“I don’t understand you,” she sighed.
“You don’t have to.”
chapter nine
AT FOUR o’clock that morning, while Francesca still slept in Cesare’s arms, Durell stood in the damp wind that blew across Rome’s Fiumicino Airport and listened to bad news, from an apologetic Zuccamella. Zuccamella occasionally did work for K Section, and he was regarded as reasonably secure. He was a fat man with a beak of a Roman nose, a high forehead, and untidy clothes. His eyes were excited and annoyed, all at once, as he spoke to Durell and Silas Hanson.
“I had prepared everything, but he was not on the plane! Oh, I was ready for your Signor Talbott. Ready and waiting. But he was not among the passengers.”
“What happened to him?”
“I do not know.”
“The plane stopped at Milan on the way, didn’t it?”
“Si, signor.”
“Did Jack Talbott get off there?”
“I telephoned there. It seems as if he did. But you see, he had a through ticket to Naples, and it was unexpected—” “That’s all right, Gian. You couldn’t help it.”
“I have a man working on it in Milano. But who can tell where Signor Talbott is at the moment? He could be anywhere.” Durell had slept a little on the Swissair flight from Geneva, but he’d had no dinner to speak of, and since his arrival from Istanbul, time had stretched itself out like a surrealist image. He could see no end to it at the moment.
It was not true that Talbott could be anywhere but he had a three-hour start, and you could draw a series of lines around Milan—one marking the limit of auto travel, another that of the rapido trains, and a third for a further air hop. He felt sure Talbott was still in Italy. But in three hours, he could have lost himself either in the northern lake country around Como or gotten as far down as Sicily. He turned to Hanson.
“You’ll have to back-track, Si. Fly to Milan, trace everything—taxis, hotels, car rentals, train schedules.”
“Sam, he wouldn’t stay there. What would he do in Milan?” “Nothing—or anything. It’s got to be done.”
“And you?”
“I’ll go on to the Hotel Sentissi, in Naples. It’s our only lead, except for an overt approach to the Countess Apollio or her husband. I’m betting my apples that the wife is mixed up in this with Talbott. Talbott is too smart and tough to have made a break like this without strong urging from the outside; he knew before he started that we’d come down on him like a ton of bricks. He knew the risks. The only thing to figure is that his normally cool calculations were distorted by an emotional angle—a tie-up with the countess, I’d guess. If that’s the case, we can be pretty sure that Talbott trusted her with the scrolls, and she double-crossed him.”
“Where will I meet you?”
“I’ll leave word in Naples,” Durell said.
The day was hot and sultry. A haze hung over the Bay of Naples and the mountains toward Pompeii. Durell had a quick breakfast at the air terminal and took a taxi to the Hotel Sentissi on the Via Partenope. The harsh espresso coffee made him wish for the Louisiana blend he preferred. The driver swung down to the waterfront and passed the big luxury hotels in the Santa Lucia area, with its terraced restaurants and docks and the massive bulk of the Castell, dell’Ovo looming against the blue sky. At this early hour, the streets were still relatively empty.
The rococo facade of the Hotel Sentissi dominated the Via Partenope for most of a block. Durell walked through the echoing lobby and restaurant, where waiters were sleepily getting the sidewalk tables ready for the day’s business. There were tubbed palms on either side of the reception desk, a series of colorful advertisements for shops in the Galleria Umberto, and American Express and CIAT posters on the walls.
He got a room without difficulty. It was on the sixth floor, and he followed the slim bellboy who insisted on showing him the way, although he had no luggage. There was a coat of arms in gilt paint on his door, and the same emblem had been generously scattered throughout the lobby.
“The Sentissi belongs to Count Apollio?” he asked.
“Si, signor. A very, very rich man.”
“Does the count ever stay here himself?”
The bellboy smiled. “No, signor. Never here.”
Durell peeled off several hundred lira notes. “What about the count’s servants?”
“No, signor, I am sorry . . .”
“I am looking for a man named Bruno Bellaria. He registered here several days ago. He left on a business trip, but he may be back by now.”
“You must be joking, signor. No Bellaria would patronize an establishment owned by Count Apollio. It is because of the vendetta, signor. It would be unthinkable—it would be like the sun rising in the west—impossible.”
“But Bellaria registered here,” Durell insisted. He gave the boy more money. “Can you check it for me? At once.”
“Si, signor. Molte grazie.”
“And see if there is any mail for him.”
“Signor, I cannot—”
“I just want to know if anything arrived for Bruno Bellaria from Switzerland, understand?”
“One moment only, signor. I will call you back.”
Durell gave the boy more money. “And see if you can get me some fresh shirts, a small suitcase, and new linen.”
“This is a great deal of money for that, signor.”
“You can keep the rest of it.”
The boy bowed, bowed again, and left the room with his black eyes bright and alert. Alone, Durell stripped and showered for five minutes. The telephone rang while he toweled himself. It was the bellboy.
“Signor, he is registered. Room 402. But there is no mail.” “You’re sure?”
“Certain, signor.”
“All right. Get me the fresh shirts.”
Fifteen minutes later a heavy-set woman with enormous hips brought the package, but not the suitcase, and Durell dressed, smoked a cigarette, and watched the Bay of Naples brighten under the morning sun from his balcony window. He could see Vesuvius now, and a distant blur on the bright horizon that would be Capri. The traffic grew noisy in the street below. He thought of Ellen Armbridge, and how she had died. It was one of the difficulties of the business that most of the people you worked with were brave and dedicated and quietly wonderful, and when you lost them, you lost some support for yourself, too. He shook off the thought, and left his room to go down to the fourth floor.
Room 402, registered in Bruno Bellaria’s name, was in a much less elaborate wing of the hotel, rarely seen by tourists; its rooms were primarily occupied by local businessmen who wanted the prestige of the de luxe Sentissi address. The room he wanted was at the end of a long corridor, and the window at the end offered only a view of a blank brick wall and a littered courtyard where laundry hung to dry against a yellow fence. The corridor was as wide as a Grand Central ramp, tiled in blue and yellow, with a faded runner in the center. Durell paused outside 402 and listened, but there was no sound from inside. The antique lock offered no problems to his pick. He was through the doorway in less than twenty seconds.
It was just a room, rather threadbare in Baroque grandeur, also adorned in each ceiling corner with the Apollio coat of arms in faded paint and chipped plaster. The tall windows offered no better view than the one in the corridor. He thought of the bellboy’s reference to a feud between Apollio and Bellaria. There had been no time to pursue it with the youngster, but he intended to. Feuds were still common enough in southern Italy, but it put a different light on Bruno’s presence in the count’s chalet in Geneva. Bruno couldn’t be one of Apollio’s men. It might rule out the count altogether—but it did not eliminate the count’s wife.
The wardrobe closet held a shabby brown suit, a pair of cracked black shoes, a cheap suitcase containing two blue shirts and a knife, a narrow stiletto with a wicked blade that winked in the sunlight. He remembered how Bruno had come at him with a blade ready to gut him in the dark chalet, and he felt less sensitive about the w
ay Silas had inadvertently killed the man.
The room yielded nothing. He debated waiting there, but the pressure of time and the knowledge that Talbott was loose somewhere with the Fremont data, that Pacek was undoubtedly busy tracing him, and that the Dwan Scrolls were still missing, all combined to put a relentless pressure on him.
He left the room and went downstairs and took a taxi to the nearest newspaper office and spent an hour reading about Count Apollio. There was remarkably little. The man was a handsome, eccentric recluse, the last of a long and noble line. His marriage notice to Miss Frances Smith, of America—no other address was given—was pointedly brief. The count liked privacy, and used his money and influence to obtain it.
Nowhere in the recent copies he had time to scan was the name of Bellaria mentioned. But the newspaper stories, such as they were, if not openly hostile to the count, were touched with veiled allusions to the count’s “unpopular” wartime position and hinted at some undefined but “monstrous” tragedy. Durell pored over the flowery Neapolitan journalese language, but nothing specific could be obtained.
He gave it up for the moment and bought a current newspaper to read the headlines. There was no mention of Prince Tuvanaphan and nothing about the theft of the paintings. But another item caught his eye and he walked thoughtfully to a cafe and sat down to read it carefully.
Deirdre Padgett was in Naples. And she, too, was staying at the Hotel Sentissi.
He had not seen her for five months. The last time had been a long weekend at her rose-brick Colonial home in Prince John, Maryland, on the shores of the Chesapeake. An image of her tall, quiet presence, her serene gray eyes and lovely oval face moved in him with a sudden, grievous impact. He had tried to forget her, to stay out of her life, because emotion had no part in his business, and he would not involve her in the dangers he endured. They were in love, and they had been lovers; but he would go no farther. He could not risk opening a chink in his solitary armor for enemies to destroy him, through her.
She was a fashion reporter for a Washington newspaper, and she was often in Europe. When they met occasionally, they took their brief hours or days together as he could offer them, and she no longer questioned it.
He was disturbed that she was in Naples, covering a fashion show of movie-colony people from Rome. His first impulse was to ignore it and try to avoid her at the Sentissi. But he wanted to see her. And she might be useful. Deirdre knew everyone and everything about society, both at home and abroad. She was not interested in gossip for itself, but her job took her to places where it was inevitable that certain information came to her.
Durell did not want to use her this way. He had always resisted drawing her into his work. It was the keystone of their relationship, the crux of their personal difficulties.
When he left the newspaper office he found a public phone and called the Sentissi. The desk clerk was quick and efficient, replying to his inquiry.
“Signorina Padgett? One moment, please.”
Deirdre sounded slightly sleepy, her Italian faintly spiced with a Maryland accent, and the sound of her rich voice kept Durell silent for a moment, resisting the quick excitement he felt, and then yielding to it.
“Hi, Dee. Sam, here.”
She was silent. Then, faintly, “Sam? Really?”
“Really.”
“In Naples?”
“Ten minutes away. I saw your name in the newspapers just now. I’m registered at the Sentissi, too.”
“But, darling, the last I heard, you were in Bangkok, or somewhere.” She paused. “Are you really here?”
“Yes.”
Her voice changed. “But not to see me.”
“Partly, Dee. What difference does it make?”
“It always makes a difference, Sam, darling. How long will you be in Naples? Or mustn’t I ask?”
“Three days, at the most,” he said.
“I’ll drop everything, Sam. See how shameless I am?” He felt the soft laughter in her voice. “I’ve been sitting on the balcony, watching people come and go. I haven’t really gotten out of bed, yet. I’ll stay right here and wait for you.” She sounded briefly tremulous. “Sam, I didn’t even know if you were still alive.”
“I am. Very much, honey. I love you, Dee.”
“And I love you, you big stubborn Cajun.” She paused again. “Sam, darling, darling, come quickly, please?”
“I’ll come back to the hotel as fast as I can. . . . Dee, do you know Countess Apollio?”
“Oh.” There was an abrupt silence.
“Do you?”
Deirdre’s voice had cooled. “I’ve met her.”
“Is she in Naples now?”
“Montecapolli. Near Sorrento. Her husband has a villa there. And a palazzo on Isola Filibano. Very exclusive. And a chalet in Switzerland . . .”
“I know. Can you arrange an introduction, Dee?”
“I can, but I won’t. I don’t like her.”
“Why not?”
She said, “I thought you looked me up because you wanted to see me, Sam.”
“I do, but I need some help, Dee, and I haven’t much time. Can we talk about it when I see you?”
“As a matter of fact,” she said, “we’re all going to Isola Filibano for some picture-taking early tomorrow morning. There’s a crowd here from the Rome movie colony—very special people, indeed. Luigi Patrelli, Dom Angelo, and that famous gal with the fantastic proportions, Gina Cantani.”
“I didn’t think anyone could go to Isola Filibano without Count Apollio’s permission. He owns the whole place, doesn’t he?”
“Not quite all of it. In the confusion after the war, when they hanged Mussolini and all, a small tract at one end was sold off to Patrelli and Dom Angelo, and they built some villas there and sold them, in turn, to select friends. It’s a constant battle with Apollio, of course. He’s tried every legal trick in the book to renege on the deal and force them off the island; but he is not the most popular man in the world around here since the war. Old memories and hatreds and injuries die hard in this part of Italy. Apollio finally built walls, ran watchdogs all over the place, got the fishermen in the village to refuse supplies and services. But Dom Angelo and Patrelli were just as stubborn. They stuck it out.”
Durell said, “Apollio’s unpopularity goes back to the war?” “Being what he is, he naturally sided with the regime. There was an underground movement among the fishermen on Isola Filibano against the Fascisti. It was headed by an old family named Bellaria, nobility gone to seed, because of a centuries-old rivalry and vendetta with the Apollio family. Apparently Count Bernardo used his favored position under Mussolini to act the feudal tyrant. There are all sorts of rumors about how the old feud with the Bellarias, which had just about died out, flared up again during those years. At the end of it, when the Fascists were overthrown, there was some pretty horrible vengeance taken. Nobody knows the true story of it all, even today. There are whispers that one of the Bellarias—Bruno, I think it was—did something horrible to Apollio. Whatever happened, nobody saw Bernardo Apollio for three years after the war ended. Then he showed up again, and things have been relatively quiet ever since, although they say the vendetta goes on because of new hatreds and injuries incurred during the war.”
“About Isola Filibano,” Durell said. “I may want to go there with you.”
“Because of Frannie Smith, your countess?”
“Not my countess, Dee, but—”
“I’m sorry I sound like a snob, Sam. She’s here in Naples this morning, you know. I saw her arrive from my window just ten minutes ago. Then Gina Cantani came in after her, red as a beet with fury because of the way Francesca swept in with a grand arrival. Francesca was alone for a change, too.”
Durell felt a quick tightening of his nerves. “You say she got to the Sentissi just ten minutes ago? She hasn’t left yet, has she?”
“I don’t think so.”
“All right. I’ll see you soon, honey. I’m coming back to
the hotel right now. Wait for me.”
“Not indefinitely,” Deirdre said. “Not in bed.”
He took a taxi back to the Sentissi, urging the driver to hurry. The one-way traffic to the Via Partenope seemed to crawl against his sense of urgency. It could not be a coincidence that the Countess Apollio had arrived at the Sentissi here in Naples this morning where Bruno Bellaria was also registered. He only hoped she was still there when he returned.
Nobody seemed to be on watch in the Sentissi’s lobby, but it was crowded now with tourists. He took the lift upstairs to the fourth floor. The wide corridor to Room 402 was empty, the shadows exaggerated after the brilliant sunshine on the street. Durell paused outside Bruno Bellaria’s door. It stood partly ajar. A long finger of buttery sunlight lay on the tiled floor. The click of a high heel came to him from inside. He listened, but he heard nothing else. He went in fast.
The girl was surprised. She was at the closet, packing the dead man’s cheap clothing into the equally cheap suitcase Durell had inspected earlier. Her back was toward him and she was partly bent over and he appreciated the tightness of her short skirt. Her jet-black hair was in a tightly teased mop, carefully arranged to look casual. A heavy emerald ring flickered on her left hand, and even from the doorway, Durell could make out the now-familiar sun emblem of the Apollio crest on her ring.
She could be no one else but the Countess Francesca Apollio. It all fitted. The lead to Talbott in Switzerland had led them to the Apollio chalet outside Geneva; Francesca had been there a day or two ago; and Bruno Bellaria had been in Switzerland, too. Now in Bellaria’s room here at the Hotel Sentissi he had finally caught up with the girl. It was a three-way pattern that involved Talbott with Francesca, and Francesca with Bruno Bellaria.
Her white woven bag lay on the bed. Durell picked it up before she knew he was in the room. Then she straightened with a gasp, whirled around, and stared at him.
Assignment Sorrento Siren Page 8