Dorothy Eden (21 page)

“Have a hot bath when I get to the hotel.”

“I mean after that.”

“I haven’t decided yet.” She was going to see if there were any messages for her, any follow-up to the mysterious telephone call last night. She felt a strange certainty that there would be. But she no longer wanted to confide in Johnnie. It was extraordinary that Mrs. Dix should have employed him for a task needing diplomacy and finesse—unless she had deliberately chosen a bungler. …

“Well, I’m throwing in my hand and going back to England. I’ve had this sort of thing. Needle in a haystack. If there is a needle at all. You’d better come with me.”

“I don’t think so.”

She had to decide whether she would begin looking for that elusive needle in Somerset, as the voice on the telephone yesterday had told her to. But first there was the possibility of something having happened during her enforced night away. Her incurable optimism was showing itself again. She was not going to be defeated.

“I’ll drop you at the hotel and go around to the airways office,” Johnnie said. “You’d better let me get a ticket for you.”

“No, don’t do that yet. I haven’t made up my mind.”

“Then make it up in that hot bath. I’ll call you in an hour or so.”

“That’s very kind of you, Johnnie, but our excursions seem to be ill-fated. I think this is where we part.”

“Honestly, Kate, I don’t think you should stay here alone. You’re too attractive, for one thing.”

Kate laughed, avoiding his slightly bleary but anxious and sincere look.

“Johnnie, darling, if I fly with you we’ll come limping into London Airport on one engine.”

He scowled, not amused. “That’s ridiculous nonsense. I’ll still ring you later and see if you’ve changed your mind.”

The clerk behind the desk at the Hôtel Romano gave her his welcoming smile, his dark eyes suggesting, with approval, that she was making the most of her time by staying out all night.

“You are enjoying Rome, signorina? You have had a wish at the Trevi fountain?”

“No, not yet.”

“But you must throw a coin in the fountain, signorina.”

And what would she wish for, Kate reflected. Francesca’s safety, of course. Suddenly she felt helpless and frightened at the task ahead of her. With only Johnnie, stupid and drink-fuddled, to lean on.

“Tell me,” she said casually, “are people often drowned in the Tiber?”

The young man, with his smooth, smiling face, looked startled.

“Sometimes, signorina. Regrettably. Too much
vino,
perhaps, or a wish not to live.” He shrugged, abruptly changing from smiling welcome to melancholy.

“Has there been an Englishman drowned recently?”

“You mean yesterday, last week? No, not since the mystery of several weeks ago.”

“Several weeks?”

“While the weather was still hot. It was said he had perhaps gone swimming in the moonlight, after a party, you know. It was all very suspicious, but the police could find out nothing more. He was dead, after all. Whatever the reason, he could not be brought back to life.”

“What was his name?” Kate asked tensely. “Do you remember?”

“I do, because it was one of your strange English names.” The young man gave his charming smile and enunciated carefully, “Gerald Dalrymple.”

He looked at Kate anxiously and said, “That means nothing to you? He was not your friend?”

Kate was enormously relieved. “No, he was not my friend. That is the only drowning of an Englishman?”

“That is the only one I know of, signorina.” The young man added with his impeccable manners, “I am sorry.”

Kate picked up her room key. “Have there been any messages for me?”

“No. Nothing at all.”

Now she didn’t know what to think, but excitement was rising in her because, after all, that telephone call last night must have been from Lucian. He must be alive, thank heaven, and that also meant it must be true that Francesca was safely in Somerset. Now what should she do?

Nothing, she told herself, until she had had a long luxurious bath, and some food. After that she would be human again, and inspiration would come to her.

The inspiration did come to her while she was in her bath. She leapt out and only half-dry went to the telephone and asked for William’s number in London. It was Saturday morning and he would not be at the office. She waited with an eagerness that caused her faint surprise, for the sound of his voice.

But when the call came through it was a woman’s voice, vaguely familiar, that answered.

“Mr. Howard isn’t here, I’m sorry.”

“You mean he isn’t in London?”

“No.” The voice was cagey, and had that vague familiarity.

“Who is that speaking?” Kate demanded.

“Oh, Kate! That’s Kate!” The far-off voice was raised in pleasure. “This is Miss Squires here. I’m staying in William’s flat. But hasn’t he told you?”

“How could he?” Kate returned, with some asperity. “I’m in Rome.”

“But so is he, dear. He left by the early morning flight.”

“Oh, the clot! Why can’t he keep his nose out of my business? Then he should be here any time?”

“I believe they were held up by fog, but he should be on his way by now. I told him to go to the Hôtel Romano. Is that right?”

“So you’re in this plot, too,” Kate said disgustedly. “Well, I haven’t time to talk about it now, but since William isn’t there you’ll have to do something for me. It’s very urgent, and it may be a little difficult.” She suddenly remembered Miss Squires sitting hunched and fearful in her cottage hugging her cat, and added doubtfully, “Will you try?”

“Of course,” came the answer steadily. “I’m staying in William’s flat. His housekeeper will look after Tom. What is it you want me to do?”

“There’s a village somewhere near Taunton. I don’t know its name, but I’m guessing it will be quite a small place. I think Francesca is there. She will be staying with a family called either Cray or Dalrymple. That’s all I can tell you, except that they have two children called Tony and Caroline. If you can possibly find this family, will you tell them they must ask for police protection immediately. It’s terribly important. I think they’ll know what you’re getting at.”

Miss Squires’ voice was not quite so steady now. “Are you sure Francesca isn’t in Rome, then?”

“Not entirely. I want to stay a little longer to be sure. But this other thing is urgent. Do you think you can manage it?”

“I can have a jolly good try,” Miss Squires’ voice came back, with determined courage. “I know there’s a lot more in this than I knew at first. But William will tell you. Goodbye, dear, and I’ll ring you the moment I’ve got anything to report.”

“Good girl,” said Kate affectionately. “This all may be a hoax, so do be careful. Bless you.”

So William was arriving at any moment. After a little while Kate’s annoyance left her and she began to feel rather happy about it. Now she needn’t feel even the faintest regret that Johnnie was deserting her. William was a much stronger leaning post. And a familiar one. If his car broke down, he would know how to fix it, at least. And also he possessed the incalculable asset of speaking Italian. He could do a little inquiring into the drowning of the mysterious Englishman, Gerald Dalrymple, which, Kate was now convinced, had been the beginning of the whole mysterious affair.

Now she was too excited to sit calmly waiting for William’s arrival. On an impulse she scribbled a note:

“Do I have no life of my own? Can’t you leave me alone and attend to the roads of England, which are in much more immediate trouble than I am. I’m just dashing out to have another shot at getting Gianetta to talk. If you come while I am away don’t move from this room!”

This she stuck in an envelope, addressed it to Mr. William Howard, and propped it on the dressing-table. She would ask the desk clerk to give William her key. He would not quibble at that. He would smile approvingly, and ask her again if she were enjoying Rome, and had she thrown a coin in the Trevi fountain. And there would be no shadow of drowned men or little girls in deadly danger in his bright, friendly eyes.

Just before she left, the telephone rang again. She snatched it up eagerly, hoping that it would be Lucian Cray, with a better connection this time so that she could hear what he said.

But it was Johnnie. She felt rather flat. Poor Johnnie. And he meant so well.

“Hi, Kate. Changed your mind about coming with me?”

“No. William’s arriving.”

“Who’s William?” His voice sounded suddenly peevish and suspicious.

“Oh, just an old friend of mine. He has rather a thing about keeping an eye on me.” She knew she was being smug, but the memory of Johnnie’s bleary-eyed ineffectiveness rankled.

Johnnie gave a sudden snort of laughter. “So you look for the lost brat and your boy-friend looks for you, and who looks for him? This is becoming a farce.”

“Yes, isn’t it,” said Kate pleasantly. “William knows about cars, too. So you can leave me quite safely.”

There was a short silence. “Suppose I deserved that.” His voice was lugubrious, and Kate was suddenly ashamed of herself. “But I still think you should come with me. I’ll take a wager you don’t get any further ahead than I did with your search, William or no William. Or have you had any more mysterious phone calls?”

“No.”

“Too bad. You’re quite sure you didn’t hear the name of that place in Somerset?”

“No, I didn’t. I wish I had.”

“H-m-m. Well, I’ve got a booking on the afternoon flight. I rather think I’ll take it, you know.”

“Don’t wait for me,” said Kate coolly. “Good luck, Johnnie, and goodbye.”

“I think you’re being rather reckless, my dear.”

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll fall in the Tiber, too?”

Johnnie gave his loud, hearty laugh. “Not at all. You’re a clever girl. You’re too good at taking care of yourself.”

Taxis to the street off the via Appia were becoming a luxury. Kate ambitiously took a tram, edging her way into its crowded interior, and clinging hard to a strap as it rocked and clattered down the busy streets. She was alternately flung against garlic-redolent working men who ogled her, and old women in their inevitable black, gnawing at hunks of bread and staring at her with slightly resentful eyes. She wanted badly to sketch their brown, withered faces, their hooded eyes that had tantalized Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci centuries ago. The sun shone; the chestnuts and acacias reluctantly relinquished their foliage, deliberate leaf by leaf; the tram rattled on, and the city was vibrant with noise and movement.

But the narrow, shabby house in the little street was completely silent. No one came in response to Kate’s knock. She waited a little, imagining that Gianetta’s dark eyes, like those of a timid captive animal, were peering secretly at her through the window. If they were, Gianetta obviously was not going to open the door.

Kate stepped back, feeling baffled and frustrated, and also conscious of growing apprehension. Those silent, dark rooms of the house could be hiding anything, anything…

She noticed that two or three women in the street had gathered to watch her. She walked towards them, asking optimistically,
“Parla Inglese?”

Their heads shook regretfully. Then one of them raised her voice and with the shrill Italian intonation called, “Maddale-ee-na!”

A door opened and a young girl of about sixteen came out. The woman who was apparently her mother pointed at her and explained, “She speak
Inglese
, signorina.”

The girl gave a shy smile, and Kate said, “I came out here to see Gianetta, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone home. Do you know where she is?”

“She has gone to England. Last night late she left.”

“To England!” But that couldn’t be true. Not shabby little Gianetta, who had obviously never ventured more than a few miles from her home in all her life.

“
Si,
signorina. To see her daughter who is sick. She had to go quite quickly. And this morning the man came to do the floor but he couldn’t get in.”

“Did he get in?” Kate asked tensely.

“Through the window.” The girl giggled. “Some boards were quite decayed, he said. There is a lot of work to do. Poor Gianetta. She has many troubles.”

“Did you know she had a daughter in England?” Kate asked.

“Oh, yes. Francesca. We have always known Francesca.” The girl shrugged. “But she has a wealthy grandmother in England—I think Gianetta once worked in her house—and she makes many visits.”

“You speak English very well,” Kate said automatically.

“Oh, yes. I go to classes.”

The circle of watching women, with their avid, baffled eyes, was disturbing, like being watched by a jury of crows who would pronounce some unintelligible verdict. Kate could not take in the information that Francesca was Gianetta’s child. No wonder she had looked so aged, so frightened, now that something had gone seriously wrong with those mysterious journeys to England. No wonder she had been so scared and secretive yesterday. How did she know who she could trust?

“The man who came to do the floor,” she asked. “What did he look like?”

The girl paused a moment. She said something in rapid Italian to the other women, and they began to nod, their eyes sparkling with amusement.

“We all say,” she told Kate, “that he must have come a long way to get to Rome. Or else his mother had.” She giggled again, enjoying her cleverness. “We thought he was Chinese.”

Kate did not enjoy her journey back by tram In spite of its rattling bustle, it was much, much too slow. She could not get back quickly enough to see if William had arrived and to tell him of this latest development. For she was so afraid, so dreadfully afraid, that Gianetta had not gone to England, that on the contrary she had not gone far at all. But also that it was unlikely she would ever come back…

The clerk greeted her with his unfailing smile, and an air of delight. “Your friend has arrived, signorina.”

“Oh, thank heaven! Is he waiting?”

“I gave him your room key as you advised.”

“Thank you. I must see him quickly.”

She ran up the stairs, not waiting for the lift, and burst into her room. “William, you crazy—” she began, but stopped as the man rose from the chair at the window.