‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said irritably and got my hand out of the clutch of her fingers.
‘So. I am being ridiculous, am I? But it is you who tremble.’ She leaned suddenly close to me again. ‘What does he want, this Maxwell?’
‘Do you mind dropping the subject, Zina.’ I turned away towards the stage where the curtain was just rising.
‘You are obstinate again.’ Her voice sounded petulant. I found myself thinking of the ridiculous scene at Casamicciola when she had tried to get me to give my leg to the attendant. I was still thinking of this and listening to the music at the same time when a hand came out of the darkness of the box behind me and gripped my shoulder. I spun round to see the gleam of a white shirtfront and Maxwell leaning down towards me.
‘A word with you, Dick.’
I hesitated, glancing at Zina. She’d noticed the interruption and was looking up at Maxwell. He bowed, a slight inclination of the head. ‘Signorina Bestanto, isn’t it?’
She gave a slight nod of assent. ‘That was my name before my marriage. But I do not think I have met you before, signore?’
‘No,’ Maxwell answered. ‘I know your name because I happened to see a photograph of you — at the Questura.’
Zina’s eyes narrowed. Then the lids dropped and she smiled. ‘One day, signore, I hope you are very poor, then perhaps you understand many things that seem strange to you now.’ She turned back towards the stage. Her face looked very white in the glare of the footlights and for an I instant I thought I caught a gleam of intense anger in her eyes. Then Maxwell touched me on the shoulder and nodded towards the door of the box.
I followed him out. He shut the door and produced a packet of cigarettes. ‘You certainly do have a way of picking trouble, Dick,’ he said.