When I took the drink back to her she slipped her legs off the couch. It was one single movement, without effort. Her body seemed to flow from one position to the next. “Sit down here,” she said, patting the cushions beside her. “Now tell me how you lose your leg?”
“I crashed,” I said.
“You are a flier then?”
I nodded.
She smiled and there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. “You do not like to talk about it, eh?” When I didn’t answer, she said, “Perhaps you do not realise what an advantage it gives you?”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
She gave a slight, impatient shrug of the shoulders. “I think you are perhaps quite an ordinary man. But because of that leg you become intriguing.” She raised her glass. “Alia sua salute!”
“Alia sua, signora!” I replied.
Her eyes were watching me as her lips opened to the rim of her glass. “Where are you staying in Milano?”
“At the Excelsior,” I answered.
She made a small face. “You must find some friends,” she said. “It is not good at a hotel. You will drink too much and sleep with the chambermaid and that will not be good for your work. You drink a lot. Am I right?” She smiled. “Is it to forget the leg?”
“Do I look as dissipated as all that?” I asked.
She put her head slightly on one side. “Not yet,” she said slowly. “At the moment it only makes you look intriguing. Later—” She shrugged her shoulders.
Sismondi gave a little cough. I’d forgotten all about him. He came across the room, pushed the pouff with the peke on it out of the way and drew up a chair. “You come to tell me something, I think, Signor Farrell,” he suggested.
“A little matter of business,” I said vaguely.
“Because of my telephone conversation this morning?”
I nodded.
“Good!” He cupped his hands round the big brandy glass and drank. “You like a cigar?”
“Thank you,” I said. He seemed in no hurry. He went over to the cocktail cabinet and returned with a box of cigars. I looked across at the girl. “Do you mind?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I like it. I may even take a puff of yours.” Her voice was silky, an invitation to be stroked.
Sismondi and I lit our cigars. After that the conversation became general. I think we talked of Russia and Communism and the future of the Italian colonies. But I’m not really certain. My impression is one of soft lights, the night scent of perfume penetrating through the aroma of cigars and the oval of the girl’s face against the green silk of the cushions. I had a feeling that we were waiting for something. Sismondi did not again refer to the matter that had brought me to his flat.
I was half-way through my cigar when a buzzer sounded outside the room. Sismondi gave a grunt of satisfaction and scrambled to his feet, spilling cigar ash on to the carpet. As he left the room the girl said, “You look tired, signore.”
“It’s been a very busy trip,” I told her.
She nodded. “You must take a holiday during your stay in Italy. Go down to the south where it is warm and you can lie in the sun. Do you know Amalfi?”
“I was there during the war.”
“It is very beautiful, yes? So much more beautiful than the Riviera. To see the moon lie like a streak of silver across the warmth of the sea.” Her voice was like the murmur of the sea coming in over sand.
“I’m due for a holiday,” I said. “As soon as I can—”
But she wasn’t listening. She was looking past me towards the door. I half turned in my seat. There was the murmur of voices and then Sismondi came in rubbing his hands. He went over to the cocktail cabinet and poured a drink. A silence hung over the room. Then the door opened again and a man came in. I got to my feet and as I did so he stopped. I couldn’t see his face. It was in shadow and he was just a dark silhouette against the light of the open doorway. But I could feel his eyes fixed on me.
Sismondi came hurrying forward. “Mistair Farrell. I wish to introduce you to a friend of mine who is very interested in the matter which brings you here. Signor Shirer.”
I had moved forward to greet him, but I stopped then. Walter Shirer! It couldn’t be. It was too much of a coincidence just after I’d met Reece again. But the man had the same short, rather round figure. “Are you—Walter Shirer?” My voice trembled slightly as I put the question.
“Ah! So you know each other already?”
The figure in the doorway made no move. He didn’t say anything. I felt the sudden tension in the room. I began to sweat. “For God’s sake say something,” I said.
“I have nothing to say to you.” He had turned on his heel.
“Damn it, man!” I cried. “You don’t hold it against me now, surely? At the Villa d’Este you were so decent about—”
But he had left the room, closing the door behind him.
I stood there for a second feeling helpless and angry. Then I brushed Sismondi aside and wrenched the door open. The lounge beyond was empty. Somewhere in the flat a door closed. Sismondi had hold of my arm now. “Please, signore. Please.” He was almost whimpering with fright. I realised then that my drink was no longer in my hand. Vaguely I remembered flinging it on to the carpet. A sudden sense of hopelessness took hold of me. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I must go.”
I got my hat and coat. Sismondi fussed round me. All he seemed able to say was, “Please, signore.”
I flung out of the flat and banged the door behind me. The lights brightened in the chandelier in the hall. The front door clicked softly open. I stopped outside, staring at the glistening tram lines of the Corso. The door closed with a final click, and I went down the steps, turned right and hurried towards my hotel.
I had got almost as far as the Piazza Oberdan before the bitterness inside me subsided. My mood changed then to one of self-reproach. Why the devil hadn’t I stayed there and brazened it out? Shirer had probably been as surprised as I had at the suddenness of the meeting. He’d had no time to adjust himself to it. He’d hesitated and I’d flown into a rage. I had slowed my pace up and now I stopped. I’d made a fool of myself and what was worse I’d failed completely to do anything about Tuček. Well, there was nothing I could do about that now. I couldn’t very well go back to the flat. It would have to wait till to-morrow. But I could go back and wait for Shirer to come out. I was certain he wasn’t staying there and I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to set things right between us.
I turned and walked very slowly back along the Corso. I reached the steps leading to the massive door of Number Twenty-two. I hesitated. I had only to walk up to the door and ring the bell. I could speak to Sismondi from the street. But I knew he’d want me to come up—he’d be slimy and ingratiating and then I’d be back in that softly lit room.… I was honest with myself then. I couldn’t face the mocking eyes of that girl. She’d guess the truth and somehow I couldn’t take it. I went on up the street and after walking perhaps fifty yards I turned and walked back.
I suppose I paced up and down outside Number Twenty-two for nearly half an hour. I know a church clock struck eleven, and then shortly afterwards a taxi drew up. The driver got out and rang a bell. I could see him talking to the voice above the door and then he got back into his taxi and sat there, waiting. I strolled forward. I’d have to catch Shirer before he drove off. But suppose he took the girl home? I knew if he came out with the Contessa Valle I wouldn’t be able to talk to him. But perhaps it would be better that way. Then I could go up and see Sismondi and settle the Tuček business.
I had reached the steps now. There was no crack of light down one side of the door. It was still firmly closed. I went on past the house and stepped out into the street behind the taxi. I waited there, screened by the rear of the car. The brilliant light of a street lamp shone on the green paint of the door I was watching.
At last it opened. It was Shirer and he was alone. For a moment he was a black silhouette against the lights of
the chandelier in the hall. Then he was out in the full glare of the street light and the door closed behind him. He had on a grey overcoat and a wide-brimmed American hat. He paused on the top step, pulling on his gloves. Then he glanced up at the night and I saw his face. It was still round and chubby with high cheekbones, but the chin looked bluer, as though he had forgotten to shave, and there was a hint of grey at the temples. His eyes caught the light and seemed contracted as though the pupils had narrowed against the glare. He caressed his upper lip with the tip of a gloved finger as though he still …
I was suddenly in a cold sweat of panic. It was as though he were fingering a moustache and making a diagnosis, as though he were saying, “I think we must operate to-day.” A hand seemed to touch my leg, caressing it—the leg that wasn’t there. Shirer was dissolving into Sansevino before my eyes. I tried to fight back my sudden panic. This is Shirer, I kept telling myself—Walter Shirer, the man who escaped with Reece. You saw Sansevino dead at his desk with a bullet through his head. I could feel my finger-nails digging into the flesh of my palms and then it was Walter Shirer again and he was coming down the steps. He hadn’t seen me. I tried to go forward to meet him, but somehow I was held rooted to the spot. He vanished behind the bulk of the taxi.” Albergo Nazionale.” The voice was crisp and sibilant and I felt fear catching hold of me again. Shirer hadn’t talked like that surely?
The door of the taxi closed. There was the sound of a gear engaging and then the glossy cellulose-finished metal of it slid away from me and I was staring at a fast-diminishing speck of red.
I passed my hand over my face. It was cold and clammy with sweat. Was I going mad or was I just drunk? Had that only been Shirer or … I shook myself, trying to get a grip on my thoughts. I’d been standing ovei the exhaust, that was all that had happened. I was tired and I’d breathed in some of the exhaust fumes. My sound leg felt weak at the knee. I was feeling sick and dizzy, too.
I turned and walked slowly down the Corso towards the Piazza Oberdan. The night air gradually cleared my brain. But I couldn’t get rid of the mental picture of Shirer standing at the top of those steps looking down at me, looking down at me and stroking his upper lip with the tips of his fingers. It had been the same gesture. I’d only to think of it to see the blasted little swine leaning over my bed fingering that dirty smudge of a moustache. Of course without that moustache the two would have looked very similar. It was Shirer I’d been introduced to and Shirer who’d come out of Number Twenty-two. It was my damned imagination, that was all.
Reece was waiting for me in the entrance hall when I reached the hotel. I didn’t even notice him until he caught me by the arm at the foot of the stairs. “What happened?” he asked, peering at me.
“Nothing,” I snapped and shook his hand off my arm.
He gave me an odd look. I suppose he thought I’d drunk too much. “What did Sismondi say?” he asked. “What did you find out?”
“I didn’t find out anything,” I answered. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to him alone.”
“Well, what was your impression? Do you think he knows where Tuček is?”
“I tell you, I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. Now leave me alone. I’m going to bed.”
He caught me by the shoulder then and spun me round. “I don’t believe you ever went to Sismondi’s place.”
“You can believe what you damn’ well like,” I answered.
I tried to shake myself free, but he had hold of my shoulder in a grip of iron. His eyes were narrowed and angry. “Do you realise what that poor kid’s going through?” he hissed. “By God if this wasn’t a hotel I’d thrash the life out of you.” He let me go then and I stumbled up the stairs to my room.
I didn’t get much sleep that night. Whenever I dozed off the figures of Shirer and Sansevino kept appearing and then merging and changing shape as though in a trick mirror. I’d be running through Milan in a sweat of fear with first one and then the other materialising from the crowd, appearing in the lighted doorways of buildings or seizing hold of my arm in the street. Then I’d be awake in a clammy sweat with my heart racing and I’d begin thinking over the events of the evening until I fell asleep and started dreaming again.
I have a horror of going mad—really mad, not just sent to hospital for treatment. And that night I thought I really was going round the bend. My mind had become a distorting mirror to the retina of my memory and the strange coincidence of that meeting with Shirer became magnified into something so frightening that my hair literally crawled on my scalp when I thought about it.
I got up with the first light of day and had a bath. I felt better then, more relaxed and I propped myself up in bed and read a book. I must have dozed off after a time for the next thing I knew I was being called. My mind felt clear and reasonable. I went down and ate a hearty breakfast. Shafts of warm sunshine streamed through the tall windows. I steered my mind clear of the previous night. I’d obviously been drunk. I concentrated all my energies on the work that had to be done. I could see Sismondi again that evening.
When I had finished my breakfast I went straight up to my room and began a long session of telephoning. I had the window on to the balcony open and the sun lay quite warm across the table at which I was seated. A maid came in and made the bed, managing, like most Italian servants, to make me conscious of her sex as she moved about the room.
I was about half-way through my list of contacts and had just replaced the receiver after completing a call when the clerk at the reception desk came through. “A lady to see you, Signor Farrell.”
I thought of the scene with Reece the previous night and my heart sank.
“Did she give you her name?” I asked.
“No, signore. She will not give me her name.”
I suppose she’d been afraid I wouldn’t see her if she said who she was. “All right. I’ll come down.” I replaced the receiver and got to my feet. Her arrival had broken the spell of my concentration on work and I found myself thinking again of the events of the night before. The sunlight seemed suddenly cold. There was a slight breeze blowing on to the table and ruffling the papers that spilled across it from the open mouth of my brief-case. I shut the windows and then went out down the corridor to the main stairs, mentally bracing myself to face Tuček’s daughter.
She wasn’t in the entrance hall and I went over to the reception desk. The clerk gave me an oily smile. “She is gone to the bar, Signor Farrell.” I turned and went up the stairs again.
But it wasn’t Hilda Tuček who was waiting for me in the bar. It was the girl I’d met at Sismondi’s flat—the Gontessa Valle. She was dressed in a black coat and skirt with a fur cape draped round her shoulders. Her black hair was drawn tight back from a central parting and it gleamed in the sunlight. Her oval face was pale by comparison and the only spot of colour was a blood-red carnation pinned above her left breast, the colour exactly matching the shade of her lips. She still looked like a painting by one of the early masters, but in the morning sunlight her madonna features seemed to have a touch of the devil in them.
“Good morning, signore.” Her voice was soft like a caress. The lazy smile she gave me made me think of a cat that has found a bowl of cream. She gave me her hand. I bent and touched the warm flesh with my lips, and all the time I knew her green eyes were watching me. “I hope you do not mind my coming to see you, like this?”
“I’m delighted,” I murmured.
“I wait for you in the bar because I think perhaps you need a drink—after what happen last night.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I could do with a drink. What will you have?”
“It is a little early for me. But to keep you company I will have a crême de menthe.”
I sat down and called a waiter. All the time I was trying to control the sudden sense of excitement that her presence had induced and at the same time to figure out just why she had come to see me. The waiter came over and I ordered a crême de menthe and a cognac and seltz. Then I said awk
wardly, “Why have you come to see me, Contessa?”
A glint of amusement showed in her eyes. “Because you interest me, Signor Farrell.”
I gave a little bow. “You flatter me.”
She smiled. “It is a pretty scene you make last night, throwing your glass on the floor and walking out on poor little Riccardo. Also Walter was very upset. He is sensitive and—” She must have seen the tenseness in my face for she stopped then. “Why do you behave like that, signore?”
The unexpected directness of the question took me by surprise. “I was drunk,” I answered tersely. “Suppose we leave it at that.”
She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. The waiter arrived with the drinks. “Salute!” She raised the glass to her lips. The green of the crême de menthe was a shocking contrast to the red gash of her lips, but it matched her eyes. I emptied the bottle of seltz into my glass and drank.
There was an uncomfortable silence which was broken by her saying, “I do not think you were drunk last night. You were very strung up and you had been drinking. But you were not drunk.”
I didn’t answer. I was thinking of Shirer, seeing him again in the glare of the street light stroking the side of his upper lip with the tips of his fingers. “Have you known Walter Shirer long?” I asked.
“Two or three years perhaps. I am from Napoli and he has a vineyard there. He is producing a very good Lachrima Christi. You know him before you meet him last night, eh? That is why you are so upset.”
“Yes,” I said. “I knew him during the war. We were in the Villa d’Este together.”
“Ah, now I understand. That is the place he escape from. But you are not the Englishman who accompany him.”
“No.”
“Are you angry with him because he go and you cannot?”
Damn the woman! Why couldn’t she pick on some other subject. “Why should I be?” My voice sounded harsh.
The Angry Mountain Page 7