The King of the Rainy Country (8 page)

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 could 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 find 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.

‘Stump-legged, stump-witted, about as much sex appeal as a glass of stale beer. Always the same.'

‘Uh?' There were perhaps ten thousand people, perhaps more, but another couple of thousand made no odds in the huge white valley. A football stadium would have been easier, but there one would have no liberty to walk about. They had started at the top of the hill and worked down: the crowd was strung along the four kilometres of the Olympic Piste and with a little patience one could look at everybody. Around the finishing line at the bottom were no more than two thousand people, perhaps; he had his binoculars on them.

‘Always the same,' she was going on. ‘The really good skiers, the amusing ones, with a nice style and a bit of flair, get a bad starting number or have a sturz, and something wins with a style like a jeep, all tit and elbows.' Yes, he thought, vaguely, the one he had liked best was the girl who had come slashing down giving herself shouts of encouragement, gone too far out on a curve, done a skater's step on an icy patch and with a huge dismayed howl cabrioled into the crowd like a rabbit. A flurry of anxious hands
had helped her up, and she had sat shaking with laughter.

There were still riders coming down, but a ski competition is won and lost by the first dozen, and the fanatics, the ones who were interested only by the performance and not by the spectacle and the atmosphere, what the Germans call the Stimmung, were already trickling down the slope at the bottom back to their autos. He was looking at one pair in particular, perhaps four hundred metres away and fifty, forty below, a rifle-shot, say. That, now, could perfectly well be Marschal and the tanzmariechen; the girl, in a big white fur hat, was in the right clothes for the part; the man was loading skis on to the rack of a red station wagon. The trouble was that a thousand pairs looked exactly the same. He could not see the nose at all, let alone the face; he held the binoculars steady, waiting for the man to turn, when the glasses were snatched out of his hand: Anne-Marie had suddenly noticed what he was doing. The red auto backed with a swirl and shot down the valley road, hidden at once by an awkward clump of pines. He took the glasses back leisurely. It had been a Fiat twenty-three hundred.