His eyes narrowed. ‘You know the Contessa, signore?’
‘I met her in Milano,’ I said. ‘Conte Valle is her husband?’
‘Si, signore.’ He was frowning and his brown fingers had tightened round his tumbler. ‘Where do you meet the Contessa?’ he asked.
‘At the house of a business man named Sismondi,’ I answered.
The scowl was still on his face. ‘Was any one else there with her?’ His voice sounded thick and angry. It seemed strange for a chauffeur to show such interest in a member of the aristocracy and I said so. He gave me a quick shrug and then grinned. ‘It is all very simple, signore. I am chauffeur to the Contessa. I like to swim. When the Contessa is away I can come out here and enjoy the sea. But I am always afraid she will come back too soon and be angry because I am not there at the Villa Carlotta. She is very bad when she is angry. She telephone that she arrive this afternoon. Did she tell you anything about her plans?’
‘She was staying the night in Florence.’ I answered his question almost automatically. I was thinking what a strange coincidence it was that I should meet her chauffeur like this and find I knew him from the war days. It was almost as though I had conjured him here. He had finished his wine and was getting to his feet. ‘Scusi, signore. Now I must have my swim.’
I nodded. ‘Will you give the Contessa a message? My name is Farrell. Tell her I propose to call on her at the Villa Carlotta this evening at six-thirty and that I would like her to have dinner with me.’
Again I was conscious of that slight narrowing of the eyes and the beginnings of a scowl. ‘I will tell her, signore,’ he said, ‘Molte grade.’ He gave me a little bow which seemed strange, dressed as he was in nothing but his bathing trucks. ‘A rivederla, signore.’
‘A rivederci.’ I watched him as he disappeared down the steps. I felt as though somewhere a string had been pulled, tightening my contact with Zina Valle. A moment later I saw his brown body cleave the brazen surface of the water below me with hardly a splash. He swam with strong, powerful strokes straight out to sea. The soles of his two feet beat the surface like a propeller. I got up quickly and went into the restaurant.
That evening, just after six-thirty, a taxi deposited me at the entrance of the Villa Carlotta. It was a big, white house approached from the Via Posillipo by a long curving drive overhung with the trailing fronds of palm trees. Through a little group of firs I caught a glimpse of the frowning rock arches of the Palazzo Don Anna, golden brown against the blue backcloth of the sea. A manservant showed me into a room on the first floor. My only impression of it is one of soft, powder blue with glass doors open to a balcony that had for background the picture postcard blue of Naples Bay with Vesuvius in one corner and Capri, looking remote and mysterious, in the other. Zina Valle came in from the balcony. ‘It is very kind of you to visit me so soon,’ she said in that soft, husky voice. She was dressed in a black evening gown. Her bare shoulders were covered by a white ermine wrap, which hung loose as that I could see that the top of the gown barely covered her breasts. A shiver ran down my spine as I took her hand and kissed it.