The Lonely Skier

by Innes Hammond

'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?'

'I think so,' I told him.

'Couldn't you make certain?'

'She didn't want to be recognised,' I explained.

'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 with his camera and a pair of borrowed snow-shoes and I retired to my room to start work on the script. But I could not settle down. I could not concentrate. My mind kept wandering to the mystery of Engles' interest in Col da Varda. First the story of Heinrich Stelben's arrest. Now the Contessa Forelli, who looked so like Carla. It was stretching coincidence too far to believe that there was no connection. And what was it about the place that drew them here? If only Engles had told me more. But perhaps he hadn't known much more. The slittovia was beginning to dominate my thoughts as it dominated the rifugio. I could hear it even up in my bedroom, a low, grating drone whenever the sleigh came up or went down. And in the bar, which was right over the concrete machine room, the sound of it was almost deafening.

At length I gave up any attempt to write. I tapped out a report for Engles and went down to the bar in time to see Joe returning with his camera. The snow-shoes were circular contraptions fixed to his boots. He looked like a great clumsy elephant as he floundered up the slope of the Cortina run. The day visitors had all left long ago and it was getting dark and very cold outside. The rifugio seemed to be shrinking into itself for the night. Aldo stoked up the great tiled stove and we gravitated naturally to the bar and anisetto.

It was whilst we were standing round the bar that an incident occurred that is worth recording. It was a small thing — or appeared so at the time — yet it was very definitely a part of the pattern of events. There were four of us there at the time — Joe Wesson and myself, Valdini and the new arrival, who had introduced himself as Gilbert Mayne. He was Irish, but by his conversation appeared to have seen a good deal of the world, particularly the States.