She put her head slightly on one side. ‘Not yet,’ she said slowly. ‘At the moment it only makes you look intriguing. Later—’ She shrugged her shoulders.
Sismondi gave a little cough. I’d forgotten all about him. He came across the room, pushed the pouff with the peke on it out of the way and drew up a chair. ‘You come to tell me something, I think, Signer Farrell,’ he suggested.
‘A little matter of business,’ I said vaguely.
‘Because of my telephone conversation this morning?’ I nodded.
‘Good!’ He cupped his hands round the big brandy glass and drank. ‘You like a cigar?’
‘Thank you,’ I said. He seemed in no hurry. He went over to the cocktail cabinet and returned with a box of cigars. I looked across at the girl. ‘Do you mind?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘I like it. I may even take a puff of yours.’ Her voice was silky, an invitation to be stroked.
Sismondi and I lit our cigars. After that the conversation became general. I think we talked of Russia and Communism and the future of the Italian colonies. But I’m not really certain. My impression is one of soft lights, the night scent of perfume penetrating through the aroma of cigars and the oval of the girl’s face against the green silk of the cushions. I had a feeling that we were waiting for something. Sismondi did not again refer to the matter that had brought me to his flat.
I was halfway through my cigar when a buzzer sounded outside the room. Sismondi gave a grunt of satisfaction and scrambled to his feet, spilling cigar ash on to the carpet. As he left the room the girl said, ‘You look tired, signore.’
‘It’s been a very busy trip,’ I told her.