Another Way of Dying

Forrester had seen them twice before--once at Palermo airport, when they were passing through customs, and once at his hotel in Taormina a few days later. Taormina was where the tourists went and fell in love with Sicily: there had been no earthquakes there. They were an ordinary enough couple by Mediterranean standards--the girl, at a guess, in her early 20s and the man perhaps around 50, balding, paunchy. The girl wasn't conventionally attractive, though the long blonde hair and the pale-blue trouser suit provided a striking combination; she also had a marvelous flowing walk that made the man appear to strut beside her on his thick, stumpy legs.

On neither occasion had Forrester seen them at close range--first a passing glance and then a bar's-length view. But now they could hardly have been nearer; side by side, the three of them played roulette in the casino at Messina.

Forrester had been so engrossed with the play that he didn't at first notice them move into the vacated chairs to his right. When they eventually caught his eye, he gave the girl an instinctive nod of recognition, which she ignored and the man didn't catch. The man was next to Forrester and he was sweating a lot; his scalp glistened through the thin black hair and he kept mopping his forehead. Sitting, he was shorter than the girl, but broad, built like a fairground tumbler, with squat, powerful hands. His cheeks were sandblasted, Forrester saw. And he staked high--100,000 or 200,000 lire at a time.

The girl now wore an emerald-green dress. Brown, bare arms, a simple gold pendant filling the depression between firm breasts. There was no wedding ring. She placed her own bets, drawing from the pile of chips in front of the man. She wasn't risking too much--a tenth of what he was staking, at the very most. But she won occasionally; and when she did, she kept the proceeds apart. The man didn't seem to object: he was losing, losing consistently, and was oblivious of side issues.

"Twenty-seven. Red," the grave-faced Italian croupier called. "Ventisette. Rosso..."

A moment's silence broken by the chips being raked across the green baize--the man's 100,000, the girl's 5000, Forrester's 10,000, and the rest. Forrester was down about 55,000, luck running against him now, after putting him quickly in credit. But at least he was playing methodically, persisting with the 20--24 bracket, and he wasn't really caring, enjoying the hubbub from half a dozen tables and the recurring tension at his.

He placed his chip as before and the croupier raised an inquiring eyebrow, rake poised.

"Carré," Forrester confirmed, and the chip's position was minutely adjusted. He had one more left, then would call it a night: £40 was more than enough to blow.

His neighbor apparently staked at random--first on 7 and then, as the wheel was set spinning, impulsively on 32; 100,000 lire each. He sat with his hands flat on the baize, not looking at the wheel but waiting, heavy lips pursed, waiting for the ball to rattle home, willing it to lodge where he wanted it. Already he must have lost well over 1,000,000--and it mattered, Forrester knew. Telltale signs were there.

"Trois. Rouge. Impair et manque..."

The man grunted and didn't look up. The girl had won a little on the red. Every so often during the past hour, she had touched him encouragingly on the sleeve: this time, she sighed audibly, then whispered something, close enough to kiss, and he shook his head.

Again he bet en plein, choosing 21. There was no pattern, no discipline to how he played. It was an expensive way in which to earn sympathy. Forrester's final chip nestled his as the last bets were placed, voices instructing the croupiers and the croupiers repeating the instructions aloud, now in Italian, now in French, now in English. A few onlookers had gathered at their end of the table, as if sensing drama.

"Rien ne va plus.... No more bets."

The ball seemed to take longer than usual to settle.

"Trentacinque. Nero."

The buzz of comment, the rattle of losing chips against the rake. Forrester started to push back his chair and the act of leaving unexpectedly made the man turn to him. "You. too--eh?"

It was a coarse face, a kind of desperation showing in the eyes. "Yes, indeed," Forrester smiled wryly, and moved under the chandeliers to the alcove where the bar was situated.

"Someone in trouble over there?" the bartender said. "The Englishman--the one with the blonde?"

"He's American," Forrester answered in Italian. "And trouble depends on what you can afford."

The bartender shrugged and sidled away, looking narrow-eyed toward the tables. Waiters came to him with more than orders: he didn't miss much. Forrester sipped a whiskey soda. There was quite a crowd standing round where the man and the girl were and he couldn't see them very well. But presently, she emerged and walked over to the cashier. Slim legs and, again, that smooth, relaxed stride. She handed what looked like a check to the cashier, who studied it, pinged a bell for the manager, conferred with him, then nodded, suddenly obliging, all smiles for a lady.

Forrester drained his glass and made his way to the exit. As he passed the table at which he had played, the girl had already returned and was spilling a fistful of chips in front of the man.

You fool, Forrester thought, glancing at him. You bloody fool.

The doorman offered a bored nod as Forrester stepped out under the vast stars. It had just gone midnight. His car was parked beneath the tamarisks, greeny-white in the starlight, and he got in and drove the 50-odd kilometers back to Taormina, cruising, relaxed, the air like warm silk against his skin and Etna looming on the one hand, the dark, smooth sea on the other.

• • •

A cry woke him. For a moment as he stirred, he couldn't remember where he was or whether the cry belonged to an abandoned dream. Sunshine slanted brilliantly into the hotel bedroom. Beyond the open window and the patterned veranda, the horizon was smudged with an obliterating haze.

"Please ..." he thought he heard.

He pushed himself onto an elbow, head cocked doubtfully. "Please"--louder this time, seemingly closer, the voice charged with hysteria.

He rolled off the bed and went at once to the veranda. He had never heard the girl speak and wasn't aware that she was sharing the room next to his, yet his surprise at seeing her was muted, her agitation totally demanding as his wits surfaced.

"What's the matter?" A six-foot gap separated their veranda railings.

"It's him...." She had her hands to the sides of her head. "Frank." Then, as if she slowly realized this hadn't made things quite clear enough, "He is dead."

The back of Forrester's neck prickled. Seconds must have elapsed before his voice came. "I'll be round," he said. "Let me in."

He grabbed his pajama top as he kicked into his slippers, then hurried out into the corridor. The first door along was ajar, the girl waiting in the tiny lobby. "Come. Oh, come." She was stupefied with fear.

The man was on his back on one side of the bed. A night's beard stubble accentuated the awful pallor of his face. Instinctively, Forrester searched for a pulse beat in the wrist, then, failing to find one, slid a hand under the flowered pajamas and pressed it against the matted chest hair above the heart, his mind at breakneck speed, thoughts and feelings colliding again and again.

Nothing. Not a tremor. And the fleshy skin felt cold. "How long ago--" he began.

"Just now. Five minutes, when I woke.... Oh, God."

He snatched up the phone. "I want a doctor urgently. There's a man dying here. Yes, here. As fast as you can."

Dying, he'd said, and she fastened onto it. "You mean--"

"I don't know.... Have you any brandy?" She was looking at him dazedly. "Have you?" She shook her head in slow motion.

He used the phone again and asked for cognac to be sent up immediately, adding: "What about the doctor? It's urgent, you know."

"I am calling one now."

The man looked enormously peaceful, out of reach, not caring. There seemed to have been no knowledge of pain, no fear. An empty glass stood on the bedside table: Forrester picked it up and sniffed, and learned nothing. No bottle, no phial--inevitably, he was searching for the obvious things. A traveling clock showed 7:25.

"Did he lose much?" She stared, lips parted. "I mean last night. At the casino." It was cruel at such a time. Even so, she might have answered, but there was a knock at the door and Forrester went to open it.

In addition to the bottle, the waiter had brought a tray carrying a corkscrew, glasses and a siphon of soda. Habit harnessed him even in an emergency. He seemed eager to come in, to witness something, but Forrester took the tray.

"Is it the signorina?"

"No." Lowering his voice, Forrester said: "Fetch the manager, will you?"

He shut the door. As soon as he managed to extract the cork, he slopped some brandy into a glass and sat on the edge of the bed. He put one hand behind the man's head, lifting, then inserted the glass between the thick lips. Most of the brandy seemed to dribble down the beard stubble and into the crease rings in the neck.

Without hope, he felt for a pulse again, and again there was nothing. He lowered the man's head back onto the pillows; close to, the pitted cheeks had a bluish tinge. Anything now was too late, hours too late, and the girl must have known it. She gazed at him, hugging herself as if the room were freezing.

She was wearing a short, partially transparent nightdress. There was a dressing gown hanging on the door. "Put this on." Forrester said, going for it. She obeyed woodenly. It must have belonged to the man, because the striped toweling enveloped her like a sack, giving her the elongated arms of a clowd. But farce had no place here; the body on the bed seemed to fill the room with its presence.

Forrester said gently, "Don't you reckon you'd be better off outside?"

She appeared to have no will of her own. "All right." A slow shudder moved through her. He followed her onto the veranda, where she clasped the railing and stared over the tumbling terraces and rooftops to where the sea lay deep as violets among the rocks. Almost inaudibly, she asked: "Have you a cigarette?"

"In my own room."

"There are some inside."

He went back in and found a pack and a lighter on the dressing table. Under the washbasin were numerous pieces of metal foil that he hadn't noticed before; he stirred them with a foot, but no more than that; chance had involved him enough, as it was. Outside again, he lit a cigarette for the girl: her fingers trembled violently as she craned close.

• • •

The doctor was the first to arrive. He was small, bustling and abrupt: other people's tragedies were routine.

"This man has been dead for hours." he announced, straightening up, and somehow he contrived to make it a complaint.

"I know," Forrester said. The girl had remained on the veranda.

"I was told otherwise."

"I hoped otherwise--to begin with."

A second knock. "Mi scusi." Now it was the manager--hastily dressed and with eyes not yet fully alert. He was tall for a Sicilian. Forrester let him in and he pushed anxiously past into the bedroom: it seemed to surprise him to find the doctor there and he stopped short, like someone at sword point.

Staring at the body, he said: "How is he?"

"He's finished."

"No!" The manager crossed himself with a kind of reflex movement. "Why? What happened to him?"

A quick shrug. "All I know is what you see."

The doctor went to the basin and ran the taps.

"Who found him like this?" the manager wanted to know. "Who--"

Forrester said: "The young lady did." He nodded toward the veranda; it was blurred by the mosquito frame on the windows. "She's out there. She called me round when she realized what had happened."

Fumbling for a towel, the doctor had discovered the fragments of metal foil beneath the basin. He gathered some of them up and squinted at them closely. The manager moved nearer the bed, hands fluttering.

"How long has the man been dead, dottore?"

"Perhaps four or five hours."

"And you can't tell why?"

"Not at the moment." The doctor held a ragged square of foil against the light. "But if you want a guess, I would say that he was tired of life."

Forrester was slightly nettled. "Look." he said evenly, "let's leave the interrogation to the police, shall we?"

"Of course, signore. Forgive me. It is just that...well, a suicide is not good for a hotel."

"Adultery, but not suicide," the doctor remarked dryly. He lifted the receiver and asked the operator to send at once for the police.

Forrester moved to the veranda, where he found the girl slumped in one of the cane chairs. He said, "Don't you think it would be better if you dressed? You haven't a bathroom here, have you?"

"Bathroom? No."

"You can use mine."

She didn't reply.

"The police are coming, d'you see? They must. It's inevitable, and it's just as inevitable that they'll want to ask questions.... Don't you think getting dressed might be a good idea?"

She rose without saying a word. Forrester made a point of leading the way. The doctor had pulled the sheet up over the body, he noticed.

"We're going next door," he told the manager. Not having the girl's name was a handicap, making him sound almost callous. "She wants to get into some clothes before the police arrive--and so do I."

He watched her collect the blue trouser suit from the closet, handbag and underwear from a chair. It seemed to frighten her to be inside again, inside and close. Not once did she look in the direction of the bed.

A pair of shoes was by the writing table. "Ready?" Forrester asked the girl and let her go first. Three or four maids and waiters were gossiping in the corridor; they stared, suddenly silent as the two of them turned into Forrester's end room. He showed the girl into his bathroom, then kicked his slippers off and got into sweat shirt and trousers. The doctor and the manager were on the adjacent veranda now; he could hear the buzz of their conversation.

Someone was craning over an upper balcony, peering down. The news was spreading, going the rounds with the morning calls. Irritably, Forrester wheeled about and went inside, picked up the telephone and ordered coffee for two.

Only just gone eight o'clock. Already, the day seemed everlasting.

The girl was perhaps five minutes in the bathroom. She had combed her hair but wore no make-up and her face remained blanched beneath the tan.

Forrester indicated the veranda and she shot him a nervous glance before stepping out, almost as if she were afraid to face the living, too. Seeing them emerge, the doctor and the manager returned inside, heads together like conspirators. Forrester lit a cigarette for the girl and himself. The sense of unreality persisted. He'd intended visiting Tindari, but already it was clear he would be doing no such thing. He gazed at the girl again, tongue-tied by the inadequacy of words. She seemed broken, without resources. And he knew that feeling.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "Very sorry."

"It was so awful...awful...to find him like that."

"What time did you leave the casino?" When she frowned, he went on: "You'll hardly remember, but I was at the same table. Was it late?"

"Sometime after two."

Forrester nodded, blowing smoke. Four to five hours dead--so there had been no hesitation, no agonized lying awake. When the man finally quit the casino and started along the coast road, the decision must already have been made, or was hardening fast. And somehow it had been hidden from her. Yet she must have been blind: Forrester had a vivid picture of the strained, desperate eyes that briefly fastened onto him as he pushed back his chair.

"What was his name?"

"Frank Nolan."

"And you're--"

"Inger."

"Is that Swedish?"

"Norwegian."

"Mine's Neal," he said. "Neal Forrester."

In the narrow street below, a police wagon had appeared, nosing into the hotel's entrance, and Forrester wondered whether she had seen it. A waiter came through to the veranda with the (continued on page 248)Another Way(continued from page l14) coffee; the room door must have been left off the catch. The haze had practically lifted from the sea, exposing a ship balanced on the horizon like a small white toy. And soon there were new voices from the room where the man lay dead, crisper, brisk with authority.

The girl crumbled her cigarette nervously in the tray. "What will they want to know? I can't speak Italian."

"Don't worry about that," Forrester said. "I'll help you along." Against his will, he was committed. She appeared scared again, in dread of whatever was in store, and pity moved in him.

• • •

There were two policemen, one of whom looked as if he had slept in his uniform; the other one did most of the talking. He was swarthy, with a pencil-line mustache and neat, wiry hair. It was close on half past eight when he led his colleague and the manager into number 30. Cap under arm, the policeman brought his heels roughly together and bowed slightly.

"Would you come in, please?" he said, motioning Forrester and the girl from the veranda.

"My questions are mainly for the signorina. I will speak to you later."

"The signorina doesn't know Italian."

"How good is yours?" the policeman asked skeptically. Most tourists came with phrase books and cameris--click, click, click--went home and forgot. Forrester shrugged and gave him a sample of slang. "Try me."

"All right, all right." Impressed, his companion started fishing for a notebook. "Now, the lady's name?"

"I'd sit down, if I were you," Forrester suggested to the girl. He pulled a chair from under the writing desk. "They want your full name."

She seemed to come out of a dream. "Inger Lindeman."

Forrester spelled it for the note taker's benefit.

"Nationality?"

"Norwegian," Forrester replied.

The questions went on. Address? Age? Married? Finally, "What was her relationship to the deceased?"

"The relationship is obvious," the manager said, stirring the air in protest. Then, covering himself, "The register is in order, though. You will see when you make your inspection."

"Da vero?" the policeman snapped. "Fancy!" He turned to Forrester. "Ask her what happened last night."

"They got back from the casino at Messina sometime after three; and when she woke this morning, he was dead."

"Ask her, please."

"I already have. She doesn't know anything more."

"I appreciate your intentions, signore, but the answers must come from her."

And so it went on--until almost ten o'clock: predictable questions, needless questions, stupid questions. The policeman occasionally presented a pained expression as evidence of sympathy, but the veneer was thin. Not many foreigners died in Taormina, and he was unlikely to have come across one who had died like this; headquarters would expect nothing less than thoroughness.

It was wearyingly painstaking, but, to Forrester's mind, the forest was being missed for the trees. And he finally suggested as much.

"Suicide?" the policeman reacted sharply. "That would be jumping to conclusions."

"The doctor isn't without some evidence."

"He implied that suicide was a possibility--that is all."

"Well, I'm not going to start splitting hairs, but I'd bet you a month's pay he's right."

"You seem very sure."

"I also played roulette in Messina last night." Forrester shot a glance at the girl; she was staring blankly across the room, twitching a cigarette between her fingers. "If made a change to go somewhere else. By sheer chance, I was alongside them at the table. When I left. Nolan was over a million down and showing every sign of following it with more. He was already right out of his depth--and getting scared."

The untidy policeman referred to his notes. "She estimates he lost as much as a million and a half."

"Exactly," the other one commented, pursuing his logic. "And yet she also says there was nothing significant about his manner. No change. No difference. That doesn't sound like a suicide-to-be."

"Who knows?" Forrester said. "He was a stranger, as far as I was concerned. They both were." Once more, he glanced at the girl. "And she doesn't know all that much about him herself."

"If you accept that she is telling the truth, signore."

"Oh, to hell," Forrester flared. "I suppose the same goes for me as well?"

For the first and only time that morning, the policeman permitted himself the ghost of a smile. "Any inquiry has to be determined by the assembly of facts and a comparison of information."

"That sounds as if it's straight out of a training manual."

"It makes sense, signore, nevertheless."

"Well, don't waste too much of your time on the girl. She's more in need of help than able to give it."

"She will have to sign a statement. And you also."

"No one's going to object to that."

They started to leave at last, nodding formally, adjusting their caps. "Arrive-derci, signorina.... Grazie." They were pretty human, after all.

• • •

In the corridor, they remembered Nolan's passport. Efficiency wasn't their strong point. Nolan's they found in his jacket, which hung motionless in the closet; hers was in the bedside-table drawer.

The senior policeman flipped them both through. "He was Canadian, signore. Born Vancouver...." He liked a small triumph. "You said American."

"Well, I said wrong. In any case, he was a long way from home." Now it was Forrester who turned to leave. "When do you want us for the statements?"

"At noon? Do you know where the police post is?" Forrester said he knew.

They stayed on to search the place, Forrester imagined. When he got back to number 30, the girl was still sitting in the chair, for all the world as if she hadn't moved.

"Thank you for all you have done," she said.

"I'm afraid it isn't over yet. The police want you to go and sign a statement."

"Will you be there?"

"They need one from me as well."

"And then?"

"There's bound to be a post-mortem; but beyond that, I couldn't say."

The police post was nearby and, when the time came, Forrester thought they might as well walk. Heads turned as they entered the hotel foyer. She was probably used to being looked at, because she didn't appear to notice. The manager beckoned Forrester when they were halfway across and he veered over to the desk.

"The signorina is being allocated another room--number forty-seven. Her belongings will be moved there just as soon as the police agree. A smaller room.... I am sure, if you explain, she will understand."

The high sun fell on them as they emerged. They turned along the slanting street between walls dripping with bougainvillaea and soon they were among the umbrellas of the pavement cafés and the shops stocked with bric-a-brac, where the touring coach parties were let loose. If Forrester had been asked to describe the girl, he would have listed blonde, slim, tallish, brown eyes, high cheekbones. But now, as he moved beside her, he was reminded of Nolan's heavy, quick-paced strut, and then he was remembering him at the casino and then thinking of him on the bed only hours ago. Nolan's memory kept pace with them in the noonday glare and among the indifferent passersby, the girl's face set, grief and shock hidden behind dark glasses.

Only once did she say anything. "We were leaving tomorrow. We were going to Rome.... What will happen about the hotel?"

"They're moving you elsewhere--to another room. The manager told me just now. How are you for money?"

"Not good," she said. "Not good at all."

It was five or six minutes to the police post--an ochcrous. grille-windowed building with the scurf of old election posters disfiguring a side wall. They mounted the shallow steps together to be engulfed by the apparent darkness of the interior. The duty clerk let them through the barrier without delay and showed them into an office marked Privato--largish, whitewashed, with a big desk at one end and battered wooden filing cabinets around two sides. The place reeked of stale cigar smoke. There were three men waiting for them, a gray-faced civilian in a gray suit, the policeman from the hotel who had done the talking and his senior officer--a heavy-jowled, podgy-handed individual with black, button eyes and a smoker's wheeze. Forrester had seen him one day near the Mazzarò beach, staring avidly after two retreating, bikini-clad figures, and now he stared without inhibition at the girl for just too long for it to pass unnoticed.

He said to Forrester: "I understand you are acting as interpreter or this lady? We have prepared the statements based on the information you boih gave and you will be asked to sign them. This is quite normal procedure. There is nothing unusual or significant about it--is that clear?"

A flip of the fat fingers. The civilian handed some papers across the desk. Perhaps he was a typist, or a lawyer; not that it mattered. The statements were on foolscap, double-spaced, and the girl's filled two and a half pages; Forrester's, three quarters of a page.

"Take your time," the officer wheezed, subsiding into a swivel chair and pretending to examine his fingernails. No disaster could ever have happened to him.

Forrester turned to the girl and began quietly to translate. A fan squeaked overhead. They had spelled her name incorrectly, after all, but there were no other literals that he could see. I am Inger Lindeman, Norwegian citizen, of Paul Astrup Vei 26, Oslo, age 23, single, passport number 427813, at present in residence at the Hotel Capua, Taormina.... It was a competent précis of what he had learned about her from the policeman's questioning. I met Mr. Francis Nolan six weeks ago in London, where I was working in a club, the Golden Cobweb. We went to Paris together, where we stayed two weeks. We were for three weeks after that in Alassio, after which we flew to Palermo, then came to Taormina....

"All right so far?" he asked, and she nodded, eyes closed.

Last night, we went to the casino at Messina. We played roulette. I estimate Mr. Nolan lost 1,500,000 lire. At 2:30 o'clock this morning, we took a taxi bach to the Hotel Capua, arriving at about 3:30. We went immediately to bed. I noticed nothing abnormal in Mr. Nolan's manner, either then, or during the journey from Messina, or at the casino....

"He was tired," she interpolated. "Frank told me he was very tired."

"No more than that?"

"No." Forrester didn't bother to translate it.

I awoke at 7:l5. At first, I thought Mr. Nolan was asleep....

There was nothing new, nothing at variance with how she had answered. Forrester's statement was also accurate....Neat J. Forrester, British, of Peterborough. England, age 37. ...Both ended with an elaborately worded declaration of their approval and a prepared space for the signature witnesses. The girl signed first, then Forrester.

"That is all. signore." The officer glanced cursorily at the documents. "I must compliment you on your Italian. It is exceptionally good. You must know my country well."

"This is my first time in Sicily. But I have relatives in Rome, cousins, and I've visited them for more years than I care to remember."

"Rome?" There might have been a bad taste in his mouth. "Well, no doubt, that will account for it." He scrawled his name on the lines provided and the civilian went to work with a rubber stamp. "Now, as regards Mr. Nolan's death. We shall be taking two other statements--the night porter's at the Capua and the manager's; these, it is hoped, will confirm the lady's estimates of times, and so on." His button eyes kept straying to the girl, measuring her blatantly. "Perhaps you will be good enough to tell the lady that we shall retain her passport until tomorrow, when the autopsy report will be completed."

"Are you implying that she's under suspicion in any way?"

"Not at all. Nor.signore, are you."

The officer smirked knowingly as they left. "What would she have done without your help, signore? I trust she will realize how indebted she is." Angered, Forrester stepped past him. Instinctively, he gripped the girl's arm. He had no illusions about her, but he could see how vulnerable she was, how hard it must be to be young and attractive and suddenly made alone.

• • •

This was on Tuesday.

She seemed to dread the thought of going back to the hotel, so he took her down the steep zigzag hill to a fish restaurant near the beach at Giardini. It was quiet there, with few people, and he chose a table on the tiny terrace. She had no appetite, only toying with the Food. For the most part, they were as distant as strangers; and now and again. Forrester found his sense of duty wilting a shade as he thought ruefully of where he might have been--Tindari, or at the swimming pool, or in chance conversation with somebody; laughing, perhaps. Already, it seemed an age since he had laughed. But whenever his mind wandered, the girl somehow broke the distraction--this time, with a shiver that shook ash from her cigarette.

"Are you cold?"

"No." She narrowed her shoulders, looking away. "Not like that....It came from inside." Then: "What made him do it? What could have possessed him?"

Forrester hedged. "What sort of person was he?"

"Always busy, always moving." For a moment, a memory trapped her. "Tomorrow was always going to be better, even better. That is why I cannot understand....Cannot. He was such an optimist."

"It was good with him, then?" Someone had to show an interest; she had a tight to it: her kind weren't equipped for loneliness.

A breeze wrinkled the sea, coming smooth and warm, stirring the geraniums planted along the stone balustrade. "When did you go to England?"

"Two years ago."

"To work in a club?"

"Now--to look after children."

"Are you a nurse?"

She shook her head. "Three children. at Guildford. It was a big house. The name of the people was Osborne, and the children were called Linda and Jonathan and Jeremy."

"And then you left and went to London?"

"I was bored," she said. "First I went lo a shop--it was Harrod's--and then I heard about the Golden Cobweb. I preferred the hours and the money was better. I was a hostess there." She drew on the cigarette. "One night, six weeks ago. Frank walked in. And now...."

"Did he have any languages? Did he speak Italian?"

"No. Oh, no." Her lips formed what might have been the merest hint of a smile. "He just had a way with him--no matter where we were. He was ... I don't know, things were always possible with Frank around."

Abruptly, as if she regretted the phrase, her eyes blurred again. She was very much like a child, Forrester thought; and with luck, the pain and confusion wouldn't last. With luck, she'd turn a corner and forget, the way children do. Nolan would diminish, Nolan for whom tomorrow must have been like a postdated check that couldn't be met. She was young and too much would happen to her. Life would soon engulf her again.

He said: "Being practical for a moment--don't be anxious about the hotel bill. You'll only be responsible for the new room."

"I have thirty thousand lire only, perhaps a little more."

"Twenty pounds, say. That ought to cover you."

"For the hotel, yes. Maybe. But afterward? How will I manage afterward?"

"I reckon the best thing will be for you to contact your consul. There's sure to be one in Palermo. He'll get you home all right."

"Home." she echoed, the eyes blank.

To his surprise, she then said: 'Are you married? "

"Why do you ask?"

"You've been so understanding. So helpful."

"Need one be married?"

"Are you?"

"No."

"Were you?"

"Yes."

With luck, she would have no scars. A vivid memory was an affliction, bringing anguish in the night.

• ••

The police officer had suggested that it might be Wednesday afternoon before he was in possession of the findings of the post-mortem. But he had overestimated either his compatriots' zeal or the local laboratory's capabilities: in any event, it was Thursday morning before the result was through.

The whole of Wednesday, therefore, meant marking time, remaining within easy reach of Taormina. Forrester didn't begrudge it; he had no firm plans and a very full three weeks' leave was behind him. first in Rome, as so often, then here --here being strictly for winding down after a hectic year. Rome hadn't helped in that direction; it never did. Rome was busy, urgent, endlessly entertaining and demanding; whereas Taormina was as beautiful a place for idleness as could be. Not that the girl was in any state to appreciate beauty; she was still very much sunk within herself.

At one point, he said: "I'm leaving on Friday--for Palermo. You'll be welcome to the ride."

"What happens to you at Palermo?"

"I fly to England." He very nearly added:". All good things come to an end," but instead he shrugged and substituted: "Work--there's no escape from it for long."

"Shouldn't I stay for the funeral?"

"That's up to you, but the police are checking with the next of kin, which means there may be some delay about funeral arrangements. Anyhow, you needn't decide here and now. There will be a spare seat right up to the moment I leave." After a few seconds, he added: "You won't be deserting Frank, you know. You've got to be thinking about yourself, Inger--what's best, what's most sensible. And surely, the most sensible thing is to put yourself in the hands of your consul.... Wouldn't Frank be the first to agree to that?"

His father might have been talking--"Diana's dead, Neal. Face up to it, brutal though it is. You did everything a man could. My God, you almost went, too. Be practical. Concentrate on yourself. There's no other way, believe me...."

The dream returned to him that night, the selfsame merciless dream, but only a fraction of it, the climax, the part where the shale started giving under his feet, scattering over Diana as she clung to the angle of cliff, one arm stretched toward his, sobbing breath, fingers reaching, and then his feet no longer getting any purchase, sliding, stamping, and Diana's eyes from only a few feet away, every second elongated into frantic lengths of time, and then the shale suddenly going clown in a gritty, slithering wave, taking her with it in a great sucking yawn of noise, while he watched.

When the dream woke him, as it always did, Forrester lay cold in the bed, hounded again across the years by the recollection. It was five o'clock and he got up, put on his dressing gown and went in slippers onto the veranda. An hour later, he was still there, smoking, watching the pink-and-pewier dawn beginning to make the new day as the world turned.

• • •

He took breakfast in his room. Soon after nine, the switchboard rang through with a message from the police post--would he and Miss Lindeman please report there between ten and eleven o'clock?

They walked to the police post in the April sunshine, to be shown on arrival into the same office as before, with its cloying cigar-smoke pungency and the blatant, libidinal gaze of its occupant.

"Buon giorno, signorina...signore."

No one else was there. An anonymous civic dignitary stared at them from a frame askew on the wall. They sat down and waited while the officer shuffled some papers. Perhaps he was trying to give the impression of overwork or of having innumerable and pressing responsibilities. Fussing, he eventually found what he wanted.

"Ah, yes," he wheezed, leaning back and glancing quickly at the girl's legs under the desk. "The doctor's report...." He cleared his throat, then addressed Forrester. "It says here that the dead man had a heavy concentration of sodium amytal in his system. It also says, in effect, that there was no evidence of cardiac or arterial weakness and that no other cause of death can be attributed."

"He killed himself, in fact," Forrester said.

"It will be for the inquest to rule whether the dose was self-administered--"

"Oh, to blazes."

Surprisingly, the officer nodded. "I agree with you. The circumstances point to it being so. All I am saying is that it is not for me to make the official pronouncement. Inform the signorina of the situation, please," he said. "Tell her, if you will, that for her peace of mind, I am taking her into my confidence."

He seemed anxious to win gratitude from her, recognition, God knows. It must be hard, Forrester thought, to lust so hungrily and to be totally ignored. On both visits, she had hardly even looked at him.

Forrester told her. "And now, will you be kind enough to hand her passport back?"

"Of course. I have it here, waiting." Like many fat men, he was nimble on his feet. He went to one of the filing cabinets, stomach held in, and found the passport. "Here," he said, making a point of giving it personally to the girl, going round behind her, able to touch her at last, hand excusably on shoulder. "With my compliments, signorina. A pleasure."

She asked Forrester: "What did he say?"

"He's telling you you're free to go." To the officer, he said: "The lady is grateful--most grateful."

Another lingering glance in her direction. "You can take it from me that she is at liberty to leave Sicily as and when she chooses."

Rising, Forrester told him: "She's probably traveling with me to Palermo."

"When will that be?"

"Tomorrow."

"Ah." With reluctance, the officer moved to the door; given a chance, he would have prolonged the small talk, the proximity. "Well, I wish you both a pleasant journey." Enviously, he again smiled the parting smile, which implied that he also was a man of the world. "Goodbye, signore...signorina." And Forrester felt his eyes on their backs as he and Inger walked along the corridor.

• • •

She went with him the next day. Someone on the other side ol the world had a claim on Nolan--mother, father, sister, brother; maybe a wife--and it wasn't for Inger to elect what became of his sewnup, refrigerated corpse. Not that she expressed any views. Tuesday morning remained for her the ultimate finality and she could cope with nothing else, though she left 4000 lire with the hotel manager to be spent on roses if Nolan were buried in Taormina--a generous sum, considering what remained when her bill was settled. In a way, it seemed the sentimental gesture of a child.

Yes, he reckoned Nolan would diminish. Taormina itself was already a memory. In a matter of hours, they had entered a wilderness. The most recent signpost had crooked a broken metal finger toward the sky, but whatever name and distance it proclaimed were all but eaten away by rust and Forrester hadn't spared it more than a glance. Then, as now, there was no choice of route; then, as now, he could see the solitary road snaking along the scrawny hills like a frayed chalk line. But presently, after several empty miles, he asked: "Where's next?"

He couldn't risk taking his eyes off the road for more than a second or so. The girl had a map between them on the seat, but she was no navigator.

"Leonforte," she said without conviction.

"Is that a suggestion or a fact?"

"Provided we have passed Agira."

"Agira's where I nearly had that dog under us."

"Oh.... Well, it will be Leonforte."

"I could do with a drink. Aren't you parched? I'm as dry as a bone."

Back in Taormina, the manager had said: "Why that way to Palermo, signore? Why not go to Capo d'Orlando and then along by the sea through Cefalù and Termini? A better road, more interesting places. And quicker. No? Well, it is up to you--naturally." This with the lift of the shoulders of one who knows best. "But inland, you will find another kind of Sicily. Anlipalica. Nothing but hills."

He wasn't entirely accurate. Once in a while, a village showed in the heapedup distances, like a patch of bird droppings; now and again, a river glittered through the haze of heat and shabby farm buildings huddled in the serpentine floor of a valley. But the almond trees and cypresses along the littoral, the carnations and lemon groves and the multicolored plaster walls straight out of the travel brochures belonged where the silver-white beaches were--behind Etna. This was stark, savage country, the road often like a shelf with unnerving gorges sheer on its open side.

The Fiat 1800 handled well. All morning, Forrester had driven with care, wrestling the wheel on the endless curves as the road bucked and twisted around Etna's huge base, spreading a long trail of dust over the high desolation where they now found themselves. Hardly another car shared it with them, only an occasional truck, sometimes a lonely man plodding along the verge or gazing down at them from a rocky slope with goats moving amid the scrub and prickly pear. A different Sicily, all right, wild beyond Forrester's imagination, and one that he'd never have seen if he'd allowed the manager to route them. Yet Palermo was still within comfortable reach; they'd be there by evening.

He sounded the horn and the tires whimpered through yet another S bend. Then the road ran straight for a while, with a plunging fallaway to their left. A few gauzy slicks of high cloud, eroded outcrops of yellow rock on the steep, bare hillside ahead, no evidence of human activity--until, at last, Leonforte showed. For the passer-by, it was a nondescript town, small and compact, clustered above vineyards and patches of gnarled olive small holdings, with tight streets and sunless back alleys to nowhere. Forrester parked the car in the main square and he and Inger crossed to a café, where checkerboard tables stood beneath some plane trees. She ordered Cinzano soda and Forrester, a beer. The trees shook their shadows gently in the sun and the waiter departed with his metal tray, plucking morosely at a frayed cuff.

Forrester stretched his legs: "D'you feel like eating?"

"Here?"

"God forbid. Unless you're ravenous, I thought we could push on to Etna, or even to Caltanissetta. What d'you say?"

"I can wait."

Their drinks came, cold and slaking. Forrester drained his and ordered another. The girl was almost beautiful in the dappled light, her hair blown, nothing false about her face; the pallor had gone and the tan glowed. She was wearing the trousers from the blue suit, but jacketless now, with a sleeveless white-cotton sweater.

• • •

Etna was still there sometimes, even now. quivering distantly in the rearview mirror. They were climbing again, the panoramas widening, the land more hostile, if possible, than before. About five miles out of Leonforte. a scries of hairpins demanded all Forrester's concentration: but when the road leveled off. he opened the throttle. It wasn't long after midday and the dust curdled behind them under the brassy sun. Cactus by the wayside, thornbushes, rock and coarse scrub; either that or dramatic gorges with far-off glimpses of cultivation and perhaps a big house centered amid disciplined concentrations of green.

Ahead, the road split left and right by a wayside call box. Nearing the fork, Forrester could see two men, one in the center of the road, one sitting by the bank. The one in the center started waving, legs apart, facing them; even at 50 yards, his teeth showed in a grin.

"What the hell--"

Forrester braked. The man held his ground, arms raised as if in surrender. The grin didn't falter. Not until the Fiat had come to rest within feet of him and the following wave of dust was drifting over did he move; then he skipped round to Forrester's side.

"Inglese?"

"Si."

"Parla italiano?"

Dark-blue suit, grubby cream shirt, no tie; thin, thongy wrists.

"Si. What d'you want?"

"My brother has hurt his leg. His ankle."

The one on the bank acknowledged Forrester's glance with a moody nod. He was the younger of the pair--20ish, and rougher-looking. Both were very swarthy.

"Where are you making for?" Forrester said, cutting the engine.

"Caltanissetta." The man by the car really had the most ferocious grin. It was like a permanent fixture; but above it, the eyes were sharp and darting.

"You're in luck. Climb in."

"Tante grazie." Then, over his shoulder: "Va bene, Giuseppe."

The brother hobbled over and they clambered into the rear seat. Forrester watched them in the mirror: country boys.

"How did you hurt your ankle?"

"On a stone up there. I twisted it." He was gruff and surly. And yet on edge; Forrester could sense his tension.

Forrester switched on. As he did so, the brother asked a curious thing. "Esso?"

Forrester had filled up in Taormina, though for the life of him, he couldn't remember with what. Carelessly, he nodded, shifting into gear and releasing the hand brake. "That's right."

"Your wife is beautiful," the other one remarked alter a pause.

Forrester smiled back at the grin. To Inger, he said: "They're being complimentary about you."

She didn't respond. He drove a quarter of a mile or so in silence. Presently, there was a solid, metallic-sounding click that he couldn't place. Glancing into the mirror again, he saw the man behind him lean forward: then he felt a jacket sleeve against his neck hair as an arm rested on the back of the seat. For half a moment, Forrester imagined he was about to be offered a cigarette.

"Signore--we are not going to Caltanissetta."

"No?" Even then, he hadn't grasped that something might be wrong. "Where, then?"

"I will show you. It is not on this road."

"Sorry, but I'm not making any detours."

"You are." The voice was very quiet, almost against his neck, bin its intensity carried a built-in threat: the manner of address had suddenly changed to the familiar and disdainful tu.

Slowing, Forrester half turned in his seat. And then, with a chill of alarm, he saw that the man was pointing an automatic pistol at him.

Inger must have seen it simultaneously: Forrester was vaguely aware of her startled gasp. But for seconds on end, the gun seemed to have him mesmerized. He flung a glance at the road, meaning to draw onto the side.

"Don't stop!"

"Listen--"

"Keep going--I'm warning you."

"Do as he says," the other one grated.

Forrester held the car at low speed. "Is this a game? Some kind of a game?"

"Do as I tell you and neither of you will be hurt."

"Who are you?"

"Carlo and Giuseppe--brothers."

Now Inger: "What is happening? Who are they?" She was scared, pressing against the door.

Over his shoulder. Forrester said: "Cosa vogliono? Money?"

"Everyone wants that"--this with a snigger.

"I have some money."

"But of course.... Now, I suggest you drive faster."

A prod between the shoulder blades. The film of sweat on Forrester's neck and forehead felt icy. Reluctantly, he increased the speed: the verge blurred past. The road dipped, climbed and twisted. A warning horn suddenly blared and Forrester hugged the side on two blind corners in succession. On the third, the horn sounded again, close, and a blue-and-chrome coach swung round the turn. Forrester braked sharply to give it room. A score of tourists gazed down at them as it edged past, cocooned in their contentment, and helplessly he watched them go, hearing with a kind of disbelief the guide with the hand microphone saying: "You cannot see it from here, ladies and gentlemen, but ten kilometers to your right is Lake Pergusa. near which, according to legend, Pluto carried off Proserpine...." Nightmares were made of incidents like this.

No sooner had the coach disappeared in its own dust than Forrester realized he had missed his chance: if he'd pulled across the path of the coach, rammed its side even, then the gun behind him would have been useless. As it was, it crippled every prospect of refusal or escape. Next time, he thought feverishly.... Coaches were rare, but there might be a truck or another car; witnesses. Something could be done. The coach had come too soon, catching him unprepared for action. Next time, though.... He tensed expectantly, on the lookout, sounding his own horn in the hope of hearing another answer.

But there was no next time. The road was all theirs and remained so for minutes on end. Then a signpost pointed left to Enna and he was told to filter away to the right. The surface under then vanished; they were on a rotky track, and on either side it might have been the pock-marked surface of the moon.

• • •

They must have covered a dozen crunching miles from the road-and-track junction. Time and again, potholes reduced Forrester almost to a crawl.

They were high now, as high as they'd been all day, with unknown villages embattled in the heat-discolored distances. Yet here and for miles around, there was nothing--neither cultivation nor habitation, at most a few broken stone-piled walls like abandoned defense positions. But when they descended into the depressions that lay in uneven succession across the line of the track, the world closed tight around them as the skyline rose. Conifers filled most of these long hollows, and once they crossed the dried-up bed of a stream, bleached wood like bones littered along its rocky channel.

"Another kind of Sicily up there. signore"--the hotel manager's words echoed like a taunt. "Antipalica."

"What are you--mafiosi?"

The grin flashed again. "If we were, would we say?"

Forrester swore at them. Giuseppe, the one with the bogus limp, colored and jerked forward, but the brother restrained him. "Easy, easy. You know what Salvatore said." Then he tapped Forrester on the shoulder. "Go left over this next rise. Slow down a little--the turn comes quite soon."

The Fiat crested the incline. Another deep hollow confronted them, thick with pines.

"Here," Carlo ordered, pointing. "Turn here."

Forrester swung onto a dirt path. Water flowed in a gully beside it. The path lost its identity, but it was still possible to thread a way through the trees. Sunlight splintered overhead and they went a flickering half mile or so before reaching a small clearing, where a low rectangular stone building stood at the base of some enormous boulders. It was little more than a hut. Water was spilling in a thin silvery cord over the face of a rocky blulf and the boulders were green with moss.

"Stop now."

The car rocked to a halt. There was a movement at one of the hut's windows.

"Go tell him, Giuseppe."

"D'accordo." He jog-trotted away, no limp now.

Carlo motioned with the gun. "Both of you."

"They want us out," Forrester told Inger.

The ground was springy underfoot; they walked without noise, Carlo behind. The sound of the waterfall stressed the encasing silence. Giuseppe had already disappeared into the building, but he emerged with another man, middle-aged, thickset, in shirt sleeves.

"Rallegramenti, Carlo! So you got your fish." Advancing, the newcomer came with his thumbs dug behind a heavy belt. Hooknose, gray showing in the black hair and the palest eyes Forrester had ever seen, practically colorless. The square lace was very lined, the cheeks hollow.

He gave a mock bow. "I am told you speak Italian."

"I do, yes," Forrester said. "And I want to know what the hell you and your friends imagine you're playing at."

"You have been kidnaped." The man seemed amused. His voice was deep, the dialect pronounced. "What other explanation could there be? And we are not playing--that I can assure you." To Carlo, he said: "Take the car round to the back." He commanded respect; Carlo moved obediently. "We are not playing, but we do not wish to harm you, either. All of this, however, can be explained inside."

There were three sagging board steps up to the door. They entered a room in which there was little except a battered pine table and a few rough chairs; three doors led off and there was a sink at one end with a bucket standing on the draiuboard. Alongside was a stove, its rickety flue pipe poking up through the low roof. The remains of a meal--glass, dirty plate and fork--were at one end of the table with a half-empty bottle of red wine. The floor was of stone and light came from two windows, sacking draped crudely at their sides.

"A chair for the signora, Giuseppe. We must make our guests as comfortable as possible."

Impatiently. Forrester joined the senior man at the table. "Listen--I'm a British subject and this lady--"

"We know exactly who you are."

"Nonsense."

"It is precisely because we know who you are that you are both here."

"All right--who are we, then?"

It came with quiet satisfaction. "You are George Russell--and this, of course, is your wife."

Forrester's eyes widened. "George who?"

"Russell." The pronunciation was extraordinary.

"Oh, no, I'm not." With relief, Forrester said to Inger: "They think we're someone else."

A momentary suspicion of the aside showed in Salvatore's face. "You are general manager for Esso and last night you and your wife stayed at the hotel in Leonforte."

Forrester smiled; it was so ridiculous. "You've got it all wrong. I'm afraid."

"Bluffing won't help. We know. And our intention is to ask the Esso company for five million lire against your release."

So that was it. He'd once read a news item about a similar ploy in Bolivia, perhaps Mexico.

"In which case, whoever you are, I'd better tell you something quick--otherwise, you're going to make idiots of yourselves." Forrester began counting on his fingers. "One, my name is Forrester, not Russell. Two, this lady is a Norwegian citizen and she is not my wife. Three, I've nothing to do with Esso. And four, last night, Signorina Lindeman and I were at the Hotel Capua in Taormina."

Carlo entered the room just then; his grin began to fade as he listened.

"You were in Leonforte," Salvatore persisted, confidence not yet shaken. He clasped his hands, leaning forward.

"An hour ago, yes; but not last night."

The backs of the wrists were tattooed. "You were in Leonforte, you are with Esso and you drive a rented white 1800 Fiat."

"The Fiat's rented, yes. We passed through Leonforte, yes. But am I the Esso general manager? No--most certainly I am not."

"You are lying." The mouth was a thin, taut line. Everyone lied.

Forrester turned to Inger. "For some crazy reason, they believe I'm a George Russell, that you're my wife and that I'm in the oil business."

Salvatore rounded on her suspiciously. "What is he telling you?"

"You can ask her until you're blue in the face, but you won't get an answer. She doesn't speak a word of your language."

"What did you say to her?"

"That you're as wrong as wrong can be about us. I can very easily prove it. Our passports are in the car----"

Forrester rose, but Salvatore snapped: "Stay where you are. Carlo--get their luggage."

"My passport's in my jacket."

Carlo went obediently, the swagger gone. On the other side of the room, Giuseppe gestured uneasily from the wall.

"He told us he was with Esso. I asked him as soon as he picked us up and he confirmed it."

"Oh, for Coil's sake! I thought you were asking what petrol I used."

A contemptuous roll of the eyes. "And you didn't deny the woman is your wife.... He is lying, Salvatore."

"Of course he's lying," Salvatore growled. Then, reverting to Forrester: "We have a relative in Leonforte. Last night, he confirmed where you were slaying. This morning, he reported your time of departure from the hotel." Forrester's expression must have made him add: "By telephone--there is a call box at the junction where you were stopped. Don't provoke me, Signor Russell."

"Then all I can say is that you shouldn't rely on relatives. This one's led you up the garden."

Carlo clattered up the steps and backed in through the door: there were four cases in all--Inger's two, and Forrester's. He lugged them to the table and thudded them down. The jacket was bundled underarm and Forrester guessed he'd already examined the passport; he flashed a nervous glance in Giuseppe's direction that was part warning, part appeal. Forrester reached for his jacket as soon as it was heaped on the table, but Salvatore knocked his hand aside.

"What d'you take us for, eh?"

"I don't carry a gun, if that's what you're thinking."

A glare served as a reply. Salvatore found the correct pocket with the speed of a thief. "Now...." He narrowed his eyes as he drew out the passport and began turning the stiff pages: his lips moved as he peered to read a double spread of visa stamps.

"The particulars are at the front," Forrester told him.

"I know, I know."

Clearly, he didn't, but he was vain; stubborn. When Forrester's photograph confronted him. he stared at it and grunted. Then, laboriously, he worked over the opposite page, turned back to decipher more, the set of his face hardening as the truth gradually dawned. A vein swelled in his temples.

Finally he exploded: "Imbeciles!"

He flung the passport aside. His chair went over as he leaped to his feet. Carlo started to dart away, but he grabbed him with his left hand and struck him a series of savage blows across the mouth with his right, jerking Carlo's head from side to side, raging abuse at him. Just as suddenly as he had begun, he pushed Carlo clear and wheeled on Giuseppe.

"What kind of fools am I saddled with?" He went toward him. "D'you realize what you've done? You, you useless----"

By the wall, Giuseppe stiffened, flicking open a knife, as Salvatore came to arm's length. "Try. Just try."

With astonishing swiftness, the older man kicked at the extended wrist, sending the knife spinning, closing in with a flurry of knees and fists. Giuseppe sank to the floor, doubled up, hugging his stomach. Only a few seconds had elapsed.

"Even with a knife, you are nothing," Salvatore snarled contemptuously. He spat. "Both of you are nothing." Carlo was leaning against the end of the table, blood trickling from his mouth. "God in heaven, what chance has Angelo with lunatics for brothers? Do you know what you've done? Do you? We wanted Russell, we planned for Russell, and you bring someone else.... Someone else, do you hear?"

"It was the only white Fiat to show--and the timing was right," Carlo mumbled.

"Excuses!" Salvatore raged on. "All you give me is excuses!"

He took a passing swipe at Carlo's head, which Carlo ducked. Giuseppe still hugged himself on the door, sullen in his pain.

"Woman!" Salvatore shouted down at him. "Woman, you."

His fury ebbed and flowed, violence followed by periods of blind swearing accompanied by enraged gestures. "Merda!" The glass and plate were swept away, the wine snatched up and gulped. "Merda!" At almost any other time, it might have been comic. But he was unpredictable and dangerous; thwarted men were always dangerous, and this one believed himself cheated. Five million lire.... Through no fault of his, a dream had crumbled.

"Non e la mia colpa," he mimicked, as Carlo mopped the blood. "Who was to blame, then? Tell me that--who?"

Suddenly, he seemed to catch sight of Inger and Forrester again. And his anger changed course, as if he needed to prove that the others were as much sinned against as sinning. Such incompetence couldn't be true.

"You lied to the boys."

"No."

"You said you were Russell."

"Never."

"You didn't deny it."

"I wasn't asked."

"They were led to believe you were with Esso. Also that you are husband and wife."

"They assumed that. She is a friend."

"Where's her passport?"

Forrester asked Inger. "The small case," he informed Salvatore. "It isn't locked. Look in the pocket in the lid."

This time, the passport was given only brief examination. In disgust, Salvatore tossed it onto the table. "Cristo!" he said, and sucked in air, then ran his hands over his lined face.

Forrester waited, ill at ease. He was trying to be casual, yet casualness was out of place. All at once, the waterfall sounded loud and clear, as if a breeze were playing tricks; but beyond the cracked and flyblown windows, the pines stood motionless.

"Ask them about their own money," Giuseppe said, rising from the floor.

Salvatore turned to Forrester: "How much have you got?"

"Perhaps a hundred thousand."

Salvatore made an impatient gesture. "And the woman?"

"None."

"You expect me to believe that?" To possess a foreign passport, drive cars, put up in hotels, even second-class pensions--this, automatically, meant wealth.

"We're on our way home, so we're practically cleaned out. She might have two or three thousand left."

"The car could be sold." Carlo ventured. "Down in Agrigento, say. It's a million-and-a-half-lire car."

"And where are we. then? Almost four million short, Madre!" Salvatore might have been among enemies. "Use that apology of a head of yours. Think!"

Forrester slood up. "Listen." he said carefully. "You've got yourselves the wrong people. Signorina Lindeman and I are due in Palermo. She has urgent business with her consul and I have a plane to catch." It sounded pretty lame, but a hard line was out of the question. "Most of what money there is is in traveler's checks, but you're welcome to the cash. So how about letting me have the car keys?"

Salvatore seemed taken aback. "Are you a fool, like the others? I know you are trying to remember how far to the nearest police post."

"Certainly not. The incident's closed. as far as we're concerned." Forrester could hear himself, like a parody of an Englishman at bay.

"Don't be so sure. Esso isn't the only whale in the sea." Salvatore moved closer, his face squeezed into a hundred lines. "What about your own company?"

"What about it?" Forrester stalled.

"Aren't you worth five million to your employers?"

"I shouldn't think so for one moment." Things were taking a different turn. "You're talking rubbish," he retorted sharply. "If you think you can raise that amount where I'm concerned, you're as stupid as your two boneheaded friends are incompetent."

"Insolente! What do you do? Just who are the two of you?"

"Find out."

Furiously. Salvatore started dragging everything from Inger's open case-- shoes, underwear, brushes. She jumped from her chair: "No! Please, no!"

"Lay off," Forrester shouted at him.

"You shut your mouth. Empty your pockets."

"Lay off, d'you hear?"

The situation was out of hand, he knew; but he wasn't expecting the blow. came without warning and caught him hard on the underside of the jaw. And at once, everything rocketed into darkness.

• • •

Only Inger was with him when he came round.

"Inger?" he said to the blur, as light and shape look hold. Slowly, he blinked her into focus. "Where are we?"

"They put us in this room."

Forrester winced as he raised his head. The place was about a dozen feet square. The rusted iron bedstead that he lay across was the only thing there. Sacking hung by the dirty windows, but the rest was as bare as a prison cell.

"How long was I out?"

"Right out--only a minute. Half out, two or three. They carried you in, then pushed me after."

He sat up, trying to regain his wits. His jaw felt twice its size. Voices murmured through the closed door.

Twice, now, they had shared drama, and this time they were equal partners. She sat beside him on the blanket that covered the bed. lips parted a little, eyes on his in appeal, in need of him. If she had been stone-deaf, the past hour could hardly have been more alarming. More than Nolan had receded; normality seemed a million miles away.

"Apparently, they'd made plans to kidnap a Mr. and Mrs. Russell. Russell seems to be a senior man with Esso. He and his wife stayed in Leonforte last night and left this morning, about the time we did. A colleague of theirs kept them notified--by phone, they say." Gingerly, Forrester massaged his chin. "It so happens the Russells are also driving a while Fiat; but as luck would have it. we were the ones who got to that junction first--and that was enough."

"Who are these men?"

"Thugs? Bandits?" Forrester humped his shoulders resentfully. He was sure they weren't mafiosi; the mafiosi saw themselves as an elite, but these people lacked any aura of power. "II we're any example to go by. they're blundering amateurs, but they've set their sights high. They were banking on five million lire from the Esso company, and as far as I can make out, it's a set figure. Don't ask me why. The one who hit me--Salvatore--wasn't talking in terms of settling for anything less. For some reason, five million is what they're after."

Inger frowned. "From us?"

"They'll be lucky!" Well over £3000. "My company isn't in a position to cope with a demand of that kind. We aren't an international setup: and. in any case, we're subject to all manner of foreign-exchange restrictions." He was thinking aloud, oblivious of whether she followed him or not. "Besides--"

The voices crescendoed in the other room; they were still licking" their wounds.

"I am bad luck." Where, exactly, Inger's mind was then. Forrester couldn't tell; but she was suddenly distraught.

"I'm partly to blame." Forrester said. "I wasn't very clever just now."

"You tried."

Strangely, he was flattered. In his anxiety, he turned his attention to the windows again. If lie dwelt on it. he knew he could fear for her, for them both. Somehow, he had to get them out of here, but argument seemed to be his only weapon--argument, and one perhaps persuasive lie.

• • •

Ten minutes passed before a key grated in the lock and Salvatore opened the door.

"Have you cooled off?" He paused, as though acknowledging Forrester's enmity. "Come, there is more talking to do."

Forrester followed him into the other room, humiliation only a part of what he felt. All the suitcases had been emptied, their contents spread over the long table. He had expected this, though the sight galled him further, renewing the instinctive urge to remonstrate. Somehow, he beat it down. Whatever rights Inger and he might have believed were theirs had vanished the moment Carlo and Giuseppe got into the Fiat; but only now had it sunk in.

Salvatore fixed his pale stare on him. "What connection have you with the police?"

"No connection at all."

"There are police entries in your passports. In them both."

"That's because of an investigation in Taormina. They stamped the passports."

"What kind of investigation was this?"

"Signorina Lindeman's companion died. She and I were questioned. They were making routine inquiries, I was involved primarily as interpreter. After the inquiries were completed, I offered to drive her to Palermo. She's had a bad time," he added, and it was as near to an appeal as he came. That wasn't the way.

Salvatore grunted, apparently satisfied. "Now," he said, back to square one, "I want to hear about this company of yours. Where is it?"

"There is no company."

"No company? You have no employer?"

"I work for myself. In Peterborough, England."

Salvatore frowned. His gaze moved briefly to Carlo, who stood behind Forrester, then away. "And you belong to no company?"

"I told you." All his suppressed anger was welling up again. "I'm self-employed. There's no one for you to bargain with, no one to tap. You got the wrong man."

"This time, I know for sure you are lying." Salvatore gestured, as if he were tossing a ball. "Show him the address, Carlo."

Carlo moved lo Forrester's elbow and thrust a business card into his hand. It was immediately recognizable and Forrester's heart sank. He could have kicked himself. The card must have been loose in one of his cases, or in a side pocket, forgotten.

Neal J. Forrester, M. C., Stone and Forrester Limited, Peterborough, Demolition Contractors

"You see, signore?" A hard, mirthless smile that hollowed the cheeks even deeper.

Forrester shrugged. Suddenly, it seemed futile to go on. "All right, it is my company. But it's no Esso. We're a very small concern. Spicciolare. What I'm trying to tell you is that you haven't a chance of raising five million lire from that quarter. Not a chance."

As he spoke, he had a forward flash of how it might be, with his father saying in that gruff, disapproving way of his: "How, in God's name, could you get mixed up with people like that? Really, Neal, it's too bad. And who was this woman?" The world had hardly touched his father; so much of it was improper, and what was improper was avoidable. The steppingstones that had led Forrester here would never have been his. If Nolan had died in the adjoining bedroom, he'd have called the doctor and the manager, then gone downstairs for breakfast. So there would have been no involvement with Inger, no feeling of responsibility, no kidnap on the road, no stone hut in the back of beyond, no three men, no gun, no knife, no hollow-checked insistence on money. Chance worked differently for his father. And in testy complaint, he would say: "Your life's your own, Neal. But it beats the band that you should expect Stone and Forrester to bail you out...."

All this a thousand times faster than speech.

"Let me ask you a question," Forrester went on quickly. "Why five million? Why not settle for what you've got and call it a day?"

"Because less than five million will not be enough. And we need it within a week."

"You haven't a hope. With Esso, maybe. They'd have funds locally. But my company--even if it were able to oblige, which it isn't--would probably need twice that long to get approval to the transfer, and there's no guarantee of its being forthcoming."

To Forrester's surprise, he wasn't interrupted. He'd hardly expected a chance to reason, but he began to speak about the restrictions imposed by the Treasury, stressing the difficulties, the limitations, the impersonal level of decision. (His cousins in Rome had helped, as usual, with some lire on the side--otherwise, he'd never have been able to squander as much as he had at roulette--but he kept them out of it.) Companies, corporations, individuals--everyone back home, he told Salvatore, was in the same boat.

"You might wait a month, and then be turned down. You can't shove a pistol into someone's back over there."

All the signs were that Salvatore was at least unsettled. Restlessly, he moved about the room. Once, he swatted the air angrily and swore. Giuseppe and Carlo stayed well clear, watching him; Giuseppe, the knife retrieved, was picking at his nails. For a short while, Forrester believed he had at last planted a seed of doubt; indeed, he glanced toward Inger, trying to convey that Salvatore might finally have realized he had bitten off something not worth chewing.

But then Salvatore said: "This company of yours--what docs it do? Demolition--that is the same as demolizione, no? What do you demolish?"

"Pretty well anything--it depends. On land, under water. Buildings, towers, wrecks...."

"Do you use explosives?"

"Explosives, yes." Forrester nodded.

Salvatore suddenly gripped Forrester fiercely on the shoulders, nails digging deep, his face creasing with excitement. Then he spun on the others. "Did you hear? Did you? Miracles happen even now, ragazzi. Miracles, I tell you. We have landed a dynamiter." And he burst into laughter.

•

He was still laughing when someone clattered up the steps and the outer door opened. Another man came in, younger than either Carlo or Giuseppe, handsome, with sleek finger-waved hair. He nodded with satisfaction when he saw Inger and Forrester.

"Ciao," Carlo said. "You've taken your time."

"It was an hour before I could thumb a ride." He bent to beat dust from his tight trousers and pointed shoes. "I see you and Giuseppe got yours."

"But in the wrong car"--this, with relish, from Salvatore.

"Impossible!"

"Yes, Luigi, wrong ...for which fiasco you are as much to blame as your no-good brothers. Didn't you notice another white Fiat in Leonforte?"

"Another? I was near the hotel, only near the hotel."

"In which case, you think the Russells look like these two?"

Luigi's gaze returned in dumfounded silence to Inger and Forrester. He feared Salvatore; they all did, and it showed along with the dismay.

"I never saw them close to. I have this friend on the staff; he kept me informed. I couldn't hang about inside the place."

"I am surrounded by incompetents," Salvatore stormed, and struck his fist against his forehead. But his anger was simulated. He was playing Luigi cat-and-mouse, enjoying his discomfiture. "However, perhaps all is not lost. By chance--and no thanks to any of you--we have a dynamiter in our midst." Again he laughed. "An explosives expert. What d'you say to that?" And he clapped his hands together. "Have we got the Russells? No. we have not. Will we get the five million? No, we will not. But what have we got instead? The possibility of an alternative. Don't you see? Is your skull that thick?"

Giuseppe flashed him an ugly look. "I see," he said in a surly voice. "But you might as well suggest we climb Etna on our hands. We wouldn't have a hope."

Salvatore hadn't finished. "Face the facts. There is no other way, not as things are. We are left with this, this or nothing, and to do nothing would be a crime." He turned to Forrester. "And you will help us."

"You're talking in riddles. But if you imagine I'm going to be party to blowing a bank or something of the sort, you're out of your mind."

Salvatore's eyes flashed. "Listen," he said, the mouth hard again. "We picked you up in good faith, thinking you were someone else, someone we could use as a lever, someone who would help open doors. The error was ours; but, fortunately, errors are not always disastrous. Those doors can still be opened--and you will make it possible."

"I won't make it possible. I damned well refuse. Just who the hell do you suppose you are?"

Salvatore prodded with a finger. "You may find this hard to believe, but--speaking personally--I wish you no harm, either of you. But your safety is of minor importance to me and the boys, compared with what is at stake. Let me put it this way. Both of you have already disappeared: already, you have been taken out of circulation--and no one is the wiser. Whether or not your disappearance is to be made permanent will be for you to decide." An entire world of indifference was in the way he spread his hands. "I am sorry, but there it is."

Forrester glanced desperately at Inger, then back to Salvatore, the others all watching, as still as statues. His voice shook. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, yes"--very quietly, with a nod. "If need be."

There was a long silence: ash shifted in the stove.

"We aren't in this place for our health," Salvatore went on. "Perhaps you should know a lit Lie about our background, if you doubt my sincerity. Someone was killed, a fool of a policeman. All of us are on the wanted list--all, that is, except one."

"I don't understand."

"There are four brothers. Three are present; the fourth--Angelo--is in the Monteliana jail. Five million lire would have got him out; a price had been negotiated for his escape." Salvatore darted an unforgiving glance at the others. "Even so, it was always a gamble whether we could raise the money from Esso in time. So now, friend, we will gamble another way. We will pick your brains about explosives instead, and you will show us how to get Angelo out of there ourselves." He waited, studying Forrester clinically. "It is unfortunate for you, but you have no choice, no choice at all. Think it over--and, in case you imagine you are in a bargaining position, remember this. We are going to need you, but we don't need the woman. And I suggest the knowledge of that will guarantee your cooperation."

• • •

From the beginning, there had never been more than three possibilities open to Forrester--force, bribery and persuasion. All had died in turn. Yet from the moment he realized that he and Inger were the victims of chance and error, lie hadn't seriously doubted the almost unbelievable charade would come to a satisfactory end before the day was out. He thought it certain they would be lighter by every lira and worthwhile possession in their luggage, but he had visualized an end to it, nonetheless--until a few minutes ago. Between then and now, a kind of madness had entered into Salvatore's thinking, a new ruthlessness that even the others didn't seem to realize might have been on its way. For a long-drawn second or two. Forrester teetered on the brink of turning to them in appeal. His gaze swept them--Carlo with a nervous half-smile, Luigi rubbing the side of his face, Giuseppe moodily toying with the knife--and he knew that Salvatore would carry them with him.

Clutching at straws now. Forrester blustered: "You've taken too much for granted. I haven't handled explosives in years."

"But you have knowledge of them--you admitted it."

"I'm not technically qualified. You're making a mistake, if you're imagining that."

Salvatore thrust his hands into his belt, the tattoos showing: he wasn't to be rattled again. "If I were in your shoes. I would have tried that one myself. But it won't work, not with me. Oh, no. Back there in England. I dare say you sit in a big chair at a big desk in a big office and always wear a fine suit and a white shirt and tell your men to go and do these demolitions." I know how it is, his raised shoulders said. "But if the worst came to the worst, you could instruct others. And if you think you have forgotten--well, start refreshing your memory. You'll have a little time. No one is rushing you. Nothing will happen today."

"Let the signorina go," he pleaded. "Let her take the car. I'll advise you, if I must, but keep her out of this. She's suffered enough these past few days."

"She won't suffer anymore unless you make it necessary."

Apprehensively, Forrester moved his hands. "Afterward--I want to know about afterward."

"You will be of no interest to us afterward."

"Meaning?"

"You can do what you like, go where you like--to the police, if you wish. It won't matter then. We won't need you anymore."

"What guarantee have I of that?"

"My word." Salvatore growled, his face like stone. "One does not need to be a mafioso to be a man of honor." He said this with a mixture of pride and contempt. "I have a nephew in Monteliana lockup, and his brothers and I have undertaken to get him out before he is transferred to the Ucciardone in Palermo and starts to rot his life away. Don't talk to me about suffering, don't talk to me about injustice. My mother's milk was soured by these before I was weaned."

"Come," Forrester said. He led Inger by the arm through the open doorway into the small, barred room and shut the door.

• • •

Forrester put it to her as best he could. He could understand her amazement; what he was saying sounded improbable even to himself. She started interrupting immediately, pressing for details, and he had none to give. He didn't even know where Monteliana was.

"Salvatore grabbed at the idea when he decided the ransom thing was off. He took the others by surprise. There's no plan, nothing except the idea itself--and, judging by Giuseppe's reaction, it's lunacy. But Salvatore's set on it." Wearily. Forrester shook his head. "I'd all but convinced him that five million was a dream he'd best forget--in fact, I did convince him. Otherwise, he wouldn't have latched onto this other thing...." He stopped, forehead puckered, staring blankly at the windows. Events had run away with them and his mind had barely kept pace.

"You can refuse. Where would they be then?" Either she had forgotten the violence or she supposed in some way that it would never go further, never reach out to include her. That Salvatore might have another lever, the ultimate pressure, didn't seem to have occurred to her.

"We'll be here forever, unless 1 do something.... I've got my back to the wall, Inger--don't you see?"

Again, he was filled with pity for her, though this time the emotion was like an extension of what he felt or himself. What did she expect of him? They had come a long way in three days, yet the barriers had never been more than partially lowered. They were as much apart now as when they'd lunched together that first time, with Nolan hardly arrived at the morgue. All at once, his isolation bore in on him. He slumped back on the bed, his mind swimming with despair. Through the door, he heard Salvatore complain: "Where's Margherita? What's keeping her?" And dully it registered that there was yet another one of them.

This is the first installment of a new novel by Francis Clifford. Part II will appear next month.