Street of the Five Moons

Chapter Two

NO WONDER THEY hadn’t bolted the back door. I wondered why they had bothered to lock it.

I could have slammed the door and taken to my heels. I had time. It wasn’t courage, but the reverse, that prevented me from taking flight. I was paralyzed. After a long second or two I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. The dog’s lips were curled back, its low growl never stopped; but its tail lifted and gave a tentative wag.

The room into which the door opened wasn’t large; it was an entryway rather than a room. The floor was cement, the walls and ceiling were festooned with dirty cobwebs, and the canine amenities were not luxurious – only a pile of filthy sacks in one corner and a couple of battered tin plates, both empty. On one plate was a shrivelled scrap of pasta, obviously the remains of the dog’s dinner. The other dish, the water dish, was bone dry.

People say southern Europeans aren’t as sentimental about animals as Americans are. But I had seen scraps left by kindhearted Romans for the stray dogs and cats that infest the ancient ruins, and once I had watched a gruff, tough-looking labourer feed half a dozen cats in the Roman Forum, producing cans of food and a can opener from the pocket of his trousers. It was undoubtedly a daily ritual, since the half-wild felines came running at his call and preened, purring, under his touch. The man who tended the Doberman wasn’t that kind of Roman. He hadn’t even bothered to give the animal fresh water.

I walked into the room, crooning in the voice I use to Duke, my retriever back home in Cleveland.

‘Poor old boy, poverino, did the bad man forget to feedums? Here, carissimo, sweetheart, mama will get you some water.’

The dog leaped.

He would have knocked me flat on my back if Duke hadn’t taught me how to brace myself against that kind of rush. The Doberman was a big fake – a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Dogs are like people, there are good ones and bad ones; but although even a nice dog may be soured by bad treatment, most of them are much more forgiving than humans.

I managed to get the door closed, and then I sat down and played with the dog for a while, letting him drool happily all over my hands. I finally persuaded him to let me stand up, and then, before I did anything else, I went looking for a source of water.

I found it in a tiny room that contained a sink and a toilet and a lot of cockroaches. I filled the dog’s water bowl and watched him gulp it up with growing indignation. He was awfully thin. I suppose they kept him underfed on the assumption that he would be all the more ready to munch up an intruder. So I thought I would just see if I could find something to eat. The most I expected was a coffeepot and a box of crackers, the sort of thing a clerk might have on hand for snacks. But I hit pay dirt. Another little cubbyhole next to the lavatory contained a hot plate and a surprising collection of goodies – cans of pâté and smoked oysters, and a tin of expensive English tea, plus another tin of biscuits. ‘Fancy Biscuits’, it said on the lid.

The Doberman adored the pâté, but he liked the smoked oysters best of all. I gave him a handful of biscuits to finish off with, and I promised myself that if this place turned out to be the den of the master criminal, as I hoped it would be, I would see that the custodian of the dog got an extra-heavy sentence.

With the dog right behind me, breathing noisily on the back of my raincoat, I explored the shop.

Heavy metal shutters had been pulled across the front windows, so I was able to use my flashlight. I didn’t spend much time in the front of the shop, though I would happily have lingered over some of the treasures it contained. All the objects were beautiful and expensive. Most of the furniture was of the ornate, heavily gilded Baroque type that is still popular in Italy. There was a Venetian glass chandelier that might have graced a ducal palace in the seventeenth century, plus shelf after shelf of crystal, silver, and rare china. One case held jewellery, and I examined it eagerly. A single glance told me there was nothing for me here. Most of the pieces were nineteenth century – handsome and expensive, but not rare like Charlemagne’s unique gem. So I returned to the back of the shop.

It was fitted up as an office, with a desk and a couple of straight chairs, and a big rusty filing cabinet. The dog lay down and started chewing absentmindedly on the end of the tattered rug while I looked through the desk drawers.

They held the things one might expect to find – paper, pens, pencils, and the like. I turned to the filing cabinet.

I was handicapped by not knowing what I was looking for. I didn’t expect to find a detailed plan of some larcenous plot, complete with the names of the conspirators and floor plans of museums. But I hoped I would run across something that would prime the pump – if you will excuse a homely metaphor dating back to my days on the farm – some name or phrase that would have a sinister meaning to my suspicious mind.

The surprising thing was that I found it, but not in the filing cabinet. Like the desk, that article of furniture contained only the things normal to a business establishment like this one. There were folders full of receipts from the craftsmen with whom an antique dealer ordinarily deals – furniture restorers, weavers, and so on. Several jewellery firms were mentioned. I jotted down the names, but I didn’t expect much from that source. A dealer in antique jewellery sometimes has to have a piece cleaned or restored. I recognized one of the firms, an old, prestigious establishment on the Via Sistina. These transactions appeared to be open and aboveboard.

One of the folders was interesting, but I don’t suppose I would have noticed it if I hadn’t been groping desperately for some clue. It was a thin folder, with only a dozen pieces of paper inside, and unlike the other things in the file drawer it was comparatively new and clean. The papers consisted of a list of names – very distinguished names. Practically all of them had titles, and a few of them were familiar to me.

For reasons which will become evident as this narrative proceeds, I am going to change those names – to protect the innocent, as they say. ‘The innocent’ is me. I have enough trouble getting along in life, I don’t need lawsuits. The point is that the names I recognized were those of men who owned rare and beautiful art objects. The title of the Graf von––, to select just one example, went back to the tenth century, and so did some of the contents of his castle in the Bavarian Alps. One of his possessions, a saltcellar that was attributed to Cellini, had been reproduced in a dozen art books.

I looked over the names with considerable interest. Were these men potential victims of a master thief? The prizes would be well worth the effort, and a private home, however grand, is a lot easier to rob than a museum. But it was only a theory. I could hardly call on these ladies and gentlemen and ask to look over their collections. I had no proof of anything yet. Besides, if the Charlemagne talisman was a representative example of the forger’s work, I wouldn’t be able to identify a fake.

The dog had become bored with the rug, although, from the stains on it, I imagine it had an interesting variety of flavours. He was lying with his head on my foot, which had gone numb from his weight. I was feeling ridiculously relaxed by that time – there is nothing more soothing than a dog at one’s feet – and I began to get a little peckish. So I went to the pantry to get some biscuits. I was tempted to make myself a cup of tea, and went so far as to take the lid off the tin. The box was almost full.

The box of biscuits had been almost full too. That probably proved something, but I couldn’t believe it was anything important. I decided not to bother with the tea, but I ate the rest of the biscuits, with considerable help from the dog. What the hell, there was no way I could conceal the fact that someone had broken into the shop. Whatever else the dog might have done, he could not have opened the cans of smoked oysters.

I dusted the crumbs off my hands and returned to the office for a final look around. There was nothing in the wastebasket, nothing behind the filing cabinet. I decided I might as well go. I hated to leave the dog, but I could hardly take him to my hotel. When I bent down to pat his massive head and apologize for deserting him, I saw he had found something else to nibble. The design on the paper caught my eye, and I pulled it out of the dog’s jaws.

He had eaten one corner of the paper, but enough remained. It was a drawing – a detailed, scale drawing – of a crown. Not one of those big, fat, plushy crowns modern monarchs wear when they are opening Parliament; this was a diadem of twisted gold wire and tiny enamelled flowers. The flower petals were made of turquoise and lapis lazuli and carnelian. The colours weren’t indicated on the drawing; but I knew that crown. Talk about antique jewellery – this piece was four thousand years old. It had come from the tomb of an Egyptian princess. The Metropolitan Museum has one like it. This one had been found early in the nineteenth century, before governments established regulations about removing antiquities from the country in which they were discovered. Like the Elgin Marbles, it had been taken to England by the wealthy excavator. Unlike the Marbles, it was still in a private collection.

I put the drawing in my pocket and headed for the back door. I had to talk to the dog for quite a while before he would let me out. I had refilled his water dish, but I still felt guilty; the last thing I saw before I switched off my flashlight was his mournful look. I didn’t bother locking the door. Why should I protect the premises of a gang of crooks?

The shop was one of the hangouts of the people I was after. I was sure of that now. The drawing might not be proof for a court of law, but it was good enough for me. The detailed measurements and scale sketch were precisely what a craftsman would need in order to copy a piece, and this particular piece of jewellery was made to order for the man who had produced the copy of the Charlemagne talisman. The value of the crown lay in the design and the workmanship and the rarity. It could be duplicated at a fairly reasonable cost.

I got back to the hotel about 3 a.m. having divested myself of my coat and scarf along the way. The desk clerk smiled slyly as I went through the lobby, and I thanked God for dirty minds. It never would have occurred to that man that I was late because I had been breaking into an antique shop.

I had breakfast in bed next morning, and very good it was, too, except for the coffee. I cannot imagine why the people who invented espresso have never learned to produce decent coffee of any other variety.

It was a gorgeous morning, like practically every morning in Rome. The fountains in the Piazza d’Esedra sparkled in the sunlight. I was wearing my brightest tourist costume, all red-and-white stripes and big sunglasses. I wanted to be noticed. There was no way the shop people could know I was their nocturnal visitor. I strolled along the Via dei Coronari in a leisurely fashion, and went into a couple of the shops. It was almost noon before I reached number 37.

There were two German tourists in the shop. At least they were speaking that language, in loud, forceful voices. They had the solid look of prosperous merchants, and the woman was wearing slacks, which was a mistake on her part. I listened for a while, my back turned, pretending to examine the objects in a glass case near the door. The lady was a collector of Chinese snuff bottles, and her comments on the one that had been shown to her were not flattering. The price was too high, the carving was poor . . . The usual comments made by a buyer who hopes to knock the price down.

The proprietor responded in a voice so soft I could scarcely make out the words. It was obvious from his tone that he didn’t give a damn whether the gnddige Frau bought the bottle or not. After a while this became obvious to the Frau as well; with an irritated exclamation she stamped out of the shop, followed by her husband.

I turned and stared interestedly at a Baroque lamp, dripping with gilded bobbles and bangles. I didn’t expect the clerk to approach me; he did not impress me as a supersalesman. My assumption was correct. He sat perfectly still, behind a desk at the back, and I wended my way towards him, looking at the merchandise like any casual shopper. Then I looked at him and smiled.

‘Buon giorno,’ I said.

‘Good morning,’ he answered.

I waited for him to add something, like ‘May I help you?’ but he didn’t. He just sat there, leaning back in his chair and studying me with a supercilious smile.

I didn’t need the clipped, characteristic accent to tell me he was English. The tea and biscuits I had found the night before had led me to expect that the present manager of the shop was of that nation, and his appearance was unmistakable. He reminded me of Lord Peter Wimsey – not only the fair hair and the skin scarcely darkened by the Roman sun, but the air of mild contempt. You couldn’t say his nose was big, but it seemed to dominate his face, and although he was sitting down and I was standing, he gave the impression of looking down his nose at me.

‘Goodness gracious,’ I said, opening my eyes very wide. ‘How did you know I was American?’

The smile broadened.

‘My dear girl!’ said the Englishman, and said no more.

I was seized by a sudden desire to say something that would shock that irritating smile off his face – to ask whether he had any ancient Egyptian jewellery for sale, perhaps. But I thought better of it. There was something about the man, casual and overbred though he appeared to be, that made me suspect I had better deal carefully with him. His hands, clasped negligently on his knee, were as well tended as a woman’s. He had long, thin fingers – musicians’ fingers, people say, though most of the musicians I have known have hands like truck drivers.

I started to babble, explaining that I wanted a present for my fiancé, who loved old things. The man’s cool blue eyes narrowed with amusement as I went on. He waved one of his beautiful, manicured hands.

‘Browse, then, love. Take your time. If you see anything you like, fetch it over and I’ll tell you about it.’

‘Thanks. Don’t get up,’ I said.

‘I hadn’t intended to.’

I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I was wondering what to do next when an outrageous explosion of noise erupted in the back of the shop. The Colosseum was only a few blocks away; I was irresistibly reminded of the Christians and the lions. Crashes, screams, growls . . .

Growls. That was all the warning I had before the dog burst through the curtains at the back of the shop and launched himself at me. I hadn’t forgotten him, but I had assumed he would be tied up or removed to more rural surroundings during the day. I certainly had not counted on his memory, or his hearing, being so good.

Some obscure impulse made me grab the Baroque lamp as I fell. It was a heavy thing, but it went over with a satisfying crash. The manager leaped to his feet with a profane remark. Flat on my back, with the dog rapturously licking my face, I writhed and shrieked.

‘Help, help, get him off, he’s gnawing at my jugular!’

The Englishman came trotting towards me. He didn’t trot fast, and I was infuriated to observe that instead of flying to my rescue he stopped to pick up the lamp and examine it, scowling, before he twisted his hand in the dog’s collar and yanked him off me. He did it effortlessly, although the animal must have weighed almost 100 pounds.

‘Jugular indeed,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Get up, young woman, and wipe your face. You have damaged a very valuable lamp. Bruno!’

I thought he was talking to the dog, for the poor creature immediately lay down at his feet, cringing. But Bruno was a man – a swarthy, heavy-set, villainous-looking fellow who came rushing in from the back of the shop brandishing a heavy stick. The Englishman caught this weapon as Bruno was about to bring it down on the dog’s back.

‘Stop it, you fool,’ he said in Italian.

‘But he is a killer,’ snarled Bruno. ‘See, he has attacked me, ripped my shirt – ’

‘Intelligent dog. Good taste – sartorial and otherwise . . . Leave the animal alone, cretin. Americans are foolish about animals; she’ll have the police on us if you aren’t careful.’

The word cretino is a particularly nasty insult in Italian. Bruno’s unshaven jowls darkened and his eyes narrowed; but after a moment he shrugged, lowered the stick, and snapped his fingers.

‘Come, Caesar.’

The dog followed him, belly down on the floor. It made me sick to watch. The Englishman’s face was quite impassive throughout this exchange – which, naturally, I pretended not to understand – and my initial dislike for him took a great leap forwards. Usually the English are fond of dogs. Obviously this one was a degenerate specimen. It confirmed my conviction that he was a crook.

I scrambled to my feet, unaided by any gentleman, and brushed my dusty skirt.

‘The lamp,’ said the Englishman, eyeing me coldly.

‘My ribs,’ I said, just as coldly. ‘Now don’t give me any nonsense about paying for the lamp. You’re lucky I don’t sue you. What do you mean, keeping a dangerous animal like that around?’

He didn’t speak for a moment, he just stood there with his hands in the pockets of his beautifully tailored jacket. His face was superbly controlled, but as the seconds ticked away I had an uncomfortable impression that all sorts of ideas were burgeoning behind the bland facade.

‘You are quite right,’ he said finally. ‘I must apologize. In fact, we owe you more than an apology. Perhaps you had better consult a doctor, to make sure you are not injured.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m not hurt, just shaken.’

‘But your dress.’ He was all charm now, smiling, showing even white teeth. ‘At the very least it will need to be cleaned. You must let us pay for it. Do give me your name and the name of your hotel, so we can make good the damage.’

I wanted to swear. There was a good mind behind that handsome face of his, and now he had me neatly boxed in. He knew enough about animals to draw the proper conclusion from the dog’s behaviour. He couldn’t be positive that I was the midnight intruder, but he was damned suspicious, and if I refused to give him my name, his suspicions would be strengthened. Furthermore, he was quite capable of having me followed – that’s what I would have done if I had been in his shoes. So whether I refused to answer, or gave him a false name, he could check up on me. I wasn’t a professional, there was no way I could hope to shake off an anonymous follower who would probably look exactly like half a million other Roman men. The only possible course now was to tell the truth and hope that my candour would disarm his suspicion.

So I told him who I was and where I was staying, and fluttered my eyelashes and wriggled my hips at him, as if I hoped there was a more personal motive behind his interest. He responded, in an outrageous parody of male ego that would have been funny if I had not lost my sense of humour. If he had had a moustache he would have twirled it.

My vanity was somewhat wilted as I retraced my steps towards the Piazza Navona but as I walked on I began to hope that perhaps the incident hadn’t been so disastrous after all. I was at an impasse in my investigations; now the gang might be forced to make the next move.

How right I was! I was only wrong about one thing. I expected it would take them a day or two to check up on me, so I didn’t anticipate trouble right away. Certainly not before nightfall. Instead they snatched me out of the Roman Forum, right under the noses of a thousand tourists.