North From Rome

by Helen Macinnes

  Oglethorpe and MacLaren, moving to the door, halted. “Have you any special interest in Evans?” Oglethorpe asked, seemingly only politely curious.

  “A personal matter.”

  “But you didn’t know him.”

  “I have a little bill I’d like him to settle for the trouble he has caused several of my friends. Brewster chiefly.”

  “Haven’t we all?” said MacLaren. He was anxious to leave.

  “But,” Lammiter kept on doggedly, “I do have a special interest in that meeting. Don’t tell me you slipped up on that, too!”

  Oglethorpe’s mouth tightened. “We don’t always fail, Lammiter.”

  “Look,” Lammiter said (and here, thank God, was Bunny himself, carrying in a tureen of soup), “this girl was nearly murdered in front of my eyes. Don’t expect sweetness and light from me.” Quickly he served Eleanor a plate of minestrone. That would put some colour back in her cheeks. “Slowly, now,” he told her again.

  “Would one success make you feel any better?” There was a smile now, in the Englishman’s eyes.

  “Much better.” Even knowing that there had been success was as good as the smell of the soup from the plate before him.

  “Seven men attended that meeting. All were secretly photographed as they left.” Oglethorpe paused, and then decided to add an extra bonus. “Three of them were government officials from NATO countries, two were from the Middle East: none under the least previous suspicion of being Communists. So that is one success we have had.”

  Lammiter said, “And a big one.”

  Oglethorpe nodded. “Have you seen the newspapers today?”

  “Too busy.” He nodded his thanks to Camden, who now brought in a bottle of Orvieto.

  “There’s trouble simmering in the Middle East,” Oglethorpe said. “The Communists will certainly try to make that pot boil over. So, you see, these five photographed men are the best news I can give you. Even better than Sabatini’s arrest.”

  “And what about the two other men?—There were seven at the meeting, you said.” Lammiter’s voice had lost its edge: the soup was good. We’ll live, he thought, watching Eleanor carefully.

  “Oh yes, these other two...” Oglethorpe seemed just to have remembered them. “One answered Evans’s description. The other was totally, unknown. No one could place him. At best, he seemed to be Evans’s bodyguard. He wore a loose American jacket, a bright tie, a beret pulled down over his head, dark glasses. And there was a cigar clamped in his mouth. Distorts the jaw line, you know.”

  “Very neat,” Lammiter agreed. “So all he had to do was to dodge into the nearest men’s room after he left the meeting, take off all his accessories—”

  “He did better than that. After all, we are prepared for tricks in a men’s room. He went into the cathedral. You’ve noticed it?”

  “It would be hard to miss.” It was an enormous place, that unfinished cathedral, six centuries old, so vast in conception that people had long ago given up any idea of completing it.

  “Inside, it’s practically pitch black. Gigantic pillars all over the floor. Chapels. Alcoves. Confessionals. Railings. Groups of groping tourists. Everything made to order. Including,” Oglethorpe added gloomily, “two main doorways. So all he had to do was to, dodge from pillar to pillar, quickly peel off that jacket, stuff the beret and glasses and cigar into a pocket, bundle the whole thing up, drop it behind an empty confessional, choose a collection of tourists, and straggle out with them into the street.”

  “Smart fellow.” There was a slight movement at the door. He glanced quickly. But it was only Joe returning to slip quietly into place.

  “Too smart for a bodyguard,” MacLaren said.

  And that, Lammiter thought, was where the first doubts started. “Talking of bodyguards,” he said, “do you know a man called Whitelaw?”

  They obviously did. “Where does he come in?” MacLaren asked quietly.

  “He’s on stage right now. I saw his car near the piazza. A cream-coloured Ferrari. Joe—you tell them about last night in the garden and today at the Casa Grande.” He concentrated on his soup. It was better than good. A warm glow spread through his belly and up over his body. For the first time in thirty-six hours he began to relax properly, not altogether, but just enough to make him feel more normal, less strained. He gave Eleanor a broad smile, poured a second glass of wine for them both, and said, “We leave it all to the experts now.” He thought, Our job is really done. We can do no more. That was a good feeling, too.

  She nodded. “Funny,” she said, “I was so hungry. And now—I don’t think I can eat anything more.” She looked across the little room at Joe and at the men who listened to him so gravely.

  “That’s natural,” he said. He studied her face, as if he were a doctor, carefully, unobtrusively. She looked all right, better than he could have hoped an hour ago. “To the prettiest girl in all Perugia,” he said, lifting his glass. She smiled, as he always could make her smile, delighted and embarrassed in pleasing proportion. “You know what, Ellie? Apart from being in love with you, I like you. I like you very much. I like the way you smile, the way you tilt your head, that flutter of your eyelashes, the colour coming and going in your cheeks, and your eyes— today they are blue, as blue as—” He paused. “Hell, what’s the use of being a writer if I can’t think of the right word?”

  “You’re falling asleep.” She gave a little laugh. “And so am I. Oh, Bill! How do we get to the hotel?”

  Lammiter told Eleanor. “She’s afraid to enter.” He left the window. “We’ll carry each other.” He straightened his spine, stopped slouching comfortably. “The fresh air outside will wake us up enough. Too many people in here. Always too many people around.” He looked across at the group of men. Even as he looked, they broke off their discussion. “It’s one small chance,”

  “I’ve never understood,” Lammiter told Eleanor, “why anyone should take her sewing out to a haystack in the first place, especially anyone who loses needles.”

  Oglethorpe, as he was leaving, called across to them, “Goodbye. And thank you, Miss Halley, for coming here.” His worried face relaxed for a moment. He had a singularly attractive smile. Or perhaps he liked to see two people holding hands so peaceably, MacLaren gave them a surprised look and a nod of farewell.

  “A Scots Presbyterian, that one,” said Lammiter. “Doesn’t approve of mixing pleasure with business.”

  Bunny Camden looked down at them both. He grinned, shaking his head. “You’re a couple of idiots,” he said affectionately, and pulled up a chair. “Now eat! Both of you. Here’s some chicken cacciatore.” The jovial cook had brought in a tray laden with food. “And let’s light the candles.”

  “Where’s Joe? And that other Italian?” Lammiter asked, suddenly aware that Camden was the only one left.

  “He had some friends to see.”

  “That’s Joe. A friend in every hill town. Useful man to know.” But he was disappointed a little, even if goodbyes were probably unnecessary in Joe’s business. “Come on, Ellie, keep me company.” He helped her to some food. “Just pretend you’re hungry, to please me. Besides, I’m going to have what New York calls a full-course dinner. While you talk, Bunny.”

  “Me?”

  “About Bertrand Whitelaw.”

  “You’re like a terrier with a rat.”

  Lammiter looked up. “Is he one? I hoped not.”

  “I was speaking metaphorically.”

  “The Marine Corps uses all the big words nowadays.” Lammiter told Eleanor. “That comes from carrying a copy of Homer in their pockets, to while away the hours between battles.”

  Camden said with a grin, “All right, all right. What do you want to know? He’s a sort of journalist, political reporting—”

  “Yes, yes. Sober thoughts, upper-level stuff. But did he ever know Evans?”

  “Yes. He went to college with him, Oglethorpe says. Defended Evans when he disappeared from England, would not believe the worst; an
d then, when Evans turned up blithely in Russia, he insisted that Evans must have been kidnapped and was acting under duress. I gather that the whole Evans business was a very nasty shock to Whitelaw.”

  “So Whitelaw is not a Communist?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there’s the man to help Oglethorpe...”

  “Oglethorpe isn’t so sure about that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Whitelaw is now a ‘neutralist’.”

  “Oh? What type?” There were those who just wanted to be left alone. And those who airily said they saw no difference between Russia and America. And those who were scared. And those who used neutralism as a cover, an alibi, to conceal their secret adherence to Communism.

  MacLaren the Canadian was saying as he began to move to the door, “but it isn’t any more discouraging than searching a haystack for a needle.” “That’s hard to judge. By his own account, he is second to none in patriotism. And I think, he is an honest British subject.

  “He couldn’t love England half so much, loved he not Whitelaw more?”

  Camden smiled. “There’s only one thing sure about Whitelaw. He will give no help to us. We are meddling in a matter that’s strictly between two Englishmen: Whitelaw and Evans. Unjustifiable interference. Downright impertinence. Get it?”

  “But Oglethorpe is as English as they come.”

  “To him, Oglethorpe is the contemptible instrument of a purely vindictive policy.”

  Suddenly, Eleanor spoke. “He just doesn’t know enough. He just doesn’t know what trouble Evans has caused... all of us...” Her voice drifted away, unhappily.

  “Or could cause,” Camden added. “The sooner that man is extradited and taken out of circulation, the better for everyone. Today, his job here was obviously to receive last-minute reports, co-ordinate plans, give final instructions. A man like Evans is worth a whole armoured division to the Russians.”

  “But what puzzles me—” Lammiter began.

  “Yes.”

  “How can he be extradited simply for having packed a bag and taken the first plane out of London?”

  “He also packed a highly secret Cabinet report. Didn’t have time to get it photographed, I expect.” Camden frowned at the tablecloth and smoothed out the wrinkles that his hands had been busily folding into it.

  “You’re as troubled about Evans as Oglethorpe or Mac-Laren,” Lammiter remarked. “Is he your business, too?”

  “He is all our business. It isn’t the first time an alliance has fallen apart because of a few carefully placed men whose secret instructions were sabotage. And if a small war starts, and the Western alliance crumbles, what will we have?—The big one.”

  “Tell that to Whitelaw.”

  Camden’s eyes smiled. “You’re recovering—started making your jokes again, have you?” Then, seriously, “In fact, Oglethorpe has gone searching for Whitelaw. Bevilacqua will help him, with phone calls to every hotel and lodging house.”

  “Oglethorpe really thinks that Whitelaw is in Perugia to meet Evans?”

  “There are only two things possible: either Whitelaw is here for pleasure pure and simple or he is here on business.”

  “By business, you mean Evans?”

  Camden nodded. “Oglethorpe thinks that Whitelaw may have heard Evans was in Italy. Or perhaps he saw Evans with Pirotta by accident, when they met in Rome. That could explain why he was so eager to see Pirotta: he was tracking Evans down.”

  “Why?” Lammiter asked bluntly.

  “It’s more than possible he still believes Evans is acting under duress. So if he could only talk to Evans, help him to escape from his bodyguards, help him to avoid us, then Evans would return of his own free will—always a most disarming gesture. Evans could claim he had been kidnapped, and Whitelaw would feel happy that he had vindicated a friend. And, of course, his own judgment.”

  “I don’t see why you’re worrying about all that. Evans will never listen to Whitelaw.”

  “That’s just the danger. Evans may pretend to listen. He may use Whitelaw as he has used him before. In that case, he will take any help offered, use it to leave Perugia, and a month later turn up in Moscow and give a press conference. What do you bet?”

  Lammiter’s lips tightened. “Nothing!” He pushed his plate away from him.

  “So you can see why Oglethorpe is so eager to find White-law,” Camden said equably.

  “And when he does find him—what then?”

  “Whitelaw will be followed. He will lead Oglethorpe to Evans. Oglethorpe doesn’t want to waste a precious hour in trying to convince Whitelaw that two and two make neither five nor three, nor even four and a half.”

  Lammiter reached over for Eleanor’s hand. She had only pretended to eat. “Come on, you old unjustified interferer, you! To bed, to bed... Let’s catch some sleep and forget Whitelaw.” But, he thought, poor old Oglethorpe, poor old MacLaren, men fighting an unseen war to defeat any chance of a real one, getting little help from people like Whitelaw, who would be the first to scream out when the bombs started falling. Whitelaw, living in comfort, with money and prestige and applause; Oglethorpe and MacLaren, unthanked, ill paid, with hardship and danger as their reward. “Come on, darling,” he repeated, very gently. Either she was already half-asleep or she was lost in a world of her own. He turned to Camden. “How far is this hotel?”

  “I’ll take you there. But have some coffee first.”

  “We’d better leave,” Lammiter said, his eyes on Eleanor. He didn’t like that world into which she had retreated: there was a drawn look on her face, a look of tension and sadness.

  “Black and bitter,” Camden insisted, pouring coffee for them both. “You’ll have to walk to the hotel—it isn’t far— the passeggiata is still going on outside. Until darkness falls, in fact.”

  Eleanor spoke, avoiding their eyes, looking down at her slender hands. “Luigi Pirotta’s orders were to drive from Perugia to Gubbio. I was to be brought to meet him. Then we were driving to Venice. There’s a freighter there, ready to sail. For the Black Sea.” She glanced up at Camden’s astonished face. “Is that how Evans will leave Italy? By car to Venice, then by that ship?”

  There was pity and tenderness in Lammiter’s startled face as he watched her speak, and something of alarm, too. He wished she had been spared that knowledge. Today, Joe and he had made their guesses about Venice, but it was still a shock to find that the guesses had been actual truth. It will be a long job to make her forget all these things, he was thinking: but it would be the best job he could ever do.

  Camden had recovered his usual unperturbed expression. “Could be,” he said very quietly. He frowned, as he always did when he was making some decision. He picked a bread stick out of its glass on the table, and began breaking it absent-mindedly. “Finish your coffee,” he said, “and then I’ll get you to your hotel.” And then, he thought, I’ll have to search for Oglethorpe and tell him that piece of information. It could be vital.

  “I hope someone is keeping an eye on Whitelaw’s car,” Lammiter said. “Evans may be a man in need of a good fast car.”

  “Whitelaw wouldn’t be such a damned fool—” Camden stopped abruptly. But Whitelaw might not have much choice in the matter. Once he made any contact with Evans, he would have no choice left. Camden’s fingers snapped the bread stick into still smaller pieces. “Let’s hope,” he said, “that Oglethorpe finds Whitelaw in time. Are you ready to leave?”

  “In time for what?”

  Camden swept all the crumbs together and built them into a neat pyramid. “Let’s get to the hotel,” he suggested.

  Lammiter rose, and went round to help Eleanor find her handbag. “You know,” he said, keeping his voice as unperturbed as Bunny Camden’s, “Whitelaw may have seen Evans with Pirotta in Rome, but how did he learn that Evans would be in Perugia today?”

  Camden stared at him.

  “It’s been one of the best-arranged secrets of the year.”

  Camden nodd
ed. True enough, Brewster had paid a heavy bill for uncovering it. Everyone who could have learned about Evans’s visit had been living under a threat. But—He shook his head. “You think that Whitelaw was told, purposely? Do you mean that Evans telephoned him last night and—”

  “No, this morning.” Last night, Whitelaw had still been searching for information.

  “All right—this morning, and laid on Whitelaw’s visit here? Now, now, Bill—” He considered the idea from several angles. “I don’t think Oglethorpe or MacLaren would buy that.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’d say it would make a good plot for your next play,” Camden replied with a smile as he rose. “All ready?” he asked Eleanor.

  Lammiter, standing behind Eleanor’s chair, her coat over his arm, faced Camden across the table. Doggedly, he said, “Look Bunny—I saw Whitelaw in the courtyard at Montesecco. He could hardly wait, kept looking at his watch, didn’t even stay long enough to help the princess face the first half-hour in that house. He was a man with an urgent appointment. I tell you, Bunny, he was—”

  “Then we’re too late,” Camden said. “If you are right, we’re too late to prevent that appointment. Whitelaw and Evans could have met a couple of hours ago.” He looked very directly at Lammiter. “If you are right,” he repeated sombrely.

  “I knew one thing for certain,” Lammiter began, as he helped Eleanor to rise to her feet. He thought, I should never have let myself be persuaded to bring her here. “Damn it, I should never have let Eleanor come here,” he exploded, his anger slipping to the surface in spite of his guard.

  Eleanor’s hand touched his arm gently. “It was my choice,” she said. “Remember?” He mustn’t blame himself so much. Bill looked down at her and knew her thoughts. He shook his head slowly. And I am to blame for all the danger she has known, he was thinking. If I had had more good sense back in New York, she would never have gone away without me.