Free The King of the Rainy Country by Nicolas Freeling Page B

in his room before he was even shaved?
    â€˜Is it impertinent to ask what you propose to do?’
    He felt his jaw and put away the razor.
    â€˜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 bedlay 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.
    â€˜What’s this?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I don’t want to ski. I don’t intend to ski.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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 absentmindedsort of way she started doing leglifts with her boots on, to strengthen her stomach muscles.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Very nice sweater, this. I’m going to enjoy it. You’re a downhill girl, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Yes. When I schuss, I schuss. I don’t want just to make pretty patterns.’
    â€˜He could be anywhere in Austria, you know.’
    â€˜There’s a competition starting today. The girls are going to run down the Olympic Piste. Draw a big crowd.’
    â€˜I see. You sound quite enthusiastic. And you think it’ll draw him?’
    â€˜He likes to watch the competition girls. Look over this