Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  He stopped and looked back suspiciously.

  “Caroline thinks I’m ready to join you,” I explained, “but I’m not so sure and would value a second opinion. I’ve broken my own record for the B-slope several times, but I wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of my wife.”

  “Well, I—”

  “I’d ask Marcel if he were here. And in any case you’re the best skier I know.”

  “Well, if you—” he began.

  “Just this once, then you can spend the rest of your vacation on the A-slope. You could even treat the run as a warmup.”

  “Might make a change, I suppose,” he said.

  “Just this once,” I repeated. “That’s all I’ll need. Then you’ll be able to tell me if I’m good enough.”

  “Shall we make a race of it?” he said, taking me by surprise just as I began clamping on my skis. I couldn’t complain; all the books on murder had warned me to be prepared for the unexpected. “That’s one way we can find out if you’re ready,” he added cockily.

  “If you insist. Don’t forget, I’m older and less experienced than you,” I reminded him. I checked my skis quickly because I knew I had to start off in front of him.

  “But you know the B-course backwards,” he retorted. “I’ve never even seen it before.”

  “I’ll agree to a race, but only if you’ll consider a wager,” I replied.

  For the first time I could see I had caught his interest. “How much?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing so vulgar as money,” I said. “The winner gets to tell Caroline the truth.”

  “The truth?” he said, looking puzzled.

  “Yes,” I replied, and shot off down the hill before he could respond. I got a good start as I skied in and out of the red flags, but looking back over my shoulder I could see he had recovered quickly and was already chasing hard after me. I realized that it was vital for me to stay in front of him for the first third of the course, but I could already feel him cutting down my lead.

  After half a mile of swerving and driving he shouted, “You’ll have to go a lot faster than that if you hope to beat me.” His arrogant boast only pushed me to stay ahead, but I kept the lead only because of my advantage of knowing every twist and turn during that first mile. Once I was sure that I would reach the vital newly marked route before he could I began to relax. After all, I had practiced over the next two hundred meters fifty times a day for the last ten days, but I was only too aware that this time was the only one that mattered.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see he was now about thirty meters behind me. I began to slow slightly as we approached the prepared ice patch, hoping he wouldn’t notice or would think I’d lost my nerve. I held back even more when I reached the top of the patch until I could almost feel the sound of his breathing. Then, quite suddenly, the moment before I would have hit the ice I plowed my skis and came to a complete halt in the mound of snow I had built the previous night. Travers sailed past me at about forty miles an hour, and seconds later flew high into the air over the ravine with a scream I will never forget. I couldn’t get myself to look over the edge, as I knew he must have broken every bone in his body the moment he hit the snow a hundred feet below.

  I carefully leveled the mound of snow that had saved my life and then clambered back up the mountain as fast as I could go, gathering the thirty flags that had marked out my false route. Then I skied from side to side replacing them in their correct positions on the B-slope, some hundred meters above my carefully prepared ice patch. When each one was back in place I skied on down the hill, feeling like an Olympic champion. Once I reached the base of the slope I pulled up my hood to cover my head and didn’t remove my snow goggles. I unstrapped my skis and walked casually toward the hotel. I reentered the building by the rear door and was back in bed by seven-forty.

  I tried to control my breathing, but it was some time before my pulse had returned to normal. Caroline awoke a few minutes later, turned over, and put her arms round me.

  “Ugh,” she said, “you’re frozen. Have you been sleeping without the covers on?”

  I laughed. “You must have pulled them off during the night”

  “Go and have a hot bath.”

  After I had had a quick bath we made love, and I dressed a second time, double-checking that I had left no clues of my early flight before going down to breakfast.

  As Caroline was pouring my second cup of coffee, I heard the ambulance siren, at first coming from the town and then later returning.

  “Hope it wasn’t a bad accident,” my wife said as she continued to pour her coffee.

  “What?” I said, a little too loudly, glancing up from the previous day’s Times.

  “The siren, silly. There must have been an accident on the mountain. Probably Travers,” she said.

  “Travers?” I said, even more loudly.

  “Patrick Travers. I saw him at the bar last night. I didn’t mention it to you because I know you don’t care for him.”

  “But why Travers?” I asked nervously.

  “Doesn’t he always claim he’s the first on the slope every morning? Even beats the instructors up to the top.”

  “Does he?” I said.

  “You must remember. We were going up for the first time the day we met him, and he was already on his third run.”

  “Was he?”

  “You are being dim this morning, Edward. Did you get out of bed the wrong side?” she asked, laughing.

  I didn’t reply.

  “Well, I only hope it is Travers,” Caroline added, sipping her coffee. “I never did like the man.”

  “Why not?” I asked, somewhat taken aback.

  “He once made a pass at me,” she said casually.

  I stared across at her, unable to speak.

  “Aren’t you going to ask what happened?”

  “I’m so stunned I don’t know what to say,” I replied.

  “He was all over me at the gallery that night, and then invited me out to lunch after we had dinner with him. I told him to get lost,” Caroline said. She touched me gently on the hand. “I’ve never mentioned it to you before because I thought it might have been the reason he returned the Vuillard, and that only made me feel guilty.”

  “But it’s me who should feel guilty,” I said, fumbling with a piece of toast.

  “Oh, no, darling, you’re not guilty of anything. In any case, if I ever decided to be unfaithful it wouldn’t be with a lounge lizard like that. Good heavens no. Diana had already warned me what to expect from him. Not my style at all.”

  I sat there thinking of Travers on his way to a morgue, or even worse, still buried under the snow, knowing there was nothing I could do about it.

  “You know, I think the time really has come for you to tackle the A-slope,” Caroline said as we finished breakfast. “Your skiing has improved beyond words.”

  “Yes,” I replied, more than a little preoccupied.

  I hardly spoke another word as we made our way together to the foot of the mountain.

  “Are you all right, darling?” Caroline asked as we traveled up side by side on the lift.

  “Fine,” I said, unable to look down into the ravine as we reached the highest point. Was Travers still down there, or already in the morgue?

  “Stop looking like a frightened child. After all the work you’ve put in this week you’re more than ready to join me,” she said reassuringly.

  I smiled weakly. When we reached the top, I jumped off the ski lift just a moment too early, and knew as soon as I took my second step that I had sprained an ankle.

  I received no sympathy from Caroline. She was convinced I was pretending in order to avoid attempting the advanced run. She swept past me and sped on down the mountain while I returned in ignominy via the lift. When I reached the bottom I glanced toward the engineer, but he didn’t give me a second look. I hobbled over to the first-aid post and checked in. Caroline joined me a few minutes later.

  I explained
to her that the duty orderly thought it might be a fracture and had suggested I report to the hospital immediately.

  Caroline frowned, removed her skis, and went off to find a taxi to take us to the hospital. It wasn’t a long journey but it was one the taxi driver had evidently done many times before from the way he took the slippery bends.

  “I ought to be able to dine out on this for about a year,” Caroline promised me as we entered the double doors of the hospital.

  “Would you be kind enough to wait outside, madam?’ asked a male orderly as I was ushered into the X-ray room.

  “Yes, but will I ever see my poor husband again?” she mocked as the door was closed in front of her.

  I entered a room full of sophisticated machinery presided over by an expensively dressed doctor. I told him what I thought was wrong with me and he lifted the offending fool gently up onto an X-ray machine. Moments later he was studying the large negative.

  “There’s no fracture there,” he assured me, pointing to the bone. “But if you are still in any pain it might be wise for me to bind the ankle up tightly.” He pinned my X ray next to five others hanging from a rail.

  “Am I the sixth person already today?” I asked, looking up at the row of X rays.

  “No, no,” he said, laughing. “The other five are all the same man. I think he must have tried to fly over the ravine. the fool.”

  “Over the ravine?”

  “Yes, showing off, I suspect,” he said as he began to bind my ankle. “We get one every year, but this poor fellow broke both his legs and an arm, and will have a nasty scar on his face to remind him of his stupidity. Lucky to be alive, in my opinion.”

  “Lucky to be alive?” I repeated weakly.

  “Yes, but only because he didn’t know what he was doing. My fourteen-year-old skis over that ravine and can land like a seagull on water. He, on the other hand,” the doctor pointed to the X rays, “won’t be skiing again this holiday. In fact, he won’t be walking for at least six months.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “And as for you,” he added, after he finished binding me up, “just rest the ankle in ice every three hours and change the bandage once a day. You should be back on the slopes again in a couple of days, three at the most.”

  “We’re flying back this evening,” I told him as I gingerly got to my feet.

  “Good timing,” he said, smiling.

  I hobbled happily out of the X-ray room to find Caroline head down in Elle.

  “You look pleased with yourself,” she said, looking up.

  “I am. It turns out to be nothing worse than two broken legs, a broken arm, and a scar on the face.”

  “How stupid of me,” said Caroline, “I thought it was a simple sprain.”

  “Not me,” I told her. “Travers—the accident this morning, you remember? The ambulance. Still, they assure me he’ll live,” I added.

  “Pity,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “After all the trouble you took, I was rather hoping you’d succeed.”

  CHECKMATE

  As she entered the room every eye turned toward her.

  When admiring a girl some men start with her head and work down. I start with the ankles and work up.

  She wore black high-heeled velvet shoes and a tight-fitting black dress that stopped high enough above the knees to reveal the most perfectly tapering legs. As my eyes continued their upward sweep they paused to take in her narrow waist and slim athletic figure. But it was the oval face that I found captivating, slightly pouting lips and the largest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, crowned with a head of thick, black, short-cut hair that literally shone with luster. Her entrance was all the more breathtaking because of the surroundings she had chosen. Heads would have turned at a diplomatic reception, a society cocktail party, even a charity ball, but at a chess tournament …

  I followed her every movement, patronizingly unable to accept that she could be a player. She walked slowly over to the club secretary’s table and signed in to prove me wrong. She was handed a number to indicate her challenger for the opening match. Anyone who had not yet been allocated an opponent waited to see if she would take her place opposite their side of the board.

  The player checked the number she had been given and made her way toward an elderly man who was seated in the far corner of the room, a former captain of the club now past his best.

  As the club’s new captain I had been responsible for instigating these round-robin matches. We meet on the last Friday of the month in a large clublike room on top of the Mason’s Arms in the High Street. The landlord sees to it that thirty tables are set out for us and that food and drink are readily available. Three or four other clubs in the district send half a dozen opponents to play a couple of blitz games, giving us a chance to face rivals we would not normally play. The rules for the matches are simple enough—one minute on the clock is the maximum allowed for each move, so a game rarely lasts for more than an hour, and if a pawn hasn’t been captured in thirty moves the game is automatically declared a draw. A short break for a drink between games, paid for by the loser, ensures that everyone has the chance to challenge two opponents during the evening.

  A thin man wearing half-moon spectacles and a dark blue three-piece suit made his way over toward my board. We smiled and shook hands. My guess would have been a solicitor, but I was wrong as he turned out to be an accountant working for a stationery supplier in Woking.

  I found it hard to concentrate on my opponent’s well-rehearsed Moscow opening as my eyes kept leaving the board and wandering over to the girl in the black dress. On the one occasion our eyes did meet she gave me an enigmatic smile, but although I tried again I was unable to elicit the same response a second time. Despite being preoccupied I still managed to defeat the accountant, who seemed unaware that there were several ways out of a seven-pawn attack.

  At the half-time break three other members of the club had offered her a drink before I even reached the bar. I knew I could not hope to play my second match against the girl as I would be expected to challenge one of the visiting team captains. In fact she ended up playing the accountant.

  I defeated my new opponent in a little over forty minutes and, as a solicitous host, began to take an interest in the other matches that were still being played. I set out on a circuitous route that ensured I ended up at her table. I could see that the accountant already had the better of her, and within moments of my arrival she had lost both her queen and the game.

  I introduced myself and found that just shaking hands with her was a sexual experience. Weaving our way through the tables we strolled over to the bar together. Her name, she told me, was Amanda Curzon. I ordered Amanda the glass of red wine she requested and a half-pint of beer for myself. I began by commiserating with her over the defeat.

  “How did you get on against him?” she asked.

  “Just managed to beat whim,” I said. “But it was very close. How did your first game with our old captain turn out?”

  “Stalemate,” said Amanda. “But I think he was just being courteous.”

  “Last time I played him it ended up in stalemate,” I told her.

  She smiled. “Perhaps we ought to have a game sometime?”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” I said, as she finished her drink.

  “Well, I must be off,” she announced suddenly. “Have to catch the last train to Hounslow.”

  “Allow me to drive you,” I said gallantly. “It’s the least the host captain can be expected to do.”

  “But surely it’s miles out of your way?”

  “Not at all,” I lied, Hounslow being about twenty minutes beyond my flat. I gulped down the last drop of my beer and helped Amanda on with her coat. Before leaving I thanked the pub owner for the efficient organization of the evening.

  We then strolled into the parking lot. I opened the passenger door of my Scirocco to allow Amanda to climb in.

  “A slight improvement on London Transport,” she said as I
slid into my side of the car. I smiled and headed out on the road northward. That black dress that I described earlier goes even higher up the legs when a girl sits back in a Scirocco. It didn’t seem to embarrass her.

  “It’s still very early,” I ventured after a few inconsequential remarks about the club evening. “Have you time to drop in for a drink?”

  “It would have to be a quick one,” she replied, looking at her watch. “I’ve a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” I said, chatting on, hoping she wouldn’t notice a detour that could hardly be described as on the way to Hounslow.

  “Do you work in town?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’m a receptionist for a firm of estate agents in Berkeley Square.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not a model.”

  “I used to be,” she replied without further explanation. She seemed quite oblivious to the route I was taking as she chatted on. about her vacation plans for Ibiza. Once we had arrived at my place I parked the car and led Amanda through my front gate and up to the flat. In the hall I helped her off with her coat before taking her through to the front room.

  “What would you like to drink?” I asked.

  “I’ll stick to wine, if you’ve a bottle already open,” she replied, as she walked slowly round, taking in the unusually tidy room. My mother must have dropped by during the morning, I thought gratefully.

  “It’s only a bachelor pad,” I said, emphasizing the word “bachelor” before going into the kitchen. To my relief I found there was an unopened bottle of wine in the larder. I joined Amanda with the bottle and two glasses a few moments later, to find her studying my chess board and fingering the delicate ivory pieces that were set out for a game I was playing by mail.

  “What a beautiful set,” she volunteered as I handed her a glass of wine. “Where did you find it?”

  “Mexico,” I told her, not explaining that I had won it in a tournament while on vacation there. “I was only sorry we didn’t have the chance to have a game ourselves.”

  She checked her watch. “Time for a quick one,” she said, taking a seat behind the little white pieces.