Free The King of the Rainy Country by Nicolas Freeling Page 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? Ahuge 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.
    â€˜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!
    â€˜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.
    â€˜You a detective or something?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Canisius,’ she said calmly, eating brioche with apricot jam, ‘who thoroughly enjoys telling people things they might finddisagreeable, said he had a girl with him. What is it? Some rag-doll of the ski-slopes?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Madame, he’s your husband. I’ve only been told to find him.’
    â€˜It isn’t a crime, to run off with little girls in Köln.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Wasn’t it Talleyrand who said that an imprudence was worse than a crime?’
    â€˜I think he was talking about something that was both. I’m wondering whether your husband has ever committed any crime?’
    â€˜Why should you think that?’
    â€˜Perhaps because I’m a policeman. I have to shave.’
    â€˜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