Authors: Helen Macinnes
Bill Lammiter, beside her, was watching her anxiously. “But perhaps,” she said, letting him into her thoughts, “all that happened today was as much a part of this house as those pretty
possessions.” She pointed at random to a Cellini candelabrum on a Florentine mosaic table, and then to a Bronzino portrait of a handsome man, young, richly dressed, melancholy, who looked gravely down at her from his elaborately carved and gilded frame. Her eyes widened suddenly as she stared up at the Renaissance man. “He looks like—” She didn’t finish. Lammiter, looking up at the portrait, saw the resemblance to Pirotta, too.
Instinctively, he took her hand. But she was in control of herself. She sat quite still, more curious than upset, as though she were trying to solve the puzzle that anyone who could bear a strong resemblance to such a noble face should have been driven by the forces that had controlled Pirotta. Was this, Lammiter wondered, the Pirotta she had fallen in love with? And it was your own God-damned fault, he cursed himself, remembering how he had let her go last spring, hadn’t followed her until he realised he had lost her. She was watching him, holding his hand as if he were the one who needed comforting. “I was a swollen-headed fool,” he said bitterly. “I was so busy giving away pieces of myself to everyone and everything that I’d soon have had nothing left to give to the only one who mattered.” He paused. He gave a wry smile. “All a playwright has to do is to write good plays. All the rest is—sawing, sawdust.” He paused again. He had never found words so elusive and stupid. “I’m trying to say I am sorry,” he said almost desperately.
“No—not you. It’s I who should be saying—” She paused. The princess’s voice came clearly from the hall. “Oh, Bill—is she coming in here?”
Too late to close the door. He could hardly shut it in the princess’s face.
“It was an accident, of course,” the princess told the captain.
“He was cleaning his rifle in the gun room.”
“Perhaps it was an accident,” the captain said unhappily. “But it happened on the staircase.”
There was a long pause. “I think I shall rest here for a little,” the princess said in a low voice. She stopped abruptly at the threshold of the room as she saw Eleanor, sitting so still. Then she looked at Lammiter. A strange expression, not unkind, not even surprise, softened her carefully painted lips for a fleeting moment. She nodded. She walked on.
Lammiter knelt beside Eleanor. He kissed her hands. She looked at him, and then she touched his brow gently, and she laid her cheeks against his.
Rosana brought Eleanor’s coat and purse. She spoke quickly, tonelessly, with all life dredged out of her voice. Perhaps this was the only way she could keep her emotions under control: to be businesslike and almost aloof—even if that was, or perhaps indeed because it was, contrary to her nature—that was how she could build a wall around her emotions. If she let one part of that wall be displaced, the whole barrier would come falling down. “Joe is waiting,” she told Bill Lammiter.
“Where?”
“Outside the gate.”
“What brought him here?”
“I telephoned. I thought the captain was going to be— difficult.”
“Thank you.” Lammiter looked at the pale face, now coldly beautiful, a marble statue going through human motions of politeness. “Again,” he added gently, “thank you.”
“You must hurry.”
“Before the captain changes his mind?” he asked with a smile.
“He’s been told your address for the next few days. He knows where to find you—if he needs you.”
“My address? I haven’t got any address.” But Rosana didn’t explain.
Eleanor said impulsively, “Rosana—you don’t want to stay here, either. Come with us.”
Rosana’s face softened for a moment. Her lips began to tremble. “I must stay,” she said, turning away. She walked back towards the door.
Lammiter took Eleanor’s arm, and pressed her wrist gently. That warned her. She was still puzzled, but she said no more. She gave a last look round the white and green room, and then at the Bronzino portrait of the sad and proud young man. Rosana, waiting at the door for them, noticed that glance. She said, “Bronzino still enjoys his private joke. Every time someone stands in front of that portrait and exclaims, ‘What grace, what goodness! Ah—those were noble days!’ Then Bronzino’s skeleton shakes with laughter. The Renaissance had its share of violence and evil. That young man was one of its monsters.” She walked into the hall.
Quickly they followed her, quickly they passed over the stone-flagged floor. At the front door, Rosana halted. “Goodbye,” she said evenly. “I must go to the princess.” She held out her hands to them both.
“Not goodbye,” he protested.
Rosana looked at him and then at Eleanor. She said, suddenly natural again, warm and vibrant, “You are my friends.” She
gave a smile that turned into a strangled sob as her guard went down. Then she turned abruptly, and retreated into the dark shadows of the vast hall. They began to walk, in silence, across the gold-lit courtyard.
It was a serene place, that courtyard. Under the five o’clock sun, warm and mellow, there was no movement except the flutter of a white pigeon over their heads, no sound except their footsteps on the stones. Near the gate, wide open now, showing the quiet little square outside, Lammiter suddenly said, “Where is Whitelaw?”
Eleanor looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t hear him leave either.” It was odd, she thought, that Whitelaw had left so immediately. He was a friend of the princess’s, wasn’t he? Strange that he should have left her at her doorstep. “Perhaps the princess sent him away.”
“Perhaps.”
“You’re worried.”
“I’ve reached the stage of worrying about everything,” he told her. Then he thought, I never even noticed Whitelaw’s car was gone until I had walked the breadth of this courtyard. What’s gone wrong with your reactions, Lammiter? They are as slow as your feet at this moment.
He almost passed Jacopone. The gamekeeper was standing so motionless beside the gate that he might have been one of its carved decorations. He still carried his rifle under one arm. He looked at them both quite impassively. He nodded, and a smile entered those old watchful eyes. He seemed surprised and then pleased as Lammiter seized his free hand in a grasp that tightened as they stood in silence.
“Viva Garibaldi!”
Lammiter said suddenly.
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?”
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. But 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.