I considered this description of Bellinetti for a moment. It wasn’t quite right. It was accurate enough as far as it went, but there was more to the man than that. He wasn’t so theatrical. He had a way of leaning forward towards you and dropping his voice as though he were about to impart some highly confidential tit-bit. But the tit-bit never came. You received the impression that he would have liked to talk all the time of momentous and very secret affairs, but that he was haunted by the perpetual triviality of real life. His air of frustration was a little worrying until you became used to it. But I couldn’t put all that in a letter. I lit a cigarette and went on again.
As I told you, I wasn’t anticipating a great deal of active co-operation from Arturo Bellinetti. After all, he was expecting that Ferning’s death would mean that he got Ferning’s job. Fitch told me that in a weak moment and to encourage the man, Pelcher had hinted that he might possibly be appointed. It was scarcely to be expected that he would fall on the neck of the Sporco Inglese with cries of enthusiasm. But I must say that he has been extraordinarily helpful, and I shall tell Pelcher so.
As soon as we had got over the preliminary politenesses, we went to a caffe (two f’s and a grave accent here, please), where he introduced me to his pet tipple which is a cognac with a beer chaser. I wouldn’t like to try it with English bitter, but here it doesn’t seem too bad. At all events it took the edge off that interminable journey. The next thing was to make my living arrangements. Bellinetti suggested that I might like to take over Ferning’s old place which was in an apartment house near the Monte di Pieta. This seemed to me a good idea, and we piled my luggage into a taxi and drove there. Little did I know, as they say in books, what was in store for me.
Imagine the Ritz, the Carlton and Buckingham Palace rolled into one, a dash of rococo and a spicing of Lalique, and you will have some idea of what I found. Not a very large building, it is true, but decidedly luxurious. Manager in attendance, we went up to the second-floor front. This, said the Manager, had been signor Ferning’s apartment. A very liberal and sympathetic Signore had been the signor Ferning. His death was nothing short of a tragedy. But he would be delighted to serve the so sympathetic signor Marlow. The price of the apartment was only six hundred lire a week.
Well, darling, it was probably worth the money. In fact, I should say that it was cheap. But six hundred lire a week! Either the manager was trying it on (it is still a popular illusion here that all Americans and English are millionaires), or the late lamented and so sympathetic signor Ferning had made a better bargain with Spartacus than I had. The Manager was dumbfounded when I turned it down so promptly and, with a hearty misunderstanding of the situation, tried to show me something even more luxurious and expensive on the first floor. We retired in disorder. I shall have to get Fitch to tell me more about Ferning when he writes.
I did not tell Claire of the suspicion I had entertained that my assistant might have arranged to take a commission on the deal. The idea had crossed my mind as soon as the Manager mentioned the price; but as Bellinetti had not seemed at all put out when I had refused the offer and as, on reflection, I had not seen how even a generous commission could account altogether for such a price, I had quickly abandoned the notion.
By this time, the effects of the brandy and beer were beginning to wear off and I was feeling rather tired. Bellinetti, bounding with energy, was all for going on an intensive apartment hunt; but I decided that the best thing I could do was to put up at a hotel for a day or two and find a place at my leisure. Bellinetti knows the management here, so here I came.
It is not quite as expensive as the note-paper might lead you to think. It appears that the present vogue is for “ modernity ” a la Marinetti. The only really modern aspect of the Parigi is the hot-water system which gurgles a great deal and makes the place like an oven. The rest is, I should say, a relic of Milan under Napoleon. The corridors are shadowy, the ceilings are high, there is much green plush and dull gilt plaster work. In the restaurant (nearly always two-thirds empty), there are long mirrors with the silvering turning black near the edges. My bed is an enormous mahogany structure with a plush canopy impressively edged with tarnished gold braid, while the chair in which I am sitting now is more uncomfortable than I should have thought possible. The Parigi is not, I should say, a very paying proposition for the owners. But then I haven’t yet seen the extras on the bill.
Milan, as a whole, has proved something of a surprise. I don’t know why it should have done so; but you know how it is. You get an imaginary picture of a place in your mind, and then are upset when the reality doesn’t fit. I had always pictured it as a collection of small houses in the Borghese manner grouped round an enormous rococo opera house peopled by stout, passionate tenors, sinister-looking baritones and large mezzo-sopranos with long pearl necklaces. Vociferous international audiences thronged the streets. Actually, it is nothing more nor less than an Italian version of Birmingham. I haven’t yet set eyes on La Scala, but a poster told me that they are doing ballet there-not even opera. The only “ sight ” I have seen so far is the offices of the Popolo d’Italia, from which Mussolini is said to have set out on the March to Rome. Bellinetti pointed them out to me. He is an enthusiastic adherent of Fascismo and tells me that Italy will “ wade through blood to an Empire.” He didn’t tell me whose blood, but I gather that he does not expect to be called upon to supply any part of it.
I was afterwards told that Mussolini’s participation in the glorious March on Rome was confined to arriving in the Eternal City three days later in the luxury of a wagon-lit. But it is quite true that he set out from the offices of the Popolo. That, however, is by the way.
I have spent most of to-day looking into things at the Via San Giulio. The offices themselves are on the fourth floor of a comparatively recent building and, although small, are quite clean and light. My staff consists of Bellinetti and two typists, one male and one female. The male is aged about twenty-two, fair, very self-conscious. His Christian name is Umberto, but so far I have not discovered the surname. Bellinetti says that he reads too many books. He looks to me as though he needs a square meal. It is possibly only my imagination but I fancy, too, that Bellinetti may be a bit of a bully.
The female help is astonishing. Her name is Serafina, and she has two dark pools of mystery where her eyes ought to be, a complexion like semi-transparent wax and clothes that would make your mouth water. Unfortunately she is also very stupid. A protegee of Master Bellinetti’s, I fear. The girl cannot even type. The sight of her blood-red finger-nails twitching uncertainly over the keyboard of her typewriter, I found irritating. Our Serafina must be discussed in the near future. I haven’t really had a chance yet to go very far into the actual business workings of the office. I had a long memorandum from Fitch on the subject. I shall begin the inquest to-morrow. Bellinetti assures me that everything is fine. I hope he’s right.
The only extra-office contact I’ve made so far was with an American, whose name I don’t know, but who has an office on the floor below us. He is an odd-looking blighter with a large, pugnacious nose like a prize-fighter’s, brown, curly hair that stands up at an angle of forty-five from his forehead, surprisingly blue eyes, and a pair of shoulders that look all the heftier because he’s slightly shorter than I am. Sorry to be so pernickety about what he looks like, but he impressed me rather. We met on the stairs this morning. He stopped me and asked if I wasn’t English. He explained that it was my clothes that had given him the idea. We made a vague arrangement to have a drink together some time. He says he knew Ferning.