt, still in its wrapper.
‘You look tired, Charles.’
‘Yes.’ Pol had waddled back to a sofa and slumped down next to a large open box balanced on the arm. He gave an exhausted flap of his hands. ‘Yes, I am a little tired. I have passed an energetic day.’ He plucked a chocolate the size of an egg out of the box and squeezed it between his red lips. The rest of his face had a waxen pallor, with mushroom pouches under the eyes; his silk shirt was crumpled, tieless, with the buttons done up wrong; the zip of his oyster-white trousers was open. Packer had the impression that he had disturbed him, probably from sleep.
‘You would like tea or coffee?’ Pol mumbled through chocolate; ‘or perhaps some Passeuger water?’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
Pol licked his fingers, then wiped them fastidiously on a tissue he had pulled from a carton beside him, and which he now dropped at his feet. The carpet round him was littered with them, like white carnations. He smiled — a rather forced smile, Packer thought. ‘You also look tired, my dear Packer. Was your expedition
