That ought to take care of anyone who might be waiting to pick him up at the hotel.
He went down the stairs. The room was filling up, the hour being what it was, but he found a place at the bar and ordered a Dry Sack. He was aware of other people filtering in after him — at least two couples, and a single man who sat at the far end of the bar and started reading a newspaper. But Simon paid none of them any direct attention. He watched more carefully to see the bottle taken off the shelf and his drink poured without any legerdemain. After all, he reflected, the Borgias were Italians, and any bartender would be a likely candidate for the Mafia.
The general level of conversation, he was pleased to note, was pitched discreetly low.
He said to the bartender, just loudly enough for anyone who cared to overhear, “Tell me, I hear there are two restaurants claiming to be the original Alfredo’s — the place that’s famous for fettuccini. Which is the real one?”
The bartender grinned.
“Ah, yes, they make much propaganda against each other. But the real one, the old one, is in the Via della Scrofa.”
“Then I must have been taken to the imitation last night. Tonight I’ll have to try the old original.”
“You will have a good dinner.”
And that should be plenty of help to anyone who picked up the trail late, or who wanted to make plans ahead...
But nothing was likely to happen in the Excelsior cocktail lounge, which was obviously not adapted to tidy abductions, and the Saint was too impatient to wait there for long. The laughing face of Sue Inverest kept materializing in front of him, turning into a mask of pitiful terror, dissolving into imagined scenes of unspeakable vileness. He knew the mentality of men like Tony Unciello too well to be complacent about the inevitable passing of time. He wanted something to happen fast. He wanted to leave nothing undone that would help it to happen.