The Angry Mountain by Hammond Innes Page A

yes?” He stroked his hands as though smoothing down the coarse black hair that covered the backs of them.
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    The lobby led into a heavily furnished lounge where my feet seemed to sink to the ankles in the thick pile of the carpets. Dark tapestries draped the walls and the furniture was ornate and carved. Then he pushed open a door and we went through into a softly-lit room full of very modern furnishings. The contrast was staggering. A fat pekinese got up from a silk-covered pouff and waddled towards me. It sniffed disdainfully at my trousers and returned to its couch. “My wife like those dogs very much,” Sismondi said. “You like dogs, signore?”
    I was thinking how very like the dog he was himself. “Er—yes,” I said. “I’m very fond—” And then I stopped. Reclining on the piled-up cushions of a big couch was a girl. Her figure merged into the green of the silk cushionings. Only her face showed in that soft lighting—a pale, madonna oval below the sweep of her jet black hair. The eyes caught the light and shone green like a cat’s eyes. The lips were a vivid gash in the pallor of her skin. I thought I knew then why Sismondi had given me such a glassy smile of welcome.
    He bustled forward. “Signor Farrell. The Contessa Valle.”
    I bowed. The girl didn’t move, but I could see her eyesexamining me. I felt the way a horse must feel when it is being appraised by an expert. Sismondi gave an uncertain little cough. “What can I give you to drink, Signor Farrell? A whisky, yes?”
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    He went over to an elaborate modern cocktail cabinet that stood open in the corner. The girl’s silence and immobility was disturbing. I followed him, very conscious of the drag of my leg.
    â€œI am sorry my wife is not ‘ere to welcome you, signore,” he said as he poured the drink.
    â€œShe have—how do you call it?—the influenza, eh?” He shrugged his shoulders. “It is the weather, you know. It has been very cold here in Milano. You like seltz?”
    â€œNo, I’ll have it neat, thank you,” I said.
    He handed me a heavy, cut-glass goblet half-full of whisky, “Zina? You like another benedictine?”
    â€œPlease.” Her voice was low and slumbrous and the way she said it the word became a purr. I went over and got her glass. The tips of her fingers touched mine as she handed it to me. The green eyes stared at me unblinking. She didn’t say anything, but I felt my pulse beat quicken. She was dressed in an evening gown of green silk, cut very low and drawn in at the waist by a silver girdle. She wore no jewellery at all. She was like something by one of the early Italian painters—a woman straight out of the medieval past of Italy.
    When I took the drink back to her she slipped her legs off the couch. It was one single movement, without effort. Her body seemed to flow from one position to the next. “Sit down here,” she said, patting the cushions beside her. “Now tell me how you lose your leg?”
    â€œI crashed,” I said.
    â€œYou are a flier then?”
    I nodded.
    She smiled and there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. “You do not like to talk about it, eh?” When I didn’tanswer, she said, “Perhaps you do not realise what an advantage it gives you?”
    â€œHow do you mean?” I asked.
    She gave a slight, impatient shrug of the shoulders. “I think you are perhaps quite an ordinary man. But because of that leg you become intriguing.” She raised her glass. “
Alia sua salute!
”
    â€œ
Alia sua, signora!
” I replied.
    Her eyes were watching me as her lips opened to the rim of her glass. “Where are you staying in Milano?”
    â€œAt the Excelsior,” I answered.
    She made a small face. “You must find some friends,” she said. “It is not good at a