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  his hands. ‘And as an Englishman I demand—’

  ‘Don’t waste any time, señor’ said the officer sharply. ‘The English have no rights here. You are taken into protective custody for activities against the best interests of Catania. Are you armed?’

  Brian said: ‘I have an automatic’

  ‘Produce it, please.’ There was a stiff courtesy about the other’s manner, and again his habit of command was very clear.

  ‘I tell you—’ began Brian.

  ‘Produce it!’ The officer barked at him.

  There was a moment of hesitation. The two silenced guns moved towards Brian, and he clenched his teeth in impotent anger but realised that it would be folly to resist. He toyed with the idea of using the gun as he drew it out, but knew that he would have time only to injure one of the others at most.

  He tossed the automatic to the bed.

  ‘You have good sense,’ said the officer. ‘Understand this, señor. I am hostile to the English, and I have the honour to represent the true Government of my country. You will be interned at my discretion. Should you make any attempt to escape, you will be shot.’

  Brian drew a deep breath, and deliberately stepped to a chair by the window. He sat down, and the other frowned and took a half-step forward.

  ‘You’re making a mistake,’ said Brian gently, and was surprised at his assurance. ‘I am an Englishman, and England is friendly towards Catania. If you put your threat into operation’ – he shrugged – ‘you will start more trouble than you realise, señor.’

  The officer snapped: ‘Commandant de Barros.’ He clicked his heels. ‘Commandant of the Guarda Nationale, which is not well-disposed towards England. You can consider yourself a prisoner of war, señor, and will be well treated provided you do nothing unwise. Stand up, please.’

  Brian crossed his legs.

  He glanced at the girl, whose eyes were closed again and who appeared not to be breathing. He did not think that she was dead, but imagined that she had lost consciousness again. He put his head back, and said slowly:

  ‘Is it your practice, de Barros, to treat women like that?’

  De Barros flushed a little, but barked: I am not answering your questions. The woman was a spy. Stand up, or—’

  I don’t think you’ve got this straight,’ said Brian quietly. ‘If I am taken away there will be inquiries which will start more trouble for you than you realise. We may be at war with half the world, but we aren’t really worried by the Guarda Nationale.’ He contrived to smile. ‘It’s small beer, de Barros. Small beer is—’

  ‘If you are not standing up within ten seconds I shall instruct my men to shoot you,’ said de Barros sharply. He turned on his heel, and the guns moved forward again.

  Brian glanced from one to the other, and then towards the window. His mind was working with a precision which surprised and gratified him.

  He stood up, and shrugged.

  ‘I’ve warned you,’ he said casually. He was thinking that he was on the first floor, and that if he went out of the window he would land on the big sunblind pulled over the front of the hotel. Probably he would go through it. If he did he could reach the pavement and get away; if he failed he would be an easy victim for de Barros, whose men would shoot from the window. It did not occur to him that he should avoid trying.

  De Barros turned abruptly on his heel.

  ‘Open the door,’ he snapped to the man by the passage door.

  The man put a hand to the handle. Brian watched him, and then said in his lazy, drawling voice: ‘How will you march me out of the hotel, de Barros? Are your men coming with me, or are they as scared of the police as the others I’ve met?’

  ‘We shall make arrangements,’ said de Barros. ‘We—’

  ‘Oh, you ruddy fool!’ snapped Brian, and his voice sharpened so much that de Barros was startled. ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you quite mad?’

  De Barros took a half-step forward, his hand raised.

  Brian shot out his right foot and drove it into the man’s stomach, high up. He sent de Barros flying back against the door, and then pirouetted round and leapt for the window.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Still No Drusilla

  Brian was not thinking as he moved.

  He expected a shot, and would not have been surprised at getting a bullet in the back before reaching the open window. He heard no sound and felt nothing as he reached the window, put a hand on the sill and vaulted through. He had no time to look outside and see just where the blind was, but knew that if he missed it he would be lucky to escape without serious injury. He actually saw people stop and gape as he went through, then caught a glimpse of the gay-coloured blind beneath him.

  He sat on it squarely.

  There was a rending sound as part of it tore, and he sagged through, but the hole he made was not large enough for him to fall bodily. He was stuck there, with the great sunblind swaying, when first de Barros and then one of his men reached the window. Brian saw the sun glint on a gun, and made a desperate effort to force himself through the hole.

  He failed.

  But he saw the man with de Barros sag away from the window - and also saw the red splodge which appeared on the man’s forehead before he disappeared. De Barros turned, was out of sight for a moment.

  Then Brian went through the hole.

  He could not stop or steady himself, and he went downwards buttocks first. He saw nothing but heard a frightened gasp from beneath him. Then someone broke his fall. He sprawled to the pavement, and saw the commissionaire who had greeted him a short while before staggering against the wall. A smaller man was standing on the kerb, staring.

  Absurdly, Brian gasped:

  ‘S-sorry!’

  Someone else moved from the kerb, reached him and gripped his right arm. He was half-pulled to his feet, and stood swaying for a moment before he recognised Smith, who dragged him towards a taxi. Bemused and winded, Brian allowed himself to be pushed into it.

  The driver started to climb from his seat, protesting wildly. People were stopping and staring, and from farther along the boulevard policemen came hurrying. Brian had the wit to know that if the cabby refused to go on their faint hopes would be gone.

  Then a little dark man appeared by the cabby’s side.

  ‘Move over, brother,’ said the little man, and sent the cabby into the road with a flat-handed push which must have had considerable power. Brakes squealed and a car swerved violently to one side to avoid the taxi-driver, while the little dark man slipped into the driver’s seat and let in the clutch. The car jolted, but the engine picked up and the driver drove fast towards a ring of spectators, who scattered in all directions. Two policemen, brandishing guns, jumped towards the running-board. Smith, sitting by Brian, pushed one off without difficulty; a swerve of the cab sent the other flying.

  Brian was gasping for breath.

  Smith grinned at him, his face revealing an unholy joy; the man was enjoying it. Brian sat up slowly, trying to get his breath back, and stared in amazement at the dark head of Clem van Hoysen, who was at the wheel.

  ‘Improving?’ Smith asked, after a pause. ‘Good show. Wondered if you’d make it.’

  ‘How …’ began Brian, and then stopped for breath.

  ‘Easy. Standing outside the window. Saw van Hoysen. Heard something was happening. Nothing travelled until you raised your voice. Good idea, what?’ Smith grinned again, that surprising, transforming thing. ‘Then I stood by to repel boarders, and van Hoysen kept along the boulevard to stop any monkey tricks. He picked off a cove, I shouldn’t wonder. So here we are. You know what it’s like to come bottom-first through a sunblind!’

  In spite of himself, Brian smiled.

  ‘I don’t recommend it,’ he said, and then grew serious. ‘Smith, Drusilla wasn’
t there.’

  ‘Don’t talk for a moment,’ said Smith. ‘We’ll transfer here, there’s bound to be a chase for the cab.’ He told the American to turn off the main road and draw up just in front of the private car parked near the post-office. As van Hoysen braked, Smith jumped out and went to the car. Brian smoothed back his hair and followed him, and van Hoysen joined him on the pavement. The little American was grinning crookedly.

  ‘How does it go?’ he demanded laconically.

  ‘It gets crazier than ever,’ declared Brian grimly. ‘But what about Stefan?’

  ‘He’ll be here,’ said Smith confidently.

  On his words a taxi turned the corner and pulled up behind them. Stefan rose and climbed out, dwarfing the driver, whom he paid quickly, and then joined the other party. Less than three minutes after reaching the post-office they were on the move again.

  This time Brian was with Stefan in the tonneau; Smith was driving, and van Hoysen sat next to him.

  ‘I had a message from an urchin,’ said Stefan, ‘to come here. Was that your doing, Brian?’

  ‘It was not!’ exclaimed Brian. He looked at Smith’s back, and van Hoysen’s, then turned to the Russian. ‘Stefan, she—’

  ‘Wasn’t there,’ completed Stefan for him. I thought she would have the good sense to get away.’

  Brian explained what had happened.

  Stefan’s smile faded, his expression grew grave. He made no comment until Brian had finished, however, and then it did not directly concern the American girl.

  ‘Was the man—de Barros, you say?—so sure of himself?’

  ‘He was pretty confident,’ admitted Brian.

  ‘It is disturbing,’ said Stefan. ‘The Guarda Nationale has grown apace, Brian; is perhaps further ahead than we realised. It is grave, and I shall be glad to know what the Bombardas and the Marquis have to say. I wish you had been able to hear the name the girl uttered. You have no knowledge of it at all?’

  ‘It was drowned by the noise at the door,’ said Brian. ‘I just didn’t catch it. She spoke in a whisper most of the time, but she was dreadfully frightened, Stefan, and—’ he paused – ‘she thought that Clive was dead.’

  ‘I think so, too,’ said Stefan simply. ‘It is clear that Clive and the girl were working for Hermandes and José, and made discoveries of importance. So Clive was kidnapped, and I cannot imagine they would want to keep him alive.’ He shrugged.

  Brian’s mind was seething with questions, some of which Stefan could answer, although most of the answers would have to come from Smith. Yet Stefan was obviously in no mood to talk. The American and Smith were equally silent, Smith driving at a good speed and proving that he knew the road.

  Soon they had left Orlanto well behind and were passing through a hilly district with vineyards on either side.

  In a few minutes they drew within sight of the house-boat. As they pulled off the road and went into the cover of some trees, Brian caught a glimpse of a red face peering at him through the foliage; another was near by. He started and leaned forward, calling Smith’s attention to it.

  ‘They’re all right,’ said Smith airily. ‘Social Patriots. The bodyguard of the Bombardas, what?’

  From the side of the house-boat came a shadow; the sun was low in the west then, and the shadow was long. It was also thin, and because it appeared to approach slowly there was menace in it. But there was no menace in Palfrey’s lean, round-shouldered figure, and his rather diffident expression, when he appeared. He had his right hand in his pocket, and kept it there when he recognised the others, although his body relaxed and he beamed.

  ‘Hallo, hallo.’ He glanced at Brian first, and then van Hoysen. ‘How are you, Clem?’

  ‘I’m all burned up with questions,’ said van Hoysen laconically.

  ‘And not the only one, I imagine,’ said Palfrey. He looked at Brian again. ‘No luck, Brian?’

  ‘No,’ said Brian shortly.

  Seeing Palfrey there sharpened his feeling of anxiety for Drusilla. It was difficult to explain why, unless it was because of the shadows which appeared suddenly in Palfrey’s eyes. But the doctor was quickly himself again, and put a hand on Stefan’s arm while saying to Smith: ‘The Marquis wants to see you as soon as you’re ready.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ said Smith woodenly. ‘Right away.’ He hurried round the corner of the promenade deck, and a moment later they heard a door close. Stefan spoke as it was echoing, asking: ‘Is he quite recovered, Sap?’

  ‘He’s as well as he can be while his arm is in a sling,’ said Palfrey. ‘The drug was nothing, the effect is practically gone. They made a great mistake,’ he added softly, ‘in leaving the Marquis alive.’

  ‘He was lucky,’ said Brian gruffly.

  Palfrey glanced at him sharply.

  ‘Supposing we go in and have a snack,’ he said. ‘You can tell me what happened then. I have a feeling,’ he added, with a quick, attractive smile, ‘that Smith will be some time with the Marquis, we might say they’re discussing matters of state!’

  Brian told his story quietly and without too much emphasis. There was little to say about Drusilla, except the obvious, although Brian finished quietly: ‘There’s just one thing that gives me hope, Sap. It looked to me as if someone was lying in wait for her in the room, and went for the American girl instead. If so …’ he broke off, and his eyes looked very hard. ‘That treatment went to the wrong person, thank God!’ He looked a little self-conscious, and added quickly: ‘I hope the American will be all right.’

  ‘The hotel would be disturbed, and a doctor taken to her quickly,’ said Stefan reassuringly. ‘That is a thing we might remember, Sap–to ask for news of the American girl who was injured at the del Roso. Some of the Bombardas’ men will be going into Orlanto, I assume?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Palfrey, and looked at van Hoysen. ‘How did you get on, Clem, after you left Drusilla?’

  The American grimaced.

  ‘I stayed under a hedge for the rest of the day, and made the journey by night,’ he said. ‘I’m admitting I didn’t enjoy the hospitality of Catania any, but I was lucky, I guess.’ He paused.

  ‘I’d like five minutes alone with the Labollier guy,’ he added very gently.

  ‘None of us has a good opinion of Labollier,’ murmured Stefan.

  ‘None of us should have,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘Amongst other things, it partly explains what we have been doing,’ said Palfrey quietly. ‘I’ve talked with the Marquis. Before we left our respective headquarters for Orlanto, he knew that one of us was a spy. So …’ Palfrey paused, but none of the others interrupted, and he went on: ‘So the Marquis decided to allow it to settle itself. He warned Drusilla, and only Drusilla. She sent word to him earlier of her suspicions of Labollier, and a dossier has been prepared about the gentleman. The outburst in French was, as we guessed, a code.’

  ‘The double-crossing rat!’ exclaimed van Hoysen.

  Palfrey shrugged. ‘Perhaps, Clem, but now that he’s disposed of he can do no more harm. So we’ve done some good. For the rest …’ He looked from one to the other, smiling a little. The Marquis told me another, stranger story. Shall I pass it on?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Marquis Confirms a Story

  I wish he were telling it himself, he does it much better than I. First, one or two facts which will answer some of our questions. The Marquis, and the Government, have been aware of the growth of the Guarda Nationale movement for some time. It has received assurances from the Cores that the movement isn’t powerful enough to do any real harm.’ Palfrey scratched the tip of his nose. ‘The Cores, you see, doesn’t know everything.’

  ‘I’ll say it doesn’t,’ interpolated van Hoysen.

  ‘So the Marquis was detailed by Whitehall—that’s the word, I think!—to find out more
about the movement.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’ asked Stefan casually.

  ‘Several months,’ said Palfrey. ‘Amongst the agents first sent here to try to find out more was Drusilla. She found out very little, although her impression was that the movement was growing very powerful indeed. There was more concern in official quarters,’ continued Palfrey, ‘about another organisation, the Social Patriots. The Patriots openly proclaimed their hostility to the Government, and urged it to declare war on the Axis. The shibboleth of neutrality, as Clive once put it to me, was so attractive that the Patriots lost adherents instead of gained them. But it remained a power because of the influence of its leader, one José Fonesca. Fonesca was unusual as a political leader because he was young. Most of his supporters knew him personally, and’ at some of the meetings he addressed he created a fervour which amounted almost to hysteria. For some time, the Marquis knew, both organisations had been working in secret, each presumably with the object of seizing power if the opportunity arose. The British sympathies, of course, lay with Fonesca, although Britain did not openly support him. There was every reason for preferring Catania to remain neutral, provided it could be really neutral and not a jumping-off ground for further Nazi operations. The British and the Allied Governments preferred the existing regime, democractic in every way and genuinely anxious to be neutral. However, the Guarda Nalionale saw in José Fonesca the most dangerous opponent of their ideals. By then – say six months ago – both organisations were outlawed. The Social Patriots were, and are, purely political, the Guarda, of course, was as much military as political. Not satisfied with knowing that the Patriots had to work under cover as well as themselves, the Guarda kidnapped José Fonesca and smuggled him into Spain and thence Italy. He was taken to Germany and sent to Dachau.’ Palfrey hesitated, and then went on in a quicker, sharper voice: I won’t detail what happened to him at Dachau. You can probably imagine it, and I saw what was left of him after a few months. He left the party in poor shape – remember that he had held it together, and without him it was liable to fall to pieces. In fact only a skeleton framework of an organisation remained, consisting of the more fervent members. ‘The Bombarda brothers were amongst them, with Vasca Bombarda the choice of a new President if the movement ever reached power,’ Palfrey continued. ‘You might call Hermandes the Foreign Secretary. The preoccupation of them all was to get José Fonesca out of Germany, and an expedition was organised with the help of one or two anti-Nazi Germans, Social Democrats who had taken refuge in Catania. The effort succeeded, but when they brought José back to Catania they found the Guarda Nationale more flourishing, with influence in practically every quarter, and, obviously, warned by Germany of Fonesca’s escape. So Fonesca had to keep away from the terrorists, and no Catanese doctor could be wholly trusted. Fonesca was suffering from tuberculosis in its early stages, although the wastage due to malnutrition and hardship made it look more advanced.’