one too by the look of you. Hurt your shoulder?â
He wasnât looking. A new commotion was growing there, on the slope below the crowd watching the finish of the slalom. A knot of people were gesticulating and shouting; a policeman in mountain boots was running heavily, roaring crimson at another, below.
âSomeoneâs pinched the bloody helicopter.â
Anne-Marie laughed, a clear soft laugh with a silver edge of malice in it. Van der Valk would have laughed too, at any other moment; it was the sort of joke he appreciated. It was just this mountain air, and the shortage of breath â he rubbed his shoulder resignedly. Tintin was here ⦠It took that; the combination of skill and cheek that comes from having a lot of money. Jean-Claude had taken the girl with him: the tanzmariechen was gone.
Up above, the sixteen runners of the top group had finished the first leg of the slalom.
*
He went back alone to Innsbruck, rubbed liniment on his shoulder, changed, and had time to think what a fool he had made of himself. Floundering in snow â¦
Anne-Marie had shrieked. It had not been a cry of recognition; nor astonishment; nor anger. It had been a cry of warning. There was only one thing that she had not known, and that was Marschalâs determination to keep the girl with him. Jean-Claude had seen that Van der Valk had no skis, but that his wife had. The girl had had perhaps thirty seconds start â not enough for a skier as strong and experienced as Anne-Marie. By himself, Jean-Claude could have taken his red Fiat. He had chosen to wait for the girl. In those few seconds â perhaps a minute â he had taken the extraordinarily reckless decision to pinch a helicopter belonging to the Austrian government.
It was not, of course, such a risk as it looked. Nobody pays attention to a helicopter any more; he could put it down anywhere and get a half-hour start. The Austrian police, who were not getting themselves very wound up about a missing millionaire in Amsterdam, nor a missing shopgirl in Köln, would not even be bothered about their helicopter, once they had it back. They would put it down to the exuberance of some student.
He found a bar that was pleasantly dark and stuffy after the blinding white of the snowfields and ordered cognac gloomily. He had made a mess of this. There were a lot of things that were clearer than they had been, at least. That much was gained â¦
Jean-Claude Marschal was bored. He had a boring wearisome life, and found it tedious past belief. That was plain to grasp: the man simply found everything too easy. He had vast amounts of money, and was good at everything. He could win things without trying, help himself to everything he fancied without effort. If he dropped a sixpence, he found half-a-crown lying on the path. There was not much that gave him pleasure, not even vice, not even crime. To run off just because he was sick of everything was quite plausible.
There was more to it. He had been afraid. Canisius had put the police on his track. He had not known that, but he had guessed it. The second he had seen Van der Valk he had known and recognized the menace. Canisius had something on him. A crime â well, perhaps. One did not know. Perhaps an escapade of years before. Suppose â as a hypothesis â he had once had a hit-and-run accident, or something of the sort.
But why, suddenly, should Canisius have become such a menace as to force him to try and escape? If the man had a hold on him, why was it urgent at this precise moment?
Anne-Marie knew a good deal about this. She had not, at first, taken it very seriously, but when Canisius had rung her up and told her ⦠He might have been a scrap premature with malicious triumph. When Van der Valk had phoned to tell him about the German police he had been a thought too quick to imagine he had his young friend Jean-Claude Marschal over a barrel.
Now, thought Van der Valk, I am in a cleft stick,
He wasnât looking. A new commotion was growing there, on the slope below the crowd watching the finish of the slalom. A knot of people were gesticulating and shouting; a policeman in mountain boots was running heavily, roaring crimson at another, below.
âSomeoneâs pinched the bloody helicopter.â
Anne-Marie laughed, a clear soft laugh with a silver edge of malice in it. Van der Valk would have laughed too, at any other moment; it was the sort of joke he appreciated. It was just this mountain air, and the shortage of breath â he rubbed his shoulder resignedly. Tintin was here ⦠It took that; the combination of skill and cheek that comes from having a lot of money. Jean-Claude had taken the girl with him: the tanzmariechen was gone.
Up above, the sixteen runners of the top group had finished the first leg of the slalom.
*
He went back alone to Innsbruck, rubbed liniment on his shoulder, changed, and had time to think what a fool he had made of himself. Floundering in snow â¦
Anne-Marie had shrieked. It had not been a cry of recognition; nor astonishment; nor anger. It had been a cry of warning. There was only one thing that she had not known, and that was Marschalâs determination to keep the girl with him. Jean-Claude had seen that Van der Valk had no skis, but that his wife had. The girl had had perhaps thirty seconds start â not enough for a skier as strong and experienced as Anne-Marie. By himself, Jean-Claude could have taken his red Fiat. He had chosen to wait for the girl. In those few seconds â perhaps a minute â he had taken the extraordinarily reckless decision to pinch a helicopter belonging to the Austrian government.
It was not, of course, such a risk as it looked. Nobody pays attention to a helicopter any more; he could put it down anywhere and get a half-hour start. The Austrian police, who were not getting themselves very wound up about a missing millionaire in Amsterdam, nor a missing shopgirl in Köln, would not even be bothered about their helicopter, once they had it back. They would put it down to the exuberance of some student.
He found a bar that was pleasantly dark and stuffy after the blinding white of the snowfields and ordered cognac gloomily. He had made a mess of this. There were a lot of things that were clearer than they had been, at least. That much was gained â¦
Jean-Claude Marschal was bored. He had a boring wearisome life, and found it tedious past belief. That was plain to grasp: the man simply found everything too easy. He had vast amounts of money, and was good at everything. He could win things without trying, help himself to everything he fancied without effort. If he dropped a sixpence, he found half-a-crown lying on the path. There was not much that gave him pleasure, not even vice, not even crime. To run off just because he was sick of everything was quite plausible.
There was more to it. He had been afraid. Canisius had put the police on his track. He had not known that, but he had guessed it. The second he had seen Van der Valk he had known and recognized the menace. Canisius had something on him. A crime â well, perhaps. One did not know. Perhaps an escapade of years before. Suppose â as a hypothesis â he had once had a hit-and-run accident, or something of the sort.
But why, suddenly, should Canisius have become such a menace as to force him to try and escape? If the man had a hold on him, why was it urgent at this precise moment?
Anne-Marie knew a good deal about this. She had not, at first, taken it very seriously, but when Canisius had rung her up and told her ⦠He might have been a scrap premature with malicious triumph. When Van der Valk had phoned to tell him about the German police he had been a thought too quick to imagine he had his young friend Jean-Claude Marschal over a barrel.
Now, thought Van der Valk, I am in a cleft stick,
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