The King of the Rainy Country

by Nicolas Freeling

  Van der Valk did not mention Jean-Claude Marschal. He knew what answer he would get. That a missing millionaire might be a horrible great headache to some finance company but that all the millions wouldn’t put more than twenty-four hours in the day.

  Bratfisch obviously felt he had been a little too uncooperative.

  ‘I’ll help you all I can, naturally. Next week it’ll be different. This last few days is the worst. Last classic of the season. Blame it on the mountain air. The old women are the worst. They dress up as though they were twenty, leave money and jewels all over their hotel rooms, walk off a terrace leaving mink jackets on the backs of chairs – you know how many people come each year new to the winter sports? Twenty per cent over the year before. And you know what it is here, since the Olympics? Forty per cent. Every man I have is up to the ears and short of sleep. Next Monday the circus will be gone. Try me then, if you haven’t found them. Servus.’

  ‘Servus,’ said Van der Valk. He wasn’t particularly bothered.

  *

  They weren’t being disagreeable; it was all perfectly true.

  Look at those old women in the tea-room there, gorging on whipped cream. And as for handsome middle-aged men – even if they weren’t handsome they looked it in brilliant sweaters and tight ski-trousers: you couldn’t see their hair under knitted ski-caps, and you couldn’t tell whether they were thirty or fifty; and if they hadn’t had girls when they came they had now. German girls, English, Danish, Finnish girls: the Innsbruck Anschluss was as classic as the Kandahar Run.

  The wonderful new snowboots were hurting his unaccustomed feet; he hobbled rather over the creaky snow. ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’ he muttered, catching sight of his reflection in a round knitted cap with a bobble on the top. But at least he no longer stuck out in this crowd like Miss Bikini-Bust.

  The reception desk was full of people writing picture postcards. He asked for a telephone line to Amsterdam, was told there would be an hour’s delay, and went into the bar, where he drank gentian and took his boots off surreptitiously in the dim light under the table.

  ‘Mr Canisius? Van der Valk here. Speaking from the Hotel Kandahar at Innsbruck. He’s around here somewhere. He was in Germany. He went off with a girl. Yes, just picked up a young girl and seemingly talked her into leaving home without a word of warning. That got signalled, of course, by the German Police. The two are here now. They’ll find it very difficult to leave now, because all the borders are on the lookout. I’ve no doubt I’ll find them, but it’s still very crowded with holidaymakers here, and it may take some days. Does this news surprise you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ came Canisius’ voice, dry, level, practised at speaking over long-distance telephones. The line was astonishingly good: mountains or not, he could have been in the next room. ‘It is exactly the kind of unbalanced act I had feared. A possible scandal looming. Now you know why I was emphatic about discretion. Do the local police know all this?’

  ‘They know about the girl. That is the pretext for my inquiries. Nobody knows about him yet, though the German police know something, naturally, since I had to tell them. They haven’t released anything to the press, though.’

  ‘Good, good. Excellent. I have no doubt that you can find a pretext for keeping Mr Marschal from any further escapades until I can be notified. I will know then what steps to take. I am very pleased that you have got on his traces so quickly; congratulations. Remember, Mr Van de Valk – discretion. He may do something unexpected if he finds himself cornered.’

  ‘You think that he is unbalanced, do you?’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself about that, my dear inspector,’ the voice was silky. ‘Remember that we are all acting for the protection of himself as well as of very considerable interests. Ring me again the moment you have any news. Goodbye now.’

  He went and had dinner. He was extremely sleepy from the mountain air, and his leg muscles were aching: he got some stuff from the porter to grease the stiff newness out of the famous snow-boots, and put his legs in hot and cold water. But he was a little overtired and overtense.

  He had left his gloves somewhere, and would have to buy some more, and snowglasses. He was beginning to understand Mr Bratfisch, especially after reading the local paper.

  He could speak and understand German well enough, but this mountain dialect was a bit beyond him; they had all sorts of words for things that foxed him. He was a bit of a fish out of water here: he had never been on skis in his life, and didn’t intend to start, thanks, and get shipped home with plaster on his leg. He would have to do a lot of walking, he could see that. In the snow; on the slopes – those poor leg muscles were going to suffer. Too bad about them.

  He didn’t understand a thing about Jean-Claude Marschal. To talk about being unbalanced … Running away suddenly with the tanzmariechen – he was sure there was nothing premeditated about it – was that really unbalanced? Mr Canisius was very quck to say it was. Anne-Marie had remarked that it didn’t do to take the word of a Canisius as an infallible guide to understanding Marschal. What sort of a fellow was he? Romantic, impetuous, contemptuous of consequence. There was something paradoxically schoolboyish about a millionaire who has private bank accounts in half the major towns in Europe, keeping them under the names of Napoleonic Marshals. He was giving a romantic dash and sheen to that prosaic money. What was the point? Yes, he thought, he would have to go to the library and get a list of all those Napoleonic characters. Likely as not there was an account here in Innsbruck: he recalled vaguely that there were several Alsatian ones – Strasbourg was a great breeding-ground of marshals – with Germanic names.

  He thought about the tanzmariechen. A hussar, a cavalier, almost a Rosenkavalier? Full of innocence, of courage, of trust. What pull could that exercise on Marschal? Did it really mean anything deep to him?

  He had had Anne-Marie’s word that Jean-Claude had never found any woman but herself that really meant anything to him. He hadn’t thought she was lying, either.

  If Marschal was behaving in a peculiar way, so was Canisius. Van der Valk had come round again to the old puzzle: what was Canisius so anxious about? Surely an escapade more or less trivial of the son-of-the-family could not seriously worry the Sopex? How did it warrant sticking a criminal-brigade inspector on his tracks? It was as though they were sure he had committed or would commit crimes, as though they knew something he did not know? Or – maybe, maybe – as though Jean-Claude Marschal knew something about them, and they knew it.

  He didn’t know it. He had again that uneasy feeling that there were too many things he hadn’t been told.

  What could Jean-Claude have on the Sopex? Or perhaps on Canisius? Some disgraceful fiddle? Some mean murderous strangling of something or someone that had got in their way? A huge tax evasion? Could he have heard or accidentally discovered some fact about that huge enterprise, that gigantic fortune, that had shocked that rather juvenile, immature, romantic spirit?

  He didn’t know; right this minute he didn’t very much care. He turned on his stomach with a deep groan, pushed the pillow around a bit with his face, and fell instantly, heavily, asleep.

  *

  He was still sound asleep when a tremendous bang at his door announced eight-thirty, chambermaid, and coffee. He sat up yawning and hungry.

  ‘Herein’ She was already gone when he noticed that there were two cups. Well, he could eat breakfast for two. With all the anschluss going on, probably Innsbruck chambermaids automatically brought breakfast for two! He was scrubbing his teeth when there was another bang. There you are, silly bitch had brought the wrong breakfast. He struggled with the toothpaste and turned around to find Anne-Marie – calmly sitting pouring out coffee!

  ‘Good morning. I hope you don’t mind having a guest to breakfast. Black or milk?’

  It took him some time to collect scattered wits.

  ‘You a detective or something?’

  ‘Canisius told me. I acted upon a sudden impulse. I discovered I co
uld get a night connexion, through Paris. My plane landed two hours ago.’

  It was all too much to grasp, when he hadn’t even had coffee. He felt extraordinarily bleary, decidedly hemmed in. She had, he supposed, a perfect right to appear here, but wasn’t it a bit drastic to appear like this with the coffee? Still, one had to admit it wasn’t a disagreeable sight. She looked very young: in black trousers and sweater – she was even wearing ski-boots – he saw the girl of fifteen years back, who had married Jean-Claude Marschal. He drank his coffee and felt less woolly.

  ‘Canisius,’ she said calmly, eating brioche with apricot jam, ‘who thoroughly enjoys telling people things they might find disagreeable, said he had a girl with him. What is it? Some rag-doll of the ski-slopes?’

  ‘I don’t know. She comes from Köln. He met her there. She is eighteen years old, a shop assistant, very pretty, good at things like dancing and skating, and her name is Dagmar.’

  ‘You see? – a rag doll,’ through another bite of brioche. ‘Jean-Claude must be out of his mind. It bothered me. There must be something wrong with him – that’s why I came. You don’t mind?’

  ‘Madame, he’s your husband. I’ve only been told to find him.’

  ‘It isn’t a crime, to run off with little girls in Köln.’

  ‘No. Unless he’d used violence of some sort. Which is extremely unlikely. An imprudence perhaps – if he really didn’t want to be found.’

  ‘Wasn’t it Talleyrand who said that an imprudence was worse than a crime?’

  ‘I think he was talking about something that was both. I’m wondering whether your husband has ever committed any crime?’

  ‘Why should you think that?’

  ‘Perhaps because I’m a policeman. I have to shave.’

  ‘Go ahead and shave. Don’t mind me.’

  It was disconcerting. He felt oafish and provincial: this was really an infernal nuisance. Having this woman hanging about would not make things any easier. What was she driving at? Why had she come to drink coffee in his room before he was even shaved?

  ‘Is it impertinent to ask what you propose to do?’

  He felt his jaw and put away the razor.

  ‘Have a shower,’ he said, picking up his clothes. It must be because they are so rich. I don’t belong in this league, in fact I feel a bloody fool. I should be back in Amsterdam, sitting writing reports in the office. I don’t belong in Innsbruck; I can’t get accustomed to waking up and finding a millionaire’s wife by my bed pouring out coffee.

  Still, the hint had been broad. She would have gone away, he hoped, rubbing his hair dry and feeling rather clearer.

  She had gone away, but she had come back again. On his bed lay a very gay, extremely luscious, appallingly expensive sweater – the kind of thing the expensive sports shops display casually in their windows, knotted round a pair of batons. He stared at this. She was standing by the window smoking a cigarette.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A sweater. That v-necked thing you have is no good here. You need trousers too – I’ll get you some. The boots will do.’ He stared at the sweater, which was exactly the right colour and extremely tempting.

  ‘I have to tell you two things, Mrs Marschal. First, I am a policeman and can’t accept any sort of a gift for obvious reasons. You know, what the French delicately call a pot of wine. Second I don’t take things, even in private life, from women. Come to that, I usually drink my coffee in the morning with my wife.’

  ‘Very stupid you sound,’ she said calmly. ‘If this girl is as stupid as that Jean-Claude will simply put her on the train home. You’ll never be able to ski if you stay as stiff and Dutch as that.’

  ‘I don’t want to ski. I don’t intend to ski.’

  ‘You’re on the slope,’ impatiently. ‘Ski, or stay sitting on your dead arse.’ He opened his mouth, and shut it again. Life was too rapid this morning; he was getting old.

  ‘Put it on. You’ll look good in it. And don’t talk that childish nonsense about “gifts” since I know perfectly well that Canisius is paying your expenses. You came here, didn’t you? You took a train or a taxi or some damn thing. Put it on.’

  ‘Are you jealous of him? Or hoping to see him and make him jealous about you?’ She just looked at him then, saying nothing.

  Well, this was life with the rich; ski, or sit on your dead arse. He picked up the sweater and started putting it on. While he had it over his head he was knocked over backwards by a pair of strong arms and held by something hard and muscular that smelt good: the trouble was that this was not particularly disagreeable. He felt something the way Jonah did, when he saw the whale’s mouth open. He got the sweater over his head and took the biggest gulp of fresh air he could get; the arms let him go suddenly. She leaned back on his bed and put her hands behind her head. In an absentminded sort of way she started doing leglifts with her boots on, to strengthen her stomach muscles.

  ‘I am a capricious, vexatious, nasty person,’ she said quietly. ‘I have been badly hurt. I hope I see this dancing girl, this beauty, this Pisslinger. I hope I see her in the middle of the Olympic Piste. I’ll do some slinging. I’ll knock her off her goddam skis.’

  He brushed his hair and grinned.

  ‘Very nice sweater, this. I’m going to enjoy it. You’re a downhill girl, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. When I schuss, I schuss. I don’t want just to make pretty patterns.’

  ‘He could be anywhere in Austria, you know.’

  ‘There’s a competition starting today. The girls are going to run down the Olympic Piste. Draw a big crowd.’

  ‘I see. You sound quite enthusiastic. And you think it’ll draw him?’

  ‘He likes to watch the competition girls. Look over this year’s crop. Of course, if you want to go running round Austria, that’s your look-out. Be a great waste of time. Loosen up, enjoy yourself; don’t be so Dutch. This is all unimportant. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘Sure. Everything is unimportant.’

  ‘You’re taking everything too seriously,’ impatiently. ‘It’s all plain as daylight now. Jean-Claude went off in the mood for some amusement for a change. He picks up this ridiculous doll somewhere and goes off to do a bit of ski-ing. Can’t you see that just knowing that is enough? There’s no call any longer for all this pompous tracking performance. Forget about that fool Canisius. He called you because he’s an old maid. You’re here now – very well, profit from the occasion. Amuse yourself.’

  ‘With you,’ grinning.

  ‘Ach, pay no heed. That was just a little spat of rage on my part. Jealousy, if you like. I’m a downhill type and I work up voltage.’

  ‘You were one of the competition girls, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. When it comes to a competition, I can go faster than this Pisslinger, and Jean-Claude knows that perfectly well. What’s her real name, anyway?’

  ‘Dagmar Schwiewelbein.’

  ‘There you are. Call that a name?’ She laughed.

  ‘The Germans see nothing comic in it.’

  ‘I do, though. For a skier!’

  ‘So you’re thinking of just walking up and tapping him on the shoulder.’

  ‘Tell me then, what would you have done, if I wasn’t here to find him for you?’

  ‘Oh, quite a boring long routine,’ he said calmly, watching her. ‘One sets a machine going in a given area. Go through hotels, restaurants, chalet hire services, garages, shops, the lot, if necessary.’ No need to tell her how little enthusiasm the Austrian police had for all that – between Salzburg and Feldkirch!

  ‘You see?’ she said, shrugging. ‘It’s perfectly imbecile. Just as though he were a gangster or something. Forget you’re a policeman. I’ll teach you to ski.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said calmly.

  Who did she think she was kidding?

  *

  The downhill girl! Very well, he would stick to her; there was truth enough in her tale to make it the right move. Undoubtedly she did want to f
ind Jean-Claude, and undoubtedly it was easier to find that gentleman with her than without her. In a crowd he might not recognize the man at all. She would, though! Naturally, he knew he could find Mr Marschal even if he had to look all the way from Salzburg to Feldkirch: people have to eat and sleep somewhere, and Marschal had expensive tastes. …

  But it would work this way. He was pretty sure she was right, and that the two were in Innsbruck or near by, and that they had left a track that she knew how to follow. He had not said anything about the bank accounts, but he had gone with her to the bank; she had come in a hurry, and needed to pick up a little money. He found it wonderful that these people took money so for granted; to them it was as natural as water to a town-dweller – you turned the tap and there it came. He watched her making jokes with the teller behind the counter, walking over towards him stuffing Austrian banknotes casually into the sleeve pocket of her anorak.

  ‘You got an account, in Innsbruck?’

  ‘No – Wien.’ He didn’t take it any further. She got some news there, he thought.

  And now they were watching the competition, or rather the crowd. There was no sign of anyone that looked either like Jean Claude or the tanzmariechen.

  He had got quite interested in the ski-ing. It was the first time he had seen a competition, and he liked the way the girls hurtled round the curve, biting their skis in to grip the snow, leaning over against the centrifugal force, tucking their batons under their arms and hunching down into the ‘egg’ for the long run in, rocking slightly to get the last scrap of speed from the slope. It was very fast, very graceful, very exciting.

  Anne-Marie had taken a dislike to the girl that had made the fastest time.