“Hudson Inverest is a rich man in his own right,” he said. “He’s offered a reward of a hundred thousand dollars to anyone who helps get his daughter back. Didn’t your pal Buono tell you that? Even he looked interested!”
The messenger returned and resumed his position behind the Saint’s chair, but Unciello did not even appear to notice him for several seconds. He remained sunk in an implacable and frightening immobility of meditation. And then at last his saurian eyes flicked up.
Tell Mario to serve dinner,” he said. “We’ll all eat together. And send word to Buono I want to see him — subito.”
6
They ate in a palatial dining room that was almost over-poweringly ornate with gilt and frescoes, Sue and the Saint on either side of Tony Unciello at the head of a long table. One of the guards stood behind each of the involuntary guests like an attendant footman, but their function was not to serve. They kept their hands in the side pockets of their coats and their eyes on every movement that was made, particularly by the Saint.
The meal, in spite of the lavish surroundings, was only spaghetti, though with an excellent sauce. Apparently that was what Unciello liked, for he tackled a huge plate of it with a practically uninterrupted series of engulfing motions, almost inhaling it in a continuous stream. Sue Inverest could only toy with hers, but the Saint ate with reasonable appetite, although the grotesque silence broken only by the clink of silverware and the voracious slurping of the host would have unnerved most other men.
“Tony doesn’t like small talk at meals,” Simon tried to encourage her, “but don’t let him put you off your feed. You’ve got to keep in good shape to go home.”
Unciello stuffed the last remnants from his plate into his mouth until his cheeks bulged, then washed them down with a draught of Chianti from a Venetian goblet. He wiped his face with the napkin tucked under his chin.
“Now I got it,” he announced, and the Saint looked at him inquiringly.
Unciello said, “I got that homo sequendum business. That’s gotta be the password you fixed up with Inverest. It’s the only phony-sounding thing in your letter. So now I don’t need you anymore. I got boys who can copy any handwriting. And with that password, now they can write letters to Inverest and tell him his daughter’s okay.”