I shrugged my shoulders and went on eating. He seemed to be annoyed by my silence. 'I think you're being damned uncharitable in the matter,' he went on. 'Know what you said when you came to and I was giving you brandy? I asked what had happened. And you told me that Mayne had tried to murder you.'
I looked up at his heavy, friendly features. He was so sure of the world about him. It was just something to take pictures of. 'You thought I was just unstrung by what had happened?'
'Of course you were,' he said soothingly. 'Believe me, that boy did all he could. It wasn't his fault that you went into some soft snow and that his ski tracks got covered up. Anything can happen up in the mountains when it comes on thick like that. The guide who carried you part of the way down, he told me several stories of people caught that way. Trouble was you tried to do too much when you were out of practice.'
I said nothing about that. What was the good? But Mayne had lied when he said he'd done a straight turn at the bottom of that run.
Joe left me then and I lay in bed, comfortably relaxed. I tried to read. But I could not concentrate. In the end, I put the book down and just lay there, trying to get things clear in my mind.
It must have been about an hour later that Joe came in. 'Engles wants you on the phone,' he said. 'He's down at the Splendido. Says he tried to contact you earlier, but couldn't get any sense out of Aldo. I told him you oughtn't to be disturbed, but he was insistent. You know what he's like,' he added apologetically. 'If you were dying, he'd still want me to rout you out. I tried to tell him what had happened. But he wouldn't listen. Never will listen to anything in which he doesn't figure. Do you feel like coming down, or shall I tell him to go to hell?'
'No, I'll come,' I said. I got out of bed and slipped a blanket round my shoulders over my dressing-gown.
'Wonder what he's come over for,' Joe said as he followed me out of the door. My knees felt a bit weak and stiff. Otherwise I seemed all right. 'Why the devil doesn't he leave us to get on with it on our own?' he grumbled behind me. 'It's always the same. Feels he isn't doing his job unless he's goading everybody on. Have you got a synopsis for him?'
'I haven't done too badly,' I said. But I was thinking of Engles' private mission, not of the script.
The telephone was on the bar, by the coffee geyser. Mayne and Valdini looked up as I came in. They were seated by the stove. Valdini said, 'You feel better, Mr Blair? I am glad. I was afraid for you when I heard you had mislaid your way.'
'I feel fine now, thanks,' I replied.
I picked up the receiver. 'That you, Neil?' Engles' voice sounded thin over the wire. 'What's all this Wesson was saying about an accident?'
I was conscious that both Mayne and Valdini were watching me and listening to the conversation. 'I don't think it was quite that,' I replied. 'Tell you about it tomorrow. Are you coming up?'
'Snow's pretty thick down here,' came the reply. 'But I'll be up if I have to come through on skis. I've booked a room. You might see that it's laid on. What have you discovered about Mayne — anything?'
'Look,' I said. 'I can't tell you the plot now. This telephone is in the bar. Give you a full synopsis when I see you.'
'I get you. But I think I've recognised him from those pictures you sent. Had the roll developed the instant it arrived. It was that scar that gave me the clue. That's why I flew over. Watch him, Neil. If he's the bloke I think he is, he's a dangerous customer. By the way, I've got that little bitch, Carla, with me. She's had ten Martinis and is now telling me I'm nice and not a bit English. We'll see if our impressions of her so beautiful nature tally — yes?' He gave a quick laugh. 'See you tomorrow, then.' And he rang off.
Joe thrust a drink across to me as I put down the phone. 'Everything all right?' he asked.
'Seems to be,' I said.
'What's he come over for? Did he tell you?'
'Oh, I think he just wants to look over the ground for himself,' I replied.
'He would. Still, he's a bloody good director. Queer fellow. Mother was Welsh, you know. That's where he gets that love of music and that flashy brilliance of speech and intellect. They're all the same, the Welsh — flashy, superficial, no depth to them.'
'There's a bit more to him than that,' I said.
'Well, he's not all Welsh, that's why. Don't know what his father was — something dour, probably a Scot. That's what makes him so moody and gives him that dogged seeking after perfection. Two sides of his nature always at war with each other. Makes him difficult to work with. Still, it's his strength as a director.'
I finished my drink and went back to bed. Joe fussed after me like a mother %- had my hot-water bottles refilled, put a bottle of cognac beside my bed and saw to it that I had some cigarettes. 'Want me to kiss you good-night?' he asked with a grin.
'I think I can get along without that,' I laughed.
'Okay,' he said and switched off the light. 'You'll feel fine tomorrow.'
As soon as his footsteps had died away, I got up and locked the door. I was taking no chances.
I had not been in the warmth of my bed more than a few minutes before ski boots clattered along the bare boards of the corridor and there was a knock at the door. 'Who's there?' I asked.
'Keramikos,' was the reply.
'Just a minute,' I said. I slipped out of bed and unlocked the door. Then I put the light on and hopped back into bed. 'Come in,' I called.
He entered and shut the door. He stood for a moment at the foot of my bed, looking at me. It was difficult to see the expression of his eyes behind those thick lenses. They reflected the light and looked like two round white discs. 'So,' he said, 'it was not the slittovia, eh?'
'How do you mean?' I asked. But I understood.
He ignored my question. 'You lock your door now, hm? You are learning.'
'You're not surprised that I had an accident whilst out with Mayne, are you?' I said.
'I am never surprised at anything, my friend,' he replied evasively.
I tried another line. 'You told me Mayne was a deserter and that he joined the Army in 1942. He says he joined in 1940.'
'He's probably right, then. I don't know Gilbert Mayne's history. I only know this man's history.'
'Are you suggesting that this is not the real Gilbert Mayne?' I asked, for I did not know what other interpretation to put on his words.
He shrugged his shoulders. 'Perhaps,' he said. 'But I did not come to discuss Mayne with you. I felt it would be courteous, as a fellow-guest, Mr Blair, to come and offer you my felicitations on your narrow escape. Wesson tells me the director of your film company has arrived. Will he be staying here?'
'For a few days,' I told him. 'He should interest you. He was in Greece for a time.'
'Greece?' He seemed interested. 'In the Army?'
'Yes,' I said. 'Intelligence.'
He gave me a quick look. 'Then perhaps he and I will have much to talk about?'
He bade me good-night then. But as he reached the door I said, 'By the way, when you examine what is written on a sheet of typing paper in the machine, you should always see that it is rolled back to the original position.'
'I do not follow,' he said.
'You searched my room last night,' I reminded him.
He looked at me hard. Then he said, 'Whoever searched your room, Mr Blair, it was not me — that I assure you.' And he closed the door. I at once got up and locked it.
CHAPTER SIX
AN UGLY SCENE
When I looked out of my window next morning it was a different world. There was no sunshine, no sharp contrast between black and white. The sky was grey with falling snow — large flakes that moved slowly downwards in their millions. The ground was a dull blanket of white. The trees were so laden with snow that they scarcely seemed trees at all. The belvedere was no longer a platform of bare boards. It was a square of virgin white, the round table tops bulging with snow like giant mushrooms.