'Well, I'm going to try to sleep. I'll call you later if I wake up. Just don't worry about me, dear.'

I left her there, the brightest and fullest flower in the garden, splendid and pouting in her tight green slacks and snug sweater, as I maneuvered out of the bar.

Just as the last light of the afternoon was dying in a pink glow on the farthest peaks I could see from my window, the door of my room opened softly. I was lying in bed merely staring brainlessly but comfortably at the ceiling. I had had lunch sent up and had eaten heartily. Luckily, the waiter had been in to take the tray, because it was Flora Sloane who poked her head around the door.

I didn't want to disturb you,' she said. 'I just wanted to see if you needed anything.' She came into the room. I could barely see her in the dusk, but I could smell her. 'How are you, honey?'

'Alive,' I said. 'How did you get in here?' Being an invalid excused me from gallantry.

The floor maid let me in. I explained.' She came over to the side of my bed and touched my forehead in a Florence Nightingale gesture. 'You have no fever,' she said.

The doctor says I can expect it at night,' I said.

'Did you have a good afternoon?' she asked, seating her->elf on the edge of the bed.

'I've had better.' This was not true - at least for the time I had been at St Moritz.

Suddenly, she swooped down and kissed me. Her tongue, as ever, was active. I twisted, so as to be able to breathe, and my bad leg (as I now considered it) dropped off the edge of the bed. I groaned realistically. Flora sat up, flushed and breathing hard. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Did I hurt you?'

'Not really,' I said. 'It's just ... well, you know ... sudden movements.'

She stood up and looked down at me. It was too dark in the room for me to see her face clearly, but I got the impression of the birth of suspicion. 'You know,' she said, 'a friend of mine picked up a young man on the slopes at Gstaad and they arranged to meet that night and, well ...do it, and he broke his leg at three o'clock, but he didn't let it stop him. By ten o'clock that night, they did it.'

'Maybe he was younger than I am,' I said lamely. 'Or he had a different kind of break. Anyway, the first time ... with you, I mean ... I wouldn't like it to be anything but perfect.'

'Yeah,' she said. Her voice was flat and unconvinced. 'Well, I better be going. There's a party tonight and I have to get ready.' She leaned over and kissed me chastely on the forehead. 'If you want, though,' she said, 'I can look in after the party.'

'I don't think it would be a wise idea, really.' 'Probably not. Well, sleep well,' and she left the room. I lay back and stared once more at the dark ceiling and thought of the heroic young man at Gstaad. One more day, I thought, and I'm getting out of here, crutches or no crutches. Still, Flora Sloane had given me an idea. Without a key to my room, she had had the door opened. The floor maid...

That evening I dined alone, late. I had seen Flora Sloane, in a blazing evening gown, at a distance, sweeping off to her party with a group of people, some of whom I recognized, some of whom I didn't, anyone of whom might have my seventy thousand dollars in the bank. If Flora saw me, she gave no sign. I took my time over dinner, and, when I went up to my floor, I deliberately avoided asking for my key at the desk. The corridor on which my room was located was empty, but after a moment I spied the night maid coming out of a room farther down. I stepped in front of the Sloanes' door and called to the maid. 'I'm terribly sorry,' I said, moving heavily toward the woman on my crutches, 'but I seem to have forgotten my key. Will you let me in, please?' I had never seen her before.

She took a key out of her apron pocket and opened the door. I said thank you and went in, closing the door behind me. The room had already been made up for the night, and the bed was turned down, two bedside lamps softly lit. The scent of Flora Sloane's perfume was everywhere. Except for that, it could have been any room in the hotel. I was breathing heavily, moving with care. I went over to the big wardrobe and opened the door. Women's clothes. I recognized various dresses, ski outfits. I opened the next door. A long array of suits, stacked shirts. On the floor six pairs of shoes. The brown shoes Sloane had warn on the train were the last in line. I bent down clumsily, nearly toppling, and picked up the right shoe. Then I sat on a little straight-backed chair and took off my right shoe. My left foot was encased in plaster. I tried to put my foot into the brown shoe. I could hardly get halfway in. It must have been two sizes smaller than mine - size eight. I sat there for a moment, holding the shoe in my hand, staring at it numbly. I had wasted almost a week, precious time, and a small fortune, on a false trail, I was sitting like that, in the softly lit room, stupidly holding the shoe in my hand, when I heard the rattle of a key in the door. The door opened and Bill Sloane, dressed for traveling and holding a small bag in his hand, came into the room.

He stopped when he saw me and dropped the bag. It made a small, luxurious thump on the thick carpet. 'What the hell...?' he said. He didn't sound angry. He hadn't had time to be angry.

'Hello,' I said foolishly. 'Hello, Bill. I thought you were in Zurich.'

'I'll bet you did.' His voice was beginning to rise. 'Where the hell is Flora?' He switched on the overhead light, as though his wife might be lurking in the shadows.

'She went to a party.' I didn't know whether I ought to get up or stay where I was. Getting up presented problems, with the cast and my stockinged foot.

'Went to a party.' He nodded grimly. 'And what the fuck are you doing in here?'

'I forgot my key,' I said, realizing as I said it how improbable the whole scene was. 'I asked the maid to open the door to my room and I wasn't looking...'

'What're you doing with my shoe?' Each question was an arc on a constantly rising curve.

I looked at the shoe as though I had never seen it before. Î honestly don't know,' I said. I dropped it to the floor. 'The watch,' he said. 'The goddamn watch.' I looked at it automatically. It was ten minutes past ten. 'I know where you got that goddamn watch.' There was no mistaking the menace in his tone now. 'My wife. From my stupid, goddamn wife.'

'It was ... well... a kind of private little joke.' Nothing in my life until then had prepared me for a situation like this, and I realized bitterly that my improvisations at the moment were far from brilliant.

'Every year she gets a crush on some idiotic ski teacher and she gives him a watch. For openers,' he said. 'Just for openers. So - this year, you're elected. This is her year for amateurs. The St Moritz Open.'

'It's only a watch, Bill,' I said.

'She's the shiftiest little bitch in the business,' Sloane said, looming over me. 'And I thought, well, this year, finally, she's out there with someone I can trust.' He began to cry. It was terrifying.

'Please, Bill,' I pleaded. 'Don't cry. I swear nothing's happened.' I wished I could explain to him that I hadn't had the slightest twinge of sexual desire or the least hope of consummation in the last seven days.

'You swear,' he growled, weeping. 'You swear. They all swear.' With a surprisingly swift movement he bent and grabbed my arm and yanked at it. 'Give me back that goddamn watch, you son of a bitch.'

'Of course,' I said, with considerable dignity. I unclasped it and gave it to him. He glared down at it, then strode over to the window, opened it, and hurled the watch out into the night. I took advantage of his trip to get up and balance on my crutches. He wheeled and came back to me, very close to me. I could smell the whiskey on his breath. 'I ought to hammer you into the deck. Only I don't hit cripples.' He kicked my cast, not very hard, but enough to make me teeter. 'I don't know what the fuck you were doing in here and I don't want to know. But if you're not out of this hotel and out of this town by tomorrow morning, I'm going to have you thrown out bodily. When the Swiss police get through with you, you'll be sorry you' ever saw a mountain.' He swooped down again and grabbed my single shoe from the floor and swept across the room with it and threw it out of the window after the watch. It was the weirdest act of revenge I'd ever heard of. He was still weeping. There was no doubt about the fact that, appearances to the contrary (all that telephoning in the morning and all that bridge), he was linked with a high and unusual passion, for a man of his age and temperament, to his wife.