Ngaio Marsh - When in Rome

It was Valdarno’s card with an appropriate message written on the back. The waiter took a quick look at it and another at Alleyn and said he would see if the great man was in his office.

“I expect he is,” Alleyn said cheerfully. “Shall we go there?”

The waiter, using his restaurant walk, hurried through the foyer into a smaller vestibule where he begged Alleyn to wait. He tapped discreetly at a door marked Il Direttore , murmured something to the elegant young man who opened it and handed in the card. The young man was gone for a very short time and returned with a winning smile and an invitation to enter. The waiter scuttled off.

Marco’s office was small but sumptuous. He advanced upon Alleyn with ceremony and a certain air of guarded cordiality.

“Good evening, again Mr. — ” he glanced at the card. “Mr. Alleyn. I hope you have dined pleasantly.” His English was extremely good. Alleyn decided to be incapable of Italian.

“Delightfully,” he said. “A superb evening. Il Questore Valdarno told me of your genius and how right he was.”

“I am glad.”

“I think I remember you some years ago in London, Signore. At the Primavera.”

“Ah! My ‘salad days.’ Thirty-one different salads, in fact. Perhaps five are worth remembering. Can I do anything for you, Mr. Alleyn? Any friend of Il Questore Valdarno—?”

Alleyn made a quick decision.

“You can, indeed,” he said. “If you will be so kind. I think I should tell you, Signore, that I am a colleague of the Questore’s and that I am not in Rome entirely for pleasure. May I—”

He produced his own official card. Marco held it in his beautifully manicured fingers and for five seconds was perfectly motionless. “Ah, yes,” he said at last. “Of course. I should have remembered from my London days. There was a cause célèbre . Your most distinguished career. And then — surely — your brother — he was Ambassador in Rome I think some time ago?”

Alleyn normally reacted to remarks about his brother George by falling over backwards rather than profit by their relationship. He bowed and pressed on.

“This is an affair of some delicacy,” he said and felt as if he spoke out of an Edwardian thriller or, indeed, from No. 221B Baker Street. “I assure you I wouldn’t have troubled you if I could have avoided doing so. The fact is Il Questore Valdarno and I find ourselves in something of a quandary. It’s come to our knowledge that a certain unsavoury character whose identity had hitherto been unknown is living in Rome. He has formed associations with people of the highest standing who would be appalled if they knew about him. As I think you yourself would be.”

“I? Do you suggest—?”

“He is one of your patrons. We think it proper that you should be warned.”

If Marco had seemed, for an Italian, to be of a rather florid complexion he was so no longer. His cheeks were wan enough to make his immaculately shaven jaws look, by contrast, a cadaverous purple. There was a kind of scuffling noise behind Alleyn. He turned and saw the beautiful young man who had admitted him seated behind a table and making great play with papers.

“I didn’t realize—” Alleyn said.

“My secretary. He does not speak English,” Marco explained and added in Italian. “Alfredo, it might be as well for you to leave us.” And still in Italian, to Alleyn: “That will be better, will it not?”

Alleyn looked blank. “I’m sorry,” he said and spread his hands.

“Ah, you do not speak our language?”

“Alas!”

The young man said rapidly in Italian: “ Padrone , is it trouble? It is—?” and Marco cut him short. “It is nothing. You heard me. Leave us.”

When he had gone Alleyn said. “It won’t take long. The man I speak of is Mr. Sebastian Mailer.”

A short pause and Marco said: “Indeed? You are, I must conclude, certain of your ground?”

“Certain enough to bring you the information. Of course you will prefer to check with the Questore himself. I assure you, he will confirm what I’ve said.”

Marco inclined and made a deprecatory gesture. “But of course, of course. You have quite taken me aback, Mr. Alleyn, but I am most grateful for this warning. I shall see that Mr. Mailer’s appearances at La Giaconda are discontinued.”

“Forgive me, but isn’t it rather unusual for La Giaconda to extend its hospitality to a tourist party?”

Marco said rapidly and smoothly: “A normal tourist party — a ‘package’—would be out of the question. A set meal and a fiasco of wine — with little flags on the table — unthinkable! But this arrangement, as you found, is entirely different. The guests order individually, à la carte, as at a normal dinner party. The circumstance of the conto being settled by the host — even though he is a professional host — is of little significance. I confess that when this Mailer first approached me I would not entertain the proposal but then — he showed me his list. It was a most distinguished list. Lady Braceley alone — one of the most elegant of our clientela . And Mr. Barnaby Grant — a man of the greatest distinction.”

“When did Mailer first approach you?”

“I believe — about a week ago.”

“So tonight was the first of these dinner parties?”

“And the last, I assure you, if what you tell me is true.”

“You noticed, of course, that he did not appear?”

“With some surprise. But his assistant, Giovanni Vecchi, is a courier of good standing. He informed us that his principal was unwell. Am I to understand—”

“He may be unwell, he has undoubtedly disappeared.”

“ Disappeared ?” The colour seeped back, unevenly, into Marco’s cheeks. “You mean—?”

“Just that. Vanished.”

“This is very confusing. Should I understand that you believe him to have—” Marco’s full lips seemed to frame and discard one or two words before they chose “absconded.”

“That is the Questore’s theory.”

“But not yours?” he asked quickly.

“I have none.”

“I conclude, Mr. Alleyn, that your attendance here tonight, which must have followed your enrollment in today’s tour, is professional rather than recreational.”

“Yes,” Alleyn agreed cheerfully. “That’s about it. And now I mustn’t take up any more of your time. If — and the chances I believe are remote — if Mr. Mailer should put in an appearance here”—Marco gave an ejaculation and a very slight wince— “Il Questore Valdarno and I would be most grateful if you would say nothing to him about this discussion. Simply telephone at once to — but the number is on the Questore’s card, I think.”

“The Questore,” said Marco in a hurry, “will I am sure appreciate that any kind of unpleasantness, here, in the restaurant, would be—” He flung up his hands.

“Unthinkable,” Alleyn filled in. “Oh, yes. It would all be done very tactfully and quite behind the scenes, you know.”

He held out his hand. Marco’s was damp and exceedingly cold.

“But you think,” he persisted. “You yourself think, isn’t it, that he will not come back?”

“For what it’s worth,” Alleyn agreed, “that’s my idea. Not, at any rate, of his own volition. Good-bye.”

On his way out he went to the telephone booth and rang Il Questore Valdarno, who reported that he had set up further enquiries but had no news. Mailer’s flat had been found. The porter said Mailer left it at about three o’clock and had not returned. The police briefly examined the flat, which seemed to be in order.

“No signs of a sudden departure?”

“None. Yet I am still persuaded—”