When in Rome ra-26 Page 11

  Alleyn normally reacted to remarks about his brother George by falling over backwards rather than profit by their relationship. He bowed and pressed on.

  “This is an affair of some delicacy,” he said and felt as if he spoke out of an Edwardian thriller or, indeed, from No. 221B Baker Street. “I assure you I wouldn’t have troubled you if I could have avoided doing so. The fact is Il Questore Valdarno and I find ourselves in something of a quandary. It’s come to our knowledge that a certain unsavoury character whose identity had hitherto been unknown is living in Rome. He has formed associations with people of the highest standing who would be appalled if they knew about him. As I think you yourself would be.”

  “I? Do you suggest—?”

  “He is one of your patrons. We think it proper that you should be warned.”

  If Marco had seemed, for an Italian, to be of a rather florid complexion he was so no longer. His cheeks were wan enough to make his immaculately shaven jaws look, by contrast, a cadaverous purple. There was a kind of scuffling noise behind Alleyn. He turned and saw the beautiful young man who had admitted him seated behind a table and making great play with papers.

  “I didn’t realize—” Alleyn said.

  “My secretary. He does not speak English,” Marco explained and added in Italian. “Alfredo, it might be as well for you to leave us.” And still in Italian, to Alleyn: “That will be better, will it not?”

  Alleyn looked blank. “I’m sorry,” he said and spread his hands.

  “Ah, you do not speak our language?”

  “Alas!”

  The young man said rapidly in Italian: “Padrone, is it trouble? It is—?” and Marco cut him short. “It is nothing. You heard me. Leave us.”

  When he had gone Alleyn said. “It won’t take long. The man I speak of is Mr. Sebastian Mailer.”

  A short pause and Marco said: “Indeed? You are, I must conclude, certain of your ground?”

  “Certain enough to bring you the information. Of course you will prefer to check with the Questore himself. I assure you, he will confirm what I’ve said.”

  Marco inclined and made a deprecatory gesture. “But of course, of course. You have quite taken me aback, Mr. Alleyn, but I am most grateful for this warning. I shall see that Mr. Mailer’s appearances at La Giaconda are discontinued.”

  “Forgive me, but isn’t it rather unusual for La Giaconda to extend its hospitality to a tourist party?”

  Marco said rapidly and smoothly: “A normal tourist party — a ‘package’—would be out of the question. A set meal and a fiasco of wine — with little flags on the table — unthinkable! But this arrangement, as you found, is entirely different. The guests order individually, à la carte, as at a normal dinner party. The circumstance of the conto being settled by the host — even though he is a professional host — is of little significance. I confess that when this Mailer first approached me I would not entertain the proposal but then — he showed me his list. It was a most distinguished list. Lady Braceley alone — one of the most elegant of our clientela. And Mr. Barnaby Grant — a man of the greatest distinction.”

  “When did Mailer first approach you?”

  “I believe — about a week ago.”

  “So tonight was the first of these dinner parties?”

  “And the last, I assure you, if what you tell me is true.”

  “You noticed, of course, that he did not appear?”

  “With some surprise. But his assistant, Giovanni Vecchi, is a courier of good standing. He informed us that his principal was unwell. Am I to understand—”

  “He may be unwell, he has undoubtedly disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” The colour seeped back, unevenly, into Marco’s cheeks. “You mean—?”

  “Just that. Vanished.”

  “This is very confusing. Should I understand that you believe him to have—” Marco’s full lips seemed to frame and discard one or two words before they chose “absconded.”

  “That is the Questore’s theory.”

  “But not yours?” he asked quickly.

  “I have none.”

  “I conclude, Mr. Alleyn, that your attendance here tonight, which must have followed your enrollment in today’s tour, is professional rather than recreational.”

  “Yes,” Alleyn agreed cheerfully. “That’s about it. And now I mustn’t take up any more of your time. If — and the chances I believe are remote — if Mr. Mailer should put in an appearance here”—Marco gave an ejaculation and a very slight wince— “Il Questore Valdarno and I would be most grateful if you would say nothing to him about this discussion. Simply telephone at once to — but the number is on the Questore’s card, I think.”

  “The Questore,” said Marco in a hurry, “will I am sure appreciate that any kind of unpleasantness, here, in the restaurant, would be—” He flung up his hands.

  “Unthinkable,” Alleyn filled in. “Oh, yes. It would all be done very tactfully and quite behind the scenes, you know.”

  He held out his hand. Marco’s was damp and exceedingly cold.

  “But you think,” he persisted. “You yourself think, isn’t it, that he will not come back?”

  “For what it’s worth,” Alleyn agreed, “that’s my idea. Not, at any rate, of his own volition. Good-bye.”

  On his way out he went to the telephone booth and rang Il Questore Valdarno, who reported that he had set up further enquiries but had no news. Mailer’s flat had been found. The porter said Mailer left it at about three o’clock and had not returned. The police briefly examined the flat, which seemed to be in order.

  “No signs of a sudden departure?”

  “None. Yet I am still persuaded—”

  “Signor Questore, may I ask you to add to the many favours you have already granted? I am not familiar with your police regulations and procedures but I understand you are less restricted than we are. Would it be possible to put a man in Mailer’s flat at once and could that man answer the telephone and make a careful note of any calls, if possible tracing their origin? I think it’s highly probable that Marco of La Giaconda will at this moment be trying to get him and will try again. And again.”

  “Marco! Indeed? But — yes of course. But—”

  “I have spoken to him. He was discreet but his reaction to the disappearance was interesting.”

  “In what way? He was distressed?”

  “Distressed — yes. Not, I think, so much by Mailer’s disappearance as by the thought of his return. That prospect, unless I’m very much mistaken, terrifies him.”

  “I shall attend to this at once,” said Il Questore.

  “If Mailer is still missing, tomorrow, would you allow me to have a look at his rooms?”

  “But of course. I will instruct my people.”

  “You are too kind,” said Alleyn, as usual.

  When he returned to the vestibule of La Giaconda he found all the party there except Lady Braceley. He noticed that Giovanni was having little conferences with the men. He spoke first with Kenneth Dorne, who responded with an air of connivance and cast furtive looks about him. Giovanni moved on to the Major, who, ignoring Kenneth, listened avidly but with an affectation of indifference much at odds with the grin that twitched the corners of his mouth. Giovanni seemed to send out a call of some sort to Baron Van der Veghel, who joined them. He too listened attentively, the Etruscan smile very much in evidence. He said little and presently rejoined his wife, linked his arm in hers and stooped towards her. She put her head on one side and gazed at him. He took the tip of her nose between his fingers and gently, playfully, waggled it. She beamed at him and tapped his cheek. He pulled her hand down to his mouth. Alleyn thought he had never seen a more explicit display of physical love. The Baron slightly shook his head at Giovanni, who bowed gracefully and looked at Grant, who was talking to Sophy Jason. Grant at once said quite loudly: “No, thank you,” and Giovanni moved on to Alleyn.

  “Signore,” he said. “We go now to the Cosmo, a very ele
gant and exclusive nightclub where the guests will remain for as long as they wish. Perhaps until two when the Cosmo closes. That will conclude the programme for this tour. However, Signor Mailer has arranged that a further expedition is available for those who are perhaps a little curious and desire to extend their knowledge of Roman nightlife. Some drinks. A smoke. Congenial company. Boys and girls, very charming. Everything very discreet. The cars will be available without further charge but the entertainment is not included in the tour.”

  “How much?” Alleyn asked.

  “Signore, the fee is fifteen thousand lire.”

  “Very well,” Alleyn said. “Yes.”

  “You will not be disappointed, Signore.”

  “Good.”

  Lady Braceley re-entered the vestibule.

  “Here I am!” she cried. “High as a kite and fit for the wide, wild way-out. Bring on the dancing girls.”

  Kenneth and Giovanni went to her. Kenneth put his arm round her waist and said something under his breath.

  “Of course!” she said loudly. “Need you ask, darling? I’d adore to.” She advanced her face towards Giovanni and widened her eyes.

  Giovanni bowed and gave her a look, so overtly deferential and subtly impertinent that Alleyn felt inclined either to knock him down or tell Lady Braceley what he thought of her. He saw Sophy Jason looking at her with something like horror.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” said Giovanni, “to Il Cosmo.”

  The Cosmo was a nightclub with a lavish floor show. As soon as the party was seated, bottles of champagne were clapped down on their tables. They hadn’t been there long before the members of the orchestra left their dais and walked severally to the front tables. The bass and cello players actually planted their instruments on the tables and plucked the strings. The fiddlers and saxophonists came as close as possible. The tympanist held his cymbals poised above the shrinking Major Sweet’s head.

  Eight marginal nudes trimmed with tropical fruit jolted round the floor space. “Black lighting,” was introduced and they turned into Negresses. The noise was formidable indeed.

  “Well,” Grant asked Sophy. “Still keeping Grandpapa Jason at bay?”

  “I’m not so sure he doesn’t ride again.”

  The uproar was such that they were obliged to shout into each others’ ears. Lady Braceley was jerking her shoulders in time with the saxophonist at her table. He managed to ogle her while continuing his exertions. “She seems,” Grant said, “to be on the short list of persona grata here as well as at the Giaconda.”

  “It’s a bit hard to take, I find.”

  “Say the word if you’d like to go. We could, you know. Or do you want to see the rest of the show?” Sophy shook her head vaguely. She tried to get her reactions into some kind of perspective. It was odd to reflect that less than twelve hours ago she had met Grant for virtually the first time. It was not the first time by many that she made an instant take, but she had never before experienced so sharp an antagonism followed for no discernible reason by so complete a sense of familiarity. At one moment they had blackguarded each other to heaps and at another, not fifteen minutes later, they had gossiped away in the shrine of Mithras as if they had not only known but understood each other for years. “Me,” thought Sophy, “and Barnaby Grant. Jolly odd when you come to think of it.” It would have been quite a thing if she could put it all down to the violent antagonism that sometimes precedes an equally violent physical attraction but that was no go. Obviously they were under no compulsion to fall into each other’s arms.

  “If we stay,” Grant was saying, “I can snatch you up in my arms.”

  Sophy gaped at this uncanny distortion of her thoughts.

  “In a cachucha, fandango, bolero or whatever,” he explained. “On the other hand—Do pay attention,” he said crossly. “I’m making a dead set at you.”

  “How lovely,” Sophy rejoined. “I’m all ears.”

  The rumpus subsided, the orchestra returned to its dais, the Negresses were changed back into naked pink chicks and retired. A mellifluous tenor, all eyes, teeth and sob-in-the-voice, came out and sang “Santa Lucia” and other familiar pieces. He too moved among his audience. Lady Braceley gave him a piece of everlasting greenery from her table decoration.

  He was followed by the star of the programme, a celebrated black singer of soul music. She was beautiful, and disturbing, and a stillness came over the Cosmo when she sang. One of her songs was about hopelessness, injury and degradation and she made of it a kind of accusation. It seemed to Sophy that her audience almost disintegrated under her attack and she thought it strange that Lady Braceley, for instance, and Kenneth could sit and look appreciative and join so complacently in the applause.

  When she had gone Grant said: “That was remarkable, wasn’t it?” Alleyn, overhearing him, said: “Extraordinary. Do modern audiences find that the pursuit of pleasure is best satisfied by having the rug jerked from under their feet?”

  “Oh,” Grant said, “hasn’t that always been so? We like to be reminded that something is rotten in the state of Denmark. It makes us feel important.”

  The programme ended with a very stylish ensemble, the lights were subdued, the band insinuated itself into dance music and Grant said to Sophy: “Come on. Whether you like it or not.”

  They danced: not saying very much, but with pleasure.

  Giovanni appeared and Lady Braceley danced with him. They did intricate things with great expertise.

  The Van der Veghels, half-smiling, closely embraced, swayed and turned on sixpence, keeping to the darkened perimeter of the floor.

  Major Sweet, who had made a willing but belated attempt upon Sophy, sank back in his chair, drank champagne and moodily discoursed with Alleyn. He was, Alleyn concluded, the sort of practiced drinker who, while far from being sober, would remain more or less in control for a long time. “Lovely little girl, that,” he said. “Natural. Sweet. But plenty of spunk, mind you. Looks you bang in the eye, what?” He maundered on rather gloomily: “Just a nice, sweet natural little girl — as I was saying.”

  “Are you going on to this other show?” Alleyn asked.

  “What about yourself?” countered the Major. “Fair’s fair. No names,” he added more obscurely, “no pack-drill that I’m aware of. Other things being equal.”

  “I’m going, yes.”

  “Shake,” invited the Major extending his hand. But finding that it encountered the champagne bottle he refilled his glass. He leant across the table.

  “I’ve seen some curious things in my time,” he confided. “You’re a broadminded man. Everyone to his own taste and it all adds up to experience. Not a word to the ladies: what they can’t grieve about they won’t see. How old am I? Come on. You say. How old jer say I am?”

  “Sixty?”

  “—and ten. Allotted span, though that’s all my eye. See the rest of you out tonight, my boy.” He leant forward and looked dolefully at Alleyn with unfocussed eyes. “I say,” he said. “She’s not going on, is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Old Bracegirdle.”

  “I believe so.”

  “Gawd!”

  “It’s pretty steep,” Alleyn suggested. “Fifteen thousand lire.”

  “Better be good, what? I’m full of hopes,” leered the Major. “And I don’t mind telling you, old boy, I wouldn’t have been within coo-ee of this show tonight in the orinry way. You know what? Flutter. Green baize. Monte. And — phew!” He made a wild gesture with both arms. “Thassall — phew!”

  “A big win?”

  “Phew!”

  “Splendid.”

  And that, Alleyn supposed, explained the Major. Or did it?

  “Funny thing about Mailer, don’t you think?” he asked.

  “Phew!” said the Major, who seemed to be stuck with this ejaculation. “ ’Strordinary conduct,” he added. “Conduct unbecoming if you ask me but let it go.” He slumped into a moody silence for some moments and then shouted s
o loudly that people at the neighbouring table stared at him: “Bloody good riddance. ’Skuse language.”

  After this he seemed disinclined for conversation and Alleyn joined Kenneth Dorne.

  With the departure of the soul singer, Kenneth had slumped back into what seemed to be chronic inertia interrupted by fidgets. He made no attempt to dance but fiddled with his shirt ruffles and repeatedly looked towards the entrance as if he expected some new arrival. He gave Alleyn one of his restless, speculative glances. “You look marvellous,” he said. “Are you having a gay time?”

  “An interesting time, at least. This sort of thing is quite out of my line. It’s an experience.”

  “Oh!” Kenneth said impatiently. “This!” He shuffled his feet about. “I thought you were terrific,” he said. “You know. The way you managed everybody after Seb vanished. Look. Do you think he’s — you know — I mean to say — what do you think?”

  “I’ve no notion,” Alleyn said. “I’ve never set eyes on the man before. You seem to be quite friendly with him.”

  “Me?”

  “You call him Seb, don’t you?”

  “Oh well. You know. Just one of those things. Why not?”

  “You find him helpful perhaps.”

  “How d’you mean?” Kenneth said, eyeing him.

  “In Rome. I rather hoped — I may be quite wrong, of course.” Alleyn broke off. “Are you going on to this late party?” he asked.

  “Of course. And I don’t care how soon.”

  “Really?” Alleyn said. And hoping he introduced the jargon correctly and with the right inflexion, he asked: “May one expect to meet ‘a Scene?’ ”

  Kenneth swept his hair from his eyes with a finger tip.

  “What sort of a scene?” he said cautiously.

  “A group — a — have I got it wrong? I’m not turned on — is that right? — as yet. I want to ‘experience.’ You know?”

  Kenneth now undisguisedly inspected him. “You look fabulous, of course,” he said. “You know: way up there. But—” He drew a rectangle with his forefingers in the air. “Let’s face it. Square, sweetheart. Square.”

  “Sorry about that,” Alleyn said. “I was depending on Mr. Mailer to make the change.”