Stone Cold Read Online Free PDF Page B

stopped at a station, I could hear cowbells in the rarefied mountain air. This isn’t real, I thought. This is a picture postcard. I expected to hear yodellers at any moment.
    When I stepped out of the train onto the platform in the little station the air was thin and fresh, like aftershave. My hotel, the Bellevue, was a short taxi ride down from the station. It was also a mile up the road from the villa which was Stavros Stakis’s home and business headquarters. The hotel was built of pine, clean and shiny. There was a glass-fronted terrace with a magnificent view, next to the bar and dining room. This wing of the building jutted out over the mountain slope like the prow of a ship, and was supported by stone pillars.
    I arrived in the late afternoon, unpacked my things and washed, then went down to the bar for a pre-dinner drink. I could imagine that in the skiing season the bar, with its wood furnishings and pennants on the walls, would be full of young people, flushed and excited after a day on the ski slopes, enjoying the après-ski and most of them looking forward to some more excitement après that. Right now the only man in the bar was a trim, athletic-looking man in his forties who turned out to be the hotel manager, Max Duquesne. He introduced himself to me and talked about the hotel business. “So far, the recession hasn’t hit us much, fortunately,” he told me.
    He commented on the fact that I spoke French fluently, and I told him about my French mother. He asked whether I was here on business and I said I was, and to forestall any further questions I changed the subject and said I had recently left the American army. He was delighted to hear this. He was a major in the Swiss army reserve, and told me about military exercises in the mountains. He clearly liked talking about things military. In fact, he clearly liked talking. He was also pleased to hear that I had lived in Morocco, and told me about a holiday he and his wife had had there. He offered to show me his army rifle and pistol after dinner. I would have been happy to put weaponry behind me but I did not want to dampen his enthusiasm. He knew the neighbourhood and could be helpful.
    The restaurant was adjoining the bar. I took a table near the window so I could enjoy the sunset. The snow-covered peaks were a magnificent panorama. I ordered a terrine to start with, and to follow veal cooked in marsala, and a carafe of the house red, which was a dole, the most common Swiss wine, and settled down to enjoy the meal and the view. There were three couples in the dining room; evidently, this was a smart place to eat out.
    I was finishing the veal when I heard, below me through the window, a squeal of brakes and then a man’s complaining voice. “What happened? Didn’t you see me?”
    A young woman’s voice, impatient, her French slightly accented, “Oh, it’s only a scratch. Don’t make a fuss about it.”
    “What do you mean, don’t make a fuss? Are you denying that it was your fault?”
    “I can’t stop to discuss it. I have to meet a friend in the bar.”
    “I want the name of your insurance company.” The man was insistent.
    There was no reply but I heard the click of her heels. I imagined her stalking off, probably tossing a mane of hair, dismissing the man and his car.
    A few minutes later the speaker walked into the restaurant with her escort. She was, I would guess, about nineteen or twenty. She had a good figure and wore a dress to show it off, low cut on the breasts and with a split skirt that showed her thighs. She had jet black hair let down over one shoulder and a slight olive tint to her skin. She walked over to her table like someone who had never had to worry about what people thought about her. I think she was aiming at glamour but she was too young; she looked sexy.
    Her escort was trying not to grin with pride. He did not seem to suit her. He was three or four years older than her, with what I suppose was a ruggedly handsome