“I am Filippo Ravenna,” said the Saint.
4
The room into which he was ushered was large and sunny, furnished with the kind of antiques that look priceless and yet comfortable to live with. The walls on either side of the fireplace were lined with bookshelves, on two others were paintings and a tapestry, in the fourth French windows opened on to a terrace overlooking the town and the mountains and the lake. The carpet underfoot was Aubusson. It was the living room of a man of wealth and cheerful good taste, and the manservant looked like an undertaker in it, but he withdrew as soon as he had shown the Saint in.
The man who advanced to greet Simon was altogether different. He had a muscular build rounded with good living, a full crop of black hair becomingly flecked with silver, and strong fleshy features. White teeth gleamed around a cigar.
“ Buon giorno, Signor! Sono felicissimo di vederla. ”
“We can speak French if you prefer,” said the Saint cautiously. It was safer than trying to speak Italian as a native tongue.
“As you wish. Or German, or English even. I struggle with all of them. I want my clients to feel comfortable, and they come from so many places.” He waved Simon to a couch facing the windows. “You have a letter, perhaps?”
Simon handed him the introduction. Galen glanced at it and put it in his pocket, and sat down.
“I knew you were coming,” he said apologetically, “but it is necessary to be careful.”
“Of course.”