‘Yeah.’ Ryderbeit’s fingers caressed the hard angle of his jaw. His eye was staring across at the red and white bags by the door. ‘What happened to those guns, by the way? And why the funny swap for the skis?’
Packer shrugged. ‘You know Pol better than I do. He likes to play games. There are some people, one hears, who get their kicks out of sending their friends beautifully wrapped parcels containing dogs’ turds. Maybe it was the same with old Charles — it tickled his sense of humour to have me come back here to unwrap the guns in their ski bags, only to find they were skis all the time!’
‘Pretty funny sense of humour.’
‘Hilarious,’ said Packer. Expensive, too, he thought; but it still didn’t prove anything except, perhaps, that Pol was not really interested in money, only in its effect on others. A few thousand pounds frivolously expended on a spoilt little foreign girl he hardly knew, probably stimulated some hidden vanity in the man; in any case, it would hardly make much of a dent in his fee from the Ruler — however much that was.
Ryderbeit was looking at him with a seriousness that Packer had not seen before. ‘Okay, soldier. I’ll buy it so far — on approval. Only one thing doesn’t figure. How the hell does Fat Man think you can shoot me on the Gotschnagrat tomorrow afternoon without a gun?’
Packer nodded. ‘Yes, it’s bothered me a bit, too. It could be an initiative test, of course — to see if I’ve got the wit and contacts to find myself a high-velocity rifle in a fashionable Swiss skiing resort, at about eighteen hours’ notice. What do you think, Sammy?’
Ryderbeit peered into his empty glass. ‘I’m thinking I’m still thirsty. You don’t have anything more to drink up here, do you?’
‘Only Sarah’s perfume — if you like Guerlain’s “Chamade”.’
‘Skip it. I’ll get something down at the bar.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Packer. ‘You’ve shown yourself enough round here.’ He stood up. Ryderbeit tilted back the brim of his hat and leered at him.
‘Sort of anxious, aren’t you, boy — in case your Miss Sarah takes a shine to me, maybe?’
‘Petrified.’
Ryderbeit raised his hand. ‘Thanks, soldier. I’ll switch back to Scotch — Johnnie Walker Black Label — if they’ve got it. And if you need any help with Sarah’s boyfriend, just let me know.’
Packer went out and closed the door, checking that he had the key. Something moved at the end of the corridor, but when he looked there was no one there. It was a hotel, after all, and he didn’t have exclusive rights. He was just being careful, like a man walking through snake country.
He went to the stairs.
Sarah was somewhere in the middle of the dance floor, looking as though she were performing a gymnastic exercise. It was impossible to see who her partner was.
Packer was in no hurry to signal his presence to her. He returned to the bar, where he was finally relieved of the equivalent of £8 in exchange for a bottle of Scotch of dubious pedigree. As he came away, the music stopped and he found himself walking against the crush of dancers. He almost tripped over Sarah in the dark, striking her with the end of the whisky bottle which he was holding, unwrapped, like an Indian club. She gave a yelp, then saw him and sucked in her mouth in a theatrical pout. At the same moment a bald, youngish man with a soft-hard face and a pearl pin in his white neckerchief, stepped between them and said, ‘Can’t you damn well look where you’re going?’
‘It’s all right, DJ, he’s a friend of mine.’ She smiled obliquely at each of them. ‘Owen Packer — D’Arcy-James,’ and she added a multi-barrelled name which Packer missed as the music started again. He glared at the man, then blinked. People were pushing into them from all sides; two men in dark suits were watching them from a table in an alcove. One of them was wearing dark glasses. Packer was vaguely aware that D’Arcy-James was waiting to have his hand shaken. His fingers were big and clammy. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize —’ he gave a hearty smile — ‘such a damn awful crowd in here.’
‘Terrible,’ Packer murmured. Sarah was guiding them towards a table. He followed her as though he were walking in deep snow.
There were two other men at the table, and a girl in a headscarf with the scraped features of a model. One of the men wore a dinner jacket and they were all smiling. Packer felt very cold and stood with his back to the room, with that familiar prickly sensation along the nape of his neck.
D’Arcy-James began making the introductions, but Packer had difficulty concentrating. He found himself standing, still holding the whisky bottle, and muttering something about having to go. Sarah hissed below him: ‘What’s the matter with you? You’re not drunk, are you?’
‘I wish to God I were,’ he said, and made a formal apology to D’Arcy-James, who interrupted, shouting above the music, ‘We’ve asked Sarah over to a party tomorrow night in St Moritz. Hope you’ll be able to come too!’
‘Maybe,’ said Packer coldly; and as he turned, saw Sarah sitting tightly on her chair, her face rigid with embarrassment. He leaned over her. ‘I must see you, up in the room. It’s urgent. In a quarter of an hour — no longer.’
‘I’ll see,’ she said, in a small blank voice.
He nodded and repeated, ‘A quarter of an hour!’ in a harsh whisper, and left.
As he pushed his way across the floor he kept his eyes on the entrance, away from the tables along the wall; reached the narrow winding staircase, which he climbed two steps at a time; came to
