'im in your book alongside of the General, you will—'e won't like that, I can tell you, not at all. Come to that, The Bastard won't neither, if the swine's still around. There wasn't no love lost between them two, there wasn't.'
'Yes, so I've heard,' murmured Boselli, stifling the rising sense of excitement he felt at so easily getting to the one question he had feared to ask directly.
'I could tell you a thing or two about them,' Frugoni confided maliciously. 'I bet you ain't 'eard the 'alf of it, not the 'alf of it!'
'I expect I've heard it all before, my dear fellow,' said Boselli, controlling the level of disinterest in his voice with scientific exactness. 'But do go on all the same.'
It was going to be a good day after all.
VI
COMING OUT OF the midday sunlight into the cafe's shadow, for a moment he could see very little. Then, as he peered round the supporting trellis-work of the vine-covered roof, his gaze was directed by the admiring eyes of two young girls towards the corner in which Armando Villari had arranged himself.
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Not that their admiration was going to do them any good.
They weren't in the Clotheshorse's income group for one thing, and the Clotheshorse was on duty anyway (although that was probably the least important consideration). But above all the swine was far too busy admiring his own profile in the mirror on his left—Boselli didn't know which offended his sense of decency the more, the girls' sickening bitch-on-heat look or Villari's narcissism. Almost it made him want to quit the job cold, except that the General's parting words and his own recent discoveries made the situation painfully clear: he had to work with Villari or risk not working at all, and for a man with hungry relatives and no cushion of private savings that was no choice.
But at least that certainty firmed his own meagre reserve of courage. At the time of the General's pronouncement he had been ready to accept the assignment as a test for them both—
a proof that they could sink their personal antipathies in the state's service. He still admired his boss enough to hope that that had played a part in the whole design, but he no longer believed that it played the only part. Because the General was a fair man he would accept honest failure— but because of his personal involvement he would be in no mood to put up with tantrums from either of them.
Villari gave no indication that he had noticed him except to put on the dark glasses which had lain beside his glass, a simple action which he contrived somehow to render affected.
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So it was going to be unpleasant. . . .
Boselli smiled politely. 'I do not think I am late, but I am sorry if you have been kept waiting. Is anything happening yet?'
The dark circles considered him briefly. 'If anything was happening I would not be here. And then you would have been late.'
So it was going to be difficult too, thought Boselli. But he had expected nothing less ever since the fellow had walked out of the meeting without so much as one word to him. And since then he had obviously not bothered to work out any of the implications of the situation.
He sighed as he sat down. The difficulty was all the less bearable for being unnecessary, because the simplest of those implications was that he, Boselli, would be less afraid of offending Villari than of risking General Montuori's anger, but Villari was too stupid to understand that fact.
He stared directly into the dark glasses. 'Signor Villari, I will be plain with you—' an eyebrow lifted above one of the gold frames '—I have been ordered to work with you and that is what I must do if it is at all possible. I do not care for you and you do not care for me—'
'I don't really think that much about you either way, frankly,
'—But it seems that you clearly do not intend to work with me. Consequently it is not possible for me to work with you.'
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Villari's lip curled. 'Little man—you do tie yourself into knots when you talk! I tell you again, it's of no consequence to me what you do. I can handle this man Audley perfectly well without you farting about beside me.'
'And George Ruelle? Can you handle him as well?'
The lip straightened. 'Him also, if I have to.'
'And General Montuori too?'
'General—?' Villari cut the name off quickly, but could not stop the question forming.
'What's General Montuori got to do with this? Apart from setting it up?' Boselli nodded with a confidence he did not feel. He had to gauge this bit exactly: he had to put just a touch of fear into Villari, but it mustn't seem a deliberate act
—the man must scare himself, which might not be a quick process in one so lacking in imagination, never mind sense.
But it had to be attempted none the less.
'Tell me, signore—tell me this one thing—' he forced humility into his tone '—why do you think the General has ordered you to work with me?'
He paused only momentarily, because he did not expect any answer—Villari would never admit that he could not think of one. But he must, he surely must, have at least formulated that question in his mind all the same.
'I will tell you then, because the General never does anything without his reasons. ... It is first because in this instance we complement each other. You have all the proven executive dummy2
skills in the field —the daring and the resourcefulness when there is danger—' (Was he laying it on too thick? No! One glance at the arrogant lift of the chin confirmed that!) '—the quickness of mind and body, the firmness. . .
