‘Was he Swiss?’
‘I cannot be certain, sir, but my colleague thinks that he was a foreigner.’ His eyes dropped and he looked embarrassed. ‘Perhaps I should not mention it, sir, but my colleague says that he left a large tip.’
‘In Swiss francs?’
‘No, sir. American dollars. But my colleague does not think that he was American.’ He gave a deprecating bow and began to turn away.
‘Wait a minute,’ Packer called. ‘My friend upstairs was told that the second lot of parcels was brought this afternoon by a big Frenchman with a beard.’ The porter nodded. ‘Did he bring anything else, later on? A small box in brown paper? It was also sent up to my room this afternoon when I was out.’
The porter frowned, then looked up with a smile. ‘Ah yes! There was another parcel — a small one, as you say — delivered this evening just after you had gone out. At about seven o’clock, I think.’
Packer moved closer. ‘Can you remember who brought it?’
‘Yes. It was a messenger from the Hotel Silvretta.’
‘You have been very kind.’ Packer turned back towards the stairs. The riddle of Pol’s opulent farewell gift to Sarah was still not solved; but at least he now knew that the necklace and the unsolicited Hartmann skis were not connected. He took another look at the stairs down to the bar, then bounded back up to his room.
Ryderbeit had evidently been applying himself to his task with some zest. He had already emptied two drawers of Sarah’s blouses and scarves and underclothes and stuffed them, like dirty laundry, into her smart, well-travelled suitcases; and was now ransacking the cupboard full of her dresses.
‘Right!’ Packer said, closing the door. ‘Pol delivered the goods on time all right. And someone else, who sounds suspiciously like one of the Ruler’s boys, delivered the first little present — the Hartmann skis — before I got back.’
For the moment Ryderbeit’s unfamiliar assignment seemed to fill him with more enthusiasm than Packer’s news; and Packer had an ugly thought. He went quickly to the dressing-table and checked the left-hand drawer. The case from Grima was still there and looked untouched. He took it out and slipped it down the side of his own suitcase. ‘I’m just going to have another look at those skis, Sammy.’
This time he unzipped the Hartmann bags with the same caution that he had used when he had first opened the Grima case. He checked both pairs of skis, paying special attention to the patent safety bindings, but could find nothing abnormal. He then drew out the two pairs of sticks.
They were of the standard length, and about half an inch thick. The material was a shiny alloy whose main advantages were strength and lightness. Packer balanced one of them midway on the palm of his hand. He guessed it weighed at least five ounces, perhaps a little more. In any case, it was certainly not lighter than any other ski sticks he had used. He also noticed that it was slightly heavier at the pointed end, even taking into account the circular snow guards.
Very steadily, carefully, he carried the stick on his outstretched hand across to his bed, opposite where Ryderbeit was gleefully screwing up an Yves St Laurent cocktail dress to the size of a grapefruit and punching it into the top of Packer’s leather hold-all.
Packer sat down and fingered the tip of the stick. It was about two inches long, and did not seem to be welded into the alloy frame. He took the point between his finger and thumb and applied a very slight pressure upwards, into the stick. The point did not move, but he could sense that it was not firm. Once again he balanced the weight of the whole stick on his hand. Hartmann’s hadn’t won their world reputation like this. The thing was at least two ounces too heavy.
He now examined the handle. Above the red and white straps, the top of the stick was a concave knob. He felt it for weight and seemed satisfied. ‘Sammy, I’m going downstairs for a moment. If Sarah comes up before I get back, watch out for her right foot — she has a nasty habit of kicking one on the shin if she’s not happy.’
He went downstairs again, out into the freezing night, to the taxi rank near the darkened railway station. It took him five minutes’ haggling, and a deposit of a 100-franc note, before he got what he wanted. He folded them under his jacket and returned to the hotel, where Ryderbeit had finished packing and had their luggage marshalled in an impressive row inside the door. The room looked surprisingly spartan and tidy. There was still no sign of Sarah.
Packer took out an oil-clogged monkey wrench from inside his jacket, together with a length of wire and a pair of pliers; then sat down on the bed, with one of the ski sticks across his knees, and took hold of the monkey wrench. He looked at Ryderbeit and paused. ‘Sammy, this may be a bit tricky. If you feel like going for a little walk, I won’t hold it against you.’
‘I’ll stay.’ Ryderbeit had stopped in the middle of the floor and was watching him, holding the open whisky bottle which was already a third empty. ‘I trust you’re not going to fuck up a perfectly decent ski stick?’
Packer said nothing. Although the alloy was thin, it was very strong. His arm was aching by the time he saw the first crack in the metal. He screwed the jaws of the wrench tighter, until the top of the stick was almost flattened. His mouth was dry. The alloy was now beginning to split on both sides. He gave a final twist, and the handle cracked off just above the straps.
‘You got a knife?’ he asked Ryderbeit.
