Finally I went up for a rest and shower. Dinner was a muted affair, with the usual large number of courses, and I was beginning to get a little on edge at eleven-thirty. We were still sitting around and drinking at that point.
I excused myself, went upstairs to my room and checked my Luger and stiletto. Then I got out the map of the area and checked off the route to the Veleta monument which I had seen that morning from the top of the ski run. As I said then, the government road from Granada to Motril on the Costa Del Sol ran right by the concrete structure.
The road from the Prado Llano joined the regular highway about three miles from the Prado. I marked my route north to the fork, and then southeast toward the Veleta on the highway. I put the map in my pocket, got the keys to the rented Renault and went downstairs to the lobby.
In the dining room I could see Juana still sitting there with Elena. I wondered where Parson had gone. As I stood there I looked out through the window toward the front of the hotel where the Renault was parked. Several figures were moving in from the Prado, probably from the Bar Esqui out there. One of them was Herr Hauptli.
I stepped through the front doors of the hotel into the darkness outside and he saw me, waving:
"Don't forget, we're taking that run sometime!
"I'd prefer it in daylight," I said in German.
He laughed big and pushed in through the doors into the lobby.
I climbed in the Renault. There was a cold wind blowing down from the slopes. It was cold in the car, but snug. The heat of the engine would warm it up in no time flat.
A light snow had begun falling. It was too early for it to stick, but it was falling on the icy snowy patches that were already there in the roadway. Alongside the edge of the pavement, drifts were beginning to pile up.
The Renault hummed along like a contented bird. I drove slowly and watched the bright white line in the center of the road carefully. The double lane was a narrow squeeze for two cars passing. I had watched a bus and a car have some trouble jockeying past each other during the drive up from Granada, reminding me of an elephant mating with an uncooperative antelope.
I met two cars coming toward the Prado Llano, and then came to the main road, where I turned up to follow it along the curves and switchback toward the Veleta. The snow was increasing in intensity now. It cut across the beams of light and formed a curtain in front of me. I could barely see the highway, and even though it was wider than the access road, it was not made for passing or trick driving of any land.
The Renault took the curved road easily, but I could see that the snow was beginning to catch onto the pavement just a bit. Sometimes I could not make out the edge of the highway at all.
The slope ascended steeply now, and I had to give the Renault all the gas I had. I downshifted to the lowest gear in the ratio and moved slowly and carefully through the increasing surface of snow.
Finally I saw the sign: VELETA. And beyond the sign a dirt road curved off the main road up toward the familiar concrete monument at the top of the rock outcrop.
I pushed the Renault up into the dirt road and slewed around over rocks and ice until I had come up to a level parking place apparently blasted out of solid rock. There was no car in sight.
My watch said five past twelve. I wondered what had happened to Rico Corelli. Then another thought occurred to me: had Corelli decided not to keep the rendezvous when he learned that Arturo was dead? Was Corelli even now hiding somewhere behind a rock, waiting for me to step out into the open to gun me down?
I switched off the ignition key and the Renault died. There were tire tracks all around in the refrozen slush, but they meant nothing. I shivered. It was lonely up here, the loneliest place in the mountains. It was just Corelli and I — and he had set it up that way. To kill me for Arturo's death? For Basillio di Vanessi's death?
Cautiously, I switched off the headlights. For a moment I sat there, weighing the possibilities. Then I reached inside my windbreaker and got the Luger out. There was the pocket flashlight in the dashboard compartment that I usually have with me, and I took it out and switched it on.
Then I opened the door of the Renault. The wind cut into me with chilling effect. I pulled the wind-breaker closer to me and stood by the Renault, closing the door with a solid thump. I pointed the beam of the flashlight into the night, and could see only the snow swirling toward me, lashing about in all directions at the top of the peak where the wind was hurtling in from all points of the compass.
The monument hulked there dark and silent, and I walked all the way around it before I found the blue Simca, drawn up out of sight in the rear. I had no idea how its driver had coaxed it up through the ice and frozen slush, but there it stood. I touched the hood. It was still warm.
There was a pile of building materials in the back of the monument, left by the original workmen who had completed the monument. I stood there a moment by the Simca, trying to get out of the wind, and it was there that I heard the sudden noise not far from me.
I held the Luger steadily in my hand and turned to face the direction from which the sound had come. With the wind hurtling about, tearing sound and throwing it in every direction, I was not really sure if I was facing the movement or not.
Then I heard a footstep.
I held the Luger in my hand, aimed and ready to squeeze.
"Ah, Peabody," a voice said, as if spoken through a scarf.
I did not recognize it.
But when he moved into the spot of light cast by the flashlight, I knew him instantly.
It was Barry Parson.
But now he did not have his British accent at all. He was speaking with an indeterminate kind of speech pattern that led me to believe he had after all only been acting the part of the British secret agent up to that moment.
Now who was he?
He stepped forward from behind the pile of building material and extended his hand to shake mine.
I froze.
"Relax," said Barry Parson. "It's all right. I'm Corelli. Rico Corelli."
Ten
The snow swirled about us for a long moment and neither of us moved a muscle. It was getting colder and colder.
"Well?" he said, leaning closer, trying to see my face.
I gripped the Luger under my windbreaker, just in case. "How can I be sure?" I asked him. "First you tell me you're Barry Parson, and now you say you're Rico Corelli."
He laughed. "Come on. It must be obvious! I'm here, and who would be here but Rico Corelli?"
"Anybody could be here, to answer your question. Anybody who knew about the meeting."
"Who but Rico Corelli and the kid who was killed?" he asked.
"The Mosquito. He might know."
"You think I'm The Mosquito?" Parson asked with a laugh.
"He'd be the only one who could know Corelli was meeting me here."
"Be sensible! I'm not the Mosquito!"
"You say so, but I don't know."
"If I were The Mosquito, what would I be doing here?"
"Trying to locate Corelli and kill him."
"But I'm Corelli."
It was getting to be a comedy routine. I shook my head resignedly. "Let's assume you are Corelli. I'm cold as hell. Let's get in my car and talk."
He smiled. "Okay." I led him around the front to the Renault.
"Nice little job," he said.
"Runs good," I said. "When you rent you can get the very best."
I opened the door with my key and got in, then reached over and opened the passenger door for him. He climbed in and slammed the door shut. The car rocked. It was still warm inside.