‘What is the matter, Signer Farrell? Has anything happened?’
I had reached the table where I had left the Contessa. ‘No,’ I answered quickly. ‘Nothing has happened.’ My glass was still half-full and I drained it at a gulp.
‘You look as though you have seen a ghost,’ she said.
‘A ghost?’ I stared at her. Then I sat down. ‘What made you say that?’
Her brows arched slightly at the abruptness of my tone. ‘Have I said something wrong? I am sorry. I am not good at idiomatic English. What I mean to say is that you look upset.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I said, wiping my face and hands with my handkerchief. ‘I get these attacks sometimes.’ I was thinking of that time in Naples when I’d been waiting at the Patria for a boat to take me home. I’d had the same feeling of tightness inside my head. It had been like an iron band being slowly screwed down across the brain cells. I’d been two months in hospital then. Was I going the same way again? ‘Hell! I can’t be imagining it all.’
‘What is that you say?’ She was staring at me curiously and I realised I must have spoken aloud.
I called the waiter. ‘Will you have another drink?’ I asked her. She shook her head and I ordered a double cognac.
‘You should not drink so much,’ she murmured.
I laughed. ‘If I didn’t drink—’ I stopped then, realising that I was in danger of saying too much.
She reached out and her fingers touched my hand. ‘I am sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I think something terrible has happen in your life.’
The waiter brought my drink and I gulped at it thirstily. ‘Do you recognise that man?’ I asked and thrust the photograph across the table towards her.
She stared at it, her forehead wrinkling in a frown. ‘Well?’ I said impatiently. ‘Who is it?’
‘I do not understand,’ she said. ‘He is in Fascist uniform.’
‘And he has a moustache, eh?’
She looked across at me. ‘Why do you show me this?’
‘Who is it?‘I asked.
‘You know who it is. It is the man you meet last night.’
I knocked back the rest of my drink. ‘The name of the man in that photograph is Dottore Giovanni Sansevino.’ I picked up the pasteboard and slipped it into my wallet.
‘Sansevino?’ She stared at me uncomprehendingly. ‘Who is Sansevino?’
I thrust my leg out. ‘He was responsible for that.’ My voice sounded harsh and blurred in my ears. ‘My leg was smashed up in an air crash. He could have saved it. God knows, he was a good enough surgeon. Instead he did three amputations on it, two below the knee and one above — all without anaesthetics.’ Anger was welling up inside me like a tide. ‘He deliberately sawed my leg to pieces.’ I could see my fingers whitening as they tightened on each other. I had them interlaced and I was squeezing them as though they were closed around Sansevino’s throat. Then suddenly I 7S had control of myself. ‘Where will I find Walter Shirer?’ I asked her.
‘Walter Shirer?’ She hesitated. Then she said, ‘I do not know. I think he is not in Milano to-day.’
‘He’s staying at the Albergo Nazionale, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, but—’ Her fingers were on my hand again. ‘You should learn to forget the past, signore. People who think too much of the past—’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Every one has things inside them that are better forgotten.’ Her eyes were looking beyond me, not seeing the details of the room.
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked her.
‘Because you are all tense inside. Walter reminds you of the man in that photograph and you are bitter.’ She sighed. ‘I also have the past that I must forget,’ she said softly. ‘I have not always been dressed like this, you see. Life has not been easy for me. I was born in a slum off the Via Roma in Napoli. You know Napoli?’ She smiled as I nodded. It was a wry, hard smile. ‘Then you know what that means, signore. Fortunately I can dance. I get to know a man at the San Carlo and he gets me into the Corpo di Ballo. After that it is much better. Now I am a Contessa, and I do not think too much of the past. I think I should go crazy if I think too much of what my girlhood is like.’ She leaned towards me and her eyes were fixed on mine. They were large eyes — pale brown with flecks of green and the whites were not quite white, more the colour of old parchment. ‘Think of the future, signore. Do not live in the past.’ Her fingers squeezed my hand. ‘Now I must go.’ Her voice was suddenly practical as she reached for her handbag. ‘This afternoon I go to Firenze.’
‘How long will you be in Florence?’ I was thinking it was a pity she was going. She was exciting, unusual.
‘Not long. I stay two nights with some friends and then I motor to Napoli. I have a villa there. You know the Palazzo Donn’ Anna on the Posillipo?’
I nodded. It was a huge medieval building, the base of its stone arches planted in the sea just north of Naples.
‘My villa is just near the Palazzo. You will come and see me I hope when you are in Napoli. It is called the Villa Carlotta.’
‘Yes, I should like to,’ I said.
She had risen to her feet and as I escorted her to the entrance hall, she said, ‘Why do you not take a holiday? It would do you good to lie in the sun and relax yourself.’ She glanced at me with a swift lift of her brows. ‘Milano is not good for you, I think. Also I should like to see you again. We have something in common, you and I — our pasts.’ She smiled and gave me her hand.
I watched her as she went out and got into the car that was waiting for her. Then I turned and went back into the bar. Milano is not good for you, I think. What had she meant by that? And why had she come to see me? I realised then that she had not given me any really satisfactory reason for her visit. Had she come by arrangement with the man who had searched my room?
What did it matter anyway? The bug eating into my mind was Shirer. The idea that he was really Sansevino clung with a persistence that was frightening. I had to know the truth. I had to see him again and make certain. The thing was ridiculous, and yet … it was the sort of thing that could happen. And if it were Sansevino. … I felt anger boiling up in me again. I had another drink and phoned the Albergo Nazionale. Signer Shirer wasn’t there. He wasn’t expected back till the evening. I rang Sismondi at his office. He told me Shirer had said something about going out of town.
I had lunch then and after lunch I called on various firms. I didn’t get back to the hotel till nearly eight and by then the whole idea seemed so fantastic that I discarded it completely. I had a quick dinner and then went into the bar. But after a few drinks, I began to feel I must see him and make certain.
I got a taxi and went straight over to the Nazionale. It was a small and rather luxurious hotel almost opposite La Scala. There was an air of past grandeur about it with its tapestried walls and heavy, ornate furnishings. In this setting the lift, which was caged in with a white-lacquered tracery of wrought-iron, seemed out of place whilst at the same time adding to the expensive impression already given by the furnishings, the deep-piled carpet and knee-breeches uniform of the servants. I went over to the hall porter’s desk and asked for Shirer.
‘Your name, please, signore?’
‘Is Mr. Shirer in?’ I repeated.
The man looked up at the sharpness of my tone. ‘I do not know, signore. If you will please give me your name I will telephone his suite.’