Ride a Pale Horse (17 page)

She made little of Aliotto’s non-appearance. “Nursing a cold,” she had told Hubert so as not to alarm the old boy or make him order her back to Washington. He would, too, if he tried to ’phone Aliotto and got a sweet run-around from an evasive “secretary.” She couldn’t leave for two reasons. First, she wanted this interview with two recanting terrorists. Second, there was her pride: no more fiascos. This time around, she’d accomplish what she had been sent to do—produce a sound article for the
Spectator.
She did tell Schleeman, though, about the mix-up with her room (no blame attached to anyone; everything kept light and amusing), and the new accommodation was a suite, no less; all that was available until Saturday, and the one which he usually occupied, according to the assistant manager. If the thought of a mounting expense account had fazed Schleeman, it was shown only by a slight pause. Then he had said, “Keep it. Better hang up now. These ’phone bills are monstrous. Call me Monday once the interview’s over.” She hadn’t been able to give him a message for Peter Bristow. All the way back to the hotel from the Capuchin Church, she had tried sentence after sentence, and found none that was both informative and discreet—an impossible combination when you wanted to say, “He’s here in Rome. Vasek himself. Help!”

Now, with the sun’s rays strengthening, she rose and partly closed the shutters, turned up the air conditioner, ordered breakfast for eleven. By then, she would have bathed and dressed and forgotten the last snatches of her nightmare. It was fading fast, thank heaven. Not four subterranean chapels but forty... Her feet dragging over the smooth sanded floor, Vasek limping heavily by her side... “Could we rest?” she had turned to ask, and saw Vasek’s face as a grinning skull, his body a white skeleton draped in his long black gown that was tattered, thinned, and dust-covered with age. She was running, the friar trying to stop her with a smile—Aliotto’s smile, Aliotto’s cleanshaven face, Aliotto’s carefully waved hair. She was mounting the steps. Somewhere, a woman singing a Portuguese fado. Somewhere, young Italian voices rising in laughter...

At least it had ended in laughter and not in screams. She switched the air conditioner to a less chilly blast—it was too strong a reminder of that subterranean air. In the warmth of the shower, she thought of the message she should have sent to Peter Bristow:
Having wonderful time. Wish you were here.
And she began to laugh.

She was ready to leave her room by ten past one. Lunch where? she wondered. Damn you, Aliotto: you should be giving me luncheon and talking my ear off.

The ’phone rang. Aliotto, she thought, and forgave his neglect. She picked up the receiver. But it wasn’t Aliotto’s voice. “Peter? Peter Bristow! You?”

“In one piece. Are you free for lunch? If not, cancel him and come with me.”

“Peter!” she said unbelievingly. “And what on earth are you doing here?”

“I’m on holiday—two weeks doing nothing but enjoying myself.”

“But where—”

“I’m at the Imperial, just checked in. Give me time to get the travel grime washed off. I’ll meet you in the lobby at one forty. Okay with you?”

“Yes. Yes. Oh, Peter—I’m so glad you are here.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” The call ended.

Missed me, too? That was only for the benefit of any listener in the lobby—judging by the background noise he had probably been calling from there. Checking on me even before he reached his room? Worried about me? Two weeks ago, she would have been indignant that she couldn’t manage by herself, thank you. Now, she was admitting, as she quickly changed her dress and brushed her hair, she was happy that someone did worry about her. And in particular, she admitted further as she found her bottle of perfume, Peter Bristow.

He was ahead of time and nervous. There was no sign of that, outwardly at least, or that he had arrived little more than half an hour ago from an all-night flight and a journey by car. A shower, a shave, a change of clothes, and he was ready to face Rome. And Karen. She stepped out of the elevator, saw him, and came forward with a smile that dazzled him. My God, she really is glad to see me, he thought, and met her with outstretched hands. He grasped hers firmly. His nervousness vanished.

She said in a murmur, “Do I look affectionate enough?” She reached up and kissed his cheek as he hugged her. “After all, I have to give everyone a reason why you called me as soon as you arrived.”

He released her. She had put everything on a neat business-like footing. “You’re quick,” he told her. “Thank you for making things easy.” He took her arm, guiding her towards the restaurant. “I thought we’d lunch here—there are some empty tables.” And not crowded together either. They could talk safely. “Tonight, we can have dinner out.”

“My constant companion?”

“Almost right. You forgot to add ‘willing.’”

She dropped all pretences. “Peter—I really am so glad to see you. Yesterday, I thought of a dozen messages I might give Schleeman to pass on to you, but they were no good.”

He was suddenly serious. “A lot to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll find a very quiet table.”

He did. And once their drinks arrived—white wine for Karen, a Scotch highball for him—he suggested to the captain that the menu could wait meanwhile, and they were left in peace. “To you,” he said and raised his glass.

She raised her glass to him. “Thank you for being here.”

As bad as that? “Tell me.”

“The important thing first.” She lowered her voice. “Vasek.”

Bristow sat quite still. “Go on.”

“He’s in Rome. Was in Rome yesterday, that is.”

“Go on,” Bristow repeated, and listened intently as she described the strange encounter in Via Veneto and the meeting that followed. She kept it brief and clear, concentrating on what Vasek had said. His appearance and manner were also described, as well as his little stratagem to let her accompany him into the subterranean chapels. The people around them, her own reactions, weren’t mentioned.

But Bristow could fill in those details for himself. He had once taken a tour of the chapels. “Bastard,” he said under his breath; but a clever one. “I need another drink. So do you.” He signed to the captain. “We’ll order now. And have some real food,” he told Karen with a smile. “You didn’t eat much yesterday, did you?”

“No,” she admitted. Half an omelette, small to begin with; and for supper, a third of a chicken sandwich. She chose medallions of veal; he ordered a steak from the grill. With a bottle of Soave Bolla, it was a very pleasant meal. The talk, which he kept far away from problems, was very pleasant, too. It ended. And once the waiters had removed themselves with the plates and the last crumbs brushed off the tablecloth, they could linger in peace over small cups of filtered coffee. Bristow said, “So that was the important thing first. What comes second?”

“Aliotto.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a lot of small details—just incidents.” She looked at him, hesitating.

“I’m listening, Karen,” he said with an encouraging smile. He stretched out a hand and covered hers as it lay beside her coffee cup. “Come on,” he urged gently. “And remember I’m the guy who likes every detail.”

“Even the possibly stupid ones?”

“Even those.”

“And you won’t laugh at me?”

“Laugh with you. Never at you.”

I believe that, she thought as she looked into his eyes. She relaxed, and he could withdraw his hand. She began talking: the airport, the room, the telephone calls, no direct contact with Aliotto until tomorrow evening. “And,” she finished, “the meeting with the terrorists is scheduled for the next morning—Monday. Perhaps it has been cancelled. Or has Schleeman been misled again?”

He pieced together the information he now had about Aliotto, a man popular in varied circles; friendly with Vasek, enough to have Vasek ’phone him last Tuesday; since then, certainly since Karen’s arrival, an enigma. A change in Aliotto? Natural or compelled? He was vulnerable, Vasek had said. Bristow ended his brief silence. “I know someone who probably has a friend at police headquarters. I’ll find out through him if the meeting is still scheduled.”

“Time and place. And do the authorities expect me? I need to know all these things.”

“We’ll find out.” I’ll get in touch with Levinson as soon as possible—he was the type who believed in co-operation, whenever feasible, with the police top brass in whatever friendly country he was stationed. “Do you intend to be at the Monday meeting even if Aliotto is not available?”

“Yes. That’s why I came to Rome.”

“Dutiful, aren’t you?”

She raised her eyebrows.
“You
are telling me about duty?”

When he signed name and room number on the bill, he was imagining Menlo’s sour amusement; expense account and Levinson were two suggestions that originally had roused little enthusiasm in Bristow. Now he was finding them both necessary and all within his first two hours in Rome. Yes, Menlo would have more than smiled. That craggy face would have split into a wide laugh.

As they were bowed out of the restaurant, he said, “Why don’t you show me the room with so much privacy—its location, at least?”

Her confidence was restored enough to let her say lightly, “Why not? But I am beginning to feel just a little ridiculous.” Somehow the room, after a good luncheon and company to match, began to seem unimportant.

It was on the second floor, down the long corridor she had described. He noticed the doorway at its far end and checked to see that it did open onto a service stairway. As they returned past the room, he halted abruptly as he saw its door lay slightly ajar. His eyes travelled to the lock. Something was wrong there. It had lost its grip. Before he could examine it more closely, a maid appeared from the pantry area and came hurrying to intercept them.

“Signorina,”
the maid said as her sharp dark eyes recognised Karen. Relief showed in her face, and then a touch of anxiety. “You left something behind in your room? But I saw that everything was moved safely. Nothing remained.”

“Everything was perfect,” Karen told her.

“We just wanted to thank you with this,” Bristow said and slipped sixteen hundred lire—the rough equivalent of a dollar—into a willing hand. “What happened here?” He pointed to the lock. “Did someone forget his key?”

The maid’s eyes became guarded. “It will be repaired on Monday,” she said stiffly.

“I think someone lost his temper,” Bristow went on jokingly. “Or a thief perhaps?”

“Oh, no. No,
signore.
Nothing was taken. I assure you. Ricardo and I—we saw them. And they ran.” She gestured to the service stairs.

“Both of them? Or were there more?”

“Oh, no,
signore.
Just two. Dressed as kitchen help—we thought that is what they were, at first. But of course they were not employed here.”

And either didn’t have access to any keys or tried one that didn’t work. Bristow said, “Of course not. Too bad they ruined the lock. It looks new.”

“It was. Now it will have to be changed again.” She shook her head. “People nowadays—”

“That’s right,” Bristow said with a parting smile. And to Karen, as they walked along the quiet hall, “Are you feeling just a little less ridiculous?”

The maid hurried after them.
“Signorina,”
she called, “I forgot to add water to the flowers. Have you remembered?”

“No. Thank you for telling me.”

“Mi dispiace molto,”
the maid apologised. “They were so beautiful.”

“I’ll do it right away,” Karen assured her.

Bristow took her arm and pulled her towards the elevator. “I know she’s lonely and likes to talk with the pretty
signorina,
but what flowers?”

“Someone sent them to me. I don’t know who. The card must have dropped out.”

He looked at her, shook his head. “I’ll see you to your room. Which floor?”

“The fourth.”

“Good. We’ll be almost neighbours.” Thanks to Levinson, no doubt.

The elevator was empty. She said slowly, “Those two men—kidnappers?”

“Probably they were after your typewriter or watch.” But, he thought, they wanted much more than some easily sellable items.

“I wonder,” said Karen.

They reached her suite. “Cosy,” said Bristow. The sitting-room was agreeable and elegantly furnished. The bedroom, larger, was enticing. “You’ll be comfortable.”

“Poor flowers,” Karen said, looking at the basket with its profusion of drooping heads. “I’ll get some water. Oh, Peter, would you order up some drinking water for me? And white wine? And Scotch for you? Not for use now,” she added. “Perhaps later? Some time?”

“Might as well make use of the refrigerator,” he agreed, opening its wood-panelled door. “A lot of little bottles inside,” he reported and shook his head at the array of sweet liqueurs.

He investigated the television set, also disguised as a piece of furniture, and at last came over to the table on which the basket of flowers had been set, watching Karen as she parted the drooping stems to let a tumbler of water pour onto their roots. He caught her hand, put a finger to his lips, and pointed.

She looked more closely, then stared at him in horror. He studied the miniature device that nestled so unobtrusively under chrysanthemum leaves, but he didn’t touch it. It might transmit, reach some place not far distant from this room. Or it could record and have its microtape collected daily. In either case, best leave it undisturbed and its discovery concealed. We’ll get rid of it, but not too quickly. He said, “I don’t think you’ll have much luck with these flowers—they look dead or dying. Too bad.”

“Perhaps some aspirin in the water?” She hoped she sounded natural. She set down the tumbler as her hand trembled.

“Could always try it. But I think it’s useless.” He was over at the ’phone now, calling room service with an order for drinks as he gestured to Karen to leave for the bedroom. He joined her there, closed the connecting door, switched on the radio, turned on the television near her dressing-table.

She was sitting on the bed, looking suddenly woebegone and helpless. “The ’phones?” she asked. “Are they all right?”

“Everything is all right except that damned basket. Don’t blame the hotel. Someone is playing games with it and with us.”