But he had left the room, closing the door behind him.
I stood there for a second feeling helpless and angry. Then I brushed Sismondi aside and wrenched the door open. The lounge beyond was empty. Somewhere in the flat a door closed. Sismondi had hold of my arm now. ‘Please, signore. Please.’ He was almost whimpering with fright. I realised then that my drink was no longer in my hand. Vaguely I remembered flinging it on to the carpet. A sudden sense of hopelessness took hold of me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘I must go.’
I got my hat and coat. Sismondi fussed round me. All he seemed able to say was, ‘Please, signore.’
I flung out of the flat and banged the door behind me. The lights brightened in the chandelier in the hall. The front door clicked softly open. I stopped outside, staring at the glistening tram lines of the Corso. The door closed with a final click, and I went down the steps, turned right and hurried towards my hotel.
I had got almost as far as the Piazza Oberdan before the bitterness inside me subsided. My mood changed then to one of self-reproach. Why the devil hadn’t I stayed there and brazened it out? Shirer had probably been as surprised as I had at the suddenness of the meeting. He’d had no time to adjust himself to it. He’d hesitated and I’d flown into a rage. I had slowed my pace up and now I stopped. I’d made a fool of myself and what was worse I’d failed completely to do anything about Tucek. Well, there was nothing I could do about that now. I couldn’t very well go back to the flat. It would have to wait till tomorrow. But I could go back and wait for Shirer to come out. I was certain he wasn’t staying there and I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to set things right between us.
I turned and walked very slowly back along the Corso. I reached the steps leading to the massive door of Number Twenty-two. I hesitated. I had only to walk up to the door and ring the bell. I could speak to Sismondi from the street. But I knew he’d want me to come up — he’d be slimy and ingratiating and then I’d be back in that softly lit room. … I was honest with myself then. I couldn’t face the mocking eyes of that girl. She’d guess the truth and somehow I couldn’t take it. I went on up the street and after walking perhaps fifty yards I turned and walked back.
I suppose I paced up and down outside Number Twenty-two for nearly half an hour. I know a church clock struck eleven, and then shortly afterwards a taxi drew up. The driver got out and rang a bell. I could see him talking to the voice above the door and then he got back into his taxi and sat there, waiting. I strolled forward. I’d have to catch Shirer before he drove off. But suppose he took the girl home? I knew if he came out with the Contessa Valle I wouldn’t be able to talk to him. But perhaps it would be better that way. Then I could go up and see Sismondi and settle the Tucek business.
I had reached the steps now. There was no crack of light down one side of the door. It was still firmly closed. I went on past the house and stepped out into the street behind the taxi. I waited there, screened by the rear of the car. The brilliant light of a street lamp shone on the green paint of the door I was watching.
At last it opened. It was Shirer and he was alone. For a moment he was a black silhouette against the lights of the chandelier in the hall. Then he was out in the full glare of the street light and the door closed behind him. He had on a grey overcoat and a wide-brimmed American hat. He paused on the top step, pulling on his gloves. Then he glanced up at the night and I saw his face. It was still round and chubby with high cheekbones, but the chin looked bluer, as though he had forgotten to shave, and there was a hint of grey at the temples. His eyes caught the light and seemed contracted as though the pupils had narrowed against the glare. He caressed his upper lip with the tip of a gloved finger as though he still…
I was suddenly in a cold sweat of panic. It was as though he were fingering a moustache and making a diagnosis, as though he were saying,’/ think we must operate to-day.’ A hand seemed to touch my leg, caressing it — the leg that wasn’t there. Shirer was dissolving into Sansevino before my eyes. I tried to fight back my sudden panic. This is Shirer, I kept telling myself — Walter Shirer, the man who escaped with Reece. You saw Sansevino dead at his desk with a bullet through his head. I could feel my finger-nails digging into the flesh of my palms and then it was Walter Shirer again and he was coming down the steps. He hadn’t seen me. I tried to go forward to meet him, but somehow I was held rooted to the spot. He vanished behind the bulk of the taxi. ‘Albergo Nazionale.’ The voice was crisp and sibilant and I felt fear catching hold of me again. Shirer hadn’t talked like that surely?