The Lonely Skier by Hammond Innes Read Free Book Online Page B

chucker-out in a London bar. But I’m too big a target to play around with people I suspect of being expert knife-throwers.’
    She had seen me get up and her eyes watched me intently as I crossed the belvedere. Valdini looked up as I reached the table. ‘Excuse me,’ I said to her, ‘but I feel sure I met you when I was in Italy with the British Army.’
    There was an awkward pause. She was watching me. So was Valdini. Then she gave me a sudden warm smile. ‘I do not think so,’ she said in English. Her voice was deep and liquid. It was like a purr. ‘But you look nice. Come and sit down and tell me about it.’
    Valdini, who had been watching me guardedly, now sprang to his feet. Polished and suave, he produced a chair for me from the next table.
    â€˜Well,’ she said as I sat down, ‘where was it that we met?’
    I hesitated. Her eyes were very dark and they were looking at me with open amusement. ‘I think your name is Carla,’ I said.
    The eyes suddenly went blank. They were cold and hard—hard like the eyes in the photograph.
    â€˜I think you have made a mistake,’ she said coldly.
    Valdini came to the rescue. ‘Perhaps I should make an introduction. This is the Contessa Forelli. And this is Mr Blair. He is from an English film company.’ I wondered how he had found that out and why he had taken the trouble.
    â€˜I am sorry,’ I said. ‘I thought your surname might be—Rometta.’
    I was convinced she caught her breath. But her eyes did not change. She had control of herself. ‘Well, now perhaps you know you have made a mistake, Mr Blair,’ she said.
    I was still not sure. I pulled the photograph out of my pocket and showed it to her. ‘Surely this is a photograph of you?’ I said. I kept the bottom part covered.
    She leaned forward quickly. ‘Where did you get that?’ There was nothing purrful about her voice as she shot the question at me. It was hard and angry and brittle. Then, with an abrupt change of tone, she said, ‘No, you can see for yourself that it is not my photograph. But it is strange. It is a great likeness. Let me look at it.’ And she extended a strong brown hand imperiously.
    I pretended not to hear her request. I put the photograph back in my pocket. ‘Most extraordinary!’ I murmured. ‘The likeness is quite remarkable. I felt certain—’ I rose to my feet. ‘You must excuse me Contessa,’ I said, bowing. ‘The likeness is quite extraordinary.’
    â€˜Don’t go, Mr Blair.’ She gave me a hard, brilliant smile and the purr was back in her voice. ‘Stay and have a drink—and tell me more about that photograph. It is so nearly myself that I would like to know more about it. I am intrigued. Stefan, order a drink for Mr Blair.’
    â€˜No, please, Contessa,’ I said. ‘I have been guilty of sufficient bad manners for one day. Please accept my apologies. It was the likeness—I had to be certain.’
    I went back to Joe. ‘Well,’ he said, as I resumed my seat, ‘was she the girl or not?’
    â€˜I think so,’ I told him.
    â€˜Couldn’t you make certain?’
    â€˜She didn’t want to be recognised,’ I explained.
    â€˜I don’t blame her,’ he grunted. ‘I wouldn’t want to be recognised in the company of that little tyke, especially if I were a woman. Look at him getting up now. He positively bounces with his own self-importance.’
    I watched the Contessa rise and put on her skis. She did not once glance in my direction. The incident might never have happened. She took the dapper little Valdini out on to the snow for a moment’s conversation. Then, with a flash of her sticks, she swooped out of sight down the slalom run to Tre Croci. As he came back, Valdini darted a quick glance at me.
    We had lunch out on the belvedere and, afterwards, Joe went out