“I agree that the church has a certain fascination,” the amiable voice said. “A horrible sight, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t as bad as all that. It could have used a little restraint, perhaps.”
“You must visit it some other time. But now—this way, Mr. Lammiter.”
And then as Lammiter hesitated, looking at the narrow street, no more than eight feet wide, towards which his new guide had turned, the man said, “Dear me, I always forget the formalities. I’m Salvatore, although Joe insists on calling me Sam. I find it simpler not to argue with Joe. He is a Sicilian.” The pleasant smile broadened. “Now, have I identified myself sufficiently? I am sorry I am such a rank amateur. I ought to have carried a broken eggshell which would fit into the one you should have in your pocket.” Then the voice changed, becoming impatient and authoritative. “Come. We are not here to enjoy the view.”
He led the way into the narrow street darkened by the high buildings edging its worn cobblestones.
Salvatore was one of the red-haired Italians, a type with grey eyes, thin-cheeked face, hawk features. His head was noble, if a little out of proportion with his body, for he was short and slightly built. Yet, Lammiter remembered, the grasp on his arm had been firm and decided. But polite. As polite as the pleasant voice. The man was a superb linguist: he kept up a constant chatter in his excellent English. He never hesitated for a noun, searched for the correct tense of a verb, or failed to produce the conversational phrase.
“Yes, indeed,” Salvatore was saying, now back on the subject of the church where they had met, “Bernini would have agreed with you. You know Bernini, of course? He designed the fountains in the Piazza—oh, and many more, all over Rome. Churches, too. But these fountains in the Piazza—did you notice how Bernini arranged the figures in the central one that faces the church? He made some look away and others shield their eyes with their hands from the awful sight.” Salvatore laughed. “Delicious, simply delicious. And very naughty. Don’t you think so, Mr. Lammiter? Or what are you thinking?”
“You didn’t learn your English driving an American colonel around Italy.” And Lammiter thought, am I the only one around here who has a second name?
“Ah—you’ve been listening to Joe.” He shook his head. “Those were his happiest days, driving colonels into shell holes. Actually, I was an interpreter during part of the war, with the English. Now, of course”—the grey eyes were briefly amused, and the thin mouth smiled gently—“I am a guide. The old ladies’ tours love me. My historical dates are always reliable, my anecdotes pure. This way, Mr. Lammiter.” Salvatore halted, looked quickly back over his shoulder, looked again ahead, and then side-stepped into a dim doorway filled with cats. “Quick!” he said, and Lammiter found himself following without argument this time. But he had plenty of thoughts as he stood in a dark-stone hallway. If anything happened to him, anything unpleasant, then—well, it was too late now. He had begun walking into this hallway when Rosana Di Feo had persuaded him to meet her at Doney’s. He had also the thought that Salvatore had talked in order to baffle his sense of direction. Could it be possible they had almost retraced their steps to the Piazza Navona? He had felt they had been circling around, gently but definitely.
“Where—” he began. Salvatore made a signal for caution so determined that Lammiter found himself obeying it. In any case, having come this far from a table at the Café Doney, he might as well continue without asking where he was going. He would find out, soon enough. He did allow himself to comment on Salvatore’s manœuvres, “Very professional—for an amateur.” Salvatore shot him a keen glance, smiled too, and murmured, “Thank you.” Then in silence they began the ascent.
The stairway was of stone, with every tread hollowed into a drooping curve by two hundred years of footsteps. Enough light filtered down from a window in the roof to let him see the cats, in the corners of the landings, scattering angrily from the crumpled sheets of newspaper which held something that looked very unappetisingly like cold pieces of spaghetti.
Salvatore stopped at the last landing, leaned over the staircase well to check on the shadows below. Here, in the far corner of the landing, one cat was so hungry that it didn’t run away. It stood looking over its shoulder, hostile, suspicious, curious, hopeful. Then, as Salvatore knocked gently on a door, the cat relaxed its taut muscles. It turned back to gulping down its cold pasta, while, in silence, they waited.
8
There were two people in the room: a seated man, bald-headed, who didn’t rise, but turned his chin over his shoulder to look at the stranger much as the cat had done; and Rosana, standing behind the door, now closing it quickly.
It was a quiet room, shadowed at the threshold, but opposite the door—over by the wide-open window—it glowed in the warm light of a Roman evening. There was a pot of red geraniums on the broad window sill, with their clear spicy scent; some books, papers, and a small radio on the desk near the arm-chair where the man sat; a wardrobe highly varnished, cheap; a wooden table with wine and food—bread and cheese, a bowl of peaches; a narrow bed neatly made. Children’s voices from below came soaring up along with the noise of falling water. The evening breeze, touched with unexpected coolness, flowed past the heavy shutters which were folded back to let every breath of fresh air enter and swirl round the room. The geraniums, the fruit, the scent of roses and jasmine which Rosana wore, all emphasised the freshness of the clean air, so great was the contrast between this pleasant unpretentious place and the staleness of the sour-smelling mysteries on the staircase outside.
“Here he is,” Salvatore said as if he were a conjurer producing a lighted cigarette from his ear. “A little dazed, I think, but still curious. See?” For Lammiter had moved quickly over to the window and stood at its side, as he looked down.
“Thank you, Salvatore,” the girl said. “I hope we didn’t make you late for your own appointment. But Giuseppe is on duty at six.”
“And the princess can’t be kept waiting, while my flock of Swedish schoolteachers can? Now, now, Rosana, that was only a joke. I’ll be in good time for the schoolteachers.”
“You ought to leave now,” Rosana said worriedly. She came over to the window, too.
Lammiter had been right. He was looking down at the Piazza Navona. He had been guided carefully in a wide arc, by a maze of narrow alleys, to the cobbled street that backed the buildings along this side of the Piazza. Was all the precaution to impress him? Or perhaps these people were really afraid.
“Satisfied?” the bald-headed man asked. He didn’t sound either welcoming or particularly friendly. Lammiter looked at him, and saw why the man sat immobile. His right leg was out of action, its ankle bandaged, stiff, propped up on the foot-rest before the arm-chair. He was probably in some pain. That might explain his bad temper, or the fact that he had a large fiasco of Chianti too near his elbow.
Rosana said pleadingly, “Tony—please!” She tried to explain to Lammiter. “This is my friend Anthony Brewster, an Englishman who—”
“All right, all right,” Brewster said. He must have been fond of the girl, for he looked as if he would have bitten off anyone else’s head and chewed it into little pieces. He took a deep breath, and studied Lammiter gloomily. Lammiter was in no mood to be outstared.
The Englishman was about forty years old, with a powerful body now beginning to run to fat. His legs seemed short, so he probably was only of medium height when he stood on his feet. He wasn’t completely bald. Once he had had fine reddish-fair hair to match his eyebrows and lashes; now, he had only a slight fuzz of thinned-out pinfeathers, beginning in a line over his ears and stretching back in longer strands to the nape of a weather-reddened neck. Normally, his blue eyes might have been both shrewd and merry above a shapeless clown’s nose and a friendly mouth in a brick-complexioned face. He was intended to look both round and genial. But this evening he was neither. He was sharp and bitter. His general good nature had vanished. He looked angry, worried, suspicious, sullen, stubborn. �
�I didn’t want you here,” he told Lammiter abruptly.
“Then I’ll leave,” Lammiter said equably. He looked at the door where Salvatore still stood. On guard? Salvatore had been turning the key in the lock, slowly, carefully. For a moment he looked startled, as if he hadn’t expected Lammiter to leave so suddenly. And then, it was Lammiter who was surprised: hadn’t Rosana locked the door after they had entered? “If you didn’t trust me, then why did you have me brought here?” He took a few steps to the door.
“Oh, stop being so thin-skinned,” Brewster said. His voice was slowing. “Come back. Over here. And stop towering over me. Sit down. Rosana insists you can be trusted.” He paused. When he spoke again, his words were uttered with considerable effort. “She has a weakness for Americans, particularly when they are tall and not—not—unprepossessing.” He smiled around him, as if delighted with his victory over that word. “I hear you’re famous, too. And rich.”
Lammiter’s face hardened. “I don’t have to stay,” he reminded Brewster. He didn’t sit down.
Rosana said, “Please—don’t leave.” She looked towards the Englishman unhappily. “Tony’s ill. He’s had no sleep for three nights.”
He’s drunk, Lammiter thought. It’s useless staying here. And somehow, he felt a crushing disappointment. He had expected too much from this interview. He looked at Rosana, then at Salvatore, who had come forward into the room. Brewster’s eyes had closed. The hell with this, Lammiter thought, and took a step back towards the door.
Salvatore said quickly, “We never like to leave by the way we entered. Let me show you another way, Mr. Lammiter, much simpler.”
Rosana was upset. “No, no—not yet.”
Salvatore pointed to Brewster. “He’s had no sleep for three nights. Now he wants to sleep. And you want to waken him?” He shook his head, and then he smiled gently, as he looked at the Englishman. “Let him sleep. Then he will be more himself when we have the meeting tonight. Mr. Lammiter can come back then. This way, Mr. Lammiter.” He had opened another door, a small door in a side wall, which Lammiter had, until this moment, imagined as leading into a closet; now he saw it led into a small hall used as a kitchen.
Lammiter hesitated. Salvatore seemed almost too anxious to get him to leave. Perhaps Salvatore hadn’t approved of his orders to conduct the strange American to Tony Brewster’s rooms. He was saying now, “Come, Mr. Lammiter. I know this is all most disappointing, but I’ve an appointment at six. I’ll have to hurry.”
Rosana broke into a rush of Italian. “You brought him here. It would be better if you weren’t seen with him again. I’ll show Mr. Lammiter the way downstairs. I’ll watch at the window until you cross the Piazza. Then he and I shall leave, too.”
“Is he coming back here for the meeting tonight?” Salvatore was speaking in Italian, too.
“I suppose so.”
“Then why did Tony want to see him now? Couldn’t that have waited until tonight?”
“Tony wanted to brief him about our meeting.”
“When is it?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“If Tony is awake,” Salvatore said doubtfully. He looked down at the peacefully dozing Englishman, and his taut face relaxed into a fleeting smile of sympathy. “Better if we postponed our meeting until tomorrow morning. He needs sleep.”
“But we have little time—” Rosana’s voice was sharp with worry.
“Is it really so important that we meet here tonight?” he asked impatiently. “I thought our job was almost over. Is there something new?”
Rosana said firmly, “We meet tonight. Tony wants our final reports.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “All right, all right.” He turned towards the kitchen, and then paused. Casually, he asked, “How much does the American know?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Then that’s about as much as I do.” He looked at Lammiter speculatively. “What is he, anyway? Our special envoy to the White House?” He laughed briefly. “You never can tell what Tony will think up next. And, Rosana—take away that bottle from him before you leave. He’s had more than enough. And you’d better set the alarm clock for a quarter to eleven, or he won’t be awake to let us in.” Then he turned to Lammiter. “Goodbye,” he said in English. “I’m sorry your first visit turned out to be such a waste of time—for both of us.” He made a wry grimace.
“Give me a hand to stretch Brewster on the bed,” Lammiter said. “He will sleep better.”
“We might only waken him again.” He looked searchingly at the American. “You understand Italian?” he asked unexpectedly.
Lammiter smiled. “You mean I was listening to you and Rosana? I just liked the way she talked, that’s all.” It was an evasive answer, but it was all that Lammiter felt like giving, somehow.
Rosana’s laugh was unexpected.
“Don’t get too interested in Rosana,” Salvatore said with heavy good humour. “Tony would not approve of that. Arrivederci.” He entered the narrow kitchen, opened the door in its end wall, listened, and then stepped quickly into the hallway outside. The door closed behind him, locking itself with a decided click.
Rosana’s eyes were angry. “Salvatore makes such silly jokes—” She crossed over to the side of the window to look down on the Piazza. “He’s always like that. He’s too clever, too bitter.”
“Perhaps he needs a bigger job than he has.”
“That,” Tony Brewster said, and his voice seemed brisker, “may be the explanation of Salvatore which I’ve been seeking for years.” He opened both eyes and looked at Lammiter almost approvingly. “You see—” he said, now raising his chin, too, “I am not so drunk as you all thought me. I may need sleep, but I’ll get that in its proper time.” He eased his bandaged leg. “Dammit, perhaps I’ll have to go to some bloody hospital after all. Rosana, get me another bottle of wine and two more glasses. Quick, we may have even less time than you think.”
As she obeyed, he went on talking. Brewster was not yet drunk. But just as certainly, he was not exactly sober. Rosana brought a fresh bottle of wine unwillingly to the table. She exchanged a quick glance with Lammiter. “Tony—” she began, as Brewster poured wine for all.
“Get back to the window, Rosana,” Brewster said. “You promised Salvatore. Remember? Don’t worry about me. Wine increases my eloquence. You know that.”
Rosana crossed to the window. Worry made her angry; she was frowning.
“I like Salvatore. We are good friends,” Brewster told Lammiter, handing him a glass of wine. “But there have been developments in the last three days that go far beyond the work that Salvatore and Joe and Rosana and I have been doing for the past year—our official work, you might call it. There is no need for either Salvatore or Joe to be concerned with anything except that official work.”
“I see,” Lammiter said, and relaxed. “I was beginning to think you didn’t trust Salvatore.”
“Didn’t trust him?” Brewster asked, annoyed. “We’ve been together, off and on, since 1944. He led a partisan group that did a very good job against the Nazis, a very good job indeed.”
“What’s his name?”
“Didn’t he tell you?” Brewster was amused.
“I don’t know him well enough to be on second-name terms with him.”
Brewster’s smile deepened, but he seemed to have forgotten Lammiter’s question. He had one of his own. “Why did you come here?”
“Rosana—”
“Yes, yes. But why did you listen to her?”
“I want to know more about Pirotta.”
“More?” Brewster was watchful now. “How much do you know?”
This is the moment, Lammiter suddenly felt, when Brewster either becomes interested in me or bored with me. In one case, he will talk; in the other, he will simply chitchat, and I’ll learn nothing about Pirotta. He made a wild plunge.
“Pirotta is connected with some narcotics ring.”
“Oh?” Brewster seemed unperturbed, but he
flashed a quick glance at Rosana.
“She told me nothing,” Lammiter said quickly. “I’ve been listening to the princess that’s all.”
Now Rosana and Brewster looked at each other. “And what does the princess know?” Brewster asked, very quietly.
“That Count Luigi Pirotta belongs to the same organisation to which Rosana’s brother belonged. There were also hints that Communists are backing this narcotics ring—certainly they’re mixed up with it somehow. According to the princess, that is. There was a good deal of hinting. In fact, I’d say she was needling Pirotta, and his friend Mr. Whitelaw. That’s possibly her way of being angry.” He looked at Rosana for confirmation, but the girl was watching the Piazza. She waved to someone down there.
“Whitelaw? Bertrand Whitelaw?” Brewster asked.
“Yes, Whither-are-we-drifting Whitelaw. I had the feeling he was one of the princess’s targets, too. Why? Where does he stand?”
Anthony Brewster’s shrewd blue eyes studied Lammiter. At last he said, “Your princess is meddling with dangerous things. I wonder how she could have learned about the Communists’ control of the drug ring?”
So it’s true, Lammiter thought, and does knowing the truth make you feel any better? It did not.
Rosana turned quickly away from the window. “Tony—I didn’t tell her. I haven’t been seeing her. I’ve avoided her for the last three or four months.”
“But no one knows about the control of the drug ring except—” Brewster’s voice was worried but unaccusing. He frowned down at the table.
“Except me and you and Giuseppe and Salvatore.”
“And now Mr. Lammiter,” Brewster reminded her. “But who told the princess?”
“She has the quickest ears and the sharpest tongue of anyone in Rome.”
“Seemingly.” Brewster’s brow wrinkled into red folds.
North From Rome Page 8