“Cheerio, old chap.” I started back through the cave, jiggling my rump like a stripper with St. Vitus dance to get back the feeling I’d lost perching on a cake of ice during our long conversation. By the time I was out in the fresh air again, there were a million pins and needles defrosting it.
Greta was nowhere in sight. And when I got back to the chalet, I learned that she’d checked out. I sighed for what might have been and turned in early, sleeping like a log. The next morning I checked out myself. By noon I had arrived at the inn Tarleton had mentioned.
I signed in as “Steve Victor, O.R.G.Y., U.S.A.” and when the desk clerk raised an eyebrow I made a point of becoming boastfully garrulous. I told him all about O.R.G.Y. and embellished my own importance until I came out smelling like the reincarnation of old Doc Kinsey himself. And I was loud enough so the bellhops and the guests hanging around the lobby couldn’t help hearing.
It worked. A little before dinnertime, the phone rang in my room. A female voice, liquidly Italian, identified herself as Maria Trendasia, secretary to Herr Gunther Friedriksenn. The industrialist, it seemed, had learned of my arrival and wished to extend his hospitality for a small dinner party that evening.
I told Signorina Trendasia that I would be honored to accept, and she replied that Herr Friedriksenn would send a car to pick me up at seven-thirty. I thanked her and hung up. Then I dusted oil my soup-and-fish, showered and shaved, and napped a bit until it was time to get dressed.
The call from the lobby that Herr Friedriksenn’s limousine was waiting came right on the dot of seven-thirty. I went straight down, and the chauffeur opened the door for me with military precision. A delicate perfume wafted to me from the interior of the Rolls as I stooped to enter it.
I had company—the sort of interior decor no Rolls Royce should be without. The lady was young, and beautiful, and expensive-looking. Her evening gown was simple, black velvet, strapless, and undoubtedly a Paris original. I would have bet that the necklace she wore was real diamonds. Her hair was long, black, and piled high on her head. She wore a minimum of make-up, and it wasn’t meant to conceal her olive complexion. Her face was an oval with high cheekbones, full lips, and a perfectly straight Roman nose. Her figure, from what I could see of it, was very good.
“How do you do, Mr. Victor?” She greeted me in English with just the hint of an Italian accent. “I am Anna Del Vecchio. I too am staying at the inn. And since we are both to be the guests of Herr Friedriksenn, he did not think that you would mind sharing a ride with me.”
“I’m honored,” I told her. Nor was it just the usual automatic Continental malarkey. I couldn’t conceive of any man minding sharing the back seat of a Rolls Royce with a Latin lovely like Anna Del Vecchio.
I guessed that she was the mistress Tarleton had mentioned. From our casual chit-chat during the ride, I gathered that she was a frequent guest at Friedriksenn’s lodge. She described herself as “a dear friend of the family.” It all seemed to fit in with the familiar European pattern of ménage à trois—With a nearby hotel room provided for her for the sake of appearances.
When we arrived we were greeted by Maria Trendasia, the secretary who had called me before. She apologized for Friedriksenn and his wife and told us they would be down shortly.
Maria was approximately the same height and build as Anna Del Vecchio. Aside from that, they didn’t look at all alike. Not that there was anything wrong with Maria’s looks; indeed, they went well with the intriguing voice I’d heard over the telephone.
Her hair, while as black as Anna Del Vecchio’s, was not worn as stylishly. It was cut quite short and worn straight back. Her eyes were a serious brown in contrast to the flashing black eyes of the other woman. Her dress was severe, in keeping with her general air of seriousness, a chocolate-brown color with a full skirt and a high neck. However, it couldn’t hide the fullness of Maria’s bosom, or the curve of her hips. The horn-rimmed glasses she wore completed the picture of the efficient secretary who conscientiously plays down her femininity.
Maria had just made us martinis when another guest arrived. We heard him before we saw him. The roar of a sports car followed by the squeal of brakes on snow announced his coming. A moment later he bounced into the drawing room, removing goggles, cap, and car coat and tossing them to a servant as he came. These disposed of, he was impeccable in white tie and tails.
Maria introduced him as Luigi Tortorizzi. I took an instant dislike to him as we shook hands. His hand was too soft, too limp, and he was too anxious to retrieve it. There was something too precious, too delicate about the rest of him too, although he was neither particularly small nor slender. Maybe it was his condescending air with me, or the foppish way he had of gesturing and bowing with the ladies. Whatever it was, Luigi wasn't my dish of ravioli.
He was telling a long, involved, boastful tale of his adventures as a gentleman auto racer when our host and hostess entered. Herr Friedriksenn cut him short smoothly, and I appreciated that. Luigi had lost me around the first hairpin turn, anyway.
Friedriksenn was much older than his wife. He was a large man, barrel-chested and wide-shouldered, and not built for the dinner jacket he was wearing, although he looked completely at ease in it. His hair was completely gray, but his vitality was such that there was no feeling of age about him. His face was weatherbeaten, as if much of his life had been spent out of doors. Yet, rough and leathery as his features were, there was nothing of the diamond-in-the-rough about his manners. They were impeccable, and he put his guests at their ease with little effort.
His wife’s name was Carmella. She seemed more nervous than he, less accustomed to the atmosphere of the haut monde. Indeed, compared to Anna Del Vecchio, she was almost gauche-—which is a hell of a word for a bozo like me to judge a girl by, still, when in Rome . . .
I drew Carmella as a dinner partner. Maria, on my left, was devoting herself to patiently listening to Luigi Tortorizzi and his auto racing jabber. Friedriksenn’s attention was taken up by Anna Del Vecchio and I couldn’t help noticing that their rapport seemed almost intimate.
Carmella was conscientiously drawing me out as to my impressions of Europe. As I answered her questions, I sized her up. She was in her mid-twenties, I judged, and her accent was definitely Sicilian. Mostly I noticed a certain carelessness about her appearance. A few wisps of ebony hair had escaped her elaborately teased coiffure. Her rouge was a bit uneven, and she had applied it to her cheeks a little too generously. The low-cut green silk evening gown she wore had slipped from her bodice, and half of one plump, round breast which was exposed had a stray bit of lettuce perched atop it. As decolletage it was interesting, but not quite up to the flawless taste of her surroundings. Also, she kept refilling her wine glass and swallowing the stuff as if it were water throughout the meal.
But with it all, Carmella Friedriksenn was an attractive woman. There was an intensity to her green eyes, a sort of suppressed sexiness, which matched the sultry promise of her face and ripely lush body. I appreciated this even more when, just after we were served our coffee, her hand fell to my thigh with a pressure that was anything but casual. There was no doubt about it; my host’s wife was making a pass at me.
But the pass went no further just then. She removed the hand when her husband leaned across the dinner table to engage me in conversation. “Your occupation fascinates me, Mr. Victor,” he said frankly. “Won’t you tell us something about it?”
“What would you like to know?” I replied.