He was reluctant to forgo the challenge, but the combination of the money, the grip and the infectious laugh made him retreat. “Are you … go to my captain?” he asked in English, eyes swimming.
“What for? You just told me. It has nothing to do with him. Why bring that
farabutto
into it? Let him earn his own money. Where did you see her?”
“On the street
Ragazza bionda. Bella. Cappello a large tesa.”
“Blond, attractive … wide hat!
Where?
Who was she with? A mate, a ship’s officer?
Un ufficiale?”
“Not the
Elba
. The next ship.
Nave mercantile.”
“There are only two. The
Cristóvão
and the
Teresa
. Which one?”
The man glanced around, head bobbing, eyes only half focused. “She was talking to two men … one a
capitano.”
“Which one?”
“A
destra,”
whispered the sailor, pulling the back of his hand across his wet lips.
“On the right?” “asked Michael quickly. The
Santa Teresa?”
The seaman now rubbed his chin and blinked; he was afraid, his eyes suddenly focused to the left of the table. He shrugged, crushing the money in his right hand, as he pushed back his chair.
“Non so niente. Una puttana del capitano.”
“Mercantile italiano?”
pressed Havelock. The Italian freighter? “The
Santa Teresa?”
The sailor stood up, his face white. “Sì …
No! Destra
…
sinistra!”
The man’s eyes were now riveted somewhere across the room; Michael angled his head unobtrusively. Three men at a table against the wall were watching the crewman from the
Elba, “Il capitano. Un marinaio superiors! Il migliore!”
cried the seaman hoarsely. “I know nothing else, signore!” He lurched away, shouldering a path through the bodies gathered at the bar toward the alley door.
“You play dangerously,” commented the owner of Il Tritone. “It could have gone either way.”
“With a mule—drunk or otherwise—nothing’s ever replaced the carrot and the whip,” said Havelock, his head still turned slightly, his concentration still on the three men at the table across the room.
“You could have had blood on your stomach and have learned nothing at all.”
“But I
did
learn something.”
“Not a great deal. A freighter on the right, on the left. Which?”
“He said on the right first.”
“Coming off the pier, or going on to it?”
“From his immediate point of view. Going on.
Destra
. The
Santa Teresa
. She’ll be put on board the
Teresa
, which means I have time to find her before she’s given the signal. She’s somewhere within sight of the dock.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Il Tritone’s owner, shaking his head “Our mule was specific. The captain was
un marinaio superiore. Migliore
. The best, a great seaman. The captain of the
Teresa
is a tired merchantman. He never sails past Marseilles.”
“Who are those men at the table over there?” asked Michael, his question barely audible through the din. “Don’t turn your head, just shift your eyes. Who are they?”
“I do not know them by name.”
“What does that mean?”
“Italiano,”
said the owner of Il Tritone, his voice flat.
“The
Santa Teresa,”
said Havelock, removing a number of bills and putting the rest of the money back into his pocket. “You’ve been a great help,” he said. “I owe the
proprietario
. The rest is for you.”
“Grazie.”
“Prego.”
“I will see you down the alley to the waterfront. I still do not like it. We don’t know those men are from the
Teresa
. Something is not
in equilibrio.”
“The percentages say otherwise. It’s the
Teresa
. Let’s go.”
Outside the noisy café the narrow thoroughfare was comparatively silent; naked light bulbs shone weakly, enveloped in mist above intermittent doorways, and centuries-old smooth cobblestones muffled the sound of footsteps. At the end of the alley the wide avenue that fronted the piers could be seen in the glow of the streetlamps; until one reached it the alley itself was a gauntlet of shadows.
“What for? You just told me. It has nothing to do with him. Why bring that
farabutto
into it? Let him earn his own money. Where did you see her?”
“On the street
Ragazza bionda. Bella. Cappello a large tesa.”
“Blond, attractive … wide hat!
Where?
Who was she with? A mate, a ship’s officer?
Un ufficiale?”
“Not the
Elba
. The next ship.
Nave mercantile.”
“There are only two. The
Cristóvão
and the
Teresa
. Which one?”
The man glanced around, head bobbing, eyes only half focused. “She was talking to two men … one a
capitano.”
“Which one?”
“A
destra,”
whispered the sailor, pulling the back of his hand across his wet lips.
“On the right?” “asked Michael quickly. The
Santa Teresa?”
The seaman now rubbed his chin and blinked; he was afraid, his eyes suddenly focused to the left of the table. He shrugged, crushing the money in his right hand, as he pushed back his chair.
“Non so niente. Una puttana del capitano.”
“Mercantile italiano?”
pressed Havelock. The Italian freighter? “The
Santa Teresa?”
The sailor stood up, his face white. “Sì …
No! Destra
…
sinistra!”
The man’s eyes were now riveted somewhere across the room; Michael angled his head unobtrusively. Three men at a table against the wall were watching the crewman from the
Elba, “Il capitano. Un marinaio superiors! Il migliore!”
cried the seaman hoarsely. “I know nothing else, signore!” He lurched away, shouldering a path through the bodies gathered at the bar toward the alley door.
“You play dangerously,” commented the owner of Il Tritone. “It could have gone either way.”
“With a mule—drunk or otherwise—nothing’s ever replaced the carrot and the whip,” said Havelock, his head still turned slightly, his concentration still on the three men at the table across the room.
“You could have had blood on your stomach and have learned nothing at all.”
“But I
did
learn something.”
“Not a great deal. A freighter on the right, on the left. Which?”
“He said on the right first.”
“Coming off the pier, or going on to it?”
“From his immediate point of view. Going on.
Destra
. The
Santa Teresa
. She’ll be put on board the
Teresa
, which means I have time to find her before she’s given the signal. She’s somewhere within sight of the dock.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Il Tritone’s owner, shaking his head “Our mule was specific. The captain was
un marinaio superiore. Migliore
. The best, a great seaman. The captain of the
Teresa
is a tired merchantman. He never sails past Marseilles.”
“Who are those men at the table over there?” asked Michael, his question barely audible through the din. “Don’t turn your head, just shift your eyes. Who are they?”
“I do not know them by name.”
“What does that mean?”
“Italiano,”
said the owner of Il Tritone, his voice flat.
“The
Santa Teresa,”
said Havelock, removing a number of bills and putting the rest of the money back into his pocket. “You’ve been a great help,” he said. “I owe the
proprietario
. The rest is for you.”
“Grazie.”
“Prego.”
“I will see you down the alley to the waterfront. I still do not like it. We don’t know those men are from the
Teresa
. Something is not
in equilibrio.”
“The percentages say otherwise. It’s the
Teresa
. Let’s go.”
Outside the noisy café the narrow thoroughfare was comparatively silent; naked light bulbs shone weakly, enveloped in mist above intermittent doorways, and centuries-old smooth cobblestones muffled the sound of footsteps. At the end of the alley the wide avenue that fronted the piers could be seen in the glow of the streetlamps; until one reached it the alley itself was a gauntlet of shadows.
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