'Mancini,' he snarled. 'He is a fool. He knows nothing. But that other…' He suddenly burst into tears. It was a disgusting sight.
'I am sorry,' I said. I think my voice must have sounded rather stiff.
'Sorry!' he snarled with a sudden change of mood. 'Why should you be sorry? It is me — Stefan — who is sorry. I should be the proprietor here now. This place should be mine.' He made a grand wavering movement of his arm, and then added, 'Yes, mine — and everything in it.' And he peered forward at me cunningly.
'You mean it should belong to the Contessa Forelli, don't you?' I said.
His eyes focused on me soberly for a second. 'You know too much, Blair,' he said. 'You know too damn much.' He seemed to be turning something over in his mind. His expression was not a pleasant one. I remembered Mancini's description of him — 'a dirty little Sicilian gangster'. I had thought at the time that Mancini was just giving vent to his anger. But it occurred to me now that perhaps that was just what Valdini was. He looked ugly, and dangerous.
Footsteps sounded on the wooden boards of the belvedere and the door was thrown open. It was the Contessa, and she was in a blazing temper — it showed in her face and in her eyes and in the way she moved. She was all in white — white ski suit, white gloves, white tam-o'-shanter. Only her scarf and ski socks were red. She looked hard at Valdini. The little man seemed to curl up, deflated. Then she looked past me to the bar. 'Aldo!' she called.
The ape came running. She ordered cognac and went out to a table in the sun.
'I think your boss wants you,' I said to Valdini.
He glared at me. But he made no retort and followed Aldo and the cognac out on to the belvedere. When Aldo returned, he went behind the bar and produced a cable envelope. 'For you, signore,' he said, handing it across to me.
'When did this come?' I asked him in Italian.