North from Rome by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online Page A

that feeds one. At least, not too obviously.”
    “Indeed I am not anti-American,” Whitelaw insisted earnestly. “On the contrary, I am the greatest admirer of America’s contribution to civilisation. A dry Martini, Principessa, is not to be sneezed at.”
    “Aren’t you forgetting bubble gum?” Lammiter asked, too quietly.
    The princess said quickly, “Ah, you must read Bertrand’s column each week, Mr. Lammiter. Or don’t you read?—I mean, the London papers?”
    “Not column. Heaven forbid,” Whitelaw said reprovingly.
    “No, indeed. It’s a sermon,” Pirotta said and gave a genial laugh. Somehow, the tensions relaxed. Lammiter, sitting very still, had to give Pirotta credit for his expert diplomacy. The light laugh, applied at the right moment, was always a solution. There were others. But then, Lammiter decided, I am obviously no diplomat. He looked at Pirotta thoughtfully. It was disconcerting to find Pirotta’s handsome eyes quietly measuring him.
    “The odd thing about Bertrand,” the princess said, “is that he lives so little in England and yet he is always so clever about what England ought to do. Why, he might be an American afterall, mightn’t he, Mr. Lammiter? By the way, I am curious. What have you done with Rosana?”
    Lammiter said stiffly, and he hoped he sounded a little embarrassed and rueful and just a touch disappointed, “Miss Di Feo had another engagement.”
    “She ran out on you, old boy? Too bad, too bad,” Whitelaw said. Then, most unexpectedly, he added, “What about lunch with me?”
    “Splendid,” Pirotta said quickly, and smiled over at Eleanor. “We are just about to leave, too.”
    “Not yet, not yet!” the princess said sharply, seeing her company suddenly dissolving. Her two young men came to life at the anxiety in her voice. They cocked their heads worriedly, like two very faithful and alert French poodles. “First, we must decide what to do with Rosana.”
    “Must we?” murmured Whitelaw. “And before luncheon?” He sighed.
    The princess looked at him silkily. Heaven help him, Lammiter thought. She went on talking. “Rosana runs away from all attractive young men. She never comes to see me, or any of her mother’s old friends. She avoids us, I think. Of course, her brother— Do you think she is avoiding us all because of Mario?”
    Lammiter, watching, suddenly saw anger in Pirotta’s eyes. But the Italian’s voice was non-committal. “Let us not talk about Mario.”
    “Of course, you knew him. And liked him. We all did. Poor Mario,” the princess sighed.
    “Poor Mario?” Whitelaw asked. “Now I am interested.”
    “Do you remember the scandal last year? Mario was founddead, naked, in his bedroom. Odd, wasn’t it, to commit suicide without one’s clothes on? People usually are so careful about appearances when they are dead.”
    “Oh!” Whitelaw remembered now. “Drugs. Am I right?”
    “Yes... Drugs. So vulgar... And it concerned the sons and daughters of several well-known families. Horrid, wasn’t it, Luigi?”
    Pirotta was watching her. His face was controlled. He nodded.
    “We were all so upset. One was afraid to look in the newspapers in case one knew the names. And of course, Bertrand”—and now the bright amber eyes were turned on the Englishman—“the Communists tried to make a festival of denunciation out of the whole sordid business. They began holding meetings, wrote editorials, organised parades. You know how they behave! And then—but don’t you remember?”
    Whitelaw said, “I was away lecturing at the time.” He and Pirotta exchanged one look. To Lammiter, it seemed as if everyone had forgotten about him, as if there were a secret battle in progress. And then, suddenly, he began to feel that the princess was staging all this scene with a purpose. For his benefit? The little glance she flashed him now seemed to draw him into the centre of it all.
    “Then you missed so much fun,” she told Whitelaw. “For some