The Angry Mountain (23 page)

Her fear seemed to paralyse the others. They stood rooted to the spot, staring at her. I could see her breasts heaving at the thin silk of her dress, smell the sweat of her fear through the strong scent of her perfume. Her eyes were bulging as she tugged frantically at my hand. She swung round on Roberto who was standing quite still, staring at us, his face sullen and passionate. “Don't stand there,” she screamed at him. “The car, you fool! The car!”

Sansevino moved then. He moved very quickly. “Control yourself,” he hissed at her in Italian. Then he was at the door. “There is no hurry. We can make an orderly evacuation. Maxwell, will you take Miss Tu
č
ek to your car. Hacket, you go with them, too.”

But Zina's terror was too great to stomach any delay. She dragged at my hand, screaming at Roberto to get her car. And I went with her for my one desire was to get out of the villa where I could talk to Maxwell alone. Roberto was moving towards the door now. The three of us were converging on the door and Sansevino stood there with his hand on the handle, his eyes narrowed to two angry slits that seemed to bore into me as though he were saying—“
You will have no anœsthetic. First the knife, then the saw
.…” I felt the blood hammering in my ears. And I knew suddenly that this was the moment that all that night had been leading up to.

Sansevino shut the door in our faces. “Pull yourself together, Zina.” He took her by the shoulders and shook her. Then he whispered something to her. I heard the word
morfina.
She seemed suddenly to relax and I felt her fingers slide out of my hand. His eyes were staring into her face, willing her to be calm, hypnotising her into a state of relaxation. “Now,” he said, “go and get the car, Roberto. You
can go with him, Zina.” He had the door open and I was about to follow Zina when he stopped me. “You will come with me, Farrell.”

All my fear of the man returned as I stood there staring into his eyes.

“No,” I said, and I could hear the tremor in my voice. “No, I'll go with Zina. I think she needs—”

“I am the best judge of what she needs,” he snapped. “Kindly stay here.”

But Zina had turned and caught hold of my hand. “Come quickly, Dick,” she said.

Sansevino caught hold of her hand and with a twist forced her fingers to release their hold on me. “Go to the car, Zina,” he ordered. “Farrell comes with me.”

“No, no,” she cried. “I know what you are going to do. But I will not—”

“Shut up!”

“Then let him come with me. You want him to stay with you so that—”

“Shut up—do you hear?”

“I will not go without him. I will not let you—”

He caught hold of her and pushed her roughly back into the room. “Very well, then. Stay here until our guests have gone. Hacket. Will you please go now. And you, Maxwell. I am afraid the Contessa is not herself.”

I saw her face set hard. “You cannot do this thing. Do you understand? I will not be responsible—”

“You are not responsible for anything. You can stay here with him, since that's the way you want it.”

Her eyes widened in sudden fear at his tone. “I know what you are going to do,” she screamed at him. “You will
let
us all be buried alive up here. You can do that to the two you have at Santo Francisco. I do not care about them. But you cannot do that to—”

“Shut up—damn you!”

Zina stamped her foot. Her mood had slid from fear to
anger. “I tell you you cannot do this to me. I do not wish to die. I will tell these—”

Sansevino hit her then, hit her across the mouth with the back of his hand. “Shut up, will you,” he hissed. His ring left a streak of blood across the pallor of her right cheek.

There was a sudden, stunned silence. I felt my fist clench. A desire to smash his face to pulp, to hammer him to bloody pulp welled up inside me.

But before I could move Roberto had hit him. He hit him with all the force of pent-up passion. His face was bestial with the desire to kill. It wasn't human. It was something primitive and violent. I heard the crack of bone breaking as Roberto's fist smashed into the centre of the man's face. The force of the blow flung Sansevino across the room. He stumbled against Hacket and fell sprawling on the floor.

For a moment he lay there, staring across at Roberto. The young Italian was breathing heavily and licking his bloody knuckles. Then he began to move in on Sansevino. He came forward deliberately and with relish, his face coarsened by some urge that was akin to lust. Sansevino saw him coming and reached into his jacket pocket. His hand came away with a glint of metal. There was a spurt of flame, an earsplitting crash and Roberto checked as though he'd been stopped by a blow in the stomach. His mouth fell open and a look of surprise crossed his face. Then with a little choking cough his knees folded under him and he crumpled up on the floor, his eyes open and staring.

Zina started forward, but I caught her by the arm. Sansevino was on his feet again now and the muzzle of the gun was pointed at her, a thin twist of smoke coming from the end of it. His eyes had a murderous look. “
Mascalzone! Sporco schifoso mascalzone!
” Zina poured her hate of him out in a spate of Italian. And then suddenly she was crying. “Why did you have to do that? It wasn't necessary. There was no need. I would have stopped him from hurting you. Why did you do it?”

It was at this moment that Hacket intervened. He cleared his throat as though about to address a meeting. “This is a very terrible thing you have done, Mr. Shirer. I don't know how you stand in Italian law, but in America at best you'd be guilty of third degree murder. Better hand over that weapon before anything else happens.” I saw Sansevino trying to collect his wits as Hacket came towards him. Then suddenly he had him covered. “Stand back!” he ordered.

“Come, Mr. Shirer. Be sensible. You're a fellow countryman of mine and I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you.” Hacket walked straight up to him. There was something impressive about his complete fearlessness. For a moment he dominated the room with his quiet, almost suburban matter-of-factness. Sansevino hesitated and in that moment Hacket had reached him and had taken the gun out of his hand. Sansevino stood there with a dazed look on his face, rubbing his twisted wrist. Hacket glanced at the weapon curiously and then with the calmness of a man who did this every day of his life, he pointed it at a corner of the room and emptied it by firing. The room shook with the sound of the gun. It seemed to go on and on. Then suddenly there was silence and all we could hear was the sound of gases escaping from high up on the flaring top of the mountain. Hacket tossed the empty gun into the corner and walked over to where Roberto lay, a smudge of blood staining his singlet. He knelt down and lifted the man's head. Then he got to his feet, wiping his hands. “I guess we'd better have a drink now,” he said. “Maybe it will help us to decide what ought to be done.” He went over to the table and began to pour drinks.

“Well, you certainly are a cool customer.” Maxwell's voice seemed part of the easing of tension.

Hacket took a large cognac over to Sansevino. “Better knock that back.” He was like a doctor handling a difficult patient and I suddenly felt as though I wanted to laugh. “A guy as hot-tempered as you shouldn't go around with a gun
in his pocket.” He got out a silk handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Guess this mountain has a lot to answer for.”

He turned back to the drink table and in the silence I became conscious of a dry sobbing sound. It was Zina. She was sitting crouched on the floor and she had Roberto's head in her lap and was crooning over it, stroking the damp hair with her fingers as she rocked back and forth with the tears streaming down her face.

“So. Roberto was your lover, eh?” Sansevino spoke in Italian and his voice was a mixture of contempt and anger. “Pity you didn't explain. I would have acted differently if I'd known.” He wiped the blood from his nose.

She looked across at him. “There was no need to kill him. I would not have let him hurt you.” Her voice was sad. And then suddenly she flung Roberto's head out of her lap as though she were throwing away a doll that had been broken. “I will make you pay for this,” she spat at him.

Hacket handed her a brandy. “Drink this. It'll do you good.”

“I do not want to be done good.”

“A drink always helps.”

“No.”

“Listen, lady. A drink will—”

She smashed the glass out of his hand. “I do not want your damn' drink.” She turned and pulled at Roberto's belt. Then she got to her feet in one smooth, lithe movement. She had a knife in her hand and she moved towards Sansevino. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. It was as though we were a group of spectators standing watching a scene from Grand Guignol.

Sansevino retreated towards the window as she advanced slowly and deliberately. She had forgotten her fear of the mountain. She had forgotten everything in her hatred of the man. And he was afraid. I saw it and the knowledge sang through my body like a lovely song. She was going to murder him. It was there in every slow languorous movement of her
limbs. She was going to kill him—not with one blow, but with slash after slash of the knife. And she was going to love every minute of it. “Remember how you gave me my first cigarette, here in this room?” Her voice was soft as a caress. “Remember? You said it would help me to forget my husband's beastliness. You said you had been a doctor and that you knew what was good for me. You made me drunk and then you gave me that cigarette. And after that there were more cigarettes. And then injections. You drugged me till I was your slave. Well, I am not your slave any more. I will kill you and then—” She was literally purring. She was like a tigress.

Sansevino had backed until he was brought up by the wall. He moved along it, his eyes wide with fear. Then he was in the corner and could retreat no farther. “Don't let her do it,” he screamed. And when nobody moved he started to bargain with her. “If you kill me you will get no more of the drugs. Listen, Zina—think what happiness it gives you. Think what it will be like when your nerves are screaming out for—”

“
Animale!
” She darted at him and then away again and I saw the knife was bloodied. His shoulder was ripped and the white of his jacket stained crimson. I was staring fascinated at a macabre ballet played in real life.

It was Maxwell who stopped it. He went behind her and twisted the knife out of her hand. She turned on him, her face distorted with rage and her fingers clawed at him. He flung her off. “Get hold of her, Hacket, and make her have that drink. I want to talk with this fellow.”

Hacket caught her by the arm. She struggled for a moment, and then suddenly she went slack. He half-carried her to the sofa. She was sobbing again, dry, racking sobs that seemed to fill the room. Through them I heard Maxwell say, “Now then—suppose you tell me first who you really are.”

“You know who I am.” Sansevino's eyes were wide, but I could see he was getting control of himself again.

“I know who you're not,” Maxwell snapped, “You're not Shirer.”

“Then who am I?” His eyes were looking past Maxwell, searching the room, trying to seek out some chance of escape.

I couldn't help it. I suddenly began to laugh. It seemed to well up inside me and burst from my lips uncontrollably. It was relief to nerves stretched too taut—it was rage and bitterness and mental exhaustion all wound up tight and uncoiling in this horrible sound. I seemed to be standing outside myself, listening to that wretched laughter, wanting to strike myself, do something to stop it. But I couldn't and gradually it subsided of its own accord and I was suddenly silent and very weak. They were all staring at me.

Maxwell came over to me. “Why did you laugh like that?” he asked.

“His name is Sansevino. Ii dottore Giovanni Sansevino. He's the man who did the operations on my leg in the Villa d'Este.”

Hacket left Zina on the couch. “I just don't understand,” he said. “This place belongs to a man named Shirer. I know, because I asked in the village. If this guy isn't—”

“Keep quiet, can't you,” Maxwell cut him short. “Now, Dick. If this is your Doctor Sansevino, what happened to Shirer?”

“I found him the morning after the escape slumped over Sansevino's desk, dressed in his uniform with no moustache and wearing dark glasses. I thought it—” My voice trailed away. I had an almost uncontrollable desire to start laughing again. It was the thought that I'd been looking at Walter Shirer that morning.

“Then it was Sansevino who escaped with Reece that night?”

I nodded.

“And when you met this man in Milan you recognised him?” It was Hilda who put the question to me.

“No,” I said. “I didn't recognise him. I just kept on
seeing him as the doctor, that was all. They were very much alike, except for the moustache and the glasses.”

“And that is why you left Milan?”

I nodded. My eyes seemed held by hers, for I sensed sympathy there and I clung to it. Anything to stop myself laughing. “I was scared,” I said. “I thought I was seeing things—going out of my mind.”

The room was suddenly lit by a brighter glow. We all glanced involuntarily towards Vesuvius. The whole top of the mountain flamed as great gobs of molten rock were hurled out of the crater and up into the column of black gas. And through the window, quite clearly in the still, oppressive heat of the night came the creak of wagons and the shouts of people urging cattle along the road to Avin.

“We must hurry, Max,” Hilda said. “I am so afraid he is somewhere up there.” She turned to Zina. “What was it you said about two men up at Santo Francisco?”

But Zina seemed to have fallen into a coma. She didn't answer. “I'll have to get it out of this little swine then,” Maxwell said. He turned to Sansevino. “Where is Tu
č
ek?” The man didn't answer and I saw Maxwell hit him. “You picked him up at Milan Airport. Tu
č
ek and Lemlin. You were after what he was bringing out of Czechoslavakia, the same as you were with the other poor devils. Well, where is he?” There was a scream of pain.