Authors: Helen Macinnes
Joe looked at him. Slowly, he said, “Could be. Could be... I’ll report it anyway. If you are wrong, Bill, then I’ll come asking you for a job.” He pulled a watch out of his pocket. “Half-past one.”
“Half-past one it is.” Lammiter timed his watch exactly.
Joe was, calculating. He said, “I wait until ten minutes before the bus leaves. I make sure that Sabatini and his two men climb on board. Then I telephone. Then I see a couple of people. Then I come back here for you.”
Lammiter shook his head. “I’ll wait, too, until Sabatini leaves on that bus. But then I’m heading for the Casa Grande.”
“No!”
“Yes! Don’t worry. I’ll keep out of Pirotta’s sight. And as soon as he drives off for the meeting in Perugia, I’ll bring Eleanor and Rosana out.”
“No, Bill. There’s too much risk. I don’t want any alarms being telephoned to Perugia.”
“But that mechanic—Giovanni—will be the only opposition left. He’s harmless enough.”
“Not as harmless as you think. He’s already done a stretch in prison: assault and robbery. Now he’s got a job to do that no honest man would take even for a million lire. And that’s his price. We traced his girl this morning. She got scared and told us.”
“A million lire?” That was less than seventeen hundred dollars, but it sounded better in lire. “What’s the job?”
“She didn’t know.”
Lammiter said, “Joe—what are you trying to hide from me? Last night we talked about a lot of things. We gave ourselves a pretty clear view of the kind of man who had Brewster murdered. He is ruthless, cold-blooded, and as wily as they come. You told me he might think it wise to get rid of Eleanor, but he couldn’t risk any publicity. Yet there’s one kind of publicity he could risk. Eleanor could disappear with Pirotta, couldn’t she? An elopement, Joe, an apparent elopement. Anyone would accept that story.”
Joe was silent.
“Did the mechanic’s girl tell the police where he is going? Didn’t she know that?”
“Venice.” Abruptly, Joe moved into the yard. He turned quickly to his left, towards the side of the house where the car lay.
Lammiter gripped the back of his wooden chair. Venice, he was thinking again, Venice...the place for lovers and elopements. But a gondola on the Grand Canal by moonlight was only one half of Venice, the enchanted half. There was the workaday half, the quays where the ships of all nations lay and loaded and unloaded. Venice was an Adriatic port. You could take a ship there, in sight of the Grand Canal, and you could sail out through the lagoon to Greece, to Turkey, to the Black Sea.
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 side 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.