We set out abreast, but soon the sidwalk was just wide enough for me and the bags, so I let him lead. I don’t know whether one of his youthful gestes had been to pace off that particular route, which included three straightaways and three turns, but if so his memory was faulty. It was more like half a mile, and if it had been much farther the bags would have begun to get heavy. A little beyond the third turn, in a street narrower than any of the others, a car was parked, with a man standing alongside. As we approached he stared rudely at Wolfe. Wolfe stopped practically against him and said, “Paolo.”
“No.” The man couldn’t believe it. “Yes, by God, it is. Get in.” He opened the car door.
It was a little two-door Fiat that would have done for a tender for the Lancia, but we made it — me with the bags in the back, and Wolfe with Telesio in front. As the car went along the narrow street, with Telesio jerking his head sidewise every second to look at Wolfe, I took him in. I had seen dozens of him around New York — coarse, thick hair, mostly gray; dark, tough skin; quick black eyes; a wide mouth that had done a lot of laughing. He began firing questions, but Wolfe wasn’t talking, and I couldn’t blame him. I was willing to keep my mind open on whether Telesio was to be trusted as a brother, but in less than a mile it was already closed about trusting him as a chauffeur. Apparently he had some secret assurance that all obstructions ahead, animate or inanimate, would disappear before he got there, and when one didn’t and he was about to make contact, his split-second reaction was very gay. When we got to our destination and I was out of it on my feet, I circled the Fiat for a look at the fenders. Not a sign of a scratch, let alone a dent. I thought to myself, a man in a million, thank God.
The destination was a sort of courtyard back of a small white two-story stuccoed house, with flowers and a little pool and high walls on three sides. “Not mine,” Telesio said. “A friend of mine who is away. At my place in the old city you would be seen by too many people before I know your plans.”
Actually it was two hours later that I learned he had said that, but I’m going to put things in approximately where people said them. That’s the only way I can keep it straight.
Telesio insisted on carrying the bags in, though he had to put them down to use a key on the door. In a small square hall he took our hats and coats and hung them up, and ushered us through into a good-sized living room. It was mostly pink, and one glance at the furniture and accessories settled it as to the sex of his friend — at least I hoped so. Wolfe looked around, saw no chair that even approached his specifications, crossed to a couch, and sat. Telesio disappeared and came back in a couple of minutes with a tray holding a bottle of wine, glasses, and a bowl of almonds. He filled the glasses nearly to the brim, gave us ours, and raised his.
“To Ivo and Garibaldi!” he cried.
We drank. They left some, so I did. Wolfe raised his glass again. “There is only one response. To Garibaldi and Ivo!”
We emptied the glasses. I found a comfortable chair. For an hour they talked and drank and ate almonds. When Wolfe reported to me later he said that the first hour had been reminiscent, personal and irrelevant, and their tone and manner certainly indicated it. A second bottle of wine was needed, and another bowl of almonds. What brought them down to business was Telesio’s raising his glass proposing, “To your little daughter Carla! A woman as brave as she was beautiful!”
They drank. By then I was merely a spectator. Wolfe put his glass down and spoke in a new tone. “Tell me about her. You saw her dead?”