Ryderbeit leaned back and squinted at the ceiling, the cords of muscle in his throat stretched taut under the gold chain and Star of David. ‘Am I supposed to assume that I’ve been spared, soldier?’ he said finally. ‘That thou hast weighed me in the balance and found me not wanting?’
‘You can assume what you like,’ said Packer. ‘I’m not going to kill you tomorrow, because I wasn’t hired to kill you.’
Ryderbeit’s eye rolled slowly round until it held Packer’s with its dry glitter. ‘That sounds a trifle too moral to me, soldier. And I’ve never trusted people with morals. They have a nasty habit of putting those first, and selling you up shitcreek if they don’t agree with you.’
‘Even if I had the morals of a Miami estate agent,’ said Packer, ‘I still don’t have a gun.’
‘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 the lobby and began to run. By the time he reached the room his body was damp with sweat, yet he still felt cold. His hands shook as he rammed the key into the lock.
Ryderbeit was still stretched out on Sarah’s bed, his eyes hidden under the brim of his huge hat. One of his eight-inch cigars now pointed at the ceiling, sending up a thin spiral of smoke. He seemed peaceful.
‘You’ve been taking your time, haven’t you, soldier?’ He spoke without moving his head.
‘Not anymore! We’re on our way, Sammy. Out of here — out of Klosters — out of Switzerland.’
The Rhodesian lazily pushed up his hat and took a long draw on the cigar. ‘Little Sarah been giving you trouble, soldier?’ As he spoke, he reached out and removed the bottle of whisky from Packer’s hand, then lay contemplating the label with distaste. ‘What sort of Swiss piss is this?’
Packer said, ‘Ever seen a dead man come back to life? Not just an ordinary dead man, but one who’s been melted down with white phosphorus, so that they’ve had to scrape him off the tarmac?’
Ryderbeit’s good eye opened wider. ‘You ain’t by any chance been having a quick drink down there, have you? I mean, the tension hasn’t been getting a bit too much for your tender nerves?’
Packer went on looking at him. ‘He’s downstairs in the bar, Sammy. He and another fellow — just sitting quietly watching the dancing.’
‘Who’s sitting downstairs?’ Ryderbeit roared, and unscrewed the cap of the bottle.
‘Pierre-Baptiste Chamaz, last seen unconscious in a car in Berck-Plage. He’d been taking seaside snaps, remember?’
‘You talked to him?’
‘What for — to apologize?’
Ryderbeit tasted his whisky and scowled. ‘How can you be
so bloody sure? The lighting’s pretty bad down there — and anyway, all wogs look the same.’
‘All right, I admit he was also wearing dark glasses — probably to cover a black eye — but the side of his face was swollen, and he still has a badly cut lip. Besides, you always recognize a man you’ve beaten up — it’s a form of intimacy, like sex.’
‘Okay. So just supposing it is the same man — don’t you think it pretty bloody funny of them to use him again on the same tail, once he’s been rumbled?’
‘No, it’s logical — providing Chamaz is still the only person who can identify us together, or separately.’
Ryderbeit sat up slowly and took a long drink from the bottle. ‘So you think they may be getting ready to put the finger on us? And in lovely neutral Switzerland too —’ he shook his head — ‘that’s naughty of somebody, that is!’
‘Sarah should be up in a few minutes,’ said Packer, ‘then we’re getting out.’ He was already throwing clothes into suitcases, taking a reckless pleasure in clearing the dressing-table with one sweep of his arm and loading Sarah’s toilet equipment with a soggy crash into her Gucci grip-bag.
Ryderbeit did not move. ‘Just one small thing, soldier. A little development while you were downstairs. It appears that the management made a slight boo-boo this afternoon — forgot to deliver another set of goodies.’ He pointed his cigar towards the door. ‘Somebody’s spoiling you, soldier. Another couple of sets of beautiful brand-new skis — only this lot was delivered earlier, about five this afternoon. The day porter has had them downstairs in the back room until just now. Take a look.’
Another two bags were piled by the door, next to the Hartmann equipment. They were blue and white this time and marked ‘Top-Ski’. Packer unzipped the first one and drew out a slim object, about three feet long, wrapped in olive-green oilcloth, buttoned up at both ends.
He tore them open and pulled out a length of smoky-brown plastic tubing with a narrow breech, box clip and skeleton stock. There was also a smaller, bulkier parcel inside the bag, in similar wrappings. It contained a stubby telescopic sight, studded with knobs like a musical instrument.
Packer rapidly snapped off the box clip and looked at the venomous, tapering grey plastic bullet in its gunmetal cartridge. He shook out all six, weighed them in his palm, then slipped them expertly back in. He now turned to the third package, which was about a foot square, covered in shiny black plastic, with two straps at the top and a zip underneath. Again — more from instinct than caution — he ran his fingers over every inch of its surface, even sniffed it, before undoing the straps and opening it.
The three Hitachi R/T sets, still in their Styrofoam casings, looked pleasingly like small transistor radios.
‘Beautiful, eh?’ Ryderbeit was lying back, watching him with a placid smile.
Packer replaced the Armalite in its ski bag and turned, breathing slowly. ‘Did the porter say who brought these over?’
‘A very large gentleman,’ Ryderbeit mimicked. ‘A French gentleman with a beard. Satisfied?’
‘No.’ Packer reached the door, then turned. ‘And throw in the rest of my packing, will you? You might even start on Sarah’s wardrobe. Pretend they’re for a jumble-sale.’
The corridor and the stairs again seemed empty. The night porter was alone. Packer asked him about the parcels which had been sent up to his room, and the man began hastily apologizing for the muddle, but Packer cut him short. ‘The first parcels — the ones that were sent up earlier, while I was out — can you find out who brought them here?’
The man nodded. ‘I will have to ask my colleague.’ He went behind a desk and began to telephone, while Packer watched the tearoom and the stairs down to the bar. He looked at his watch. It was 9.50: just over ten minutes since he’d left Sarah.
The porter returned. ‘Sir, I regret, I cannot be of great assistance. My colleague thinks the parcels were brought by a chauffeur. A man in uniform.’
‘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 nea
r 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. ‘Preferably with a short strong blade?’
Ryderbeit brought over a thick bone-handled scouting knife with half a dozen blades. ‘I just hope the hell you know what you’re doing, soldier.’
He watched as Packer selected a short wedge-shaped blade, prised it between the pinched, jagged ends of the stick, and slowly forced them open again. Packer looked inside but could see nothing, then, moving closer to the bedside light, he took the piece of wire and very gently inserted it into the alloy stem. After about three inches, it touched something: not hard, but not yielding either.
He took a deep breath and wished to God he could have some of Ryderbeit’s whisky. This was the worst part, he knew; he began to press the wire in at a slight angle, levering it round with a gentle prodding motion. Then he tipped the whole stick up and poured a few crumbs of greyish substance into his hand. They looked like a mixture of putty and pâté de campagne.
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