I returned to the sitting-room and called her on the telephone. I was lucky to catch her. She told me she was just going out to supper.
“Could you come over here?” I gave her the address. “I’ve a man-sized job for you to tackle. Take a taxi. When we’re through I’ll take you out to dinner.”
She said she would be right over.
As I hung up I noticed on the wall, near the telephone, a telephone number scribbled in pencil: I leaned forward to stare at it. It was scarcely visible, and it was only because I had switched on the table lamp that I had seen it. It was a Rome number.
It occurred to me that Helen wouldn’t have scribbled it on the wall unless it had been important to her, and a number she had called frequently. I had looked for a list of telephone numbers when I had searched her desk, but hadn’t found it. The fact there were no other numbers written on the wall seemed to me to be significant.
On the spur of the moment, I picked up the receiver and called the number I regretted my impulse as soon as I heard the burr-burr on the line. For all I knew this might be X’s number, and I didn’t want him to suspect I was on to him so early in the game. I was about to replace the receiver when I heard a click on the line. My ear-drum was nearly shattered by a voice that bawled in Italian: “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
It was the most violent, undisciplined voice I had ever heard or ever want to hear over a telephone line.
I held the receiver away from my ear and listened. I could hear the faint sound of music: some throaty tenor was singing E luc
The man who had answered the telephone shouted, “HELLO? WHO IS IT?”
His shattering voice was more than life-size. I flicked my finger-nail against the mouth-piece of the receiver to hold his attention.
Then I heard a woman say, “Who is it, Carlo? Must you shout so?” She spoke with a strong American accent.
“No one answers,” he returned in English and in a slightly lower tone of voice.
There was a violent click as he slammed down the receiver.
Very carefully I hung up. I stared out of the window. Carlo… and an American woman. It could mean something or nothing. Helen must have made a lot of friends during her stay in Rome, Carlo could have been just a friend, but the telephone number on the wall was puzzling. If he were just a friend, why the number on the wall? He might have given it to her, of course, over the telephone, and not having any scratch pad near, she had scribbled it on the wall. That could be the explanation, but somehow I didn’t think so. If this had happened, she would surely have rubbed it out, after entering it in her telephone book.
I jotted down the number on the back of an envelope, then, as I was putting the envelope into my wallet, the front-door bell rang.
I let Gina into the apartment.
“Before we talk,” I said, “come in here and look at all this stuff. Chalmers wants me to get rid of it. He said to sell it, and give the money to some charity. It’s going to be quite a job to handle. There’s enough stuff here to stock a shop.”
I took her into the bedroom and stood back while she looked into the closets and drawers.
“This won’t be difficult to get rid of, Ed,” she told me. “I know a woman who specializes in good second- hand clothes. She’ll make an offer for everything and take it all away.”
I sighed with relief.
“That’s fine. I hoped you’d have the solution. I don’t really care what she offers so long as she takes everything and we can get this apartment off our hands.”
“La signorina Chalmers must have spent a great deal of money,” Gina said, examining some of the dresses. “Some of these have never been worn, and they were all bought at the most
expensive houses in Rome.”
“Well, she didn’t get the money from Chalmers,” I said.
“I guess someone must have financed her.”
Gina lifted her shoulders and shut the closet door.
“She didn’t get all these things for nothing,” she said. “I don’t envy her.”
“Come into the other room. I want to talk to you.”
She followed me into the lounge and dropped into a chair.
“Ed, why did she call herself Mrs. Douglas Sherrard?” she asked.
If the walls of the room had suddenly fallen in on me I couldn’t have been more shaken.
“What? What did you say?” I asked, staring at her.
She looked at me.
“I asked you why she called herself Mrs. Douglas Sherrard. Obviously I shouldn’t have asked that. I’m sorry.”
“How did you know she called herself that?”
“I recognized her voice when she called up just before you left on your vacation.”
I should have known that Gina would have recognized Helen’s voice. She had spoken to Helen twice on the telephone when Helen had first come to Rome and she had an uncanny memory for voices.
I went over to the liquor cabinet.
“Have a drink, Gina?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I’d like a Campari, please.”
I took out a bottle of Campari and a bottle of Scotch. I fixed myself a stiff drink, and a
Campari and soda for Gina and brought the drinks over.
I had known Gina for four years. There had been a time when I had imagined I had been in love with her. Working with her day after day, most times alone together, had offered temptations to get intimate with her. It was because of this that I had been careful to keep our relations more or less on a business footing.
I had seen a number of newspaper men, working in Rome, who had got too friendly with their secretaries. Sooner or later, the girls either got out of hand or a visiting big-shot had spotted what was going on, and there had been trouble. So I had been strict with myself about Gina. I had never made a pass at her, and yet there was a bond between us, unspoken and unadvertised, that convinced me that, no matter what the emergency might be, I could completely rely on her.
I decided as I fixed the drink to tell her the whole story, not holding back a thing. I had a lot of faith in her opinions, and, knowing the mess I was in, I felt it was time to get an unbilled, outside opinion.
“Would it worry you if I made you my mother confessor, Gina?” I asked, sitting down opposite her. “I have a lot on my mind that I’d like to share with someone.”
“If there’s anything I can do…”
The sound of the front-door bell cut her short. For a long moment we stared at each other.
“Now, who can this be?” I said, getting to my feet.
“Perhaps it’s the janitor wanting to find out who is in here.” Gina said.
“Yeah: could be.”
I crossed the room and went out into the hall. As I reached for the door knob, the bell rang again.
I opened the door.
Lieutenant Carlotti stood in the corridor. Behind him was another detective.
“Good evening,” Carlotti said. “May I come in?”
III
Seeing him there made me understand for the first time what a criminal must feel like when he is suddenly confronted by the police. For a second or so, I stood motionless, staring at him. My heart seemed to miss several beats, and then began to race so violently I had difficulty in breathing. Had he come to arrest me? Had he found out somehow that I was Sherrard?
Gina appeared in the sitting-room doorway.
“Good evening, Lieutenant,” she said. Her calm, quiet voice had a steadying effect on me.
