North from Rome Read Free Page A

rooms were occupied. This was July, busiest month...
    A sudden revulsion seized him, a quick reaction to cut all losses. “The hell with it,” he said aloud. He called the porter’s desk with instructions to get him a seat on a plane, any plane, any flight leaving Rome tonight for New York.
    The chambermaid appeared as he ended his call. Without even seeing his suitcase and grip, she said smiling, “The signore is leaving today?”
    “Yes.” How quickly the news got around! It was a matter of protocol in hotel work: Room 307 is checking out, get in line for the tips, pass the word along. But he had liked this middle-aged woman with the warm smile and kindly phrases. “I’m going home,” he told her.
    “To America?” She looked a little startled. She came from Perugia and had known he meant to visit there some time. Then, quickly, “The signore likes Italy?”
    “Yes, yes,” he told her reassuringly. It wasn’t Italy that was out of joint. It wasn’t the times, either. It was himself. If the whole trip had been a mistake, it was simply that he had been unwilling to admit failure. He was admitting it now. He had been over-confident, too sure of Eleanor. He had let her slip away from him months ago, in New York. At last, he wasreally facing the truth. He had lost the girl, and had deserved to lose.
    “Just leave everything,” he told the maid. “I’ll be around until this afternoon, at least.” He found a thousand-lire note. She was pleased by that, and more than pleased by the careful speech of thanks he made in Italian. Then he was left in his room to wait for word about his flight to New York.
    He sat down to write some letters. The first was to the man who had produced Lammiter’s play and now was eager to read a second script. Provided, of course, it was the same as the first, only different. He doesn’t want a playwright, Lammiter thought bitterly; all he wants is little Mr. Echo, who’ll be a sure investment; he doesn’t want a piece of creative work, he wants a piece of property. First, he decided, I shall write him the letter I’d like to write. Then I’ll tear that up, smother all indignation, resentment, accurate descriptions of his mentality (I.Q. probably a high 80) and of his education (progressive to the point of being perpetually retarded). And I’ll write a note saying his observations were interesting (he’ll never know how) and that I’m sorry I cannot agree with him.
    How did a man like that ever get into a position of power in the world of art? He had money. But so had cigarette advertisers and buttonhole manufacturers. At least, New York wasn’t yet plagued by the problems of the London theatre, where it was almost compulsory to belong to the esoteric clique if you wanted to be produced or recognised at all.
    The telephone rang.
    He glanced at his watch. Only half an hour since he had ordered his ticket. His ill temper vanished. Quick work, he thought approvingly. He picked up the phone, expecting theporter’s voice. Instead, it was a woman who was speaking.
    “Hallo,” the voice said in English. “Mr. Lammiter?”
    “Yes,” he said, puzzled at first.
    “I wanted to say thank you again.”
    There was no doubt who it was. The way she said thank you made him think of last night and a pretty face turned urgently, almost pathetically, to him under the cold lights of the Pincian Gate.
    “Oh, it’s you—” he recovered himself. “Glad to know you got home safely.”
    She laughed. “I have allies as well as enemies.”
    “So I saw. But I thought your friends were a little late in arriving last night.”
    “That’s why I’d like to thank you.”
    “Oh, forget it. Glad I was there to shout at the nasty men. Who were they, anyhow?”
    “I told you. The enemy.” She laughed softly. He had to admit that he had rarely heard a more attractive sound. She said, “Please—could we meet?”
    Startled, he blurted out, “Meet? Where? Here?”
    “Oh, no! That would be