The Lonely Skier by Hammond Innes Read Free Book Online

shade better than suave. ‘
Cretino!
’ He flung the offensive term mildly at Aldo as though it were common usage. ‘There are four rooms vacant. Give the English the two end ones.’
    I had expected Aldo to become angry—you can call an Italian a bastard and give the crudest and most colourful description of his entire family and he will do no more than grin, but call him ‘
cretino
’ and he usually becomes speechless with rage. But Aldo only grinned slavishly and said, ‘
Si, si, Signor Valdini—pronto
.’
    So we found ourselves ushered into the two end cubicles. The window of Joe’s room looked straight down the trackway of the
slittovia
. Mine, however, faced south across the belvedere. I could only see the
slittovia
by leaning out and getting the drips from the over-hanging snow down my neck. It was a grand view. The whole hillside of pines fell away, rank on rank of pointed tree-tops, to the valley. And to the right, above me, the great bastions of Monte Cristallo towered cold and forbidding even in the sunlight. ‘Rum place, Neil.’ Joe Wesson’s bulk filled the narrow doorway. ‘Who was the little man who looked like a pimp for a high-class
bordello
? Behaved as though he owned the place.’
    â€˜Don’t know,’ I said. I was busy unpacking my things and my mind was thinking what a place it was for the setting of a ski-ing film. ‘Oldest inhabitant, perhaps—though he certainly looked as though he’d be more at home in a night club.’
    â€˜Well, now we’re in we may as well have a drink to celebrate,’ Joe muttered. ‘I’ll be at the bar. I’m going to try some of that red biddy they call
grappa
.’
    The first sleigh-load of ski-ers arrived whilst I was still unpacking. They were a colourful crowd, sunburned and brightly clad. They thronged the belvedere, lounging in the warm sun, drinking out of tall glasses. They were talking happily in several languages. I watched them, fascinated, as in groups of two or three, or alone, they put on their skis and swooped out of sight down the slalom run to Tre Croci or disappeared into the dark firs, whooping ‘Libera!’ as they took the gentler track back to Cortina. Anna, a half-Italian, half-Austrian waitress, flirted in and out among the tables with trays laden with
salami
and eggs and
ravioli
. She had big laughing eyes and there was a quick smile and better service for the men who had no women with them. What a scene for technicolour! The colours stood out so startlingly against the black and white background.
    The novelty of the setting was a spur to my determination to write something that Engles would accept. If I couldn’t write a script here, I knew I should never be able to write one. I was still planning the script in my mind as I went down to join Joe at the bar.
    At the bottom of the stairs, I came upon a tall, rather distinguished-looking man who was having a heated argument with Aldo. He had long, very thick-growing hair, strangely shot with grey. His face was deeply tanned, except where the white of a scar showed against the bulge of his jaw muscles. He was wearing an all-white ski suit with a yellow scarf round his neck. I realised what the trouble was immediately. ‘Have you booked a room here?’ I asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ he said. ‘This man is either a fool or he has given the room to somebody else and doesn’t want to admit it.’
    â€˜I’ve just had the same trouble,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why he doesn’t want visitors. He just doesn’t. But there are two rooms vacant at the moment. There’s nobody in the one at the top of the stairs, so I should go up and stake your claim.’
    â€˜I will. Many thanks.’ He gave me a lazy smile and took his things up the stairs. Aldo gave a shrug and dropped the corners of his mouth. Then he followed on.
    Joe and I spent the remainder of the