Read Online The King of the Rainy Country by Nicolas Freeling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nicolas Freeling
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rough tweed jacket, a pair of shoulders made to burst in doors, and boots like Van der Valkâs, made to kick people out of them. Van der Valk leant back in his chair, with his hands in his pockets, and chewed on a matchstick. It was just the fellowâs manner, he thought. Plus a message. You damned policemen from the towns in your clean white shirts may think yourselves clever, but donât think that we bow down before you. We are mountaineers.
âIt isnât really my fault that they came here, though,â softly.
âAch, of course not. Just that this canât be done one-two-three. Firstly, your birds could be in the Vorarlberg by now, or in the Engadine. Second, they can get very worked up in Köln about a girl thatâs disappeared but here, one has to realize, these things are a daily occurrence. You know how many girls reported missing Iâve had here since the season started? Iâll tell you â eighteen. The air goes to their heads. They get seduced by beach boys and fall off the tree like cherries. Six weeks later they turn up at their consulates without a sou asking for a ticket home.â
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 wouldnât put more than twenty-four hours in the day.
Bratfisch obviously felt he had been a little too uncooperative.
âIâll help you all I can, naturally. Next week itâll 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 â 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 Mondaythe circus will be gone. Try me then, if you havenât found them. Servus.â
âServus,â said Van der Valk. He wasnât particularly bothered.
*
They werenât 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 â even if they werenât handsome they looked it in brilliant sweaters and tight ski-trousers: you couldnât see their hair under knitted ski-caps, and you couldnât tell whether they were thirty or fifty; and if they hadnât 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. âSnow White and the Seven Dwarfsâ 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 hourâs delay, and went into the bar, where he drank gentian and took his boots off surreptitiously in the dim light under the table.
âMr Canisius? Van der Valk here. Speaking from the Hotel Kandahar at Innsbruck. Heâs 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. Theyâll find it very difficult to leave now, because all the borders are on the lookout. Iâve no doubt Iâll find them, but itâs still very crowded with holidaymakers here, and it may take some days. Does this news surprise
âIt isnât really my fault that they came here, though,â softly.
âAch, of course not. Just that this canât be done one-two-three. Firstly, your birds could be in the Vorarlberg by now, or in the Engadine. Second, they can get very worked up in Köln about a girl thatâs disappeared but here, one has to realize, these things are a daily occurrence. You know how many girls reported missing Iâve had here since the season started? Iâll tell you â eighteen. The air goes to their heads. They get seduced by beach boys and fall off the tree like cherries. Six weeks later they turn up at their consulates without a sou asking for a ticket home.â
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 wouldnât put more than twenty-four hours in the day.
Bratfisch obviously felt he had been a little too uncooperative.
âIâll help you all I can, naturally. Next week itâll 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 â 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 Mondaythe circus will be gone. Try me then, if you havenât found them. Servus.â
âServus,â said Van der Valk. He wasnât particularly bothered.
*
They werenât 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 â even if they werenât handsome they looked it in brilliant sweaters and tight ski-trousers: you couldnât see their hair under knitted ski-caps, and you couldnât tell whether they were thirty or fifty; and if they hadnât 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. âSnow White and the Seven Dwarfsâ 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 hourâs delay, and went into the bar, where he drank gentian and took his boots off surreptitiously in the dim light under the table.
âMr Canisius? Van der Valk here. Speaking from the Hotel Kandahar at Innsbruck. Heâs 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. Theyâll find it very difficult to leave now, because all the borders are on the lookout. Iâve no doubt Iâll find them, but itâs still very crowded with holidaymakers here, and it may take some days. Does this news surprise
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