It was at this moment that Hacket intervened. He cleared his throat as though about to address a meeting. ‘This is a very terrible thing you have done, Mr. Shirer. I don’t know how you stand in Italian law, but in America at best you’d be guilty of third degree murder. Better hand over that weapon before anything else happens.’ I saw Sansevino trying to collect his wits as Hacket came towards him. Then suddenly he had him covered. ‘Stand back!’ he ordered.
‘Come, Mr. Shirer. Be sensible. You’re a fellow countryman of mine and I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.’ Hacket walked straight up to him. There was something impressive about his complete fearlessness. For a moment he dominated the room with his quiet, almost suburban matter-of-factness. Sansevino hesitated and in that moment Hacket had reached him and had taken the gun out of his hand. Sansevino stood there with a dazed look on his face, rubbing his twisted wrist. Hacket glanced at the weapon curiously and then with the calmness of a man who did this every day of his life, he pointed it at a corner of the room and emptied it by firing. The room shook with the sound of the gun. It seemed to go on and on. Then suddenly there was silence and all we could hear was the sound of gases escaping from high up on the flaring top of the mountain. Hacket tossed the empty gun into the corner and walked over to where Roberto lay, a smudge of blood staining his singlet. He knelt down and lifted the man’s head. Then he got to his feet, wiping his hands. ‘I guess we’d better have a drink now,’ he said. ‘Maybe it will help us to decide what ought to be done.’ He went over to the table and began to pour drinks.
‘Well, you certainly are a cool customer.’ Maxwell’s voice seemed part of the easing of tension.
Hacket took a large cognac over to Sansevino. ‘Better knock that back.’ He was like a doctor handling a difficult patient and I suddenly felt as though I wanted to laugh. ‘A guy as hot-tempered as you shouldn’t go around with a gun in his pocket.’ He got out a silk handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘Guess this mountain has a lot to answer for.’
He turned back to the drink table and in the silence I became conscious of a dry sobbing sound. It was Zina. She was sitting crouched on the floor and she had Roberto’s head in her lap and was crooning over it, stroking the damp hair with her fingers as she rocked back and forth with the tears streaming down her face.
‘So. Roberto was your lover, eh?’ Sansevino spoke in Italian and his voice was a mixture of contempt and anger. ‘Pity you didn’t explain. I would have acted differently if I’d known.’ He wiped the blood from his nose.
She looked across at him. ‘There was no need to kill him. I would not have let him hurt you.’ Her voice was sad. And then suddenly she flung Roberto’s head out of her lap as though she were throwing away a doll that had been broken. ‘I will make you pay for this,” she spat at him.
Hacket handed her a brandy. ‘Drink this. It’ll do you good.’
‘I do not want to be done good.’
‘A drink always helps.’