I nodded.
"I see her on the phone. I see her talking to Barry. She is thinking about me and she is not liking me." Elena showed her teeth.
"She knows about you and Barry?"
"Oh, sure. Christine and I…"
I reached out and gripped her arm. I almost spilled her drink. "What is?" She lapsed into an accent.
"Christine? You said — Chris."
"Is the same name. Something is wrong?"
Something was not wrong. Something was very right. Now it all fell into place. Chris was Christine. Christine was Christina. Christina cut off at the middle with the front missing was Tina.
Elena sighed. "You are going away?"
I shook my head. "What ever gave you that idea?"
"Your mind has gone somewhere else already."
I reached out and took her in my arms. "Not any more. Look. The cognac is all gone. You got any ideas?"
"I think about it," said Elena, extricating herself from my arms. "I put on something more comfortable."
She got up and went into the bathroom.
When she came out she was much more comfortable in almost nothing.
And I was completely comfortable.
Nine
I was halfway through my breakfast in the morning when Juana came into the hotel dining room and walked over to me. She was freshly showered and smiling.
"Good morning, Mrs. Peabody," I said with a half rise and mock bow at the waist.
"Good morning, Mr. Peabody," she said stiffly.
She sat down.
"You look cross," I observed, buttering a hard croissant. "Rocks in your bed?"
She looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. Only six other patrons were in the dining room at the moment.
"I kept him there all night, just for you!" she stormed at me under her breath.
"Thank you," I said. "I'm sure you enjoyed it."
She blushed furiously. "Now what's this all about?"
"I told you. I'm not sure even yet that Barry Parson is all he claims to be."
She glanced around. The waiter hovered over us. With a smile she ordered and the waiter hurried off. She turned back to me. "Neither am I," she confided.
I glanced up. "Oh?"
"You said he might be the man who killed Corelli's double."
"I take it back. He can't have done it. He has an alibi."
"But he seems to know a lot about the Mafia."
I shrugged. "He claims he's an agent. And that British Military Intelligence is working to try to dismantle the Mafia drug chain."
"I know all that. But he doesn't seem to ring true."
"Interesting," I mused. I had always had the same thought.
"Where were you all night?" she asked suddenly.
The waiter brought her a tray filled with a Continental breakfast and a steaming coffee pot.
"I stayed with a friend."
One eyebrow rose as she broke open a roll and buttered it. "Oh?"
"Mrs. Parson."
"If there is a Mrs. Parson," she scoffed. "I thought you might stumble over her in the discothèque."
"So I did."
"What really happened to the contact who was killed?"
I glanced around. "The Mosquito followed me to the engine house and killed him. I learned the rendezvous point, however. I'm meeting Corelli tonight at midnight."
"Had you better talk so freely here?"
"A bug in the coffee pot?" I grinned. "I doubt it. But don't say anything in your room that you want kept confidential. I'm convinced the damned thing is bugged. I think that's how Corelli's would-be killer got onto me. Juana, did Parson say anything about Corelli?"
"Corelli?" She shook her head. "No, why?"
"I think he knows Tina Bergson."
Juana froze. "Can you be sure of that?"
"Not really." I leaned back. "Why?"
"He speaks Italian, you know. Very well."
"What's that got to do with Tina Bergson?"
"Nothing at all. I was thinking of Corelli."
"You think Parson is Italian and knows Corelli?"
Juana shook her head. "I don't think anything. I just said that he surprised me when he came out with an Italian phrase."
"What phrase?"
She colored. "I don't remember."
"But you know it was Italian?"
"He admitted it. Very cool he was, too."
"And it was accidental?"
"Very much so." Juana looked down at her plate. She had suddenly become prim and precise. I did not smile, although I was laughing inwardly. Something inadvertent in the midst of love-making, I knew that much. And he had come out with a good rich Italian phrase. Interesting. Very interesting.
"Does he ski?" I asked.
"I don't know. I mean, should I know?"
"I just wondered. We're going up on the slopes today, Juana. I've got to put in an appearance for the cover story. And I'd better take some pictures." "Good. I'm sick and tired of all this boudoir work."
"You seem to be bearing up under it very well," I said casually, looking her over. "In fact, I've never seen you look so — oh, satisfied, if you grasp my meaning."
She fumed. "I'll grasp your…"
"Now, now," I cautioned, gulping the remainder of my café con leche down.
"When are you skiing?"
"I've got to get up to my room and clean up first."
She nodded. "I'll be ready at nine-thirty."
"Nine-thirty then. We'll go to the top. Veleta. You game?"
"Sure!" Her chin came up. She was defying me. I felt better. She was still fighting for her mind and her equality. Good girl.
We lugged our equipment out onto the Prado Llano and got in one of the cable cars to take the first run up to Borreguilas.
It was a bracing day, with the sun high in the sky, and the wind carrying a bit of moisture. It would snow that night, I thought. I remembered I had smelled a bit of snow in the air the evening before. Now it would come, I was sure of that.
The cable car bounced and jerked and we sat there riding up and up into the heights of the Sierra Nevadas. You could see everywhere from there. It was getting colder and colder — rapidly. I turned around and looked down and it was the same as looking out over the edge of the world. In the vast distance the whole plain of Granada was laid out before me, although there was some haze down there, enough to kill a full panoramic view of everything.
We jumped off the cable car while the attendant held it for us, and walked across the flats outside. It felt very high here, the air thin, the cold enveloping us from all sides, and sneaking into our skins through the clothes.
We walked to the head of the ski run in silence. It was desolate country — all mica schist and snow — without a tree or bit of growth anywhere. Just snow and rock and sky. Silently I buckled on my Austrians and watched Juana as she struggled with her Canadians.
We stood there a few minutes, looking down the slope, and then I slid the goggles down from my cap, tugged the cap over my ears, and waved to her.
"You first!"
She nodded, pushed herself forward with her knees bent, and started to traverse along the steep part of the first drop.
I followed, taking it easy, and enjoying the crisp bite of the snow on the ski edges. We were in the very best of weather conditions.
We rested once and she brought out a pair of sandwiches she had brought along for their surprise value. We ate them and did not say a word between us. We just basked in the sunshine and the delight of the loneliness and the beauty of the mountainside.
We finished the sandwiches and continued on down.
It was a wonderful run.
Wonderful.
After making the lesser run down from Borreguilas, we sat around all afternoon in the hotel lounge swapping stories with Barry Parson and Elena Morales while the fire crackled and the tourists came and went. We could see the lower run — Borreguilas to the Prado Llano — outside the window, and spent our time commenting on the forms of the various skiers.