Zina started forward, but I caught her by the arm. Sansevino was on his feet again now and the muzzle of the gun was pointed at her, a thin twist of smoke coming from the end of it. His eyes had a murderous look. ‘Mascalzone! Sporco scifoso mascalzone!’ Zina poured her hate of him out in a spate of Italian. And then suddenly she was crying. ‘Why did you have to do that? It wasn’t necessary. There was no need. I would have stopped him from hurting you. Why did you do it?’
It was at this moment that Hacket intervened. He cleared his throat as though about to address a meeting. ‘This is a very terrible thing you have done, Mr. Shirer. I don’t know how you stand in Italian law, but in America at best you’d be guilty of third degree murder. Better hand over that weapon before anything else happens.’ I saw Sansevino trying to collect his wits as Hacket came towards him. Then suddenly he had him covered. ‘Stand back!’ he ordered.
‘Come, Mr. Shirer. Be sensible. You’re a fellow countryman of mine and I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.’ Hacket walked straight up to him. There was something impressive about his complete fearlessness. For a moment he dominated the room with his quiet, almost suburban matter-of-factness. Sansevino hesitated and in that moment Hacket had reached him and had taken the gun out of his hand. Sansevino stood there with a dazed look on his face, rubbing his twisted wrist. Hacket glanced at the weapon curiously and then with the calmness of a man who did this every day of his life, he pointed it at a corner of the room and emptied it by firing. The room shook with the sound of the gun. It seemed to go on and on. Then suddenly there was silence and all we could hear was the sound of gases escaping from high up on the flaring top of the mountain. Hacket tossed the empty gun into the corner and walked over to where Roberto lay, a smudge of blood staining his singlet. He knelt down and lifted the man’s head. Then he got to his feet, wiping his hands. ‘I guess we’d better have a drink now,’ he said. ‘Maybe it will help us to decide what ought to be done.’ He went over to the table and began to pour drinks.
‘Well, you certainly are a cool customer.’ Maxwell’s voice seemed part of the easing of tension.
Hacket took a large cognac over to Sansevino. ‘Better knock that back.’ He was like a doctor handling a difficult patient and I suddenly felt as though I wanted to laugh. ‘A guy as hot-tempered as you shouldn’t go around with a gun in his pocket.’ He got out a silk handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘Guess this mountain has a lot to answer for.’
He turned back to the drink table and in the silence I became conscious of a dry sobbing sound. It was Zina. She was sitting crouched on the floor and she had Roberto’s head in her lap and was crooning over it, stroking the damp hair with her fingers as she rocked back and forth with the tears streaming down her face.
‘So. Roberto was your lover, eh?’ Sansevino spoke in Italian and his voice was a mixture of contempt and anger. ‘Pity you didn’t explain. I would have acted differently if I’d known.’ He wiped the blood from his nose.
She looked across at him. ‘There was no need to kill him. I would not have let him hurt you.’ Her voice was sad. And then suddenly she flung Roberto’s head out of her lap as though she were throwing away a doll that had been broken. ‘I will make you pay for this,” she spat at him.
Hacket handed her a brandy. ‘Drink this. It’ll do you good.’
‘I do not want to be done good.’
‘A drink always helps.’
‘No.’
‘Listen, lady. A drink will—’
She smashed the glass out of his hand. ‘I do not want your damn’ drink.” She turned and pulled at Roberto’s belt. Then she got to her feet in one smooth, lithe movement. She had a knife in her hand and she moved towards Sansevino. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. It was as though we were a group of spectators standing watching a scene from Grand Guignol.
Sansevino retreated towards the window as she advanced slowly and deliberately. She had forgotten her fear of the mountain. She had forgotten everything in her hatred of the man. And he was afraid. I saw it and the knowledge sang through my body like a lovely song. She was going to murder him. It was there in every slow languorous movement of her limbs. She was going to kill him — not with one blow, but with slash after slash of the knife. And she was going to love every minute of it. ‘Remember how you gave me my first cigarette, here in this room?’ Her voice was soft as a caress. ‘Remember? You said it would help me to forget my husband’s beastliness. You said you had been a doctor and that you knew what was good for me. You made me drunk and then you gave me that cigarette. And after that there were more cigarettes. And then injections. You drugged me till I was your slave. Well, I am not your slave any more. I will kill you and then—’ She was literally purring. She was like a tigress.
Sansevino had backed until he was brought up by the wall. He moved along it, his eyes wide with fear. Then he was in the corner and could retreat no farther. ‘Don’t let her do it,’ he screamed. And when nobody moved he started to bargain with her. ‘If you kill me you will get no more of the drugs. Listen, Zina — think what happiness it gives you. Think what it will be like when your nerves are screaming out for—’
‘Animate!’ She darted at him and then away again and I saw the knife was bloodied. His shoulder was ripped and the white of his jacket stained crimson. I was staring fascinated at a macabre ballet played in real life.
It was Maxwell who stopped it. He went behind her and twisted the knife out of her hand. She turned on him, her face distorted with rage and her fingers clawed at him. He flung her off. ‘Get hold of her, Hacket, and make her have that drink. I want to talk with this fellow.’
Hacket caught her by the arm. She struggled for a moment, and then suddenly she went slack. He half-carried her to the sofa. She was sobbing again, dry, racking sobs that seemed to fill the room. Through them I heard Maxwell say, ‘Now then — suppose you tell me first who you really are.’
‘You know who I am.’ Sansevino’s eyes were wide, but I could see he was getting control of himself again.
‘I know who you’re not,’ Maxwell snapped. ‘You’re not Shirer.’
‘Then who am I?’ His eyes were looking past Maxwell, searching the room, trying to seek out some chance of escape.
I couldn’t help it. I suddenly began to laugh. It seemed to well up inside me and burst from my lips uncontrollably. It was relief to nerves stretched too taut — it was rage and bitterness and mental exhaustion all wound up tight and uncoiling in this horrible sound. I seemed to be standing outside myself, listening to that wretched laughter, wanting to strike myself, do something to stop it. But I couldn’t and gradually it subsided of its own accord and I was suddenly silent and very weak. They were all staring at me.
Maxwell came over to me. ‘Why did you laugh like that?’ he asked.
‘His name is Sansevino. Il dottore Giovanni Sansevino. He’s the man who did the operations on my leg in the Villa d’Este.’
Hacket left Zina on the couch. ‘I just don’t understand,’ he said. ‘This place belongs to a man named Shirer. I know, because I asked in the village. If this guy isn’t—’