.' That was enough—and in another second the words would choke in his throat, anyway.
'And in addition you are not known so well here in Rome—at least not to the agents of the British and those who might associate with Ruelle.'
He paused again, opening his hands in a gesture of self-deprecation. 'Whereas I—I too am not well known— though for a different reason, of course—and I have some specialist knowledge of—of present political considerations and personalities.' (Villari would scorn such knowledge, so he could fairly safely claim it himself.) But this was all window-dressing: now he was coming to the real merchandise hidden in the back room!
'And it is because I have that knowledge that I am frightened, signore—because I have just a little more of it than even the General himself suspects. Enough to frighten me.'
He had the man's attention now; even though not so much as a muscle moved in Villari's face Boselli was sure of it.
Whatever scorn the pig might affect, he would be uneasy at the thought of Boselli digging like a termite beneath him.
'You see—first, signore—I happen to know now who it was dummy2
who saw Ruelle and Audley at the airport. I know also that it was not Audley he recognised—it was Ruelle. It was Ruelle that interested him, too. And now I know
He allowed the sentence to tail off mysteriously.
'Who was it, then?'
As Villari spoke at last a shadow fell across the table between them.
'What—?' Boselli began irritably, only to catch the absence of surprise or irritation on Villari's face.
Much more surprising was that Villari turned back towards him briefly with what was for him a remarkable gesture of courtesy.
'One moment—' the dark glasses tilted upwards again
—'Well?'
'The man and the woman have left the house—they've taken the car.'
'In which direction?'
'Towards the Porta San Paolo, signore. Unless he's taken the wrong direction, they're heading out of the city.'
Villari stared at the speaker, a compact, youngish man unknown to Boselli. Then he shook his head.
'No. He knows Rome well enough not to do that.'
'Then it could be the EUR—there are some big museums there. Or maybe the beach at Ostia. It's going to be hot dummy2
today.'
It was damned hot already, thought Boselli. What it would be like later didn't bear thinking about.
'Very good. Depretis is following them, then. I—we—will follow him. You go back and relieve Piccione at the house.'
Boselli watched the man out of sight with a twinge of uneasiness. Depretis and Piccione were also names he was unable to place.
'Who is he—and the others?'
'One of the police special squads. The General must have borrowed them—he's had them watching Audley from the beginning, not our own men.' Villari watched him, head cocked slightly to one side. 'Would you have any thoughts about that, too?'
Boselli rubbed his chin reflectively. The Clotheshorse had changed his tune quickly enough, so perhaps he had some sense after all.
'I might.'
'But in the meantime you have a name for me.'
Boselli nodded. 'Yesterday I took some reports to leave with Signorina Calcagano. She was giving the General's driver the evening off; she said the General would take the car to the airport himself. It slipped my mind until after our meeting.
Then I checked up on it.'
He nodded again. 'It was the General who spotted Ruelle.'
dummy2
'You're sure of that?'
'I'm sure. Because General Montuori has wanted George Ruelle dead these twenty-eight years. Only he's had to leave well alone.'
'Until now, eh?'
Boselli shrugged. 'Maybe . . . but I rather think he's still keeping clear. I'd guess he's hoping the English will do his work for him this time.'
'We—shall we have trouble catching them up, then?' Boselli spoke breathlessly, because Villari's legs were each a full fifteen centimetres longer than his and their pace was forcing him into an undignified half-trot behind him down the pavement. After the cool of the cafe he could already feel the sweat running down his body again.
