North From Rome

by Helen Macinnes

  He looked down at his hands, knuckles white through the deep tan. He swung round as a shadow fell on the oblique stream of sunlight now spreading over the threshold. It was Joe. Lammiter took a deep breath and relaxed his grip on the chair.

  Joe said, “Ugly thoughts you were thinking. Here!” He held out a revolver. “That will keep them company.” He looked at his watch. “Time to go. How do you plan to get into the Casa Grande?”

  “By the gate down at the woods. There’s a gamekeeper’s cottage. His name is—Jacopone?”

  Joe nodded. “I told him he might expect to see you.” He half-smiled. “I had a feeling you might get restless and do something damned stupid.”

  “Thanks,” Lammiter said, “thanks, friend.” He slipped the revolver into his pocket. “And here’s something for you.” He took out the folded handkerchief and passed it over to Joe. “It’s the photograph Eleanor took of Evans, up at Tivoli. Perhaps you could send it to Perugia? It isn’t very clear; but it’s better than nothing.”

  Joe took the handkerchief, checked inside it but wasted no time in examining the photograph. “You took a long time to trust Joe,” he said as he pocketed the handkerchief, and he smiled. “Oh, well, now I can stop worrying about you.”

  “I forgot about that photograph.” And that was true. He had forgotten, until he put his hand in his pocket.

  “Sure, sure. Good luck!”

  “Good luck to you. When do we meet?”

  “Chi sa?”

  Yes, Lammiter thought: who knows?

  Suddenly Joe put his arms round Lammiter’s shoulders, gave him a brief embrace and a thump on the back. Then he moved to the door, slipped quietly into the farmyard, and was gone.

  Lammiter closed the door, ran upstairs, found his case and opened it. First thing needed was a shave. That cost three careful minutes in front of the fly-spotted glass. Quickly, he pulled on a clean shirt, a new tie, and a fresh jacket. He jammed the passport and wallet and cheques into his pockets. If his plan failed, if he were to be discovered wandering around the princess’s Casa Grande, he was going to look exactly like what he was: Bill Lammiter in search of his girl. That way, he wouldn’t have to explain what he was doing in Montesecco. That way, Joe wouldn’t be connected with him. He would make his story clear, and he would make his story hold.

  When he was ready, the suitcase hidden once more, the bed smoothed down, nothing forgotten—he clamped a quick hand to each of his pockets and checked their various bulges—he crossed over to the window. He closed the shutters as he had found them when he first entered the room, leaving only a small crack of light which still would give him a glimpse of the entrance gate of the town. He glanced at his watch again. Two more minutes, and the bus would leave the Piazza. He wished Joe luck, wherever he was.

  As he waited, he perfected his story. The princess had told him Eleanor was at Montesecco. So he had come here, By bus—to Assisi—yes, that could be true: the buses stopped at Assisi for lunch, Sally—or was it Julie?—had said, bless both those inspired and amiable maniacs. And then, in Assisi, he had hired a taxi to the gates of Montesecco. His driver had pointed out the Casa Grande to him. He had got into the grounds by exploring along the outside of the wall and convincing the gamekeeper that the princess had sent him. Yes, that was the story. If he ever got time to explain it, he thought grimly.

  Then he heard the heavy drone of the bus, lumbering cautiously down the street towards the gate. It came slowly out from under the heavy arch like an elephant testing its way cautiously at the edge of a water hole: and then its brakes were eased a little and it started to gather more speed down the road, leaving a large cloud of dust swirling around the torn posters. Signore Sabatini was no doubt pointing out and explaining the withered olive groves.

  He closed the shutters and went downstairs. The table needed clearing. Then he decided to leave it littered. Two men had eaten there: that was all right—two men lived here, didn’t they? Only, neither of them would have wasted any food. He dropped his unfinished piece of cheese back on its platter, and pocketed the half-eaten crust of bread: the chickens in the yard would dispose of that evidence. Then he saw his damp and discarded shirt. He bundled it up and threw it under the bed. He smiled when he saw it was not alone. Someone else had the same idea about dirty clothes.

  He opened the door, and looked back for a last reassurance. The sun streamed obliquely into the room. Still life, by Vermeer in rustic mood. He nodded, satisfied. He closed the door. Watchfully, he crossed the farmyard, and entered the olive grove.

  This was sheltered ground. Even in the bad frost this year, these trees had had help from the winter sun. There were grey-green leaves on some of their branches, thriving on the warmth of the baking earth around their gnarled and twisted trunks. Then the grass of the field was under his feet, long and dry, but soft and yielding. Here the desultory breeze wandering aimlessly around the hills could stir the air gently with its warm breath, so that the rays of concentrated heat were broken and there was a feeling of almost coolness in comparison to the roasting oven around the olives. He reached the first green trees, the beginning of the wood. Bliss, bliss, this true coolness of dappled shade and softly stirring leaves. The wood was deep, a place for small game. He recalled now that of the dozen little shops he had passed that morning, scattered around the narrow streets, two had displayed good rifles, excellent shotguns. A lot of hunting took place among these little hill towns.

  Under the cover of the trees, he could abandon his downward course. Abruptly, he turned to travel uphill towards the wall of the town. He began to worry that he might have gone beyond the gate in the wall that led to the gamekeeper’s lodge. He reached the edge of the wood, and before him was the trail edging the vast encircling wall of Montesecco. Where now—to his left or to his right?

  He turned to his right, his worry growing. Stupid, Joe had called him, and so, remembering that he had been over-cautious. Or had that been Joe’s purpose? He increased his pace, angry with Joe, angry with himself. And then, as the trail curved round with the wall, he saw the gate just ahead of him. It was not a giant, like the other gates. It was simply a good-sized opening, handsome enough, probably constructed to let the owner of the house inside the wall enjoy his hunting without having to ride through the town.

  Even as Lammiter took a deep breath of relief, a man stepped out from the trees and faced him, a man with a gun under his arm. A shotgun or a rifle? A rifle, Lammiter decided. Could this be Jacopone? Yet a gamekeeper usually carried a shotgun.

  For a moment, Lammiter hesitated. Then he walked on. The man was dressed as the farmer had been, except that his trousers were tucked into high laced boots. His felt hat was pulled down over his forehead to shade his eyes. They never left Lammiter.

  “Buon giorno,” Lammiter said, smiled, looked at the rifle. He got no reply. The man was old, his brown face wrinkled, many creases around his keen grey eyes. His face was thin, hawk-nosed; his hair was white. And Lammiter noted, too, that he himself was being studied, slowly and carefully, not a detail missed, whether it was his shoelaces or his haircut.

  “Americano,” the old man said at last. He smiled. He had few teeth, and those were dark in colour; but Lammiter thought it the finest smile he had seen in years.

  “Jacopone? Giuseppe told me—”

  “Si, si.” Jacopone turned to the gate, beckoning Lammiter to follow. Quietly, without another word, he opened the gate and they entered. Carefully, the gate was locked behind them. Lammiter’s eyes left the coat of arms—wolf’s head, three beehives, this was the place all right—and turned to look at the garden. He was standing at the beginning of a short avenue of thick trees, their branches meeting overhead to form a green tunnel. At the other end of this short avenue, he could see a formal garden of shrubs and gravelled walks, and then a terrace, and then a part of the house itself. But the tunnel of trees hid any windows.

  Jacopone touched his arm and began walking towards a little cottage tucked away to one si
de of the gate. He walked without talking, but without much concern either. For there was a screen of shrubs and trees making sure that the gamekeeper’s cottage would give no offence to any aesthetic eye looking out on the view from the Casa Grande.

  They passed the cottage. There was a wooden chair at its door, and a large dog chained to a small tree beside it. The dog rose, faced Lammiter. But a word from Jacopone silenced the beginning of a suspicious growl, and the dog settled down again in its patch of cool shade. It even thumped a heavy tail by way of apology.

  They followed a path that kept close to the high wall marking the boundary of the princess’s land. But again they could walk normally without fear of being seen, for the path was hidden from the garden and the house by a continuous hedge of tall rhododendrons. This, Lammiter decided, must be the servants’ entrance. It was probably as safe as old Jacopone seemed to think it was.

  Quietly, Lammiter asked, “The American girl—is she safe?”

  The old man frowned at him. He had difficulty in understanding Lammiter’s Italian accent. Then he raised his shoulders for a brief moment: he didn’t know, but he hoped for the best.

  “And the Signorina Rosana?”

  Jacopone smiled. “She is brave, that one. The courage of a man.” Courage, he seemed to be saying, kept people safe. He nodded. He made a quick signal for silence.

  The distance to the house had been short. Here they were, entering a neat square of hedged-in garden standing almost at the side of the house itself. It was the kitchen garden, Lammiter noted, with vegetables and peach trees, cutting flowers, vines, everything arranged in its own neat space so that not one yard of earth was wasted. He remembered how little room there was in this town: the grounds of the house were small, even if they were constructed in the grand manner.

  “Wait!” Jacopone whispered, backing Lammiter determinedly behind the shelter of the peach tree. He pointed to himself, and then to the house. “La Signorina Rosana!” he said, softly, hoarsely. “I tell her.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Lammiter took a step towards the house.

  The gamekeeper shook his head with unexpected energy.

  “But if there is any trouble—” Lammiter said.

  The gamekeeper had understood that word, at least. “Trouble?” He smiled, raised his rifle to his shoulder, pointing its barrel into the sky. “I shoot.”

  “You’ll give a warning shot if you need me?”

  Jacopone frowned, and then gave up trying to understand. Again, he aimed a shot into the air, nodded, and turned away. He stepped through an opening in the hedge that lay nearest to this wing of the house, and vanished.

  Patience, Lammiter told himself, patience: the old boy has saved you at least half an hour of prowling around, and you never could have climbed that wall in the first place. He resigned himself to waiting, forced down his rising anxiety, and studied the house.

  From here, only the upper floors were visible, their windows tightly shuttered against the afternoon sun, but from the angles of the roofs he could make a guess at the size and shape of the place. It was larger than it had seemed from the street: that square of building could not be solid, it must have a central courtyard. It was strong, built in the days when the thickness of a wall was measured in feet, not in inches. No balconies, no loggias, only smooth walls of stone decorated with softly painted grotesques. The shuttered windows were large, spaced at wide intervals not only between each other, but between the floors themselves. Even a trained roof climber would find no help in that facade. Better put your trust in Jacopone, he thought, Jacopone and Rosana.

  He glanced at his watch. Six minutes had passed since the old man had slipped through the hedge to find Rosana. Six minutes. seven.

  He looked back at the house. Which was the room—what window? Or did the room, where Eleanor was left, face into the courtyard? Around him, the cicadas had become a permanent background of sound, no longer heard. The violence of brilliant light and black shadow, the contrast of scarlet flowers against blue sky, the heavy scent of sun-warmed fruit, the jagged rhythm of the yellow butterflies were no longer seen or felt. Nothing existed, nothing, except the silent house and the moving hand of his watch. Nine minutes now.

  I’ll give them one more, he thought, his anxiety shifting into foreboding. One more minute, an even ten altogether: no more. Then I’m going in.

  23

  Eleanor stood at the window of the room where she had slept out her drugged sleep. Here, Luigi had talked to her. Here, Rosana had made constant excuses to visit her all that dreary morning. A square, high-ceilinged room, a museum piece quickly made ready for her: a prison, with cupids on its painted ceiling and a rosy Venus, one leg trailing from a golden couch of clouds, waiting. But, she thought, as she looked down into the central courtyard round which the house was built, she had felt every emotion in this room except the one for which it was designed. Bewilderment and fear and despair: these had been her companions. And now, the hope that Rosana had kindled was fading away. Down there in the courtyard, both cars had been made ready. And there, beyond them, was the gateway leading to the street, strong wooden doors, enormous, heavy, locked. Why did she keep watching them? As if she could will them to open and let Bill Lammiter come walking into the courtyard.

  But he wouldn’t come. Not today, Rosana had said: tomorrow he would come. It was all planned. But would tomorrow be time enough? Eleanor looked at the two cars: both seemed so ready for flight.

  I wish, she thought, I wish Rosana would come back. Where has she gone? So quickly, without explanation. Something is going wrong. I know it. I know it. I’ve known it ever since the bell at the gateway rang, and the red-haired man walked into the courtyard.

  I was eating the bread that Rosana had smuggled up to my room: bread and San Pellegrino water, both safe. I hadn’t touched the food on the lunch tray: doubtful, Rosana had warned me. But the bread was good, and I was hungry at last. And then, talking together, we heard the bell ringing at the gate. How long ago was that? Ten minutes? Less? There is no clock in this room: Venus resents clocks. It doesn’t matter, time has lost all sense today, except that the red-haired man is still with Luigi, and Rosana hasn’t come back.

  When the bell rang, I ran to the window. “It can’t be Bill,” Rosana said, as if she had read my thoughts. And she was explaining again that once the meeting in Perugia had taken place, Bill would be here. But not until then. Nothing must alarm Luigi, nothing must happen to make him send any warning to his friends. The meeting had to take place. Couldn’t I understand that?

  “It’s a man, someone from the city,” I said in disappointment, watching the stranger, neat in his movements, dapper in his dress, who was now talking to Alberto. The man took off his hat, wiped his brow, and raised his voice to make himself better understood. “A man with red hair.”

  “No!” Rosana was beside me then. “Oh, no!” she said, and for the first time I heard despair in her voice. Her face was filled with fear, fear and hate. It frightened me. Into silence. We stood together at the window. I began to feel sick again. For it was all so innocent down in the courtyard, with only Rosana’s grip on my arm to warn me that there was danger, too. The man was a guide: he only wanted permission to show the Signorelli fresco in the chapel to his tourists on his next visit here. That was all.

  “It’s an excuse,” Rosana whispered, “an excuse to talk to Luigi.”

  “But Luigi won’t talk to a guide.”

  “He will!” she said. “He will!”

  She was right, for Luigi came hurrying out. He looked as if he had slept well. He had shaved and changed his clothes. He was brisk and smiling. I don’t think he actually knew the man, for he stood there, hesitating a little. And the man repeated his request. “I am sorry,” Luigi said. “I’m afraid that is impossible.” But he did not turn away. He still waited.

  The guide said he was sorry, too. Dottore Vannucci, the great expert in Florence, had assured him the Signorelli fresco was superb.

&nb
sp; “Would you care to see it yourself?” Luigi asked quickly, “Let me show you it. Of course, you understand that my aunt would not approve of tourists coming here.” He was talking pleasantly as he led the way into the house.

  Behind me, the room door opened. Before I could turn round, it had closed. And Rosana had gone.

  Outside in the corridor, the man on guard spoke to her. I heard Rosana say cheerfully, “Are you still here? Why—you’ll miss your bus if you aren’t careful!” Then I heard the key turn in the lock again. And Rosana laughed at something the man said. Her footsteps were less and less, until they became nothing. The man got up from his chair—it scraped as it was pushed back against the wall—he tested the door, and for a moment my heart missed a beat: all morning the fear had been that the man would come in, and catch my wrist, and drug me again. But the man walked away, down the corridor. It must be nearly two o’clock then. That was the time, Rosana had told me, when the guards would leave Montesecco. By two o’clock they weren’t needed any more to guard me; and, perhaps, if I had eaten the drugged food the men had brought upstairs for me, if Rosana hadn’t told me the truth, instead of Luigi’s story, I would not have needed even a child of three to watch me.

  So the guards were gone. The key was left in the lock. Surely Rosana would come back now. She could open the door and let me out.

  But she didn’t come back.

  It was odd, the stupid things I tried on that lock: a tooth broken out of my comb (it was too slight); a lipstick case (too bulky); a nail file (too broad); and then a small pencil. That fitted, but the key wouldn’t move. It had been twisted in the lock so that it could not be pushed out. And it would have been so easy to pull it into the room through the wide crack at the bottom of the door that I stood with the useless pencil in my hand and cried with disappointment.

  Odd, too, how one’s mind trusts and then distrusts. I walked back to the table in the centre of the room and stood looking down at the lunch tray. I began to wonder if Rosana had drugged me, too, in her own way. Not with food. She had warned me to touch nothing from the trays. Yes, give her credit for that. Give her credit, too, that she got the guard with that stupid smile on his face out of the room—I was still half-dressed. “I’ll see she takes her lunch,” she told him. But as soon as he had gone, she whispered, “Touch nothing on that tray. He wouldn’t allow me to carry it upstairs. He sent me ahead of him so I couldn’t see what he added to Anna-Maria’s cooking.” Then she stood very still. “But why do they want to start drugging you again? So soon?” So soon... Perhaps then, as my heart sank, I did know that something was going wrong for us. Tomorrow Luigi would take me away. Tomorrow was time enough to start drugging me.