The policeman gazed at him over his desk. ‘Where are they based?’ Bianchi asked.
‘I don’t know. But I can find out. That idiot Scarlatti has taken them on trust and seems willing to supply them with anything they want.’
‘You don’t like him?’
There had never been much liaison between Faiani and Scarlatti. Scarlatti considered Faiani dour, un-Italian, ill-mannered and obsessed with duty. Faiani considered Scarlatti a fool. It didn’t lead to a lot of co-operation.
He explained carefully to Bianchi, who nodded understandingly. ‘What do you think these people are up to?’ he asked.
‘Well, you know what goes on. They may be running some sort of racket.’
‘If they are, they could be deserters. We could hit them hard for that. They might even be more. They could be British agents. They wouldn’t be the first to operate behind our lines. And they’re wearing Italian uniforms, you say? For that they could be shot.’
Blissfully unaware that they had already raised suspicions, Dampier’s group were heading for the old fort, where they filled the lorries and all the German jerricans they possessed, and cruised slowly back into the town, Morton, Rafferty and Dampier arguing fiercely about what to do next.
There were few goods in the open-fronted shops, the mosque had a battered look, half the palm trees had lost their fronds to blast, and the awnings outside the bars were torn and lopsided, their stripes pale in the growing dusk. The few Germans they saw were interested only in stripping off their clothes and plunging into the sea to wash from their bodies and hair the dust from the recent storm. A length of beach had been cleared of mines and naked men were disporting themselves in the dark water. Nearby was a bar, the Bar Barbieri, where a few Italian soldiers were drinking. One of them had a mandolin and they were singing to it.
‘Time slips by.
Our prime of youth
We’ll not see again.
And that’s the truth.’
It was a sad soldiers’ song they’d heard Italian prisoners singing and one of the men had a soaring tenor that stood out from all the others.
‘You’d give your top teeth to sing like that,’ Caccia taunted Jones. ‘You’ve got the sort of voice you can sharpen knives with.’
Jones’s lined scruffy face twisted and he was just looking as though he’d have liked to brain Caccia with the jack when a young sottotenente arrived on a motorcycle and started shouting. The soldiers in the bar finished their drinks in a hurry and began to shuffle off. As the place emptied, dry British throats worked.
‘Think we might take a chance?’ Dampier’s mind was filled with thoughts of a cold gin and tonic.
As the vehicles drew to a stop, a German sergeant appeared from inside the bar. He was handsome, blond and cheerful-looking and he was dragging by the hand a girl who was obviously Italian. Reaching the street, he turned, swung her round and slapped her behind. She responded with a straight-armed swing at him, missed and fell to her knees. The German laughed, waved and climbed into a kübelwagen. As he drove away, still laughing, the girl was spitting with fury and an empty bottle snatched from a table followed him. An Arab woman filling a chatti at a standpipe down the street watched with interest.
As Dampier’s group climbed down, the owner of the bar appeared, gave the girl a push so that she disappeared inside out of sight, still spitting with rage, and approached Morton, wringing his hands, his face moist with sweat.
‘A little trouble, excellency,’ he explained. ‘Nothing to trouble you. You know what girls are like. What can I get you?’
‘Beer?’
‘Alas, excellency. No beer.’
‘Cold white wine?’
‘Alas!’
When Morton asked what was available, the Italian shrugged and launched into a long diatribe.
‘What did he say?’ Dampier demanded.
‘He says they have anisette and red wine – and poor red wine at that.’
‘He’s got whisky and gin on the shelves.’
Morton gave his aloof smile. ‘The whisky’s cold tea and the gin’s water. They’re there just for the look of the thing.’
The drinks were brought by the girl. She was good-looking and at that moment still flushed with anger. Slamming the tray down in front of them, she vanished at full speed.
‘Bit of all right,’ Caccia murmured knowledgeably. ‘In a right old tear, too. Playing it big and using both hands.’
‘Them Italian girls aren’t bad,’ Clutterbuck agreed.
‘It’s nice just to see a woman,’ Jones the Song observed gloomily. ‘I’d almost forgotten how they were made.’ He lost himself in a mental picture of Swansea on a Saturday night, garish with lights, full of women and redolent of the smell of fish and chips.
As they had been warned, the red wine was poor enough to taste of iron filings. As they emptied their glasses and left, the girl was standing in the doorway, watching them, her face sullen. As he passed, Caccia the ladykiller couldn’t resist winking and her sulky face immediately broke into a smile which transformed it. Caccia was encouraged.
‘Buona sera,’ he said.
She gestured. ‘Buona sera, soldato.’
‘Come si chiama?’
‘Rosalba. Rosalba Coccioli.’
‘Signora?’
She gave him a cold look. ‘Signorina. I am not married.’
‘Ah!’
‘E Lei? Come si chiama Lei?’
‘Caccia, Arthur.’
‘Arthur?’
Caccia coughed and hurriedly changed step. ‘Arturo. Arturo Caccia.’
They talked desultorily in Italian for a while as the others strolled towards the vehicles. One of the Bedfords took a lot of starting and Rafferty lifted the bonnet and pushed his head inside, the others grouped nervously round him, their eyes flickering about them for signs of hostility, Morton in the middle, tall, straight and good-looking, alert in case they were questioned. After a while Rafferty lifted his head and Morton swung round to wave to the bar.
The girl eyed Caccia as he turned away. ‘Quando ritorna Lei? When are you coming back?’
‘You want me to?’
‘Why not?’
Caccia smiled. ‘I’ll come. Ciao.’
As they left, a string of German trucks
