Wolfe grunted. “It’s better than I hoped for. One other thing — a plane at Rome for Bari.”
“Yes.” Hitchcock cleared his throat. “One has been chartered and should be in readiness.” He took a worn old leather case from his pocket, fingered in it, and extracted a slip of paper. “You should be met on arrival, but if there’s a hitch here’s the name and phone number.” He handed it over. “Eighty dollars, and you may pay in dollars. The agent I deal with in Rome, Giuseppe Drogo, is a good man by Roman standards, but he is quite capable of seeking some trivial personal advantage from his contact with his famous American fellow. Of course he had to have your name. If it is now all over Rome, I must disclaim responsibility.”
Wolfe did not look pleased, which showed how concentrated he was on his mission. Any man only one-tenth as conceited as he was couldn’t help but glow at being told that his name was worth scattering all over Rome. As for Hitchcock, the British might be getting short on empire, but apparently they still had their share of applesauce.
A little later the loudspeaker announced in what I guess was English that the plane for Rome was ready, and our host convoyed us out to the gate and stood by to watch us take the air. As we taxied to the runway Wolfe actually waved to him from the window.
With Wolfe next to the window, I had to stretch my neck for my first look at Europe, but it was a nice sunny day and I kept a map open on my knee, and it was very interesting, after crossing the Strait of Dover, to look toward Brussels on the left and Paris on the right, and Zurich on the left and Geneva on the right, and Milan on the left and Genoa on the right. I recognized the Alps without any trouble, and I actually saw Bern. Unfortunately I missed looking toward Florence. Passing over the Apennines a little to the north, we hit an air pocket and dropped a mile or so before we caught again, which is never much fun, and some of the passengers made noises. Wolfe didn’t. He merely shut his eyes and set his jaw. When we had leveled off I thought it only civil to remark, “That wasn’t so bad, That time I flew to the Coast, going over the Rockies we—”
“Shut up,” he growled.
So I missed looking toward Florence. We touched concrete at the Rome airport right on the nose, at three o’clock of a fine warm Sunday afternoon, and the minute we descended the gangway and started to walk across to the architecture my association with Wolfe, and his with me, changed for the worse. All my life, needing a steer in new surroundings, all I had had to do was look at signs and, if that failed, ask a native. Now I was sunk. The signs were not my kind. I stopped and looked at Wolfe.
“This way,” he informed me. “The customs.”
The basic setup between him and me was upset, and I didn’t like it. I stood beside him at a table and listened to the noises he exchanged with a blond basso, my only contribution being to produce my passport when told to do so in English. I stood beside him at a counter in another room and listened to similar noises, exchanged this time with a black-haired tenor, though I concede that there I played a more important part, being permitted to open the bags and close them again after they had been inspected. More noises to a redcap with a mustache who took over the bags — only his cap was blue. Still more, out in the sunshine, with a chunky signor in a green suit with a red carnation in his lapel. Wolfe kindly let me in on that enough to tell me that his name was Drogo and that the chartered plane for Bari was waiting for us. I was about to express my appreciation for being noticed when a distinguished-looking college boy, dressed for a wedding or a funeral, stepped up and said in plain American, “Mr. Nero Wolfe?”
Wolfe glared at him. “May I ask your name, sir?”