North From Rome

by Helen Macinnes

  “Goodness!” she said. That prospect didn’t rouse much enthusiasm. “Do you know Italian, Mr.—Mr.—?”

  “A little,” he admitted. “And Smith’s the name at present. Original, isn’t it?”

  “If you could do some talking for us—I mean, could you come back to town with us? I hate to ask you to do any extra walking, but—”

  “I haven’t very much time,” he said awkwardly. “What’s the trouble, anyway?”

  “Transportation,” she said gloomily. “You see, this guide— Oh hallo Julie! Any luck?”

  Julie came over to where they sat, closing her camera. “The light is wrong or something,” she said ruefully. “All that scenery and nothing to take... The hills just flatten out like split peas. It’s—”

  “Maddening,” Lammiter said abruptly. “Now, Sally—what about this guide?”

  Julie didn’t sit down. Perhaps she didn’t like hearing herself quoted. She stood, looking around her. “I can see a farmhouse over there,” she said, suddenly pointing across the road. “Haystacks... Why, there may be white bulls, too. And there’s the farmer! Hi, there!” She called, and began to run towards Joe.

  Lammiter rose quickly as Sally scrambled to her feet. She said, “So it is! Perhaps he will know!” And she began hurrying after Julie.

  Joe had been crossing the yard when Julie called out, and he stood now, facing her, a jar of water in his hand, trapped. He made the decision to accept this complication, seemingly, for he set down the jar of water and came forward a few steps to intercept the girl and keep her away from the open kitchen door. From where he now stood, the Fiat could not be seen.

  Lammiter lit a cigarette. Keep out of this, he told himself. But it was not so easy. “He can’t speak English,” Julie called back to Sally. “Hurry—you’ve got the phrase book!”

  Sally had a better idea. She halted and looked back at Lammiter. “Mr. Smith— Please, would you help us?” She waved to him frantically, and then ran on. So he followed, crossing the road quickly, deciding, as Joe had decided, that the sooner this was over the better for everyone—

  The girls’ heads were bent over the phrase book as he joined the little group. Joe had somehow managed to edge them away from the open yard towards the shelter of a tree. For a moment, his eyes looked at Lammiter, half-amused, half-angry. Lammiter had only time to give one small helpless gesture before Sally looked up.

  “Would you ask him if there are any other buses? Before five o’clock?”

  Julie said, “Here it is! Toro. Toro. And bianco—that’s white, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think the animal is a bull, exactly,” Lammiter said. “Is that what you want to ask—permission to photograph his white oxen?”

  “The bus,” Sally said, “don’t forget the bus.”

  Under Joe’s critical eyes, Lammiter’s Italian failed him. It degenerated into disjointed words and phrases.

  “My,” said Sally, listening to Joe’s flowing reply, “doesn’t he make it sound so easy!” She looked at Lammiter. “Did you get all that?”

  “Some of it. He says the oxen are mostly down in the fields with the men. You’ll find them all dozing under the trees. It’s siesta-time.”

  “Siesta,” Joe said, and nodded vigorously. “Siesta.” He looked as if he were about to leave.

  “What about the bus?” Sally asked.

  “It leaves at two,” Lammiter said, definite about that. The afternoon bus left at two: the men who had forced Eleanor into the Lancia, their job over were leaving then. It was the best news Joe had brought back that morning. Two o’clock, and two less to deal with at the Casa Grande.

  Sally shook her head. “Two o’clock? But that’s the bus that just won’t take us any farther than here! It’s a chartered bus, a tour, with a guide and all. Tell him that!”

  “They put you off the bus?” Lammiter asked, in genuine amazement.

  “Well, you see, we really weren’t supposed to be on it. The guide was angry—”

  “Oh, but he was nice afterwards,” Julie said.

  “Not nice enough,” Sally told her firmly. “We could have stood, couldn’t we, to Perugia? Or sat on our suitcases in the aisle, or something? Couldn’t we?”

  “It’s against the law,” he said.

  “Phooey!” said Sally. “If the peasants can stand in a bus, so can I. I’ve two legs like them, haven’t I?” Then she turned to Lammiter. “Tell him that bus is all full. Two people are getting on here in—in—what’s the name of this town?—Montesecco— and that’s another thing, the bus wasn’t even scheduled to come here. Assisi for lunch, we were told. And then Perugia. But we just rushed through the churches in Assisi, and here we are in Montesecco.”

  “He said this place was less crowded for lunch. I’ll say it is!” Julie interposed.

  “Tell him,” Sally repeated, nodding towards Joe.

  “Let me get it all straight first,” Lammiter said. “You got on to this chartered bus in Rome—”

  “Because there was no room, not a single seat, on any other of the buses. We hadn’t any reservations—just decided last night we were going. So this morning we went along to the Esedra piazza, you know—the one with all the fountains and buses and things—and we couldn’t get a seat anywhere. It was frustrating! Then this nice young man from the C.I.T. offices—”

  “He was very nice,” Julie said.

  “—tried to help us to get to Perugia. He found these two seats on this bus, empty, no one in them. So he popped us and our luggage on board. The driver didn’t say anything, just took our money. No one paid any attention—they were all too worried because the guide hadn’t turned up. Then when we were almost out of Rome, the bus stopped at a little café, and this guide came on board, apologising like mad. Then he saw us, and was absolutely furious. He wanted to put us off the bus right there. But we just sat and smiled. No one was using the old seats, anyway.”

  “But he was nice, afterwards,” Julie conceded. “And he could talk five languages: French, German, Swedish, Dutch, and English. That was for us—the English, I mean.”

  “And now,” said Lammiter firmly, “the two seats on the bus are needed for two people boarding it at Montesecco. But why are you in such a hurry to get to Perugia?”

  “Our friends are all there,” Julie said with a smiling glance at Sally, “for the summer school. And by Saturday we’ll have to leave Perugia to get to Genoa in time to catch our boat. It’s maddening.”

  “It certainly is,” Lammiter agreed gravely. “What is the guide’s name, do you know? He could be reported.”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t want to get him into trouble,” Julie said. “He was an Italian. And the old ladies loved him, didn’t they, Sally? It was Signore Samarini this and Signore Samarini that, all the way.”

  “Sabatini,” Sally corrected. “Signore Sabatini.”

  Joe had been a very patient Italian, polite if not comprehending. But for one brief fraction of a second his eyes looked very directly at Lammiter.

  “Sabatini—you’re sure?” Lammiter asked. And I was right, he thought in a quick moment of jubilation. That was Sabatini I saw.

  She laughed. “I couldn’t forget it. Once, my favourite novel was Scaramouche. I asked Signore Sabatini if he was any relation to the author, but he wasn’t, and he didn’t have time to read novels, either. Squelch!”

  Julie said, “But I don’t think you should report him. We don’t want to get him into trouble. After all, it was a chartered bus.”

  “Where is it going?” Lammiter asked casually. “Perugia, and then?” Beside him, Joe was standing very still.

  “Florence tomorrow. Next day Venice,” Sally said with the scorn of the tourist who has spent two months instead of two weeks on her travels.

  Lammiter stared across at Joe. “They aren’t having much of a stay in Perugia, are they?”

  “Not much,” Sally answered Lammiter. “They’re leaving Perugia at the crack of dawn practically. They’ll just have this afternoon,
that’s all when you come to think of it. I bet they’re in bed by nine o’clock.”

  “Wish I had the afternoon there,” Julie said regretfully. She opened her camera and kneeled to look up at a haystack, symmetrically wound round a centre pole that pointed into the sky. “Well, this will just have to do instead.”

  Sally said, “Ask the farmer if there is no one in Montesecco who could give us a ride to Perugia.”

  Lammiter translated. Joe, watching Julie carefully, was edging away. “Get them back to the road, for God’s sake,” he said, “and don’t let them photograph you.” He turned his back on Julie. “Buon giorno!” he said to Sally. Quickly, he lifted his water jar and carried it towards the farmhouse. Its doors closed firmly.

  “No ride. No bus. What’s happened to our luck?” Sally asked, finding a smile somehow.

  “Well, he’s got to catch up on his siesta.” Lammiter began walking back to the road.

  “If only he had waited,” Julie said, “he’d have made such a good study. All those wrinkles and furrows—”

  “The light’s all wrong, too many shadows here,” Lammiter said quickly. “Hey, don’t waste your film on me, Julie.”

  She lowered her camera, frowning, calculating how much film she had left, and then sighed in agreement.

  “Come on,” he urged them, “that’s another farm over there—along that trail under the wall.” He pointed towards the north side of the town.

  “They’ll be having a siesta, too,” Sally said gloomily. “I don’t see it—this business of going to bed in the middle of the day.”

  “And there are some others who don’t see it, either,” he said thankfully. Three young boys were playing outside the gates: or, to be exact, they were having a wonderful time tearing large strips off all the posters. “There’s a study for you, Julie. You can call it And a little child shall lead them.”

  “Look, look, look!” cried Julie. Coming along the trail that Lammiter had pointed out was a farm cart drawn at a slow ceremonial pace by two stately white oxen. “And they’ve got hats on!” she added in delight as she ran past him, past Sally, racing over the rough ground without one thought of a sprained ankle.

  “Perhaps,” thought Sally out loud, new ideas popping into her bright blue eyes, “perhaps he’s going down to the main road—and if he’d only wait until we got our suitcases—then we’ll find a passing car in the valley—perhaps?”

  “I don’t think you’ll need me as an interpreter this time,” he said, as he listened to the mixture of broken English and one-word Italian that drifted over towards them. The driver was young, smiling, delighted with this break in boredom. “Goodbye, Sally.”

  “Can’t we give you a lift?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll cut down over the olive terraces and make good time.”

  “Thanks for everything. Bye.”

  “Thank you,” he said, as he watched her run towards Julie. The cameras were out. The children were gathering around. The driver beamed from his seat on the edge of the cart and straightened his hat. The oxen stood placidly. Everyone was happy.

  22

  For appearance’s sake, although he didn’t expect any further interest in him now, Lammiter climbed down through three terraces. It was harder work than it had looked, and the heat among the olive trees was blistering. So he veered to his left and circled cautiously back to the farmhouse.

  The kitchen door was open. Joe was finishing a hasty meal. He looked up at Lammiter, shaking his head slowly.

  “It’s all right,” said Lammiter. “They’ve met some friends up at the gate.”

  Joe pushed back his chair abruptly and went to the stairs.

  “Where can I wash?—I’m filthy,” Lammiter asked, helping himself to Chianti. Then he saw the water Joe had carried in, and a basin beside it. He ripped off his damp shirt. He was drying himself with it when Joe came downstairs. “Well, did you see them for yourself?”

  “They’re loading the suitcases on to the cart. But don’t give me any more shocks like them.” He sat down at the table. “Come on. Eat!” Then, as Lammiter helped himself to cheese and bread, Joe said, “Sabatini... There couldn’t by any chance be another man using that name? Someone who was sent to take Sabatini’s place?” Joe was arguing it out with himself. “He did not leave with the bus from the Piazza Esedra, remember. He got in much later, outside Rome. Why? To avoid all the guides and drivers who were gathered at the Esedra, perhaps?”

  “Or the police,” Lammiter said with a smile. “Stop kidding yourself, Joe.” But it must be difficult for Joe to grant that someone had played the old confidence trick on him and on Brewster, and played it well: no one likes to admit he had bought the Brooklyn Bridge, or that someone he thought was a friend turns out to be a traitor. “No one has taken Sabatini’s place to cover up his murder. He’s alive. And in good spirits, I saw him.”

  “Where?” The word shot out like a bullet.

  “In the piazza. He was taking his tourists to eat at the restaurant.” He glanced at his watch. “Just three-quarters of an hour ago. They’ll still be there.”

  Joe had risen to his feet. “But Sabatini won’t eat with them. He didn’t come to Montesecco to enjoy its cooking.” He took a step towards the door, and then paused. “Sabatini—” he said, softly “—alive and walking around as if nothing had happened.” His lips tightened.

  Lammiter remembered last night in Joe’s car. “At least,” he said quietly, “we know the kind of man we have against us.”

  Joe nodded, grim-faced. Slowly, he said, still puzzling out the reason why Sabatini should have come to Montesecco, “He’s making a check, making sure that everything is going well.” Joe’s eyes suddenly gleamed. “Or is there some change in plans, some last-minute instructions?”

  “He doesn’t trust Pirotta?”

  “That kind of man trusts no one.” Joe took some more steps towards the door. “Mannaggia! If only we had a telephone in this house!”

  “You aren’t thinking of walking into the town, now? My God—you are likely to run into Sabatini on the prowl. Wait until two o’clock comes, and the bus leaves.”

  “I want to see him with my own eyes.”

  “He’s got eyes, too. And if he is making a last-minute check—” Lammiter stopped short. “Joe!”

  “Some risks can’t be avoided,” Joe said angrily.

  “Joe! Listen, will you? If this is a last-minute check, can the meeting be in Perugia today? He leaves tomorrow for Florence, remember?”

  “He won’t attend the meeting. That is not his job.”

  “What is his job? Security, isn’t it?”

  “If you are right and he isn’t an Italian,” Joe said, “he could be a member of the N.K.V.D. working in Italy.”

  Lammiter pushed aside his plate of bread and cheese. He tried not to think of Eleanor. He forced his mind back to Perugia. “Sabatini won’t leave Perugia until Evans is safely out of there.”

  “You have only the word of two girls that Sabatini leaves Perugia tomorrow. He may not go with that bus. He may stay behind, rejoin the tour tomorrow night in Florence. What would be a safer way to travel to Venice?”

  Venice—Lammiter thought. Why Venice?

  Joe was saying, “You’re putting more trust in your two maniacs than in Rosana.”

  “I’m putting more trust in them than in Pirotta. Rosana only repeated what he told the housekeeper. ‘Tomorrow night—we’ll be leaving then.’ Very obliging of him to announce his departure so frankly.” He rose. “The meeting is this afternoon. Pirotta takes Eleanor away with him tonight. Is that it?”

  Joe looked at him. Slowly, he said, “Could be. Could be... I’ll report it anyway. If you are wrong, Bill, then I’ll come asking you for a job.” He pulled a watch out of his pocket. “Half-past one.”

  “Half-past one it is.” Lammiter timed his watch exactly.

  Joe was, calculating. He said, “I wait until ten minutes before the bus leaves. I make sure that Sabatini and his two men
climb on board. Then I telephone. Then I see a couple of people. Then I come back here for you.”

  Lammiter shook his head. “I’ll wait, too, until Sabatini leaves on that bus. But then I’m heading for the Casa Grande.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! Don’t worry. I’ll keep out of Pirotta’s sight. And as soon as he drives off for the meeting in Perugia, I’ll bring Eleanor and Rosana out.”

  “No, Bill. There’s too much risk. I don’t want any alarms being telephoned to Perugia.”

  “But that mechanic—Giovanni—will be the only opposition left. He’s harmless enough.”

  “Not as harmless as you think. He’s already done a stretch in prison: assault and robbery. Now he’s got a job to do that no honest man would take even for a million lire. And that’s his price. We traced his girl this morning. She got scared and told us.”

  “A million lire?” That was less than seventeen hundred dollars, but it sounded better in lire. “What’s the job?”

  “She didn’t know.”

  Lammiter said, “Joe—what are you trying to hide from me? Last night we talked about a lot of things. We gave ourselves a pretty clear view of the kind of man who had Brewster murdered. He is ruthless, cold-blooded, and as wily as they come. You told me he might think it wise to get rid of Eleanor, but he couldn’t risk any publicity. Yet there’s one kind of publicity he could risk. Eleanor could disappear with Pirotta, couldn’t she? An elopement, Joe, an apparent elopement. Anyone would accept that story.”

  Joe was silent.

  “Did the mechanic’s girl tell the police where he is going? Didn’t she know that?”

  “Venice.” Abruptly, Joe moved into the yard. He turned quickly to his left, towards the side of the house where the car lay.

  Lammiter gripped the back of his wooden chair. Venice, he was thinking again, Venice...the place for lovers and elopements. But a gondola on the Grand Canal by moonlight was only one half of Venice, the enchanted half. There was the workaday half, the quays where the ships of all nations lay and loaded and unloaded. Venice was an Adriatic port. You could take a ship there, in sight of the Grand Canal, and you could sail out through the lagoon to Greece, to Turkey, to the Black Sea.