The Angry Mountain by Hammond Innes Page B

hotel. You will drink too much and sleep with the chambermaid and that will not be good for your work. You drink a lot. Am I right?” She smiled. “Is it to forget the leg?”
    â€œDo I look as dissipated as all that?” I asked.
    She put her head slightly on one side. “Not yet,” she said slowly. “At the moment it only makes you look intriguing. Later—” She shrugged her shoulders.
    Sismondi gave a little cough. I’d forgotten all about him. He came across the room, pushed the pouff with the peke on it out of the way and drew up a chair. “You come to tell me something, I think, Signor Farrell,” he suggested.
    â€œA little matter of business,” I said vaguely.
    â€œBecause of my telephone conversation this morning?”
    I nodded.
    â€œGood!” He cupped his hands round the big brandy glass and drank. “You like a cigar?”
    â€œThank you,” I said. He seemed in no hurry. He went over to the cocktail cabinet and returned with a box of cigars. I looked across at the girl. “Do you mind?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “I like it. I may even take a puff of yours.” Her voice was silky, an invitation to be stroked.
    Sismondi and I lit our cigars. After that the conversation became general. I think we talked of Russia and Communismand the future of the Italian colonies. But I’m not really certain. My impression is one of soft lights, the night scent of perfume penetrating through the aroma of cigars and the oval of the girl’s face against the green silk of the cushions. I had a feeling that we were waiting for something. Sismondi did not again refer to the matter that had brought me to his flat.
    I was half-way through my cigar when a buzzer sounded outside the room. Sismondi gave a grunt of satisfaction and scrambled to his feet, spilling cigar ash on to the carpet. As he left the room the girl said, “You look tired, signore.”
    â€œIt’s been a very busy trip,” I told her.
    She nodded. “You must take a holiday during your stay in Italy. Go down to the south where it is warm and you can lie in the sun. Do you know Amalfi?”
    â€œI was there during the war.”
    â€œIt is very beautiful, yes? So much more beautiful than the Riviera. To see the moon lie like a streak of silver across the warmth of the sea.” Her voice was like the murmur of the sea coming in over sand.
    â€œI’m due for a holiday,” I said. “As soon as I can—”
    But she wasn’t listening. She was looking past me towards the door. I half turned in my seat. There was the murmur of voices and then Sismondi came in rubbing his hands. He went over to the cocktail cabinet and poured a drink. A silence hung over the room. Then the door opened again and a man came in. I got to my feet and as I did so he stopped. I couldn’t see his face. It was in shadow and he was just a dark silhouette against the light of the open doorway. But I could feel his eyes fixed on me.
    Sismondi came hurrying forward. “Mistair Farrell. I wish to introduce you to a friend of mine who is very interested in the matter which brings you here. Signor Shirer.”
    I had moved forward to greet him, but I stopped then. Walter Shirer! It couldn’t be. It was too much of a coincidence just after I’d met Reece again. But the manhad the same short, rather round figure. “Are you—Walter Shirer?” My voice trembled slightly as I put the question.
    â€œAh! So you know each other already?”
    The figure in the doorway made no move. He didn’t say anything. I felt the sudden tension in the room. I began to sweat. “For God’s sake say something,” I said.
    â€œI have nothing to say to you.” He had turned on his heel.
    â€œDamn it, man!” I cried. “You don’t hold it against me now, surely? At the Villa d’Este you were so decent about—”
    But he had left