The Angry Mountain (13 page)

He pulled up a chair and sat down, lighting one of my
cigarettes. “Now, listen to me, young fellow. There was no one in this room. I came in here as soon as you started screaming. The door was locked. The room was quite empty. You've had—”

“But I tell you Sansevino was here,” I shouted at him. “He was here, in this room. He was bending over me. I could hear his breathing. He went out by the windows. I know it was him. I know it, I tell you. I know it.” I suddenly stopped with my hand in mid-air. I had been beating at the bedclothes in my agitation.

“All right. He was here. But in your imagination. Not in reality. Listen. I was skipper of a LST at Iwo Jima. I know what war neurosis is like. And afterwards—you get relapses. You had a tough time. You lost a leg. All right, but don't let it prey on your mind. What's your name?”

“Farrell.” I lay back against the pillows, feeling utterly drained of energy. It was no good trying to explain to him. He just wouldn't believe me. Probably no one would believe me. I wasn't sure I believed myself. It all seemed so vague now as though it were part of that nightmare. There had been a mouse and an operating table and that lift descending slowly as Sansevino peered down at me. Perhaps I'd dreamed it all.

The American was talking again. He was asking me something. “I'm sorry,” I murmured. “What did you say?”

“I asked what you were during the war.”

“I was a flier.”

“Are you still flying?”

“No. This leg—”

“What are you doing in Milan then?”

“I represent a firm of machine tool manufacturers.”

“When did you last have a holiday?”

“A holiday? I don't know. I was looking around for a job for a long time and then I joined this firm. That was about fourteen months ago.”

“And you haven't had a holiday?”

“Not since I've been with them. I can take one when I like now. The managing director said so in his last letter. But I don't need a holiday. What happened just now has got nothing to do—”

“Just a minute. Answer me one more question first. Have you ever had a nervous breakdown?”

“No. I—don't think so.”

“Never been in hospital because you were upset mentally?”

“I had a couple of months in hospital before I left Italy. That was after the war ended and I was released from the Villa d'Este, the German hospital where they amputated my leg.”

He nodded. “I thought so. And now you're all wound up like a clock that's ready to burst its mainspring. If you don't take a holiday you're going to have a nervous breakdown.”

I stared at him angrily. “You're suggesting there's something wrong with my mind. That's what you're suggesting, isn't it? My mind's all right, I tell you. There's nothing wrong with it. You think I imagined all this to-night. But it happened just as I told you. He was here in this room. It wasn't a nightmare. It was real.”

“Reality and nightmare sometimes get confused, you know. Your mind—”

“There's nothing wrong with my mind,” I snapped.

He pushed his hand through the tousled mop of his white hair and sighed. “Do you remember me knocking on your door earlier to-night?”

I nodded.

“Would it surprise you to know that you had been talking to yourself for two solid hours?”

“But I was—” I lay back then, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over me. What was the good? How could I possibly explain to this stolid, practical American the mood of elation I'd been in? It would be as difficult to convince
him of that as it was to convince him that Shirer was Sansevino. Perhaps he was right anyway. Perhaps my mind was getting out of control. They say it's possible to believe anything, if you want to. Perhaps I'd wanted to believe that Shirer was Sansevino. No, that didn't make sense. Perhaps the shock of meeting Shirer suddenly like that had been too much for me.

“See here, Farrell.” The American was talking again. “I'm over here on a vacation. To-morrow I'm flying down to Naples. Why don't you come, too? Just wire your outfit that you're under doctors' orders to take a rest. No need to actually go and see a doctor. They'll never check up. You come down to Naples with me and take a week or so lying out in the sun. What do you say?”

Naples! The blue peace of the Bay came to my mind like a sunny picture postcard. We'd sailed out between Sorrento and the Isle of Capri. We'd been homeward bound then. Perhaps he was right. At least I'd be right away from it all then—from Shirer and Reece and that business of Jan Tu
č
ek's disappearance. Lying in the sun I could forget it all. And then I began to think of Hilda Tu
č
ek. Her freckled, determined little face was suddenly there in my mind, desperate and unhappy, accusing me of running away. But I couldn't help her. There was nothing I could really do to help her. “I'll think it over,” I said.

But he shook his head. “No. You make the decision now. Thinking it over is the worst possible thing. You decide now. Then you'll sleep.”

“All right,” I said. “I'll come.”

He nodded and got to his feet. “That's fine. I'll fix your passage for the same flight first thing in the morning. Now you just relax and go to sleep. I'll leave the balcony window open, and mine, too. If you want me, just call out.”

“It's very kind of you,” I muttered.

He glanced at his watch. “It's nearly four. It'll be light in an hour. Shall I leave the light on?”

I nodded. I'd be happier with the light on. I watched him go out through the windows. For an instant his pyjamas were a scarlet patch against the velvet darkness of the night outside. Then he was gone and I was alone. I felt exhausted and strangely relaxed. I think I was asleep almost before he'd reached his room.

I must have slept like a log because I don't remember anything until Hacket woke me. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I murmured.

“Good. I booked your passage on the plane. It leaves at eleven-thirty. It's now just after nine, so you'd better hustle. Shall I tell them to send some breakfast up?”

“Thank you.” It was slowly coming back to me, all that had happened during the night. It seemed vague and unreal with the sun streaming in through the windows. “I'm afraid I gave you a rather disturbed night,” I murmured.

“Forget it,” he said. “It was lucky I was in the next room. I know a bit about this sort of thing. You'll be all right when you've nothing to do but lie in the sun and watch the girls.”

When he had gone I lay back, trying to sort the whole thing out. Had Sansevino really been in this room or had I dreamed it? But whether it was a nightmare or not didn't seem to matter. It was real enough to me and I was glad I was going to Naples, glad the decision had been taken out of my hands. Hacket was so solid, so reasonable. I felt like a kid running away from something seen in the dark, but I didn't care. Lying there, waiting for my breakfast, I knew that I was scared. There had been a moment early on in the night when I'd been exultant with the thought of revenge. But that was gone now. The touch of those hands had swept all sense of mastery away as though I had been plunged back five years in time to the hospital bed in the Villa d'Este.

I was still going over in my mind the events of the night when my breakfast arrived. I had some toast and coffee and then dressed and packed my things. Then I went down to
the entrance-hall and cancelled my room. As I drew out the lire to pay my bill the photograph of Sansevino fell to the floor. I bent down to pick it up and a voice said, “Mr. Farrell.” It was Hilda Tu
č
ek. “I must speak to you, please.”

I straightened up. Facing her in the act of settling my bill I felt as though I had been caught doing something I shouldn't. “What is it?” I asked. She had someone with her; an Italian in a wide-brimmed American hat.

“This is Captain Caselli. He is investigating the disappearance of my father. Alec Reece thought you might be able to help him.”

“Why?” My tone was automatically defensive. I didn't want to get involved in this—not now,

“I do not understand you.” She was staring at me with a puzzled, frustrated look. “The other day you are willing to help and then—” She hesitated and I could see she didn't know what line to take. “What happened when you go to see this man, Sismondi?”

I couldn't face the look of helplessness in her eyes and my gaze fell. I saw then that I was holding the picture of Sansevino in my hand.

Caselli was talking now. He said, “We have spoken with Signor Sismondi. He said you behaved very strangely. The only persons present were the Contessa Valle and Signor Shirer, an American. Perhaps you can tell us why you behave so strangely, yes?”

An idea took hold of me. Caselli was a police officer. I knew that. If I could implicate Shirer, if I could start them making inquiries.… I thrust the photograph towards him, my thumb over the uniform. “Do you recognise that man?” I asked him. He peered forward. His breath smelt faintly of garlic. “He has no moustache now.”

“Yes. That is the American the signorina speak of. It is Shirer.”

“You think it's Shirer,” I said. “But it isn't. His name's Sansevino. You go and see this fellow you think is Walter
Shirer at the Nazionale. Go and talk to him. I think maybe—”

“Ah, here you are.” It was Hacket who had interrupted me. “I've just ordered a car so maybe we can go out to the airport together, eh?” He had halted, looking from me to Hilda Tu
č
ek and the police officer. “Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. And then to Caselli, “You can keep the photograph. It may help Shirer to remember what he did at the Villa d'Este.”

Caselli stared at the photograph and then at me.

“Wasn't Shirer the man who escape with Alec?” Hilda Tu
č
ek asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“And you are suggesting this Walter Shirer has something to do with my father's disappearance?”

“No. I mean—” I shrugged my shoulders. Probably he had nothing to do with it. But I wanted Caselli to investigate. That was all I wanted. “Reece thinks he escaped with his friend, Shirer,” I said. “But he didn't. He escaped with that man.” I pointed to the photograph. “He was an Italian doctor. He wanted to escape from being tried as a war criminal. Now he pretends he's Walter Shirer. But he isn't. He's Doctor Sansevino. Go and see him,” I told Caselli. “Check the details of his escape. You'll find—”

“I do not have to,” Caselli interrupted. His small eyes were looking at me hard. “I know Signor Shirer.”

I turned to Hilda Tu
č
ek. She was staring at me blankly. I felt suddenly as though they were all against me. It was no good telling them the truth. They didn't believe it. No one would believe it.

“Steady.” Hacket's hand gripped my arm. Then he turned to Caselli. “A word with you,” he said. He shepherded them across to the other side of the entrance hall. I could see him talking to them and they were staring at me. Then he was coming back to me and they were leaving the hotel. Hilda Tu
č
ek paused momentarily in the doorway, looking at
me with a strange uncertainty as though she were reluctant to leave. Then she was gone and Hacket was at my elbow.

“What did you tell them?” I asked angrily.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I just explained that you were a little upset this morning—that you weren't yourself. It's all right. They won't worry you now.” He grinned. “I said I was your doctor and had advised a holiday. Have you settled your hotel bill?”

I felt helpless as though I had no will of my own and was
drifting
on the tide of Hacket's good nature. I turned and looked at the bill the clerk was pushing towards me.

“I hope you are not in trouble, signore?” The clerk beamed at me as though he had said something funny.

“How do you mean?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Do you not know who that is? It is il capitano Caselli of the Carabinieri. A very clever man, Capitano Caselli—very clever indeed.”

I handed him four thousand lire notes. “You can keep the change,” I said and picked up my bag. “I'm ready now, Mr. Hacket,” I told the American. “Can we stop at a post office? I must send off a cable.” All I wanted now was to get out of Milan.

“Sure we can. We've plenty of time.”

We arrived at the airport at ten to eleven and the first person I saw as I went into the passenger hall was Reece. He was talking to a stout little man with a bald head and long sideboards. He didn't see me as we went through. We checked our bags and passports and then sat waiting for our flight. Shortly after eleven the flight from Prague was announced and I saw Reece go out to meet it. I wondered whether Maxwell was arriving. I didn't see why else Reece should be meeting the Prague plane. A few minutes later our own flight was called and we went down the ramp to the aircraft.

For the second time in the space of a few days I felt a sense of great relief as I found a seat and sank back into it, safe
inside the fuselage of an aircraft. The door was fastened and we began to taxi out to the runway. We had a smooth take-off and as the plane rose and Milan vanished below us in a haze of smoke, a great weight seemed to be lifted from my mind. Milan was behind me now. Ahead was Naples, and all I had to do was lie in the sun and relax, just as Hacket had said. Almost for the first time since I'd met Jan Tu
č
ek in his office at the Tu
č
ek steelworks I felt safe and free.

To land at Pomigliano Airport we made a wide sweep that carried us right over Naples. The Bay was a deep blue and Capri an emerald isle. White blocks of flats clawed their way up to the Vomero where the brown bulk of the Castel San Elmo looked out over the city. In the distance the grey ash heap of Vesuvius shone white in the sunlight, a little plume of smoke hanging like a trick cloud over the crater.