Street of the Five Moons

Chapter Ten

I AM BY NATURE an optimistic person. But during those minutes in the mud and the dark, alone with a man who was quietly bleeding to death on my lap, with a mob of murderous brutes scouring the fields to find us . . . I was depressed. I got so discouraged I even considered giving ourselves up, in order to get medical attention for John. However, I dismissed the thought as soon as it surfaced. Slight as our chances of escape were, they were better than no chance at all, and that was what we would have if we surrendered. No chance.

My father, who knows more corny old aphorisms, mottoes, and adages than any man alive, would have found encouragement in his collection of truisms. ‘Never say die.’ ‘Don’t give up the ship.’ ‘Don’t let the bastards get you down.’ And he would have been right.

Four hours after I had been almost ready to give up the ship, we were sitting in the back of a pickup truck that was speeding through the suburbs of Rome.

The sky to the east was brightening and the stars were fading. The truck was an antique, held together by wire and prayer, and I was not really awfully comfortable, because I was squeezed into a space not quite adequate for a lady of my size. The bed of the truck was filled with vegetables. The corner of a crate of tomatoes dug into my back, and I was holding a sack of carrots on my lap. John was half lying, half sitting on a bag of potatoes. They must have been as lumpy and as hard as rocks, but he didn’t complain.

The way in which we had attained these positions is a saga in itself.

John came to while I was fumbling around trying to bandage his arm, and made several heated comments on my clumsiness before I shut him up. When I asked him if he could walk, he replied that he would be willing to consider any reasonable alternative, if I could think of one. There weren’t many, and none of them were reasonable. I couldn’t carry him. We couldn’t wait till morning gilded the skies and made us visible to anyone who might be looking for us.

So we walked. The clothes were partly luck, but I must claim some of the credit. I looked for them. We had to go into the outskirts of Tivoli before we found a housewife who had been too slovenly to take her wash in at nightfall. John complained bitterly about those clothes. True, his pants were six inches too short and considerably too big in every other direction, but the coarse blue shirt was nice and large. He needed a lot of material to cover bandages and battle scars.

I had a choice: a rusty black shapeless garment that belonged to the mother of the house, or the cheap rayon skirt and blouse that were her daughter’s. John accused me of vanity when I took the latter. They were a little short and a lot too tight, but it was not vanity that prompted my selection, as I proved when the first truck I hailed on the highway came to a screeching stop as soon as the headlights caught me.

The drivers weren’t as enthusiastic about John, who had kept out of sight while I waved my thumb, but they accepted the pair of us with a grin and a shrug. (One grinned, the other shrugged.) There were two of them, and they were brothers, on their way to a market in Rome.

So we ended up among the vegetables. I don’t know what our newfound friends thought of us. I don’t suppose they cared. We could have been penniless students, many of whom wander the roads of Europe during the summer, sleeping in haystacks and less-reputable places, scrounging for food and transportation.

John dropped off to sleep shortly after we climbed aboard. I should have been tired too; it had been an active night. But I was too keyed up to sleep. I sat clutching the carrots and watched the sun come up over Rome.

The mists that hung over the city turned the exquisite pearly pink of a shell as the light struck them. Then they burned away as the sky deepened from rose to blue. High above the angled roofs, Michelangelo’s great cupola dominated the skyline. As we neared the city, other landmarks, high on the seven hills, took shape out of the haze: the pointed bell tower of Santa Maria Maggiore, on the Esquiline; the dome of the Gesù; the twisted Baroque towers of Trinita dei Monti, atop the Spanish Steps.

We came into the city by way of the Porta Pia, between the old walls of the Empire, and went roaring along the Via Venti Settembre at a speed that seemed excessive even for that early hour. There was not a great deal of traffic, and the one policeman we passed simply waved. I guess the boys were a familiar sight, covering the same route six mornings a week.

When we crossed the Piazza Venezia, I began to wonder where we were going. We were in the heart of the city now; Mussolini had addressed the Romans from the balcony on the Palazzo Venezia, and the square was dominated by the huge white marble structure of the Victor Emmanuel Monument. I would have exchanged all this guidebook knowledge for a quick trip to the prefecture of police. I didn’t dare ask the boys from Tivoli to take us there; people are leery about picking up strangers who demand the cops.

When we passed the basilica of San Andrea delle Valle, I began to get premonitions. I shook John. He opened one eye.

‘Wake up, we’re almost there,’ I said.

The narrow street where the truck finally stopped was only a couple of blocks from the Via delle Cinque Lune. With a discouraged feeling that I was right back where I started from, I climbed over the vegetables and jumped down.

It couldn’t have been later than 6 a.m., but the vendors had already set up their stalls. These booths ran along both sides of the street, which was one of the medieval alleyways with no sidewalks or yards, only tall dark fronts of stores and houses walling in the narrow pavement. The stalls were rickety affairs of rough wood; some were brightened by striped canopies, but artificial adornment was unnecessary. The wares on sale made marvellous compositions of shape and colour, brighter than any bunting. Soft, crumpled chartreuse leaves of lettuce, symmetrical heaps of oranges and tangerines, tomatoes red as sunrise, bins of green beans, black-red cherries, peaches and strawberries in little wooden boxes. All these and more were being unloaded from the trucks that blocked the street. The noise was deafening – engines were roaring, crates and boxes clattering, people yelling. A good deal of argument seemed to be going on, most of it more or less good-natured bickering over the quality of the goods and the prices.

Our driver jumped down from the cab and came towards me, smiling pleasantly. He was young and rather good-looking, and he knew it; his shirt was open to the waist and a gold crucifix shone against his brown chest.

‘Va bene, signorina?’ he asked.

‘Molto bene, grazie. Thanks for the ride.’

‘Niente, niente.’ He waved my thanks away. ‘Dov’e vostro amieo?’

Yes, indeed, where was he? I looked up. All I could see of John was a foot sticking out from among the cabbages. I shook it gently, out of deference for his status as wounded hero. I was worried about him. He had kept up the pace without complaint or visible faltering, but I meant to find a doctor for him first thing.

‘John, wake up. We’re here.’

The driver lowered the tailgate and began unloading, assisted by his sober-faced companion. The proprietress of the nearest stall, a short, fat woman with three gold teeth, came stumping over, ostensibly to ask the price of the carrots. She let out a howl of pretended outrage when my friend told her how much he was asking. I could see that her eyes were on me, though, and after the first feint she gave up all pretence of being interested in anything else.

‘Who’s this?’ she demanded, jerking a calloused thumb at me. ‘Another of the foreign tarts you pick up, Battista?’

Battista, who knew I spoke Italian, made deprecatory noises. I smiled sweetly at the old busybody and handed her the sack of carrots.

‘They are very cheap, signora, good, sweet carrots. A bargain. My friend is there in the truck. He fell and hurt himself yesterday, when we were hiking in the hills. Signor Battista was kind enough to give us a ride.’

I thought I had better mention that John was hurt in case he had passed out again. It was just as well I had done so. He came crawling out from among the cabbages and he looked awful. He must have scraped the scab off the cut on his head, because there was blood running down his cheek.

The old lady gave a cry of distress and sympathy. Women of all ages and all nationalities are suckers for a boyish face and a little blood.

‘Ah, poverino – poor child, how did you hurt yourself?’

Squatting on the tailgate, John gave her a long look out of his melting baby-blue eyes, and smiled wanly.

‘I fell, signora. Thank you . . . you are very kind . . .’

She put out a plump arm to steady him as he slid down. He had gone a sickly grey under his tan, and he looked as if he would have fallen but for her support. If it had been anybody but John, I would have melted with sympathy too. Seeing as it was John, I reserved judgment.

‘I will take him to a doctor,’ I said.

‘No, I’m all right. Just need to rest awhile.’

‘Where?’ I demanded. ‘We can’t go to a hotel looking the way we do. Especially when we haven’t any money.’

The old lady must have picked up some English from the tourists.

‘My daughter has rooms for rent,’ she said. ‘Just around the corner is her apartment.’

She didn’t finish the offer; it was clear from her expression that her native caution was at war with her maternal instinct.

John looked like Saint Sebastian minus the arrows – all noble suffering.

‘We have money, signora,’ he murmured. ‘Not much, but we could not accept charity. Take this, please – I think I can walk a little . . .’

He held out a handful of crumpled hundred-lira notes.

Everything I owned was in my purse and my suitcases back at the villa. Fool that I was, I had forgotten men carry their junk in their pockets. Not that I had planned to go to a hotel anyway. I intended to head straight for the police station. When I had mentioned this during our wanderings the night before, John had not been overly enthusiastic, but he hadn’t objected. Now I began to suspect he had something else in mind.

There was nothing I could do about it. We had attracted quite a crowd by this time. Romans are cynical, big-city types, but in any city – yes, even in New York – you will collect a certain number of willing helpers if you are young and beautiful and in trouble. Helpful arms gathered John up and propelled his tottering footsteps in the direction the old lady had indicated. I could only trail along, thinking nasty suspicious thoughts.

The apartment was old and poorly furnished, but it was reasonably clean. The room had an iron bed, a pine dresser, two straight chairs, a washbasin, and a picture of Saint Catherine accepting a ring from the baby Jesus. Once again I mentioned a doctor, and was shouted down by my assistants, who now felt that we were all one big happy, family. They wouldn’t call the doctor until the patient was just about ready for the last rites. A little wine, a little soup, a little pasta, and the poor young man would be just fine. The bump on the head had hurt him, but there was nothing serious wrong. A little wine, a little soup, a little pasta . . .

Finally I got rid of them and closed the door. Then I turned on John, who was lying on the bed staring blandly at the cracked ceiling.

‘I’ll send a doctor,’ I said. ‘On my way to the prefecture.’

‘Wait.’ He sat up with an alacrity that confirmed my worst suspicions, and caught at my arm. ‘Let’s discuss this first.’

‘There is nothing to discuss. I told you what I meant to do. The longer we wait, the more opportunity Pietro will have to clear out that workshop.’

‘Sit down.’ He gave my arm a shrewd twist. I sat down.

‘Did I hurt you?’

‘Didn’t you mean to?’

‘No. I’m sorry. But you are so damned impetuous . . .’ He swung his legs off the bed, so that we were sitting side by side. The sudden movement made him go a shade greyer. He might have been putting on some of his weakness, but not all of it was pretence.

‘Are you really going to turn me in?’ he asked, with a faint sideways smile. ‘After all we’ve been through together?’

‘You stuck with me,’ I said grudgingly. ‘You would have had a better chance of escape alone, I suppose. Damn it, John, I don’t like to be a fink, but what choice do I have? I refuse to let that gang of swindlers get away with this. Why are you so considerate of them? They tried to kill you.’

‘I don’t think there was anything personal in that,’ John said.

‘Personal, impersonal, who cares? How can I agree to let you off when I don’t even know what you’ve done?’ I demanded, my mounting anger compounded with a certain degree of shame. ‘If you would tell me about the plot – give me some alternative . . .’

‘That does seem reasonable.’

‘I mean, if you won’t even . . . Oh. You will tell me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Lie down,’ I added. ‘You look like hell.’

He obeyed. I turned so that I could see him. It was amazing how innocent that man could look when he wanted to. His eyes were very blue. The shadows under them were like bruises. Then he grinned, and his fine-boned face was transformed – from Saint Sebastian to Mercutio.

‘I was born of poor but honest parents,’ he began.

‘Be serious.’

‘I am. My parents were extremely poor. They were also of the gentry – not the landed gentry, unfortunately. Only a few paltry acres around the family mansion, which has approximately five years more to go before the termites devour it. Do you have any idea what a handicap that combination is – poverty and gentility? I couldn’t get a position – ’

‘Horsefeathers,’ I said rudely, fighting the melting effect of those cornflower-blue eyes. ‘The class barriers went down with a crash in World War Two, even in England. When the Duke of Bedford is selling souvenirs to tourists who visit his stately mansion, anybody can work.’

‘Ah, well, it was worth a try,’ John said, without rancour. ‘You sense the truth, of course; I am personally disinclined to engage in vulgar labour. It’s a psychological handicap. If you knew my mother – ’

‘Scratch excuse number two,’ I said. ‘I don’t buy the theory that perverts and criminals are the guiltless products of a corrupt society. And as a woman I’m sick and tired of the attempts to blame Mother for every crime that has been committed since Cain and Abel.’

‘Eve was probably overprotective,’ John said speculatively. ‘She always liked Abel best. Naturally this upset his brother . . . My mother’s name is Guinevere.’ I stared at him for a minute and then started to laugh.

‘You are hopeless,’ I said. ‘Is that really her name?’

‘Yes.’

‘You may have an excuse after all.’

‘We’re an old Cornish family,’ John explained. ‘Old and decadent. However, I cannot honestly blame my sins on Mum. She’s a good old girl, even if she does look like Judith Anderson playing a demented housekeeper. No, my sins are my own. I simply cannot settle down to an honest spot of work. It’s so boring.’

‘And swindling isn’t boring?’

‘Well, this particular scheme isn’t as ingenious as some I have engaged in. There was one stunt . . . But perhaps we had better not recall that. It was brilliant, though. Almost worked, too. It failed only because I was too innocent to understand the depravity that lurks in the hearts of men. One man in particular – my partner.’

‘It appears to me that you haven’t overcome that weakness,’ I suggested politely.

‘Too true. I simply must become more cynical. At any rate, this plan seemed quite foolproof. I was approached by an acquaintance of mine in London – and, pardon me, I simply will not mention names. I don’t mind about some of the others, but he’s a good chap, and a friend.’

‘Never mind the noblesse oblige. What was the plan?’

‘Don’t rush me,’ John said, savouring the syllables. ‘I must think how to explain it convincingly.’

‘I think I see another of your troubles,’ I said maliciously. ‘You talk too much. You are so enamoured of the sound of your own voice that you babble on and on when you ought to be doing something.’

‘That is unkind, but probably correct. Very well, I’ll get on with it.

‘My friend, whom I shall refer to as “Jones” – to go with “Smythe,” you know – is the sole heir of a wealthy old aunt. At least she was wealthy; at the rate she is using up her resources there won’t be much left for poor old Jones – which is one of the reasons why she is living so well, since she doesn’t care much for Jones. She thinks he is a lazy ne’er-do-well, and she is absolutely right. The only asset she possesses that she won’t pawn or sell is her antique-jewellery collection. She plans to leave that to the British Museum, in order to spite Jones.

‘So, when Jones was contacted by a strange little man who proposed a deal, he listened. The deal was simple enough. The old lady doesn’t trust banks. She keeps her jewels in a safe in her flat. (The family mansion went on the block years ago.) The jewels are amply protected, not only by the safe, but by a dozen nervous dogs. The old witch adores the creatures.

‘Now Jones admits that he had thought of – er – borrowing a few small diamonds, but he gave up the idea because he would be the first one to be suspected. His newfound friend’s scheme disposed of this difficulty. He would supply Jones with imitations good enough to deceive even the old lady’s sharp eye.

‘Jones jeered at this – until he was shown a sample. It was the Charlemagne talisman, which I gather you’ve already seen. Good, isn’t it?’

‘Superb,’ I said honestly. ‘It ought to have relieved Jones’s scruples – though he doesn’t appear to have had many.’

‘I must confess he was ready to be persuaded,’ John said demurely. ‘The deal went off quite neatly.’ Jones supplied photographs and measurements, and the switch was made one night while Auntie was at the opera. Wagner.

‘The gang split the proceeds with Jones, who is now living comfortably on the Riviera. When they asked him to recommend a friend who might assist them in finding other – er – ’

‘Victims,’ I suggested.

‘Victims,’ John agreed, without batting an eye. ‘He thought of me. I was happy to oblige. I have a fairly wide acquaintance among the undeserving rich.’

‘But how do they sell the things?’ I demanded. ‘If the jewels are so well known, no fence – ’

‘That’s the beauty of the scheme. There are no middlemen. The gems are sold directly to collectors. There is a lot of money floating around the world these days, my dear. In the Near East, South America, the States . . . People are buying jewels as investments, and antique jewellery is increasingly popular with collectors. The buyer knows, of course, that there is something shady about the transactions. He doesn’t care. He is willing to keep quiet about his acquisitions.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘I quite agree. But there are a lot of crazy people in the world too. It happens all the time, Vicky. There is a large underground movement in forgeries of all kinds. Antique furniture, Chinese ceramics, famous paintings. Read some of the literature. The list of detected forgeries is enormous. And the objects on the list are the unsuccessful fakes. God knows how many imitation Rembrandts and Vermeers there are still in the museums. Where have the genuine pieces gone? Into private collections. The only thing that makes this scheme better than others is that the imitations are virtually undetectable. I doubt that even the great British Museum will notice the difference when Auntie finally passes her jewels on to them.’

‘And Pietro is one of the people who are allowing their collections to be copied?’

‘Right.’

‘But why? The man is rich as Croesus. Villas and palaces stuffed with antiques, fancy cars, servants . . . Why should he participate in a crummy deal like this?’

‘Vicky, Vicky! It is clear that you, like my parents, come from the poor but honest class. I suppose you don’t buy things unless you can pay for them.’

‘I can’t buy things unless I can pay for them,’ I said, remembering my ivory loden cloak with the silver buttons and the swollen price tab.

‘That’s because you are one of the deserving poor. The Conte Caravaggio – who is one of the undeserving rich – can walk into a shop and walk out with a new Rolls, and the vulgar subject of money is never mentioned. Eventually he has to put a bit on account, but you’d be surprised how long this economic ruin can be juggled before it collapses. Pietro has already sold many of his treasures; half those paintings at the palace are copies. You didn’t examine them because you were concentrating on jewellery. The property is mortgaged to the hilt and the servants haven’t been paid for years. He needs money, darling, and so do many other people in his position. If he weren’t of noble blood he’d stop buying Beluga caviar and handmade leather shoes, and declare bankruptcy; but the Caravaggio honour won’t allow him to be an honest pauper.’

‘Very eloquent,’ I said. ‘Very convincing . . . You don’t have a high opinion of my intelligence, do you?’

‘My dear girl, what do you mean?’

‘My dear boy, the scheme you have outlined isn’t larceny – except for the initial transaction. I suppose you thought I’d concentrate on that and overlook the fact that there is no law to prevent a man like Pietro from selling his possessions if he wants to. And no law to keep him from having copies made for himself.’

‘It was worth a try,’ John said coolly.

‘So what is the plot? No, don’t tell me, it’s quite obvious, really. Pietro doesn’t sell his jewels, he sells the copies. Not once, but several times! He and the others who are cooperating in this scheme never appear – that’s your job, to peddle the merchandise. The collectors who buy from you think they are buying stolen property, so they don’t compare notes or publicize their purchases. Luigi’s copies will pass any test they can devise. And if they see references in the press to the original jewels – the Gräfin von Hochstein at the opera wearing the Hochstein emeralds – they think she is wearing the fakes! That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘Essentially, yes. That’s it.’

‘It’s incredible,’ I muttered.

‘“Brilliant” is the word I would choose,’ John said complacently. He sat up and moved in close to me, but he didn’t touch me. ‘Well, Vicky, what do you say? Wasn’t I right when I claimed no one has been hurt? Most of these jewels will end up in museums eventually, like the Hope diamond and other famous gems. The museums will get the copies – quite adequate for their purpose, which is to display objects of unusual beauty or historic interest. Luigi’s copies are as good as the originals, which are, after all, only chunks of raw material. Honestly, only a stuffy pedant could claim that this is an immoral trade.’

‘You can’t get at me that way,’ I said severely. ‘I am too old to wince at unkind names. I may be a stuffy pedant, but there are flaws in your argument. For one thing, I don’t like the idea of stealing from museums.’

‘But we don’t actually steal from the museums,’ John said. ‘The Charlemagne piece was only a sample. Museums are too dangerous. They have quite up-to-date security systems, and my crowd is an amateur lot; nothing like the people who robbed Topkapi. We don’t rob anyone; and we only steal from people who can well afford it. They are just as dishonest as we are, or they wouldn’t accept what they believe to be stolen property.’

‘No,’ I said stubbornly. ‘I still don’t buy it.’

‘Why not?’

I felt my cheeks getting warm. My generation is sometimes accused of having no verbal inhibitions, and God knows I use words in ordinary conversation that would have sent Granny Andersen running for the soap, so she could wash my mouth out. But here I was, all embarrassed, blushing, at the prospect of explaining my moral standards.

‘It’s a question of – of integrity,’ I stuttered. ‘Honesty. Everybody lies these days, from politicians and statesmen to the people who repair my car and my radio. Everybody has a specious excuse for chiselling the other guy. It’s got to stop somewhere. I know the arguments, I’ve heard them. “If these people weren’t basically dishonest, we wouldn’t be able to cheat them; and besides, the ignorant cruds don’t deserve to own beautiful things, they can’t even tell the difference between the real and the fake.” The critics have been rooked too, plenty of times, but that is beside the point. The point is that if you have a skill, or a talent, or a body of knowledge, you are obliged to use it honestly. Obliged to yourself! There is no difference between a man who robs a little old lady who is living on social security and a swindler who cheats a nasty, greedy oil millionaire. He is still a crook. And I’m sick and tired of crooks.’

My cheeks were flaming by the time I finished. I expected him to laugh – or put his arms around me. Men always think they can overcome a woman’s scruples by fondling her.

Instead he sat quite still, his head bowed.

‘If you feel that way,’ he said, ‘then I couldn’t talk you out of it even if I wanted to. Shall we go to the police?’

‘No,’ I said, with a gusty sigh. ‘I’m going to break this racket wide open, Moriarty. But I’ll give you twenty-four hours to get lost. I owe you.’

He looked up, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

‘Don’t think I won’t take you up on it. I’m not as honourable as you are.’

‘But you’ll have to help me. I may need a statement from you.’

‘I’ll do better than that. I’ve got documentary evidence.’

‘What?’

‘I am not quite as naïve as I appear,’ said John, trying, without conspicuous success, to look naïve. ‘I have learned to take precautions. The things I have aren’t conclusive, mind you; but I have a list of names and copies of Luigi’s drawings. You may need them if Pietro destroys his files and dismantles the workshop.’

‘They would help, certainly. I’m well aware of the fact that it is going to take some time to get the ponderous machinery of the law moving. It’s a wild tale, this one.’

‘All right, it’s a deal. Suppose I get my papers. They are in a bank on the Corso, along with some cash I had the good sense to stash away. The problem is going to be a passport.’

‘Good Lord, yes. You can’t get out of the country without one.’

‘Oh, I can get out of the country, all right. But I can’t get back into England unless I take risks that far outweigh the risks involved in retrieving the thing.’

‘Why do you want to go back to England? I would have thought you would head for the Sahara, or a South Sea island.’

‘No, that’s stupid. The best place to lose oneself is among one’s own kind. A foreigner stands out like the Eiffel Tower in another country. I’ve got friends at home.’

‘Your future movements are a matter of indifference to me,’ I said. ‘How do you propose to get your passport? I suppose it is back at the villa.’

‘Never mind where it is. I’ll deal with it.’

‘If I were in your shoes,’ I said ominously, ‘I would prefer someone to know where I was at all times.’

‘In case I don’t come out?’ He grinned feebly. ‘What would you do, rush in with your six-guns blazing?’

‘I would call the cops.’

‘Hmm.’ John considered this. ‘Yes, I can visualize situations in which I might find that prospect consoling. All right. I have a little pied-à-terre here in Rome . . .’

‘With half a dozen extra passports? No, never mind, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know about your criminal activities.’

‘Much better for you if you don’t.’ He dropped his head into his hands. ‘Damn, my brain seems to be petrified. I could do with a few hours’ sleep, after our wild night.’

‘That might not be such a bad idea.’ The nape of his neck looked thin and defenceless, like a young boy’s. I wondered cynically if he was aware of the effect it had on women.

‘It might not be a good idea either. We ought to move out of here.’ He didn’t move, though; he just sat there, all hunched over, exuding stoic control and suppressed pain. ‘They must know the only way we could get out of the area was by car. The buses don’t run that late. There isn’t much through traffic in the wee small hours . . .’

‘So it might occur to Pietro to inquire about us in Tivoli,’ I finished the train of thought. ‘Yes, you’re right. But we’ve got several hours. Our drivers won’t get back to Tivoli till midmorning. What about your pied-à-terre? You didn’t tell anyone where it is, I hope?’

John looked up at me. There was the funniest expression on his face for a moment. Then he shook his head.

‘We needn’t hurry, then,’ I said. ‘You lie down and sleep for a while. Give me some money.’

‘What for?’ He looked at me suspiciously.

‘I’m going to the farmaria, if I can find one that’s open. And to a grocery store. A little bread, a little wine . . . And a little penicillin.’

They sell all sorts of drugs in Italy that you would need a prescription for back in the States. I told the clerk my boyfriend had fallen off his bike and hurt himself. He was very sympathetic.

I half expected John would be gone when I returned, but he was flat on his back, sleeping heavily. My first aid woke him with a vengeance. The bullet wound looked nasty in the bright light of day. He played the tight-lipped hero, stifling his groans, until I finished the bandaging and took out the hypodermic needle.

‘Oh, no,’ he said energetically. ‘Where the hell did you get that?’

‘They sell them over the counter,’ I explained, squinting professionally at the tip of the needle. ‘Roll over.’

‘Not on your life.’

‘I didn’t think you were so modest.’

‘Modest, hell. If you think I’m going to let an amateur jab that thing into my defenceless backside – ’

‘Look, you’ve probably got enough germs in your bloodstream to kill a whole village. You don’t want to get sick while you’re on the run, do you?’

John stuck out his lower lip and pressed his body firmly into the mattress.

‘Come on, don’t be such a baby. I know how to do it. The clerk at the farmacia showed me. It’s easy.’ I could see that my rational arguments weren’t having any effect, so I tried threats. ‘If you don’t, I am going straight out of here to the police.’

If I do say so, I made quite a neat job of it. But he carried on more about the needle than he had about being shot.

‘There, now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ I said soothingly.

‘I think I would prefer gangrene.’

‘Don’t be silly. There are some pills, too. You’re supposed to take one every four hours.’

With a martyred groan, John hoisted himself up off the bed.

‘It’s late. We had better get moving.’

We went to the bank first. I waited outside till John came out with a thick manila envelope.

‘You got the papers?’

‘Yes. Here you are. And I got some money.’

‘Give me some.’

‘The age-old feminine cry,’ John said disagreeably. ‘What do you need money for?’

‘Clothes. I had three propositions while I was standing here. This skirt is too tight.’

‘Too tight for what? All right, perhaps that’s a good idea. The honest householder whose clothesline we robbed may have reported his loss. Get something inconspicuous, please. And a hat. All that blonde hair is horribly noticeable.’

‘What about yours?’ We retreated into a corner behind one of the marble pillars of the bank. John peeled off some bills from a roll the size of a loaf of bread, and handed them to me.

‘I’ll buy a hat too. Or perhaps a cassock. How do you think I would look as a Franciscan friar?’

‘Unconvincing.’

John glanced at his wristwatch. It must have been a good one, because it had survived water, shock, and other destructive activities.

‘I’ll meet you in an hour by the Ponte Milvio, this side of the river. Then we’ll go have a spot of lunch.’

‘Good idea,’ I said gratefully.

‘I am not thinking of your appetite, my dear. Haven’t you put on a few pounds since I met you? I told you Pietro’s cuisine would be disastrous for your figure . . . My little place is in Trastevere, and there is a very inquisitive portiere on duty. He takes a nap after lunch, like all good Italians, so we can probably sneak in without being seen if we wait until then.’

Under most circumstances I would have hooted with laughter at the idea of taking only an hour to buy a whole new outfit. That morning I did it in fifteen minutes – a green cotton skirt, a white blouse, a scarf to tie over my hair, and a handbag large enough to hold John’s papers. The salesgirl gave me a paper bag for my old clothes, and I dropped them into the first rubbish bin, reminding myself that I owed a family in Tivoli a couple of new outfits as soon as I got the rest of my affairs straightened out.

I walked along the river towards the Ponte Milvio. The view was dazzling. I wondered how it could look so bright and picture-postcard pretty when I was so nervous. I was beginning to hate the dome of St Peter’s, hung up there in the sky like a swollen blimp. Upriver, the faded brownish-red cylinder of the Castel San Angelo no longer looked quaint and medieval; it reminded me of its original function – a tomb.

Now that I had time to think, away from the distracting influence of John’s silver tongue, the stupidity of what I was doing overwhelmed me. I should have gone straight to the police. At least I would feel safe in a nice dirty cell. However, I was not looking forward to talking to the cops. They would think I was nuts. I was accusing one of Rome’s most respected citizens of grand larceny; and although the papers John had given me were evidence of a sort, they would not appear convincing until the rest of the story I had to tell was accepted. And to explain how I had obtained possession of them, I would have to admit that I had let one of the gang make his escape. The more I thought about it, the more depressed I got.

When I reached the bridge I propped myself against the parapet, turned my back on St Peter’s, and tried to think what I ought to do. No, that isn’t accurate. I knew what I ought to do. I ought to go to the telegraph-telephone office and place a call to Munich. Schmidt would believe my wild story; he would believe anything I told him, bless his heart. If the Munich police contacted their counterparts in Rome, I would be received as a young woman of some professional standing, instead of having to talk my way through fourteen layers of bureaucratic disbelief. Yes, that was the sensible thing to do. So why didn’t I do it?

I didn’t recognize John at first. He was wearing a hideous print sport shirt and pants that bagged around his ankles, and his nose was buried in a guidebook. The guidebook was in German, and John was the very picture of an earnest student – thick glasses, a blank, solemn expression – except for his hat. It was a straw hat, the kind Sicilian farmers put on their mules, with holes cut in the crown for the ears. He stood next to me, peering nearsightedly at the guidebook.

‘If that is your idea of inconspicuous attire,’ I began.

‘Let us eschew sarcasm for the rest of the day, shall we?’ John shifted his shoulders uneasily. ‘I’m suffering from premonitions.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. I don’t know why I’m so edgy. I have a delicate, sensitive nature, and this sort of thing is not good for me.’

‘Let’s go eat.’

‘All right.’ He closed the book and squinted at me through his glasses. ‘Fräulein, du hist sehr schön. Hast du auch Freundschaft für eine arme Studenten?’

I took the arm he extended.

‘I don’t know which is more deplorable, your German or your technique.’

‘I do better in English.’

‘I’ve noticed that.’

Trastevere is a favourite tourist area. There are a lot of charming little trattorias and restaurants, most of them overpriced and crowded. I get hungry when I’m nervous, and I was very nervous, so I ate tagliatelli alia bolognese, and cotoletta alia milanese, and something alia romana, and a few other odds and ends, while John sat there poking at his food with his fork.

‘You had better eat,’ I said, through a mouthful of insalata verde. ‘Keep your strength up. Do you feel all right?’

‘No, I do not. Spare me the motherly concern, will you?’

We had had to wait for a table. By the time we finished eating, it was late enough to go to John’s apartment. It was on one of those quaint little side streets in Trastevere, with a fountain on the corner and a wall shrine just above. The garish statue of the Madonna had flowers at her feet. The entrance to the apartment was marked by an iron grille that opened into a courtyard. There weren’t many people on the street. It was siesta time, and the shops were closed.

The courtyard was empty except for a fat black cat sleeping in a patch of sunlight. On the left of the gateway a door stood open; from it came the sound of gargantuan snores. John put his fingers to his lips and we tiptoed past. The cat opened one eye, looked at us with the ineffable contempt only cats can express with one eye, and closed it again.

There was a stairway on each of the four sides of the court, leading up to the apartments. It sounds more pretentious than it was. Everything about the place, except the cat, was weedy and shabby. The staircase smelled of garlic. We went up on tiptoe, meeting no one. On the top floor John produced his key and opened the door.

I was so on edge I half expected Bruno to come bounding out at us. But the apartment was empty. It had the dusty, unoccupied smell of a place that had been uninhabited for many days. Yet my nostrils seemed to catch another, more elusive scent, though it was almost buried under the aroma of garlic from the hall. John noticed it too. His nostrils quivered. Then he shrugged.

‘My things are in the bedroom,’ he said softly. ‘Wait here.’

He closed the door. It had an automatic spring lock that snapped into place. As John crossed the room I looked the place over. A cubicle at the end of the living room had a tiny refrigerator and a two burner stove. Apparently that was all there was to the place – living room and bedroom and, presumably, a bathroom.

John opened the bedroom door.

He stopped in midstride as if he had run into a wall of hard, invisible glass. I ran to him. He lifted one arm to keep me out. His muscles were as rigid as steel. I couldn’t get past him, but I could see; and after the first glance I had no desire to proceed any farther.

The room had a single window and two doors, probably those of bathroom and closet. It was a small room. The bed almost filled it.

She was lying on the bed. She wore a pale-blue negligee of thin silk, all wrinkled and crushed under her, as if she had struggled. Her body was beautiful – a little too plump, but exquisitely curved. I recognized the curves, and the silky pale hair that fanned out across the pillow; but I would never have recognized her face.