North From Rome

by Helen Macinnes

  A wide grin broke across the wrinkled face. “Evviva!” Jacopone said heartily. “Viva Garibaldi!” He pumped Lammiter’s hand vigorously, clapped him on the shoulder with a hearty thump, smiled and nodded approvingly for Eleanor. “Evviva!” he said, and dropped Lammiter’s hand. He turned and left them, clumping his way slowly towards the kitchen doorway.

  “Now that you’ve stopped pinning medals on each other,” Joe’s voice said behind them, “shall we go and eat?”

  27

  Normal, that was Joe. That was the cue he was giving me, Lammiter thought as he helped Eleanor into the back seat of the small Fiat. He followed her stiffly. Physically, he was more exhausted than he wanted to admit. Mentally—well, that was another matter. Now that they were out of the Casa Grande, out into the free air of Montesecco, the intense pressure had lifted and left him feeling almost lightheaded. He had the impulse to make several wild jokes, and mad suggestions, all irresponsible, all delightful. But he’d have to brake heavily on his emotions, control them, and keep his inner excitement something secret. “This is service,” he said, looking at his suitcase in the front seat beside Joe. And now he noticed, too, that Joe had found time enough to shave, brush his hair, put on his tie again, and don his jacket.

  “We’ll get your possessions back to you, one by one,” Joe told him. He looked at Eleanor, and nodded approvingly as he started the car. She returned his smile, leaned her head against Lammiter’s shoulder, settled into his comforting grasp, and closed her eyes. And Lammiter fell silent, watching the little streets of the town: here was the main piazza, now stirring into life with the approach of evening. This was where he had seen Sabatini, that was the street down which he had retreated, here was the gate of the town, the olive trees where he had talked with his two amiable maniacs, the farmhouse. And, as he remembered the desperate misery of those waiting hours, the happiness that now enveloped him seemed completely incredible. Or let’s put it this way, he told himself: this is real, this is normal; and that—he turned his head to look at the walled town that was the hideous dream, the trial. But he must take his cue from Joe: no post-mortems. What was over was over, only to be remembered as a warning when life became too easy, too comfortable, for that was the funny thing about life: people always needed a warning every now and again, just to remind them of what might have been.

  Down the hill, between the groves of olive trees, they travelled. Before them was the smiling valley, behind them the fortress walls.

  “Not that way,” Lammiter said sternly as Joe swung the car to the right at the foot of Montesecco’s hill. Joe slowed up. “You turn left for Rome.”

  “Rome’s too far. Five minutes, and you’ll be sitting down to a decent meal. Isn’t that better?”

  “And this decent meal is in Perugia?”

  “It’s the nearest place,” Joe said cheerfully. “It’s nice there. Good food, good hotels.”

  “We’re staying there?” Lammiter was horrified.

  “Why not? Rome’s a long haul from here. Too much for Miss Halley.”

  That was true enough. “There’s Assisi.”

  “Filled to the rafters with pilgrims. You’ll be comfortable in Perugia.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Lammiter said very quietly. “I don’t want Eleanor to go near Perugia.”

  Joe halted the car and reached for a cigarette. He lit one for Lammiter. He said, watching a slow procession of farm carts coming back from work in the fields, “There is a small emergency.”

  “What?”

  “About Evans,” Joe said curtly. He was angry, but not at Lammiter. “Look, I didn’t want this any more than you. My job’s over: Sabatini was arrested, and none of his friends even know about it—yet. The meeting took place, and everyone attending it was observed and photographed: they will be watched when they get back to their own countries; all their contacts will be noted, and not one piece of advice or any reports from them will ever be accepted in good faith again. And, lastly, the big guy who organised a dope ring so efficiently that it could be taken over for political purposes by his Communist friends on the day they tried to seize power—” he halted, looked at Lammiter, and was a little taken aback to find that the girl had opened her eyes and was watching him. He branched off. “You don’t believe me? There’s nothing Communism finds handier than a good tight organisation with an efficient chain of command, all ready to be taken over. This one didn’t even have to be infiltrated. It was created especially. It pulls in the money now. Later, it could supply the bully-boys, and whether they wear black, brown, or red shirts makes no difference.” His mouth shut tightly. But he didn’t finish his original sentence about the “big guy” who had organised a very efficient chain of command. Instead, he looked again at Eleanor. “My job’s over. And so is yours. To hell with their emergencies. Let the English puzzle this one out. It’s their headache. I’m only an underpaid Italian cop who hasn’t had a night off in five weeks.”

  He must be pretty angry, Lammiter thought, to have broken his cover like that. He said, “What’s this emergency?”

  Joe gave a short laugh. “No one can identify Evans. A couple of fellows are being flown out from London right now. But there’s no one here who knows him. Can you beat that?”

  “But they saw him leave the meeting, didn’t they? Don’t tell me,” Lammiter said in disgust, “that they let him slip between their fingers.”

  “No, no,” Joe assured him. “They’re keeping a close watch on the man. Tall, thin, fair hair—”

  “Grey,” Eleanor said.

  He looked at her quickly. “Evans’s description reads fair hair. And your photograph—”

  “That was taken very late in the evening. The light was bad.”

  “So—” Joe said swiftly, “they have more reason for their doubts about Evans than they know.”

  Lammiter said, “What started the doubts?”

  Joe shrugged his shoulders. “I wasn’t there,” was all he could say.

  “And now,” Lammiter said, his lips and voice tight, “they want Eleanor to make sure of the man they hope is Evans, but might not be. No, thanks. We are not taking Eleanor to Perugia.”

  “Then where? Back to Montesecco?”

  “Stop being funny,” Lammiter said sourly.

  “But you don’t find right places to eat and sleep in any little town. And your friend Camden has got a couple of good rooms for you in Perugia.”

  “Look, Joe—we don’t need luxury. All we want is peace and quiet.” He looked at Eleanor. “And safety.”

  There was a short silence.

  Lammiter said testily, “I thought you said your job was over, you were glad it was over. Hell, what’s this treatment, Joe? First you—”

  Eleanor said, “Are there truly good restaurants in Perugia?” It’s up to me she thought wearily. Bill would go to Perugia if he were by himself and could identify the man Evans. And Joe, however much he doesn’t feel like going, knows he must. The job is not over. It all began with Evans, and it must end with Evans.

  Bill Lammiter said, “Eleanor—”

  “I’m starving,” she said. “Let’s get all this business finished and then concentrate on us.” She raised her voice, speaking to Joe now. “Let’s go to Perugia.”

  Joe started the engine again. His furrowed face looked both pleased and unhappy. “Okay?” he asked Lammiter, his foot still on the brake.

  Lammiter nodded. Two against one. He knew when he was in a minority. The car moved forward.

  “How long were you in America, Joe?” Eleanor asked. A change of subject seemed advisable.

  “Twelve years,” said Joe. Then he gave her a startled look in the mirror. “Hey!” he said, “you know when to ask questions, don’t you?” He grinned. Lammiter had to smile, too: he was willing to bet that Joe’s true past was rarely jolted out of him.

  “Only occasionally,” Eleanor said. Too often, she thought, I’ve never asked any questions at all, just accepted everything on its surface value. B
ut her inquiry had its effect: Joe was explaining those twelve years, Bill was interested, and blood pressure was falling back to normal all around her.

  “Yes,” Joe said. “Ten years as a kid; two years later on, as a college student in New York. I was brought up in Cleveland—I was only two when my father settled there. When he died, my mother brought the family back to Sicily. She had always kept talking about Sicily—the best place in the world, she said, the only place.” Joe’s smile broadened. “Funny thing, when she got to Sicily, she kept talking about America.” He swerved round a pair of white oxen.

  “Oh!” Eleanor sat up and looked at them.

  “Want to take a photograph?” Joe asked, but he didn’t slacken speed. “Or is the light not good enough? What colour would their hair turn?”

  She half-smiled. She gave Bill’s hand a little squeeze. See, she was telling him, I’m all right: I feel better every minute. And perhaps, she was thinking, I need this: I need to look out at the world, this heavenly scene of farmers and white oxen and rich fields and little hills and trees, all silhouetted so clearly against the western sky. I need this sense of reality, as much as I need food or sleep. When Luigi and his two men brought me here, it was a nightmare journey through menacing shadows and grim black shapes. Now. She took a deep breath of the gentle air, with its first hint of coolness. Now, too, I begin to see the real reason behind everything Luigi did today. If this man Evans is so important, then now I see Luigi as clearly in perspective as these clear-cut hills. He lied, to the very end he lied to me. He wasn’t taking me away to save me from danger. He was taking me away to make sure of saving Evans. And when he tried to kill me, it wasn’t because he loved me so much, it wasn’t any sweet romantic nonsense like that. He was simply protecting Evans. Luigi was the realist. It was not I who betrayed him. It was he who betrayed everyone who trusted him as a human being.

  Bill was looking at her, worried again. She smiled for him. Some day, she thought, I’ll talk to him about this. Not now. Some day... What makes a man into a machine? What kills conscience? Or did that die when self-criticism died? And did you stop criticising yourself when you believed that anything you did was right? And if anyone else questioned you, there was always the cause for an excuse? But how could you judge that a cause was good or bad unless you had enough feeling left in your veins for human beings? Not just “the people”, a vague abstract mass, with as little real meaning as a linoleum pattern. But people like Rosana and Jacopone and Joe and old Alberto and Anna-Maria. People were not pawns, to be moved around and sacrificed, to be swept away if they did not fit into the grand design. People were this farmer here, riding slowly home with his daughter and son beside him; these two women walking with bundles of twigs on their backs; that boy on the bicycle; that man in the high-powered car; this bus load, Joe, Bill, me.

  “Here we are,” said Joe, swinging the car to his right.

  They began to twist up the long arm of a hill between an avenue of trees. The town sprawled over the peak like a cap of snow on a Japanese mountain. Down here, the houses were new, neat modern shapes of plaster painted green or cream or pink, but above them the old buildings clustered together— perched, it seemed, on a precipice, an island of bleached stone and jutting shapes.

  They had reached the end of the climb. They came into an open square with public buildings and a small park that overlooked the precipice. There, the main street began, the Corso Vanucci, running like a spine along the crest of the hill on which lay Perugia. There, too, the cars were parked, for the Corso itself was closed off to traffic. “It’s usual,” Joe told them as they got out. “At this hour, everyone strolls out to see the sunset.”

  “And one another,” Lammiter added, looking at the groups of young girls walking arm in arm in their pretty dresses; of young men, tall and handsome keeping together; of proud couples, with red-cheeked babies, all preened in starched frills. There was a strange hush over the street, broken only by the sound of light-soled shoes and the murmur of peaceful voices. The street was straight, wide, handsomely paved, and not very long. He could see the other end marked by a fountain, in front of a huge cathedral. Between, the piazza, which they were leaving, and this stone giant, there was only a constant stream of gay clothes and well-brushed heads. Nothing could be more unlike Montesecco, he thought thankfully. He began to relax. And then, as they passed the last parked car and entered the wide stretch of street, he looked back swiftly.

  “Yes?” asked Joe.

  “That’s Whitelaw’s car. Bertrand Whitelaw. You know him?”

  “I know about him.”

  “Where does he stand?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “He brought the princess from Rome. He knows Pirotta is dead.”

  Joe frowned. “Give me time. I’m slow. I have to think this out.”

  Lammiter looked at Eleanor. Pirotta is dead, he had said, as cold-bloodedly as though he had been talking about Mussolini or Stalin. But all she noticed now was his concern over her. “How far do we walk?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

  “Another fifty yards,” Joe said. “That’s all. We start slanting over to our left.” He steered them expertly across the street, between the strolling groups, towards the broad sidewalk which was filled with café tables.

  “The foreigners,” said Eleanor, looking at the tables, “are here in force.”

  “Keep watching,” Joe told her quietly. They walked slowly along the edge of the sidewalk. Joe had taken her other arm. He pressed it suddenly. “Don’t stare, just look,” he told her. “Anyone you know?”

  “No one,” she said, when she thought it was safe to speak. “No one at all.”

  “Did you see that fair-haired man in the grey flannel suit?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve never seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “Into this restaurant,” Joe directed them suddenly. He led the way across the sidewalk. He seemed neither disappointed nor hurried.

  The restaurant was empty, of course, and unlighted. No one ate until the promenade outside, the passeggiata, was, over. Now Joe let his pace increase. He led them through the cool dark room into a tiled kitchen where a solitary cook under a spreading tree of pots and pans suspended from an overhead beam was busy with a bubbling pot. The cook, a bulky man who looked as though he enjoyed his own cooking, scarcely glanced around. “You’re late. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” He pointed with a ladle to a closed door.

  Joe nodded. As he opened the door leading them into a back room, he called to the cook, “Serve it up!”

  “Subito, subito!” The ladle went back to stirring.

  Through the doorway was a tiled room, ill lit from the single window near its ceiling, but cool. Its wooden table was ready for supper. There was a scraping of chairs on its stone floor as four men rose to their feet.

  “Hallo, there!” said Bunny Camden, coming forward to welcome them. He looked at Eleanor, then at Lammiter. “Good,” he said. “It’s good to see you.” Then he turned to introduce two of the men. “A couple of friends,” he said, “MacLaren from Canada. Oglethorpe from England.”

  The Englishman’s eyes had a suspicion of a smile for the name Bunny had invented for him. A Canadian and an Englishman, Lammiter remembered suddenly: last night, in that open-air movie house behind the Esedra, they had been mentioned. They must indeed have been as interested in Evans as Bunny had guessed. But the fourth, an Italian, middle-aged, dark-haired, with a thin intelligent face and mournful eyes, did not come forward. He nodded pleasantly, but he seemed to prefer the most shadowed wall of the room. Or, Lammiter thought, watching the clever worried face, he is only an observer from some branch of Italian intelligence, and is tactfully being subsidiary, leaving the main problems to the others. Joe, too, had retreated into the background: in fact, at this moment, he was leaving, quietly, unobtrusively.

  Eleanor sat down. So did Lammiter. The others stood.

  “Did you see Evan
s sitting outside?” the Englishman asked.

  Eleanor shook her head.

  “He was wearing a grey flannel suit,” Oglethorpe told her as he watched her face.

  “That was not the man I met at Tivoli.”

  “You’re quite sure, Miss Halley?”

  “Yes. Quite sure.”

  The men exchanged glances. “That’s just what I thought,” MacLaren said in disgust. In this moment of sharp disappointment; his voice held a pugnacious note surprisingly in contrast with his expressionless face. Like Oglethorpe, he could easily be misplaced in a crowd, an unremarkable man, with nondescript features, unobtrusive clothes, nothing dramatic or eccentric in his gesture or manner. The eyes were alert, though. These men were nobody’s fools, Lammiter decided. How, then, had they been deceived? Or perhaps it was not their fault. He glanced at the silent Italian. Another sharp character. Then how had the failure developed? A split in authority, divided responsibility, conflicting methods, all the headaches of international co-operation? Lammiter passed the basket of half-sliced bread to Eleanor. “Eat slowly,” he told her.

  “I’ve eaten bread all day,” she said dejectedly. “Bread and water. Everything else was drugged.” And all this trouble for nothing, she thought: Evans is free. He has been the cause of everything that has happened to Bill and me. We could have been killed, both of us, and he would have brushed us off his memory like a couple of dead flies from a window sill.

  The Italian spoke suddenly. “You are thinking we have been stupid?” He shook his head. “Even in the best plans, there is the moment of luck, of accident.”

  Lammiter said, “I could wish the moment of bad luck would strike Mr. Evans, too.”

  “It may. There are few roads out of a hill town such as this. We have them watched. Every car is being stopped, every foreign passport is being examined.”

  “Evans is probably leaving disguised as a white ox,” Lammiter said abruptly. Anticlimax was one frustration that he didn’t accept very gracefully. “Can’t we get some soup or something?” he asked sharply. Camden nodded and left. “How did this situation develop, anyway?” He looked at them, trying to keep his temper from breaking loose. We deserve some kind of explanation, he thought angrily. Damn it, are we among friends, or aren’t we?