‘Yes, I should like to,’ I said.
She had risen to her feet and as I escorted her to the entrance hall, she said, ‘Why do you not take a holiday? It would do you good to lie in the sun and relax yourself.’ She glanced at me with a swift lift of her brows. ‘Milano is not good for you, I think. Also I should like to see you again. We have something in common, you and I — our pasts.’ She smiled and gave me her hand.
I watched her as she went out and got into the car that was waiting for her. Then I turned and went back into the bar. Milano is not good for you, I think. What had she meant by that? And why had she come to see me? I realised then that she had not given me any really satisfactory reason for her visit. Had she come by arrangement with the man who had searched my room?
What did it matter anyway? The bug eating into my mind was Shirer. The idea that he was really Sansevino clung with a persistence that was frightening. I had to know the truth. I had to see him again and make certain. The thing was ridiculous, and yet … it was the sort of thing that could happen. And if it were Sansevino. … I felt anger boiling up in me again. I had another drink and phoned the Albergo Nazionale. Signer Shirer wasn’t there. He wasn’t expected back till the evening. I rang Sismondi at his office. He told me Shirer had said something about going out of town.
I had lunch then and after lunch I called on various firms. I didn’t get back to the hotel till nearly eight and by then the whole idea seemed so fantastic that I discarded it completely. I had a quick dinner and then went into the bar. But after a few drinks, I began to feel I must see him and make certain.
I got a taxi and went straight over to the Nazionale. It was a small and rather luxurious hotel almost opposite La Scala. There was an air of past grandeur about it with its tapestried walls and heavy, ornate furnishings. In this setting the lift, which was caged in with a white-lacquered tracery of wrought-iron, seemed out of place whilst at the same time adding to the expensive impression already given by the furnishings, the deep-piled carpet and knee-breeches uniform of the servants. I went over to the hall porter’s desk and asked for Shirer.
‘Your name, please, signore?’
‘Is Mr. Shirer in?’ I repeated.
The man looked up at the sharpness of my tone. ‘I do not know, signore. If you will please give me your name I will telephone his suite.’
I hesitated. Then some devil in me prompted me to say, ‘Just tell him a friend of Dr. Sansevino wishes to see him.’