‘You can believe what you damn’ well like,’ I answered.
I tried to shake myself free, but he had hold of my shoulder in a grip of iron. His eyes were narrowed and angry. ‘Do you realise what that poor kid’s going through?’ he hissed. ‘By God if this wasn’t a hotel I’d thrash the life out of you.’ He let me go then and I stumbled up the stairs to my room.
I didn’t get much sleep that night. Whenever I dozed off the figures of Shirer and Sansevino kept appearing and then merging and changing shape as though in a trick mirror. I’d be running through Milan in a sweat of fear with first one and then the other materialising from the crowd, appearing in the lighted doorways of buildings or seizing hold of my arm in the street. Then I’d be awake in a clammy sweat with my heart racing and I’d begin thinking over the events of the evening until I fell asleep and started dreaming again.
I have a horror of going mad — really mad, not just sent to hospital for treatment. And that night I thought I really was going round the bend. My mind had become a distorting mirror to the retina of my memory and the strange coincidence of that meeting with Shirer became magnified into something so frightening that my hair literally crawled on my scalp when I thought about it.
I got up with the first light of day and had a bath. I felt better then, more relaxed and I propped myself up in bed and read a book. I must have dozed off after a time for the next thing I knew I was being called. My mind felt clear and reasonable. I went down and ate a hearty breakfast. Shafts of warm sunshine streamed through the tall windows. I steered my mind clear of the previous night. I’d obviously been drunk. I concentrated all my energies on the work that had to be done. I could see Sismondi again that evening.
When I had finished my breakfast I went straight up to my room and began a long session of telephoning. I had the window on to the balcony open and the sun lay quite warm across the table at which I was seated. A maid came in and made the bed, managing, like most Italian servants, to make me conscious of her sex as she moved about the room.
I was about halfway through my list of contacts and had just replaced the receiver after completing a call when the clerk at the reception desk came through. ‘A lady to see you, Signer Farrell.’
I thought of the scene with Reece the previous night and my heart sank.
‘Did she give you her name?‘I asked.
‘No, signore. She will not give me her name.’