28 
Milan Again

Ramsay Halifax scanned the menu of the Sans Souci Restaurant at the Eliseo Hotel in Milan. A few moments later he had ordered an expensive bottle of white wine to accompany abbacchio alla cacciatora.

He resented this whole business. He didn’t know whom to be angrier at—Barclay or Amanda. But here he was at the mercy of both. It could not be helped. So he might as well enjoy himself to what extent was possible so far from anywhere. At least there were not yet too many reminders of the war here in Italy. He had telegrammed Adriane to see if she might join him. Her presence would certainly make the trip worthwhile. But he had heard nothing back.

Forty minutes later, as he was finishing his meal, he glanced up to see a man approaching the table.

“Are you Halifax?” the stranger asked in perfect English.

“I am. You must be Matteos.”

“That’s right.”

He sat down opposite Ramsay and pulled out several papers.

“I have been working on, shall we call it, your difficulty,” he said. “I have many contacts, in the governments of all the countries which may concern us, including Switzerland and France. Since notifying you of the crossing by train at the border north of Como, the party you are looking for has not appeared again.”

“She is no party, you idiot, she is my wife.”

“Barclay did not tell me you had a rude tongue,” replied Matteos calmly, lifting one eyebrow toward Ramsay in annoyance. “No matter—my best information still places her in Switzerland.”

“Where in Switzerland?”

“That you will have to find out on your own, Mr. Halifax. As you will see,” he went on, unfolding a map of the region and spreading it out on the table across from Ramsay, “I have noted the likely train routes. From Como north, as you can see, the probable destination is Luzern. At that point they could either have gone north to Zurich or Basel, or south to Bern. I have circled the likely location as things stand at present.”

Ramsay scanned the map briefly but was unimpressed.

“What good does a circle covering hundreds of square miles do me?” he exclaimed. “This map is useless.”

“All investigations must start somewhere, Mr. Halifax. Yours began with nothing, as I understand it. Now there is this circle on this map. You must narrow it down.”

“How?”

“By tracing the Reinhardt woman apparently traveling with your, er . . . party?”

He glanced toward Ramsay with another slow upturn of his eyebrow as he emphasized the word. Ramsay let it pass.

“If she is Swiss, in time she will be found,” he added.

“Found . . . how?”

“I will arrange a meeting for you in Luzern with a resourceful fellow by the name of Fabrini Scarlino. He is half-Swiss, half-Italian, speaks both languages and every local dialect fluently, and is probably by this time in the employ of both the Entente and the Alliance to spy on one another. He is, shall we say, a very unusual man. He has far more contacts in Switzerland than I. Given enough time, he can find out almost anything. He has already been apprised of the situation, and should be at work on it even as we speak. I have done what I can. Now it will be up to the two of you.”

“Is he a member of the Fountain?” asked Ramsay.

“He is a member of nothing,” replied Matteos. “His only loyalty is to himself.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Of course I don’t trust him. He would slit my throat as soon as do me a favor. But as I say, he is extremely resourceful in such matters. For a price he can find anyone, or do anything. You will not be disappointed. You have money, I take it?”

“That will not be a problem.”

“And a weapon?”

Now it was Ramsay’s turn to eye the man carefully.

“I have a short-barrel nine-millimeter Luger,” he answered after a moment.

Matteos took in the fact, nodded significantly, then looked Ramsay in the eye seriously.

“Make no mistake, Mr. Halifax,” he said. “The man is dangerous. Watch yourself every moment. Do nothing to anger him. A Luger in your vest pocket must not lull you into a false sense of security.”

“I’ve been around that type plenty of times before,” replied Ramsay.

“I warn you—guard your tongue. A careless word to him, such as you have spoken to me this evening, and you will find yourself buried in next year’s glacial pack in the Swiss Alps.”

“Don’t worry,” insisted Ramsay, still too casually to suit his companion.

“Mr. Halifax . . . believe me, there is no one like Scarlino. I urge you, do not take my warnings lightly.”