There was a crash: someone had unlocked the front door and flung it open so that the door smashed against the wall.
Then a man's voice bawled, "MYRA!"
When I was a kid, and back home, I had once been taken to a hog-calling contest. I had been tremendously impressed by the colossal volume of sound that had come from the leathery lungs of the hog callers. This sound that came up the stairs and reverberated around the dark, still room was as violent. It froze me, making the hairs on the nape of my neck stand up and making my heart skip a beat.
There was another crash that shook the house as the man below slammed the front door shut. Then the horrible, undisciplined voice yelled again: "MYRA!"
I recognized that voice. I had heard it on the telephone. Carlo had arrived!
Moving silently, I slid out of the bedroom. The lights were on in the hall. I went to the banister head and cautiously looked over. I couldn't see anyone, but there were lights now on in the lounge.
Then the raucous voice began to sing.
It was the voice of a hooligan: a tuneless, obscenely loud, ruthlessly vulgar sound. You couldn't call it a song: it was something out of the jungle: a sound that made me sweat.
I waited there because there was no way out of this villa except by way of the downstairs exits. So long as Carlo was there, I wasn't taking any chances of showing myself.
I remained in the shadows, a foot away from the banisters where I couldn't be seen. It was as well, for I suddenly saw the figure of a man standing in the lighted doorway of the lounge.
I edged back into the deeper shadows. It was the same broad-shouldered figure I had seen creeping around in the villa at Sorrento. I was sure of it.
There was a long, nerve-racking pause while Carlo remained motionless, his head cocked on one side as if he were listening.
I held my breath, my heart slamming against my ribs and I waited.
He moved slowly into the middle of the hall. Then he stopped, his hands on his hips, his long legs apart, facing the stairs.
The light from the overhead lamp fell fully on him. He was as Frenzi had described him: a bull-necked, blunt-featured, handsome animal He was wearing a black turtle neck sweater, black trousers, the ends of which were tucked into a pair of highly polished Mexican boots. He had a small gold ring in the lobe of his right ear, and he looked as big and as strong as a fighting bull.
For a long moment he stared up at the exact spot where I was standing. I was sure he couldn't see me. I didn't dare move in case the movement drew his attention to me.
Then suddenly he bawled, "Come on down or I'll come up and fetch yah down!"
PART NINE
I
I came down.
There was nothing else I could do. There was no room up on the landing if it came to a fight and, besides, the only way out of the villa was down the stairs and out through the front door or one of the ground-floor windows.
I came down slowly.
I'm not exactly a pigmy, but I didn't kid myself that I had much chance against this bull of a man. By the way he had moved from the lounge to the centre of the hall I knew he could be as fast as a streak of lightning once he got going.
When I reached half-way down the stairs I came into the full glare of the hall light, and I stopped so he could take a look at me.
He grinned, showing big, white even teeth.
"Hello, Mac," he said. "Don't think this is a surprise. I was right behind you all the way from your joint to this. Come on down. I've been waiting to have a talk with you."
He took four paces back so he wouldn't be too close to me when I reached the hall. I came down. If he went for me, I'd try to handle him, but I wasn't starting anything – anyway, not just yet.
"Go in there and sit down," he went on, jerking his thumb towards the lounge.
I went in there, chose a comfortable chair that faced the door and sat down. By now I had control of my nerves. I wondered what he was going to do. I doubted if he would call the police. I had only to show them my things upstairs for him to be in a worse jam than I.
He followed me into the lounge and sat on the arm of a big leather chair, facing me. He was still grinning. The zigzag scar on his face looked sharply white against the deep tan of his skin.
"Find your stuff up there?" he asked, taking out a pack of American cigarettes. He flicked one out, pasted it on his duck lower lip and set fire to it with a match he scratched alight with the thumb-nail. He looked like a shot from a Hollywood gangster movie when he did that.
"I found it," I said. "What have you done with the camera?"
He blew smoke towards me.
"I'll do the talking, Mac," he said. "You listen and answer. How did you get on to this place?"
"A girl wrote the telephone number on her wall. It wasn't difficult to get the address," I said.
"Helen?"
"That's right."
He pulled a face.
"The dumb cluck." He leaned forward. "What did the copper want with you this afternoon?"
I suddenly wasn't scared of him any more. I told myself the hell with him. I wasn't going to sit there and answer his questions.
"Why don't you ask him?" I said.
"I'm asking you." His smile went away. There was a sudden vicious look in his eyes. "Let's get this straight. You don't want me to get tough with you, do you?" He laid his hands on his knees so I could see them and slowly closed them into fists. They were sharp-knuckled, big fists that looked as if they had been carved out of a hunk of mahogany. "I'll tell you something: I like to hit a guy. When I hit him, he stays hit. Right now I want to talk to you, so don't make me hit you. What did the copper say?"
I braced myself.
"Go ahead and ask him."
I was half-way out of the chair by the time he reached me. I had been a mug to have sat in such a low chair. If I had sat on the arm as he had done I would have been more ready for his rush. He came across the space between us so fast I hadn't a chance. He threw a left-hand towards my stomach that I managed to knock aside, but he was only making an opening for his right. I didn't see it coming. I had a brief glimpse of his brown, snarling face and his gleaming teeth when something that felt like a club hammer slammed against the side of my jaw. The room exploded into a blinding flash of white light. I was only vaguely aware that I was falling, then black oblivion wiped out everything.
I came to the surface in about five or six minutes. I found myself spread out in the lounging chair with a sore jaw and a bead that pulsated like the breathing bag of a dentin's gas equipment.
Carlo was sitting close to me. He kept slamming his balled-up fist into the palm of his hand as if he were itching to hang another bone crusher on my jaw.
I struggled into an upright position and looked at him, trying to get him into focus. That punch had taken a lot of steam out of me.
"Okay, Mac, don't say I didn't warn you. Now, let's start again. The next time I hit you, I'll bust your jaw. What did the copper want?"