The Angry Mountain (9 page)

I was thinking how very like the dog he was himself. “Er—yes,” I said. “I'm very fond—” And then I stopped. Reclining on the piled-up cushions of a big couch was a girl. Her figure merged into the green of the silk cushionings. Only her face showed in that soft lighting—a pale, madonna oval below the sweep of her jet black hair. The eyes caught the light and shone green like a cat's eyes. The lips were a vivid gash in the pallor of her skin. I thought I knew then why Sismondi had given me such a glassy smile of welcome.

He bustled forward. “Signor Farrell. The Contessa Valle.”

I bowed. The girl didn't move, but I could see her eyes
examining me. I felt the way a horse must feel when it is being appraised by an expert. Sismondi gave an uncertain little cough. “What can I give you to drink, Signor Farrell? A whisky, yes?”

“Thank you,” I said.

He went over to an elaborate modern cocktail cabinet that stood open in the corner. The girl's silence and immobility was disturbing. I followed him, very conscious of the drag of my leg.

“I am sorry my wife is not ‘ere to welcome you, signore,” he said as he poured the drink.

“She have—how do you call it?—the influenza, eh?” He shrugged his shoulders. “It is the weather, you know. It has been very cold here in Milano. You like seltz?”

“No, I'll have it neat, thank you,” I said.

He handed me a heavy, cut-glass goblet half-full of whisky, “Zina? You like another benedictine?”

“Please.” Her voice was low and slumbrous and the way she said it the word became a purr. I went over and got her glass. The tips of her fingers touched mine as she handed it to me. The green eyes stared at me unblinking. She didn't say anything, but I felt my pulse beat quicken. She was dressed in an evening gown of green silk, cut very low and drawn in at the waist by a silver girdle. She wore no jewellery at all. She was like something by one of the early Italian painters—a woman straight out of the medieval past of Italy.

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 Tu
č
ek. 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 Tu
č
ek 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 Tu
č
ek 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.