The Angry Mountain by Hammond Innes

they’d asked me to do was to let Sismondi think I’d got whatever it was he wanted and by that means to find out what he knew about Tu č ek’s disappearance. It doesn’t sound much. But then remember, this was Italy, a country where real life crosses the footlights to merge with melodrama. Last time I’d been in Milan I’d seen the mutilated bodies of Mussolini and his mistress strung up by the heels for the public to jeer at. A bloodthirsty mob had cut the woman’s heart out. And the farther south you get the cheaper life becomes. Moreover, it was very different from the war-time Italy. I’d been very conscious of that since I arrived. There was none of that sense of security induced by the constant sight of British and American uniforms.
    I had dinner early and went to the bar. I thought if I had a few drinks I shouldn’t feel so unhappy about the whole business. But somehow they seemed to have the reverse effect. By nine o’clock I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. I called a taxi and gave the driver Sismondi’s address, which was Corso Venezia 22.
    It was raining and a cold, damp smell hung over the streets. A tram was the only thing that moved in the whole of the Vittor Pisani. The atmosphere of the city was very different from the morning when I’d sat in the sun in the public gardens. I shivered. I could feel one of my fits ofdepression settling on me. The stump of my leg ached and I wished I could go back to the hotel, have a hot bath and tumble into bed. But there was no turning back now.
    In a few minutes the taxi had deposited me at Corso Venezia 22. It was a big, grey house, one of several that ran in a continuous line facing the Giardini Pubblici. There was a heavy, green-painted wooden door with a light showing through a fanlight. I watched the red tail light of the taxi disappear into the murk. The wind was from the north. It came straight off the frozen summits of the Alps and was bitterly cold. I climbed the half-dozen steps to the door. There were three bells and against the second was a small metal plate engraved with the name Sg. Riccardo Sismondi. Evidently the house was converted into flats. I rang the bell and almost immediately a man’s voice said, “
Chi é, per favore?
”
    The door had not opened. The voice seemed to come from somewhere up by the fanlight. I realised then that I was faced with one of those electrical contrivances so beloved by Italians. “Mr. Farrell,” I said. “I’ve come to see Signor Sismondi.”
    There was a pause and then the same voice said, “Come in, please, Signor Farrell. The second floor.” There was a click and a crack of light showed down one side of the door. I pushed it open and went in to find myself in a big entrance hall with a hothouse temperature. The heavy door swung-to behind me and locked itself automatically. There was something final and irrevocable about the determined, well-oiled click of that lock. Additional lights came on in the narrow Venetian chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Thick pile carpets covered the tiled floor. There was a big grandfather clock in one corner and on a heavily carved table stood a beautiful model of an Italian field-piece in silver.
    I climbed the stairs to the second floor. The air of the place was suffocatingly hot and faintly perfumed. The door of the flat was open and I was greeted by a leathery-facedlittle man with dark, rather protruding eyes and a glassy smile. He gave me a thick, podgy hand. “Sismondi. I am so glad you can come.” The smile was automatic, entirely artificial. His almost bald head gleamed like polished bone in the light from the priceless glass chandelier behind him. “Come in, please, signore.” There was no warmth in his tone. I got the impression that he was upset at my unexpected arrival.
    He shut the door and hovered round me as I removed my coat. “You like a drink,