October Men Read Online Free Page A

look. “The suit’s okay— you can’t beat the English for tailoring—but he’s filling it too much … a big tough guy running to seed.” He nodded to himself. “A bit like that actor of theirs who’s always getting into scrapes with the cops. Another tough one.”
    Boselli smiled inwardly then, permitting himself to be drawn into the game at last by Villari’s crass error of judgement.
    “You’re looking at the wrong half of the face. Look at the eyes and the forehead.”
    Villari blanked off the squashed nose and square jaw with his other hand and stared at the photograph again. He shrugged. “So—a hard man with a brain. But don’t let him fool you, clerk: if you let him talk you into a dark alley he’ll still break you in small pieces and feed you to the birds.”
    “Then he has kept that side of his character remarkably secret,” observed Boselli with prim satisfaction. “He has a doctorate from the University of Cambridge in England—he is Dr. David Longsdon Audley.”
    Villari flicked the photograph carelessly on to the table, so that it skidded across the open file and fell to the floor beside Boselli’s foot. Then, with elaborate indifference, he turned away towards the window for the third time.
    Only this time Boselli watched him with a tremor of satisfaction. It was little enough recompense for that act of vandalism, but it was a start. And there was more to come.
    “He’s been a member of Sir Frederick Clinton’s self-styled Research Group for quite a few years,” he went on with smug innocence. “I’m rather surprised you haven’t heard of him.”
    Villari appeared not to have heard. For several minutes he remained gazing at the distant skyline as though it interested him, deepening Boselli’s pleasure appreciably. Of course he would have heard of the old fox Clinton, and possibly even of the Research Group. But the records showed that he had never encountered either of them personally—perhaps another reason why the General was using him now—and he was too puffed up with his own importance to admit it to Boselli. Conceding ignorance would be unthinkable for him, very different as it was from brutally demanding information.
    Finally Villari spoke, only to Boselli’s chagrin he did so in almost accentless English.
    “This Dr. Audley—is he a dottore doctor or a professore doctor?”
    Boselli struggled with the mixture of foreign and Italian words for a moment, and before he could quite disentangle the sentence Villari had grabbed the chance of explaining it with deliberately patronising helpfulness.
    “An historian,” Boselli cut through the explanation irritably. “He is an historian.”
    “A historian?” The interest trickled out of Villari’s tone. “A teacher of history?”
    “He writes—he’s written a history of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem. And he’s written books on medieval Arab history. He—“
    Villari waved his hand. “Okay, okay—he’s a real historian too. So what has he done to interest us?”
    Boselli looked at him unhappily for a few seconds. Then he shrugged—there was no way of skirting the question and no way of answering it. “I haven’t the faintest idea. He—General Montuori, that is—he instructed me to examine our information on him—on Audley, I mean. He didn’t tell me why.”
    “And naturally you hadn’t the guts to ask him. That figures.”
    “When the General wants us to know, he’ll tell us. He knows what he’s doing.”
    Villari reached over and hooked the telephone off its cradle with a ringer. “And I like to know what I’m doing.” He started to dial.
    “It’s no good ringing the General’s secretary,” Boselli stood up in alarm. “She promised to let me know the moment the General was free.”
    “I’m not phoning that old cow—tits to her! I’m phoning the General.”
    Boselli was appalled and elated at the same time. The General’s private number was sacrosanct: this Clotheshorse would be hanged,