evidently, was settled. Signor Pace hung up and swung round in his chair. ‘An interesting list, is it not? Lady Braceley—what chic!’
‘You may call it that.’
‘Well, Signore! A certain reputation, perhaps. What is called the “jet set”. But from the point of view of the tourist-trade—extremely chic. Great éclat. We always arrange her travel. There is, of course, immense wealth.’
‘Quite so. The alimony alone.’
‘Well, Signore.’
‘And the Hon. Kenneth Dorne?’
‘I understand, her nephew.’
‘And the Van der Veghels?’
‘I am dumb. They have not come our way. Nor have Miss Jason and Major Sweet. But, Signore, the remarkable feature, the really astonishing, as one says, turn-up for the book, is the inclusion of Mr Barnaby Grant. And what is meant, I ask myself, by Guest of Honour?’
“Prime Attraction”, I imagine.’
‘Of course! But for him to consent! To lend his enormous prestige to such a very dim enterprise. And, we must admit, it appears evident that the gimmick has worked.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought Lady Braceley was a natural taker for the intellectual bait.’
‘Signore, he is impressive, he is handsome, he is famous, he is prestigious—Am I correct in saying “prestigious”?’
‘It really means he’s a bit of a conjuror. And so, of course, in a sense, he is.’
‘And therefore to be acquired by Lady Braceley. Or, at least, considered.’
‘You may be right. I understand she’s staying at my hotel. I heard her name at the desk.’
‘Her nephew, Mr Dorne, is her guest.’
‘Fortunate youth! Perhaps. By the way, what are the charges for these jaunts?’
‘In the top bracket and, at that, exceedingly high. I would have said impertinently so but, as you see, he is getting the response. One can only hope the patrons are satisfied.’
‘In any case you have given me the opportunity to form an opinion. I’m extremely obliged to you.’
‘But, please! Come,’ said the jaunty Signor Pace, ‘let us make our addition to the list.’
He gaily drew it towards him and at the bottom wrote his addition.
‘You see!’ he cried in playful triumph. ‘I remembered everything! The rank! The spelling!’
‘If you don’t mind, we’ll forget about the rank and the spelling.’
The visitor drew a line through the word ‘Superintendent’ and another through the letter ‘y’, so that the entry read:
‘R. Allen, London.’
CHAPTER 3 Saturday, the Twenty-sixth
It became fairly clear from the outset why Mr Sebastian Mailer made extravagant charges for his expeditions.
At three-thirty in the afternoon two superb Lancias arrived at the rendezvous near the Church of the Trinity and therefore within a very short distance of the hotel where three of Mr Mailer’s prospects were staying.
From here, as they assembled, his seven guests looked down at April azaleas flaring on the Spanish Steps and at Rome suddenly laid out before them in a wide gesture. There was a sense of opulence and of excitement in the air.
Alleyn got there before the appointed time and saw the cars draw up. They had small labels in their windows: ‘Il Cicerone’. Out of one of them stepped a dark man of romantic appearance whom he at once recognized as Barnaby Grant and out of the other the person he had come to see: Sebastian Mailer. He was smartened up since Barnaby Grant’s last encounter with him and was dressed in a black suit of some material that might have been alpaca. This, together with a pair of clumping black shoes gave him a dubiously priestly look and made Alleyn think of Corvo and wonder if he might turn out to be such another. The white silk shirt was clean and the black bow tie looked new. He now wore a black beret on his cropped head and no longer had the appearance of an Englishman.
Alleyn kept his distance among a group of sightseers who milled about taking photographs. He saw that while Sebastian Mailer, half-smiling, talked vivaciously, Grant seemed to make little or no response. He had his back to Alleyn who thought the nape of his neck looked indignant. It looks, Alleyn thought, like the neck of a learner-driver seen from the rear. Rigid, cross and apprehensive.
A young woman approached the cars, spotted Mailer and made towards him. She had a glowing air about her as if Rome had a little gone to her head. Miss Sophy Jason, Alleyn said to himself. He saw her look quickly at Barnaby Grant. Mailer pulled slightly at his beret, made a little bow and introduced her. The girl’s manner was shy, Alleyn thought, but not at all gauche: rather charming, in fact. Nevertheless she said something to Grant that seemed to disconcert him. He glared at her, replied very shortly and turned away. The girl blushed painfully.
This brief tableau was broken by the arrival of two over-sized persons hung about with canvas satchels and expensive cameras: a man and a woman. The Van der Veghels, Alleyn concluded and, like Barnaby Grant before him, was struck by their resemblance to each other and their strangely archaic faces. They were well-dressed in a non-with-it sort of way: both of them in linen and both wearing outsize shoes with great rubber-studded soles and canvas tops. They wore sensibly shady hats and identical sun-glasses with pink frames. They were eager in their greetings and evidently had met Grant before. What great hands and feet you have, Baron and Baroness, thought Alleyn.
Lady Braceley and her nephew were still to come. No doubt it would be entirely in character for them to keep the party waiting. He decided it was time for him to present himself and did so, ticket in hand.
Mailer had the kind of voice Alleyn had expected: a rather fluting alto. He was a bad colour and his hands were slightly tremulous. But he filled his role very competently: there was the correct degree of suavity and assurance, the suggestion that everything was to be executed at the highest level.
‘So glad you are joining us, Mr Allen,’ said Sebastian Mailer. ‘Do come and meet the others, won’t you? May I introduce—’
The Baron and Baroness were cordial. Grant looked hard at him, nodded with what seemed to be an uneasy blend of reluctance and good manners, and asked him if he knew Rome well.
‘Virtually, not at all,’ Alleyn said. ‘I’ve never been here for more than three or four days at a time and I’m not a systematic sightseer.’
‘No?’
‘No. I want things to occur and I’m afraid spend far too much time sitting at a caffè table waiting for them to do so which of course they don’t. But who knows? One of these days the heavens may open and big drama descend
