‘Please. A lemonade. It’s so hot.’
I sent the boy for it and took her through to the balcony. She stood quite still with her hands on the railing looking out across the bay.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ I suggested.
She nodded and sank into my chair. I brought out another. An awkward silence developed. I was waiting for her to tell me why she had come and she seemed to find it difficult. At length she said, ‘It is so beautiful.’ Her voice sounded wistful.
The boy brought her the drink and she sipped at it. I offered her a cigarette. When I had lit it for her, she said, ‘I am afraid I was rather rude to you that morning at the Excelsior.’
I waited for her to go on, but she was gazing out towards Capri again. ‘Did Maxwell tell you to come and see me?’ I asked.
She glanced at me quickly and then dropped her eyes to the handkerchief she was slowly twisting round her fingers. ‘Yes.’ She looked up suddenly and I realised how tensed-up she was inside. ‘He thinks you know something. He thinks you’re connected with it in some way. Please, Mr. Farrell, you must help me.’ There was desperation in her voice and somehow it hurt me.
‘I wish to God I could help you,’ I said. ‘But I can’t. Maxwell’s wrong. I know nothing about your father’s disappearance. If I did I’d tell you.’
‘Then why did you leave Milan so hurriedly?’
‘I told Maxwell last night — because I needed a holiday.’