“Tis me own bedroom up there,” O’Gilroy whispered. “Almost legal, ye might say.”
“Can you do it?”
“Like enough.” He grasped the pipe: it was fat and solid. “Surely.”
They went softly across the terrace to the french windows. Inside was a short, doorless corridor into the main hall; at the opposite side of the villa, a similar corridor led to the front door. The hall was lit, and there was occasional movement.
After a couple of minutes, O’Gilroy whispered: “I see two of them.”
“Yes.” Ranklin thought he recognised the man from the taxi at the Ritz, Silvio. He didn’t know the second man, actually Jankovic, but wasn’t surprised that there were two. You could hardly hold captive a house full of servants single-handed. “I can’t see either of the women.”
“Be sitting down . . . That’s Mrs Finn, to the right, wearing blue.”
“Thank God.” They backed away along the terrace.
“Captain,” O’Gilroy said, “if’n no harm’s come to Mrs Finn yet, I’m thinking she’s safe until Falcone gets back anyhow. So why’nt we stop him on the road? – he’ll mebbe have a gun. And now we know there’s two of them . . .”
“All right.” They started back around the house. “Will you know his car?”
“Seems he’s got dozens. Won’t be small, anyhow.”
“Then we’ll stop everything.”
But there was nothing to stop. A farm cart plodded past, going the other way, then they just stood and began to shiver in the pre-dawn air.
After a while, Ranklin said: “I want to be quite clear what we’re doing. We’re going into that house only because Corinna’s there, no other reason. And I think we can get her out more safely than the Carabiniere – the police.”
“Surely we can.”
“And if you go inside, you’ll be closest to her.”
“I will that,” O’Gilroy said evenly.
“I just wanted to be sure.” After another while, he said: “I’d rather like to take one of those men alive and confessing who sent them. It was a police captain in Trieste and I’d like to see him disgraced, dismissed – for purely professional reasons.”
Far down the road, headlights flickered between the trees. O’Gilroy said: “Jest professional reasons.”
“That’s right. So that I can go back there some day.”
Now they could hear the hum of a powerful motor moving at a decorous speed. “Even with two guns, it’ll be trouble enough taking these fellers dead, never mind alive. Which d’ye want most, Captain: the women safe or taking prisoners?”
There was a pause. Then Ranklin nodded. “All right. We forget about prisoners.” They stepped out and waved their hands.
The car was the high Pullman-bodied one with tasselled curtains that had brought O’Gilroy from the station, and Matteo was driving it. He drew up gently, recognising O’Gilroy – and then a rear door opened and Dagner stepped out.
Ranklin was astounded. And so must Dagner have been, only he had recognised them in the car’s headlights and had time to choose his expression and voice. He was brisk: “Captain – I thought you’d still be in Trieste. And O’Gilroy. Does this mean a problem?”
Ranklin, still dazed, just managed to be polite. “Major . . . What on earth are you doing here?”
“Travelling as the Senator’s personal physician.” Behind him, Ranklin could see the bulky shape of Falcone sitting very upright on the back seat. Matteo took the opportunity to get in and fuss, re-arranging the rug and making soothing comments. Dagner lowered his voice. “And taking an excuse to get out into the field again, making sure this operation goes ahead smoothly. What do you have to report?”
Ranklin had quite a choice, including the question of the Bureau being left leaderless eight hundred miles away, but restrained himself to: “There’s a fair selection, but most immediately, a couple of assassins are waiting for the Senator at his villa, with his wife and Mrs Finn as hostages. Have you got a gun with you?”
Dagner paused. Then: “No. No, I’m afraid . . . I gather it’s unlawful in Italy.”
But Falcone had been overhearing. “Signora Falcone, is she safe?”
“I wouldn’t say safe, but I think she’s unharmed. Have you got-?”
“Yes, yes, it is in my luggage. But you must be very careful . . .”
It was the Browning Ranklin had seen before, just like O’Gilroy’s, and he instinctively passed it to him. Falcone added: “There are many guns in the villa, but . . .”
Ranklin could guess at a whole cabinet of shotguns and hunting rifles, but in a downstairs room they couldn’t reach. “Well, it’s a start. Back to plan A.”
“What’s that?” Dagner asked.
“We think we can get hold of another pistol and do a bit of outflanking if O’Gilroy can get up to a bedroom window.”
“Sounds rather complicated.” He was taking charge now. “We ought to think this out-”
“Major, we’ve been thinking it out, and reconnoitring the house, for half an hour. We must get somebody inside before we do anything else, or the women . . .” He shrugged. “The ground-floor rooms all open onto the hall, that means O’Gilroy getting in through the bedroom floor, so he may as well look for a second gun while he’s at it. Or just call the Carabinieri and let them handle it all.”
He risked nothing by suggesting that; he knew Falcone wouldn’t want it, or the explanations it would lead to.
And turn it down he did, but added: “But you must be sure you save Signora Falcone.”
Ranklin didn’t answer him. “Then we’d better get going while it’s still dark enough.”
“Fine,” Dagner said. “I’d like to see how you two work. If you can fit me into your plan, fine. If not, I’ll keep out of your way.”
Ranklin made a face he was glad Dagner couldn’t see. He knew senior officers who promised to do just what they were told. Then he started rethinking.
Despite his height, once they were inside the gates Dagner showed all his Khyber cunning, moving like the shadow of a snake through the tangled garden and up onto the back terrace. Artillery training didn’t involve creepy-crawling and Ranklin felt distinctly bovine, lumbering behind him.
Then, with the eastern sky definitely turning grey, they watched O’Gilroy, barefoot and coatless, clamber up the drainpipe. He climbed without haste or scrabbling, sometimes walking his feet up the walls on either side, sometimes using joints on the pipe. A few flakes of white paint fluttered down.
“Has he done this before?” Dagner whispered.
“Shouldn’t wonder.”
O’Gilroy vanished over the portico roof, and there was a slight creak as a shutter was eased back. A minute or so later, a faint glimmer showed behind the shutters of the next room along, Corinna’s, and Ranklin could visualise what O’Gilroy was facing: without a maid, Corinna’s bedroom would look like an anarchist outrage in a dress shop.
That was indeed how it struck O’Gilroy. He tried one handbag – too light – another that was empty, then started shuffling under heaps of clothing, some of which embarrassed him and some he just didn’t understand. And then, in plain sight on a chest of drawers, he saw a third bag. It felt heavy enough, but he still had to sift its contents before coming up with a Colt Navy-calibre pocket pistol. He thumbed it to half-cock, spun the cylinder, and saw all five were loaded.
This might, he thought, be going to work.
He packed the gun back into the bag, well wrapped in clothing, then opened a window and shutter – they all seemed to creak – and dropped it into Ranklin’s arms, then saw him and Dagner move back around the corner.