He went to the door of my room, peered inside and then came quickly back and ran down the stairs. I left the shelter of the lavatory then and went along the corridor. I think I knew in my heart who it was that had entered my room. But I had to know the truth. Zina had brought me here. She’d filled me up with liquor so that I couldn’t stand. I suddenly felt utterly callous and quite sure of myself. This was the end of it all, here in this villa. And if I had to throttle the little bitch, I’d get the truth out of her.
I reached the door from which Roberto had emerged and I went in. The shutters were closed. It was quite dark and very hot and airless. My breath was coming in quick pants. But it was excitement, not fear. Below, the silence of the villa was torn by running feet. I closed the door of the room behind me, shutting out the sounds. There was a key in the lock and I turned it. A voice murmured sleepily, ‘Che e successo?’ It was Zina all right. I switched on my torch and swung the beam to the big double bed.
She sensed something was wrong, for she sat up, clutching the bedclothes to her in an effort to hide her nakedness. Her hair looked damp and straggly and her mouth was thicker. ‘Chid?’ she whispered.
‘Farrell,’ I answered and wondered why I’d ever thought her attractive. ‘Get some clothes on. I want to talk to you.’ My voice showed my disgust. ‘Make a noise and I’ll hit you. The door’s locked.’
‘What do you want?’ She tried to give me an alluring smile, but her voice was hoarse with uneasiness and her smile was fixed and brassy like a prostitute’s.
Her dressing-gown was lying in the middle of the floor. I picked it up. It smelt faintly of the perfume I’d smelt on Roberto. ‘Put this round you,’ I said and tossed it over to her.
She flung it over her shoulders and pulled it round her under the bedclothes. I went over to her then and sat down on the bed. I kept the beam of the torch full on her. ‘Now then. Whose villa is this?’
She didn’t answer, but lay back, shielding her eyes from the glare of the torch. I leaned forward and pulled her arm roughly away from her face. ‘Whose villa is it?’ I repeated. She lay quite still, staring up at me. My disgust had turned to anger — anger at myself for being such a damned fool. I caught hold of her arm and twisted it. She gave a gasp of pain. Perhaps she sensed the violence of my anger for she said, ‘Please. You do not have to break my arm. It is the villa of someone you know. You meet him with me in Milano.’
‘Shirer?’ I asked.
‘Si, si. Signor Shirer.’