house. It’s nearly half past the hour.”
Vittorio looked at the dashboard clock. It was twenty-eight minutes past ten. “What’s going on?”
“Hurry,
signore
!
Please!
The
fascisti!”
“What
fascisti
?”
“The
padrone
. He’ll tell you.”
Fontini-Cristi got out of the car and followed Barzini down the stone path into the entrance of the stables. It was a tack room; bits and braces and halters and leather were hung neatly on the walls, surrounding countless plaques and ribbons, proof of the superiority of the Fontini-Cristi colors. Also on the wall was the telephone that connected the stables to the great house.
“What’s going on, father? Have you any idea who called me in Bellagio?”
“Basta!”
roared Savarone over the telephone. “They’ll be here any moment. A German raiding party.”
“Germans?”
“Yes. Rome expects to find a
partigiano
meeting taking place. They won’t, of course. They’ll intrude on a family dinner.
Remember!
A family dinner party was on your calendar. You were detained in Milan.”
“What have Germans got to do with Rome?”
“I’ll explain later. Just remember—”
Suddenly, over the telephone, Vittorio heard the sounds of screeching tires and powerful motors. A column of automobileswas speeding toward the great house from the east gates.
“Father!”
yelled Vittorio. “Has this anything to do with your trip to Zürich?”
There was silence over the phone. Finally Savarone spoke. “It may have. You must stay where you are—”
“What happened? What happened in Zürich?”
“Not Zürich. Champoluc.”
“what?”
“Later! I have to get back to the others. Stay where you are! Out of sight! We’ll talk when they leave.”
Vittorio heard the click. He turned to Barzini. The old stable master was riffling through a low chest of drawers filled with odd bits and braces; he found what he was looking for: a pistol and a pair of binoculars. He pulled them out and handed both to Vittorio.
“Come!” he said, his old eyes angry. “We’ll watch. The
padrone
will teach them a lesson.”
They ran down the dirt road toward the house and the gardens above and behind it. When the dirt became pavement they cut to their left and climbed the embankment ovérlooking the circular drive. They were in darkness; the whole area below bathed in floodlights.
Three automobiles sped up the east-gate road; long, black, powerful vehicles, their headlights emerging out of the darkness, swallowed by the floodlamps that washed the area in white light. The cars entered the circular drive, careening to the left of the other automobiles, stopping suddenly, equidistant from each other in front of the stone steps that led to the thick oak doors of the entrance.
Men leaped out of the cars. Men dressed alike in black suits and black overcoats; men carrying weapons.
Carrying
weapons!
Vittorio stared as the men—seven, eight, nine—raced up the steps to the door. A tall man in front assumed command; he held his hand up to those behind, ordering them to flank the doors, four on each side. He pulled the bell chain with his left hand, his right holding a pistol at his side.
Vittorio put the binoculars to his eyes. The man’s face was turned away toward the door, but the weapon in his hand came into focus. It was a German Luger. Vittorio swung the binoculars to those on both sides of the doors.
The weapons were all German. Four Lugers, four Bergmann MP38 submachine guns.
Vittorio’s stomach suddenly convulsed; his mind caught fire as he watched in disbelief. What had Rome
permitted?
It was incredible!
He focused the binoculars on the three automobiles. In each was a man; all were in shadows, only the backs of their heads seen through the rear windows. Vittorio concentrated on the nearest car, on the man inside that car.
The man shifted his position in the seat and looked back to his right; the light from the floodlamps caught his hair. It was close-cropped, grayish hair, but
Vittorio looked at the dashboard clock. It was twenty-eight minutes past ten. “What’s going on?”
“Hurry,
signore
!
Please!
The
fascisti!”
“What
fascisti
?”
“The
padrone
. He’ll tell you.”
Fontini-Cristi got out of the car and followed Barzini down the stone path into the entrance of the stables. It was a tack room; bits and braces and halters and leather were hung neatly on the walls, surrounding countless plaques and ribbons, proof of the superiority of the Fontini-Cristi colors. Also on the wall was the telephone that connected the stables to the great house.
“What’s going on, father? Have you any idea who called me in Bellagio?”
“Basta!”
roared Savarone over the telephone. “They’ll be here any moment. A German raiding party.”
“Germans?”
“Yes. Rome expects to find a
partigiano
meeting taking place. They won’t, of course. They’ll intrude on a family dinner.
Remember!
A family dinner party was on your calendar. You were detained in Milan.”
“What have Germans got to do with Rome?”
“I’ll explain later. Just remember—”
Suddenly, over the telephone, Vittorio heard the sounds of screeching tires and powerful motors. A column of automobileswas speeding toward the great house from the east gates.
“Father!”
yelled Vittorio. “Has this anything to do with your trip to Zürich?”
There was silence over the phone. Finally Savarone spoke. “It may have. You must stay where you are—”
“What happened? What happened in Zürich?”
“Not Zürich. Champoluc.”
“what?”
“Later! I have to get back to the others. Stay where you are! Out of sight! We’ll talk when they leave.”
Vittorio heard the click. He turned to Barzini. The old stable master was riffling through a low chest of drawers filled with odd bits and braces; he found what he was looking for: a pistol and a pair of binoculars. He pulled them out and handed both to Vittorio.
“Come!” he said, his old eyes angry. “We’ll watch. The
padrone
will teach them a lesson.”
They ran down the dirt road toward the house and the gardens above and behind it. When the dirt became pavement they cut to their left and climbed the embankment ovérlooking the circular drive. They were in darkness; the whole area below bathed in floodlights.
Three automobiles sped up the east-gate road; long, black, powerful vehicles, their headlights emerging out of the darkness, swallowed by the floodlamps that washed the area in white light. The cars entered the circular drive, careening to the left of the other automobiles, stopping suddenly, equidistant from each other in front of the stone steps that led to the thick oak doors of the entrance.
Men leaped out of the cars. Men dressed alike in black suits and black overcoats; men carrying weapons.
Carrying
weapons!
Vittorio stared as the men—seven, eight, nine—raced up the steps to the door. A tall man in front assumed command; he held his hand up to those behind, ordering them to flank the doors, four on each side. He pulled the bell chain with his left hand, his right holding a pistol at his side.
Vittorio put the binoculars to his eyes. The man’s face was turned away toward the door, but the weapon in his hand came into focus. It was a German Luger. Vittorio swung the binoculars to those on both sides of the doors.
The weapons were all German. Four Lugers, four Bergmann MP38 submachine guns.
Vittorio’s stomach suddenly convulsed; his mind caught fire as he watched in disbelief. What had Rome
permitted?
It was incredible!
He focused the binoculars on the three automobiles. In each was a man; all were in shadows, only the backs of their heads seen through the rear windows. Vittorio concentrated on the nearest car, on the man inside that car.
The man shifted his position in the seat and looked back to his right; the light from the floodlamps caught his hair. It was close-cropped, grayish hair, but
Similar Books
