‘Who are these people, Zina?’ Sansevino asked.
‘Remember John Maxwell?’ I asked him.
His eyes flicked to my face. They were narrowed and wary. He didn’t say anything, but he nodded. ‘If it is the two people we met at Pompeii this afternoon,’ I added, ‘it will be John Maxwell and a girl called Hilda Tucek.’
‘Hilda Tucek!’ His voice had a sudden note of surprise. ‘No — I don’t think I know her. But I remember Maxwell, of course.’ The speed with which he covered up was amazing. ‘Well, since we can’t do anything we’d better have a drink.’ He opened the door of the room where we’d faced each other only a few minutes ago.
But Zina caught hold of his arm. ‘Walter! Are you going to do nothing? Do you wish to be buried here in your villa?’ The urgent, panicky note was back in her voice.
Sansevino shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tell me what I ought to do and I’ll do it. In the meantime you’d better have a drink to steady you.’ He had caught hold of her arm. But she flung herself free. ‘You want me to die. That is it.’ Her eyes were blazing. ‘You think I know too—’
‘Shut up!’ His eyes slid to my face.
‘I tell you, you cannot do this to me. I do not wish to die. I will—’
He had hold of her arm again and she cried out as his fingers dug into her flesh. ‘Shut up — do you hear? What you need is one of your injections.’ He turned quickly to the drink table and poured her a stiff cognac. ‘Drink that and get a hold on yourself. What about you, Mr. Hacket? Cognac?’
The other nodded. ‘So you’re an American, Mr. Shirer?’