North from Rome Read Free Page B

dangerous.”
    “At your place?”
    “Still more dangerous. Meet me at Doney’s. At noon.”
    “But I can’t. I’ve got to wait here until—”
    “Please. At noon. I must see you before you leave.”
    That made him suddenly wary. “Who are you?” he asked. How could she know he was planning to leave today? Did she or her friends have some kind of intelligence service working among the hotels? What was all this, anyway? “Who are you, what are you?” he asked.
    “Someone who needs help. Badly.” Her voice was. low, fearful, but determined. Very quietly she added, “When you see me, pretend our meeting is accidental. Completely accidental. And with that tense warning, she ended the call abruptly.
    After a minute’s thought, he asked the hotel switchboard to inquire where that call had just come from—was it possible to trace the number, or had the operator any idea of the district in Rome from where the call was made? At first, he thought it was his Italian that created the confusion, and then—after several long outbursts of explanation ranging from the polite to the irritated (he must have sounded incredibly stupid)— he suddenly realised it was his question. Because no one had telephoned him.
    He began to argue about that, and then (as he saw the futility of all this questioning) he broke it off hastily with a “Sorry, sorry. Please excuse me,” disentangling himself from a conversation that was now beyond his powers to control. “And thank you, signorina. Thank you for your help,” he added. Politeness in Italy, politeness was the key to everything—for the annoyance in the operator’s voice vanished, and he could imagine the smile spreading over her face as she said, “Thank you, signore. And is it possible than another guest was calling you from his room?”
    Yes, it could have been possible. Or the girl could have walked through the lobby to the row of house telephones near the elevator, and used one of them. But how had she known his room number? He might as well ask how she had known his plans for leaving Rome.
    He went downstairs at a quarter to twelve. He hadn’t quite decided if he were going to walk past the café called Doney’s. Or not. It was just like that. He was interested, yes; and curious, definitely curious, but he was still wary. What was this girl? A confidence trickster, a prostitute as the police had suggested last night, a possible blackmailer? Somehow—perhaps he was too gullible—somehow he didn’t believe any of that. He kept remembering the pleading note in her voice. “Someone who needs help. Badly.”
    The lobby, large, dark, and cool, shaded rigorously from the glare of the brilliant Italian sun, was filled with young people returning from their morning pilgrimages. Students clustered in groups: girls in cotton dresses with wide skirts and neatly bloused tops, flat heels, large handbags, and short white gloves; young men in seersucker jackets and crew cuts. It seemed as if half the college population of the United States was visiting Rome this summer of 1956.
    He handed over his room key at the porter’s desk. “Any word of a reservation?”
    The senior porter shook his head. “Not yet, Signore Lammiter. We do not expect to hear anything definite until four o’clock.”
    Ah yes, Lammiter thought: now is the time for everyone to shut up shop for lunch. And after lunch, the siesta. Half-past four might be a more accurate prediction before any business would be done on that hot July afternoon. He turned towards the door, leaving an anxious group of schoolteachers from Ohio inquiring about seats for Traviata at the Baths of Caracalla. He halted at the entrance, hesitating behind the heavy curtain of white sailcloth which cut off the sunlight at the threshold. For a moment he watched the crowded hotel lobby; for a moment he listened to the babel of tongues. Hecould recognise at least six foreign languages being spoken in addition to occasional Italian—Spanish,