bigger job than he has.”
“That,” Tony Brewster said, and his voice seemed brisker, “may be the explanation of Salvatore which I’ve been seeking for years.” He opened both eyes and looked at Lammiter almost approvingly. “You see—” he said, now raising his chin, too, “I am not so drunk as you all thought me. I may need sleep, but I’ll get that in its proper time.” He eased his bandaged leg. “Dammit, perhaps I’ll have to go to some bloody hospital after all. Rosana, get me another bottle of wine and two more glasses. Quick, we may have even less time than you think.”
As she obeyed, he went on talking. Brewster was not yet drunk. But just as certainly, he was not exactly sober. Rosana brought a fresh bottle of wine unwillingly to the table. She exchanged a quick glance with Lammiter. “Tony—” she began, as Brewster poured wine for all.
“Get back to the window, Rosana,” Brewster said. “You promised Salvatore. Remember? Don’t worry about me. Wine increases my eloquence. You know that.”
Rosana crossed to the window. Worry made her angry; she was frowning.
“I like Salvatore. We are good friends,” Brewster told Lammiter, handing him a glass of wine. “But there have been developments in the last three days that go far beyond the work that Salvatore and Joe and Rosana and I have been doing for the past year—our official work, you might call it. There is no need for either Salvatore or Joe to be concerned with anything except that official work.”
“I see,” Lammiter said, and relaxed. “I was beginning to think you didn’t trust Salvatore.”
“Didn’t trust him?” Brewster asked, annoyed. “We’ve been together, off and on, since 1944. He led a partisan group that did a very good job against the Nazis, a very good job indeed.”
“What’s his name?”
“Didn’t he tell you?” Brewster was amused.
“I don’t know him well enough to be on second-name terms with him.”
Brewster’s smile deepened, but he seemed to have forgotten Lammiter’s question. He had one of his own. “Why did you come here?”
“Rosana—”
“Yes, yes. But why did you listen to her?”
“I want to know more about Pirotta.”
“More?” Brewster was watchful now. “How much do you know?”
This is the moment, Lammiter suddenly felt, when Brewster either becomes interested in me or bored with me. In one case, he will talk; in the other, he will simply chitchat, and I’ll learn nothing about Pirotta. He made a wild plunge.
“Pirotta is connected with some narcotics ring.”
“Oh?” Brewster seemed unperturbed, but he flashed a quick glance at Rosana.
“She told me nothing,” Lammiter said quickly. “I’ve been listening to the princess that’s all.”
Now Rosana and Brewster looked at each other. “And what does the princess know?” Brewster asked, very quietly.
“That Count Luigi Pirotta belongs to the same organisation to which Rosana’s brother belonged. There were also hints that Communists are backing this narcotics ring—certainly they’re mixed up with it somehow. According to the princess, that is. There was a good deal of hinting. In fact, I’d say she was needling Pirotta, and his friend Mr. Whitelaw. That’s possibly her way of being angry.” He looked at Rosana for confirmation, but the girl was watching the Piazza. She waved to someone down there.
“Whitelaw? Bertrand Whitelaw?” Brewster asked.
“Yes, Whither-are-we-drifting Whitelaw. I had the feeling he was one of the princess’s targets, too. Why? Where does he stand?”
Anthony Brewster’s shrewd blue eyes studied Lammiter. At last he said, “Your princess is meddling with dangerous things. I wonder how she could have learned about the Communists’ control of the drug ring?”
So it’s true, Lammiter thought, and does knowing the truth make you feel any better? It did not.
Rosana turned quickly away from the window. “Tony—I didn’t tell her. I haven’t been seeing
“That,” Tony Brewster said, and his voice seemed brisker, “may be the explanation of Salvatore which I’ve been seeking for years.” He opened both eyes and looked at Lammiter almost approvingly. “You see—” he said, now raising his chin, too, “I am not so drunk as you all thought me. I may need sleep, but I’ll get that in its proper time.” He eased his bandaged leg. “Dammit, perhaps I’ll have to go to some bloody hospital after all. Rosana, get me another bottle of wine and two more glasses. Quick, we may have even less time than you think.”
As she obeyed, he went on talking. Brewster was not yet drunk. But just as certainly, he was not exactly sober. Rosana brought a fresh bottle of wine unwillingly to the table. She exchanged a quick glance with Lammiter. “Tony—” she began, as Brewster poured wine for all.
“Get back to the window, Rosana,” Brewster said. “You promised Salvatore. Remember? Don’t worry about me. Wine increases my eloquence. You know that.”
Rosana crossed to the window. Worry made her angry; she was frowning.
“I like Salvatore. We are good friends,” Brewster told Lammiter, handing him a glass of wine. “But there have been developments in the last three days that go far beyond the work that Salvatore and Joe and Rosana and I have been doing for the past year—our official work, you might call it. There is no need for either Salvatore or Joe to be concerned with anything except that official work.”
“I see,” Lammiter said, and relaxed. “I was beginning to think you didn’t trust Salvatore.”
“Didn’t trust him?” Brewster asked, annoyed. “We’ve been together, off and on, since 1944. He led a partisan group that did a very good job against the Nazis, a very good job indeed.”
“What’s his name?”
“Didn’t he tell you?” Brewster was amused.
“I don’t know him well enough to be on second-name terms with him.”
Brewster’s smile deepened, but he seemed to have forgotten Lammiter’s question. He had one of his own. “Why did you come here?”
“Rosana—”
“Yes, yes. But why did you listen to her?”
“I want to know more about Pirotta.”
“More?” Brewster was watchful now. “How much do you know?”
This is the moment, Lammiter suddenly felt, when Brewster either becomes interested in me or bored with me. In one case, he will talk; in the other, he will simply chitchat, and I’ll learn nothing about Pirotta. He made a wild plunge.
“Pirotta is connected with some narcotics ring.”
“Oh?” Brewster seemed unperturbed, but he flashed a quick glance at Rosana.
“She told me nothing,” Lammiter said quickly. “I’ve been listening to the princess that’s all.”
Now Rosana and Brewster looked at each other. “And what does the princess know?” Brewster asked, very quietly.
“That Count Luigi Pirotta belongs to the same organisation to which Rosana’s brother belonged. There were also hints that Communists are backing this narcotics ring—certainly they’re mixed up with it somehow. According to the princess, that is. There was a good deal of hinting. In fact, I’d say she was needling Pirotta, and his friend Mr. Whitelaw. That’s possibly her way of being angry.” He looked at Rosana for confirmation, but the girl was watching the Piazza. She waved to someone down there.
“Whitelaw? Bertrand Whitelaw?” Brewster asked.
“Yes, Whither-are-we-drifting Whitelaw. I had the feeling he was one of the princess’s targets, too. Why? Where does he stand?”
Anthony Brewster’s shrewd blue eyes studied Lammiter. At last he said, “Your princess is meddling with dangerous things. I wonder how she could have learned about the Communists’ control of the drug ring?”
So it’s true, Lammiter thought, and does knowing the truth make you feel any better? It did not.
Rosana turned quickly away from the window. “Tony—I didn’t tell her. I haven’t been seeing
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