LITMIR.BIZ

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companion had gone through this room into the apartment beyond.

      Tony raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Sancha. ‘Some ceremony,’ he remarked sardonically, and Sancha hid a smile.

      ‘Do you think he's a servant?’ she asked, indicating in the direction of the inner apartments.

      Tony nodded. ‘Yes. That's Paolo! I had heard of him, actually,’ he replied, in an undertone. ‘He's sort of valet-cum-manservant-cum-bodyguard all rolled into one.'

      ‘I see.’ Sancha was impressed. ‘Does the Count have no other servants?'

      Tony looked cynical again. ‘I don't believe so. The exchequer won't run to it, I hear.'

      ‘I should be most interested to hear from what source you gather your information, signore.'

      The soft and yet menacing tones disconcerted both of them, coming as they did from immediately behind them. Neither had heard the approach of the man who was now standing regarding them with narrowed blue eyes which were startling in such a tanned complexion.

      The man was not particularly tall, being a little above average height, nor was he stockily built. And yet he had the kind of arrogant presence which diminished the size of those around him. His shoulders were broad and his hips narrow, and in a black silk shirt open at the throat to reveal the brown column of his neck and close-fitting black trousers he was essentially masculine. Thick black hair brushed his collar, touched here and there with traces of grey, and dark sideburns darkened high cheekbones which gave his face a patrician cast. He was certainly one of the most attractive men Sancha had ever seen and in spite of her nervousness she was fascinated by the penetrating quality of his eyes.

      Now Tony tried desperately to regain his composure. ‘I—I beg your pardon, signore. I thought we were alone.'

      ‘Did you?'

      The man moved past them into the ante-room and Sancha glanced swiftly at Tony who made a baffled movement with his shoulders.

       ‘Paolo! Avanti!'

      The man spoke again and a few moments later the manservant came through the doors from the inner apartments.

      ‘Si, signore?’ he responded politely.

      The man turned back to Sancha and Tony. ‘We will speak inglese, Paolo. For our guest's sake, si?’ There was a trace of humour about his lips. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, signore, signorina: I am the Conte Cesare Alberto Venturo di Malatesta!'

      For a moment there was complete silence in the room and Sancha, glancing again at Tony, saw that his cheeks had turned a brilliant shade of red. Embarrassment swept over her, too, and she wondered with a sinking sense of despair however they would be able to redeem themselves.

      Tony took a deep breath. ‘Then we must apologise, Count, for speaking so carelessly. I—I'm afraid our natural curiosity made us say things we might otherwise not have said——'

      The Count interrupted him. ‘You have a saying in your country, do you not, that eavesdroppers do not hear good of themselves? I suppose I was in a sense eavesdropping!'

      Tony swallowed hard. ‘It's very good of you to say so, sir!'

      The Count's eyes flickered over him penetratingly. ‘Not at all. Will you come in? Paolo! Some wine for our guests.'

      The Count stepped back and pressed open the door leading to the inner apartments, indicating that they should precede him. Paolo disappeared through another door and Tony gently propelled Sancha before him past the Count and into the room beyond.

      Sancha was intensely conscious of the appraising gaze of the Italian as she passed him and she could smell a faint aroma of some lotion he must use after shaving mingled with the heat of his body.

      The room they were now in was enormous, but here at least there was evidence of beauty and comfort. The soft carpet underfoot was worn in places, but its colours were amazingly bright considering how old it must be. The furniture was a mixture of ancient and modern, with comfortable leather chairs cheek by jowl with examples of Venetian sculpture. On a low plinth there was an exquisite bronze of a winged goddess, small and childlike, and flawless in every detail, while on the walls Sancha recognised examples of the work of Titian and other famous Italian painters. It was a room of contrasts with odd pieces of antique value almost carelessly thrust aside by the modern hi-fi equipment and cocktail cabinet. It was a long room and Sancha could see that it overlooked the shadowy waters of the canal, which they had negotiated earlier.

      ‘Please, sit!'

      The Count waved them to take a chair and Sancha for one was glad to sit down. The last few minutes had been altogether exhausting and the interview had not even begun.

      Tony perched on the edge of a high carved chair which might once have supported some elegant medieval lady as she sat at her sewing frame, but the Count seemed to prefer to stand and Sancha found it incredibly difficult to look elsewhere than at him. He was such a disturbing personality and she wondered how she would ever dare to ask the questions she knew she must ask.

      Paolo returned with the wine and after it was poured he departed about his business. The Count offered cigarettes, but Sancha did not smoke and refused politely. Tony accepted one and the Count lit it for him with a heavy gold lighter before taking a cheroot for himself. Then he said: ‘Shall we begin, Signore——?'

      ‘Braithwaite, Er—Tony Braithwaite,’ said Tony hastily. ‘And this is Miss Forrest.'

      ‘So!’ The Count nodded. ‘And you, Mr. Braithwaite—you are the photographer,'

      ‘Yes, sir. Miss Forrest will take the interview. I—er—I take it you have no objections to photographs being taken?'

      The Count raised dark eyebrows. ‘Within reason, no. Providing I am not expected to take part in them.'

      Tony frowned. ‘You don't want me to photograph you, sir?'

      ‘Thank you, but no. I prefer to remain, shall we say anonymous?’ He smiled suddenly and Sancha was struck by the whiteness of his teeth. ‘Where do you intend to begin?'

      Tony swallowed the remainder of his wine. ‘Anywhere you like, Count.'

      ‘Oh, signore will do, Mr. Braithwaite. I do not think we need stand on ceremony.’ The Count straightened from his lounging position against the mantelpiece, an exquisitely carved mantelpiece done in a particularly delicate shade of pink marble. ‘Do you need any assistance? Would you like Paolo to accompany you? To show you about?'

      ‘I'd like that very much.’ Tony was eager. ‘I'd prefer to take a much greater number of shots than I need and choose which ones to use later. You'd see them, of course, before the final decision was made.'

      The Count inclined his head and reaching forward tugged at the kind of tasselled rope Sancha had hitherto only seen in movies. Paolo appeared, as though by magic, as if he had been waiting for this summons. For Sancha it was a nerve-racking moment, knowing as she did that when Tony had gone she would be expected to begin the interview.

      She folded her notebook, extracted two sharp pointed pencils from her bag and crossed her ankles nervously. Tony gathered together his equipment and after explicit instructions from the Count to Paolo they departed, the door closing heavily behind them.

      Then the Count seemed to relax, taking the chair opposite Sancha and fixing her with his blue eyes. ‘Come, signorina,’ he said. ‘I can see you are very nervous and I am not without sensitivity. What is it you wish to know?'

      Sancha sought about in her mind for a suitable beginning, and then said: ‘First of all I'd like some personal details.’ She flushed. ‘Not necessarily intimate details, you understand, but perhaps a little of your background.'

      The Count tapped ash from his cheroot into an onyx ashtray. ‘Very well, signorina, I will tell you something of my family's history, si?’ He contemplated the jewel-inscribed signet ring on the smallest finger

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