Street of the Five Moons

Chapter Four

THERE WAS A DIFFERENT staff on duty next morning, but they had clearly heard about me. The precocious lad who brought my breakfast lingered until I gave him the evilest look I could manage. He retreated hastily, and I hung out the ‘Do not disturb’ sign.

I drank about a pint of coffee to begin with, and then tackled the food. By the time I got through I felt my old self again, except for a slight tenderness around the chin. I didn’t need that to remind me of what I owed a certain smart-aleck Englishman.

I should have been grateful to him, and I was – the way I was grateful to my dentist after he had filled a big cavity without anesthesia. The man had saved me from an undefined but unpleasant fate. And yet that grinning devil had somehow turned the whole affair into a farce. I simply couldn’t take seriously any plot that involved a weirdo like . . . I didn’t even know his name. He had reduced my case into a personal duel. My greatest desire now was not to catch the crooks, but to get even with . . . I didn’t even know his name!

But I would find out. I needn’t say, I am sure, that I had no intention of taking his advice and clearing out. If he had planned it deliberately, he couldn’t have chosen a better way of making me stay on. And thanks to his male vanity, I now had the clue I needed.

My knowledge of antique jewellery is not that of an expert. I had recognized the Charlemagne talisman because the original was in my own museum, and the Egyptian princess’s crown was an art object, rare and unforgettable. But I do know paintings. I had seen only the bottom half, sometimes less than that, of the paintings in the long gallery, but that was enough. I had recognized not one, but three of them. Murillo’s ‘Madonna of the Hills’ is barefoot, like any pretty, dark-eyed peasant girl. I would have known those dainty arched feet anywhere, just as I would have recognized the landscape that forms the setting for Raphael’s ‘Saint Cecilia.’ The third painting particularly was a giveaway. According to the legend, St Peter was crucified upside down. Solano had painted him in traditional position, and I had gotten an excellent view of the poor saint’s trailing white hair and beard. He looked a lot more peaceful than I would have looked in that position.

The only question remaining was: Who owned these pictures? It’s impossible to remember the location of every great work of art in the world; the ‘Pietà’ in St Peter’s, the ‘Mona Lisa’ in the Louvre, yes; but Raphael painted a lot of pictures, most of them saints or madonnas. It was no problem. All I needed was a library or a museum. I was feeling disgustingly pleased with myself as I leaped out of bed and headed for the shower.

The sun was high when I emerged from the hotel. I knew I had to get moving, because many of the museums are closed in the afternoon. But I lingered to admire the view, a rugged landscape of tiled roofs and twisted towers, with the dome of St Peter’s off in the distance floating like a giant balloon against the blue sky.

There are a lot of museums in Rome, but I had no problem deciding which one to visit. The Galleria Concini has a particularly fine collection of jewellery. I had meant to check it out in case my other lead didn’t work, because it struck me as being the sort of place a gang of thieves would find enticing. The Vatican has a more valuable collection of treasures, but a small, private museum like the Concini would be considerably more vulnerable.

I trotted down the Spanish Steps, between the great tubs of flowering azaleas and the gawking tourists. The younger ones were sprawled all over the steps, drinking Cokes and soda. People were hawking cheap jewellery and leather goods, and offering their services as guides. Down at the bottom the charming little fountain was almost hidden by loungers, some of whom, in defiance of authority, were surreptitiously soaking their hot feet. It was all very cheerful and noisy, and it was only by chance that I spotted a face that looked familiar.

After a near stumble, I decided the man wasn’t Bruno, the dog handler. He looked enough like him to be his brother, but so did a lot of other men in the crowd. Bruno was a typical southern Italian – swarthy, stocky, dark haired. The man wasn’t paying any attention to me, and by the time I turned into the Via del Babuino I had lost sight of him. My euphoria had received a slight check, however. The incident had reminded me that I was all the more vulnerable to attack because I knew only a couple of the members of the gang by sight. It was silly to assume that they were all sinister, dark men; a pursuer could be disguised as a housewife, a nun, or a tourist. Just then a tourist did approach me. The poor guy only wanted to know how to find the Colosseum, but I shied like a nervous mare when he thrust his map at me.

The Galleria Concini is near the Pincian Hill. I prefer not to be any more specific about its location, and that isn’t its right name, either. The reason for my reticence will become apparent as I proceed.

I reached it without further incident, as a novelist might say, except for a narrow escape from a Volkswagen as I circumnavigated the Piazza del Popolo. The Galleria was open. Its handsome Renaissance facade was approached by a long flight of curving stairs. My calves, already suffering from the long climb up from the piazza, ached at the very sight of them, but I struggled up and plunged into the cool, dark cave of the entrance hall. The little old lady behind the barred cage told me the library was on the second floor, and extracted five hundred lire from me.

I had to go through several of the exhibition halls to reach the elevator. Only my stern sense of duty kept me moving. The museum had a superb collection of Quattrocento paintings, including a Masaccio polyptych I had admired for years.

The librarian’s frosty eye softened when I showed her my card. At Schmidt’s insistence I had had a batch of them printed up when I started work; they contained my full name and titles, which sound rather impressive in German. The mention of the National Museum gave me free access to the library shelves.

The room was quite handsome. It had been a grand salone at one time, when the Palazzo Concini was still a private residence. There was only one other researcher, a little old man with no hair, and glasses so thick they looked opaque. He did not glance up when I tiptoed past him with the book I had selected. I took a seat at a neighbouring table. It took me about a minute and a half to find what I wanted. I checked all three paintings, just to be sure, but the first one I looked up, the Murillo, provided the necessary information. It was in the private collection of the Conte del Caravaggio, Rome.

In my exultation I slammed the book shut. It made more of a noise than that hallowed chamber had heard in years. The little old man at the next table wobbled feebly, like those bottom-heavy toys that sway when you nudge them. For a minute I thought he was going to topple over, flat on his face on the table, a la Hitchcock. You could die in that place and nobody would notice for hours. But finally he stopped swaying, and I made my way back to the desk with exaggerated care.

When I asked if I could see the director, the librarian’s face looked shocked. I think I could have gotten in to see the Pope with far less argument. But finally she consented to telephone, and after a muttered conversation she turned back to me looking even more surprised.

‘You will be received,’ she murmured, in the whisper demanded by that dim vault with its frescoed ceiling and statued niches. I felt as if I ought to genuflect.

The director’s office was another flight up. I was allowed to take the private elevator, which opened directly into an anteroom presided over by a stately-looking man with a beard. I was about to greet him with the humility his exalted position demanded, and then I found out he wasn’t the director after all, only a secretary. He offered me a chair, and I cooled my heels for a good twenty minutes before a buzzer on his desk purred and he beckoned to me. The carved mahogany door behind him was an objet d’art in its own right. He opened it with a bow, and I went in. By then I was slightly annoyed at all the pomp and circumstance: I marched in with my chin in the air, prepared to be very cool and haughty, but the sight of the woman behind the desk took the starch right out of me.

Yes, woman. This is a man’s world, and nowhere in the world is male chauvinism more rampant than in Italy, but I never thought for a moment that this female was a secretary. She would be the boss of any establishment she chose to honour with her presence.

Being something of a female chauvinist myself, I should have warmed to her. Her male secretary was a particularly nice touch. Instead I took an instant dislike to the creature. I was about to say ‘unreasoning dislike,’ but there was good reason for my reaction. She looked at me as if I were a bedbug.

The room was arranged to provide a setting that would awe most visitors. Its high windows, draped in gold swags and festoons, opened onto a terrace so thickly planted with shrubs and flowers that it looked like a descendant of one of the Hanging Gardens. The Persian carpet on the floor was fifty feet long by twenty-five wide – a glorious, time-faded blend of cream and salmon, aquamarine and topaz. The desk should have been in the museum downstairs, and the paintings on the walls were the greatest of the great masters.

But the woman didn’t need that setting. She would have been impressive in a soup kitchen. Her black hair surely owed something to art, for the lines in her face betrayed the decades – at least four of them, if I was any judge. She had one of those splendid profiles you see on Roman coins, and I got a good look at it, because her head was turned sideways when I came in. She was looking out the window.

The secretary’s discreet murmur made several things clearer. It was loaded with long, hissing feminine endings. ‘Principessa, Direttoressa . . .’ and then the name. What else? The last of the Concinis was still hanging on in the family mansion.

She meant to make me feel like a great overgrown clod from some barbarian country, and she succeeded. I went clumping across the floor – my feet looked and sounded like size fourteens – hating that Roman profile more every second. I reached the desk and looked in vain for a chair. She gave me thirty seconds – I counted them to myself – and then turned, very slowly. A faint smile curved her full lips. It was a closed smile, with no teeth showing, and I was reminded of the enigmatic smiles of early Greek and Etruscan statues – an expression that some critics find more sinister than gracious.

‘Doctor Bliss? It is a pleasure to welcome a young colleague. Your superior, Herr Professor Schmidt, is an old acquaintance. I hope he is well?’

‘Crazy as ever,’ I said.

I hate being tall. I had a feeling she knew that, and was deliberately forcing me to stand and tower over her. So I looked around for a chair. I spotted a delicate eighteenth-century example, with priceless needlepoint on the seat, yanked it into position beside the desk, and sat down.

She stared at me for a moment. Then her lips parted and she laughed. It was a charming laugh, low pitched like her speaking voice, but vibrant with genuine amusement.

‘It is a pleasure,’ she repeated. ‘You are correct; Professor Schmidt is crazy, that is why he endears himself to his friends. May I serve you in any way, my dear, or is this purely a social call?’

I was disarmed, I admit. She had accepted my response to her challenge like a lady.

‘I wouldn’t take up your time with a purely social call, pleasant though it is,’ I said. ‘I have a rather peculiar story to tell you, Principessa – ’

‘But we are colleagues – you must call me Bianca. And you are . . . ?’

‘Vicky. Thank you . . . This is going to sound as crazy as Professor Schmidt, Prin–– Bianca. But it’s the honest truth.’

I told her the whole story – almost the whole story. She listened intently, her chin propped on one slender ringed hand, her black eyes never leaving my face. The eyes began to sparkle before I had gotten well under way, and when I had finished, her lips were twitching with amusement.

‘My dear,’ she began.

‘I said it would sound crazy.’

‘It does. If your credentials were not so excellent . . . But I know Professor Schmidt; I know his weakness. Confess, Vicky, is this not a story that is just to his taste?’

I laughed ruefully. ‘Yes, it is. But – ’

‘What real evidence have you, after all? A dead man – but dead of natural causes, you said – with a copy of one of your museum pieces. Have you any proof that criminal acts were intended? Forgive me, but it seems to me that you and Professor Schmidt have a postulated a plot on very slim evidence.’

‘That might have been true two days ago,’ I said. ‘But what about the antique shop on the Via delle Cinque Lune?’

‘A sketch, however detailed, is not evidence, my dear. I am glad, by the way, that I do not have to take official notice of your activities. I know the shop, Vicky. Signor Fergamo, the owner, is a most respected man.’

‘He might not know that the shop is being used for criminal purposes,’ I argued. ‘That damn – I mean, that English manager – ’

‘I don’t know him.’ Her delicate brows drew together as she pondered. ‘He must be new. The former manager of the establishment was Fergamo’s son-in-law. Even so . . .’

She paused politely, waiting for me to answer.

She had me over a barrel. The single piece of conclusive, damning evidence I had was the story of my kidnapping, and that was the one thing I had omitted from my narrative. I’m not sure why I hadn’t told her about that; I guess I felt it sounded so demented that it would cast an air of incredibility over an already unbelievable story. After all, she was a member of the old Roman nobility, and so was the man I suspected of being part of the gang. Would she believe an accusation against Count Caravaggio? She was more likely to conclude that I was some kind of escaped lunatic.

All this went through my head in a flash of thought. I couldn’t see any way out of the dilemma.

‘You’re sure you haven’t lost any jewels?’ I asked feebly.

Her eyes twinkled, but she managed to keep a straight face.

‘I will check. Does that please you?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Not at all. It was gracious of you to warn me. As you say, it does no harm to take precautions. But while I am looking over our collection, is there any way in which I can make your holiday in Rome more enjoyable? Introductions, suggestions?’

That gave me an opening.

‘There are some private collections I’d like to see,’ I said innocently. ‘I had intended to telephone, but it would certainly make things easier if you could vouch for me.’

‘It would be a pleasure. Which collections?’

‘Count Caravaggio’s.’

‘Caravaggio?’ Her eyebrows soared. ‘My dear, is that wise?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

She studied me thoughtfully, her chin in her cupped hand, her eyes shining.

‘Very well,’ she said, after a moment. ‘You may find him amusing. I will telephone immediately.’

Like every object in the room, even the utilitarian telephone was a work of art – a gilded mother-of-pearl set that might have stood on the desk of a French President. She got through right away, but it took the count’s butler some time to locate him. While she waited, Bianca put a cigarette in a long jade holder. She looked like a cross between the Dragon Lady and an ad for expensive, custom-made cigarettes.

Finally the count came on the wire. She addressed him by his first name.

‘Pietro? . . . I am well, thank you, and you? . . . Excellent. I have a treat for you, my dear; a charming young lady from America who is a distinguished art scholar. She wishes to view your collection . . . Yes, yes, indeed she is . . . One moment, I will ask.’

Her hand over the mouthpiece, she smiled at me.

‘Have you lunched yet, Vicky? Pietro would like you to join him if you have no other engagement. In half an hour’s time.’

Knowing what I know now, I probably should have declined that invitation. Even knowing what I knew then, I should have taken time to think it over. Being me – impetuous and not always too bright – I was delighted, and said so. The principessa returned to the telephone.

‘She accepts with pleasure, Pietro. Bene; in half an hour, then. Yes, my dear, we must dine one day soon . . . Goodbye.’

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ I said, as she replaced the instrument. ‘I guess I won’t have time to go back to the hotel first.’

‘I think not. Please make use of my private quarters if you wish to freshen up. My secretary will show you.’

I thanked her again, and rose. She leaned back in her leather executive’s chair, her hand toying idly with a magnificent diamond brooch. Like her rings, it glittered expensively. Obviously she was not gainfully employed because she needed the money.

‘Don’t thank me yet,’ she said. ‘I warn you, Pietro can be rather . . . But I feel sure you can cope.’

I thanked her for the third time. She was smiling quite broadly as I left; in a lady less elegant, I might have been tempted to call it a grin.

The minute I met the count I knew why she had given me that funny, cat-and-canary smile.

I had never met a man who wore a corset before. It was so obvious, not only from the rigidity of his tummy, but from his slightly apoplectic expression and the stiff way he walked.

He was beautifully dressed. Roman tailors are superb, and he patronized the best. His suit was of dazzling white linen with a cummerbund of scarlet silk. He had a red carnation in his buttonhole. His hair had been brushed across his head and lacquered into place, but it didn’t quite cover the bald spot. I wondered why he didn’t buy a toupee. Maybe he hadn’t quite faced the extent of the disaster; people don’t see what they don’t want to see. His face was as round as his uncorseted stomach would have been, and if I hadn’t been prejudiced I would have thought it a pleasant face. His little black moustache was an obvious imitation of Clark Gable’s. He had a habit of stroking it with one finger while he talked – when his hands weren’t otherwise occupied.

He was gorgeously turned out, but his hands were the pièce de résistance – soft and white and plump, the nails polished to a mirror surface. I had a good opportunity to judge, because they were all over me from the minute I walked into his library.

I had taken a taxi, for fear of being late, but the count was in no hurry to get to his food. He kept pressing sherry on me. Poor man, I suppose he thought I’d get drunk. I let him pat me and stroke my arm for a while. Then I decided he had had enough fun for the day, so I pushed my chair back and stood up.

‘Your home is magnificent, Count,’ I cooed. ‘This is the first time I have ever seen an Italian palace – one that is still lived in, I mean, not a museum.’

‘Ah, this.’ With one eloquent gesture the count waved away marble floor, gold-and-crystal chandeliers, rosewood panelling set with malachite and lapis lazuli, thousands of rare leather-bound volumes . . . ‘The place is falling apart. It is no longer possible to live with any elegance, thanks to the oppressive, reactionary, revolutionary government. I keep my finest treasures in my country house at Tivoli. There I have managed to keep up a decent style of living. My best collections are there. You must see them. You are a scholar – though I cannot believe so beautiful a woman can be also a scholar . . .’

He heaved himself up off the couch, his face turning an alarming shade of purple as he made the effort, and trailed after me.

‘You like books?’ he inquired. ‘See this – one of my favourites. It has plates done especially for one of my ancestors by Raphael himself.’

He managed to get both arms around me as he reached for the book. My eyes literally popped when I looked at the first drawing. I had always thought of Raphael as specializing in madonnas.

‘It’s amazing,’ I said honestly, and then closed the book, in some alarm, as the count began wheezing. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t look at these pictures, Count, if they get you so – ’

‘You must call me Pietro,’ he interrupted, catching at my shoulder. I let him hold on; I thought he needed the support.

Well, this went on for quite a while. We finished the sherry and the book – some of the plates were really extraordinary – and by then we were old friends. He was a harmless old guy, all he wanted to do was touch. I kept moving, not because he worried me, but because I thought evasion amused him. At the end of the conversation he invited me to be his houseguest.

‘Not here,’ he said, waving a disparaging hand at the oriental rugs, the ormolu desk, the Donatello statues . . . ‘It is unbearable here when the weather is hot. Tomorrow I move to my house at Tivoli. You will join me there. You will appreciate my collections, since you are an expert, although I cannot believe a woman so beautiful, so voluptuous . . .’

At that interesting moment the butler opened the door and announced lunch. Pietro’s fat pink face lengthened.

‘We must go, I suppose. Helena will be angry if I do not come at once.’

‘Helena?’ I took the arm he offered me. He squeezed my hand against his side. ‘Is she your wife?’

‘No, no, my mistress. A very unpleasant woman. A beautiful face and body, you understand – though not so beautiful as yours – ’

‘I guess you should know,’ I said resignedly.

‘But very jealous,’ said Pietro. ‘Very rude. Do not let her intimidate you, Vicky, I beg.’

‘I won’t. But if you find her so obnoxious, why don’t you get rid of her?’

‘It is not so easy, that,’ said Pietro sadly. ‘Wait till you meet her.’

Believe it or not, I had almost forgotten my motive for looking up Count Caravaggio. He was such a silly little man. It was almost impossible to picture him as a master criminal. We were crossing the huge hall, with its original Greek statues set in shell-shaped niches, when I was brought back to reality with a rude thump. A door opened, and a familiar form emerged.

‘You,’ I gasped, like a good Gothic heroine.

The Englishman raised one eyebrow. Not both, just one. I hate people who can do that.

‘I fear you have the advantage of me,’ he said, in an offensive public-school drawl. ‘Your Excellency?’

‘Yes, yes, I introduce you,’ said Pietro, without enthusiasm. ‘It is my secretary, Miss Bliss. Sir John Smythe.’

‘Sir?’ I said. ‘Smith?’

‘With a y, and e on the end,’ said John Smythe suavely. ‘An obscure title, but an old one, and not without honour.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ I replied uncouthly. ‘What about those stories about your ancestor and Pocahontas?’

‘A cadet branch of the family,’ said the Englishman, without cracking a smile.

Pietro, who had not understood any of this, interrupted in a petulant voice.

‘We are late for lunch. It is well we meet you, John; you must make arrangements for tomorrow. Miss Bliss – she is Doctor Bliss, in fact, a learned lady – she will accompany us to Tivoli. You will have one of the cars pick her up at her hotel. The car I will travel in, you understand?’

‘I do understand, your Excellency,’ said Mr Smythe. ‘Believe me, I understand.’

‘Come, then, we are late for lunch,’ said Pietro. Towing me with him, he trotted across the hall, with Mr Smythe trailing behind.

I didn’t believe in that title of Smythe’s for a minute. Actually, I didn’t believe in his name either. At least it gave him an identity, a name at which I could direct all the epithets I had been thinking up.

My first lunch at the Palazzo Caravaggio was an experience I won’t soon forget. I don’t know which was more memorable, the food, the furnishings, or the people. Pietro did not stint himself. He was a gourmet as well as a gourmand; the food was marvellous, from the pasta in a delicate cream sauce to the towering meringue laced with rum, and he ate most of it. The quality of the food told me something interesting about the man, something that was confirmed by the contents of the long, formal dining room. He had superb taste. Every piece of furniture was an antique, lovingly tended. The plates were eighteenth-century Chinese, the tablecloth was one of those heavy damask things that take three days to iron. I could go on, but that gives you a rough idea. Pietro was a much more interesting character than he appeared to be at first. He might be a fat, self-indulgent little lecher, but he was also a fat, self-indulgent, cultivated little lecher.

I can’t say his taste in women was complimentary to me, however. In this area he seemed to prefer quantity to quality.

Helena was already at the table when we entered the dining room. I could have identified her without Pietro’s preliminary statement. I mean, I never saw a woman who looked more like a mistress. If she continued to stow away spaghetti at that rate, in another year she would no longer be voluptuous, she would be fat. But she was still young – not more than twenty – and her ripe, quivering masses of flesh had the gloss of fine ivory. A good deal of it (the flesh) was displayed by her strapless, practically topless, green satin dress. Masses of blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, in the careless style made popular by an American television actress. She had a pursed little mouth and big brown eyes as expressionless as rocks. She took one look at me, and the rocks started to melt, like lava.

Another woman was seated at the foot of the table. Pietro led me towards her and introduced his mother, the dowager countess. Unlike her son, she was painfully thin. Her face was a map of fine wrinkles, surmounted by beautifully coiffured white hair. She bowed her head graciously when Pietro presented me as a learned lady who had come to study his collections. She looked very fragile and sweet in her black dress trimmed with cobwebby lace, but I suspected it would not do to underestimate her. The dark eyes that peered out of her sunken sockets were as bright and cynical as a mockingbird’s.

Pietro led me back to the head of the table and indicated the chair on his right. Helena was already seated at his left. She barely acknowledged Pietro’s gabbled introduction, and after a pained, expressive look at me he seated himself, while one of the dozen footmen who were standing around pulled out my chair.

The Englishman seated himself. There was still one vacant place. Pietro glared at it.

‘Late again. Where is the wretched boy? We will not wait. The food will be cold.’

The first course was a cold soup that resembled Vichyssoise, made with cream and leeks and other ingredients I couldn’t identify. Pietro had finished his bowl before the door was opened by a servant and the missing person appeared.

He was absolutely beautiful. I have to use that word, though there was nothing feminine about his features. The tanned chest was displayed by his open shirt was as neatly modelled as that of Verrocchio’s young David. He was beautiful as young creatures are before their features harden. Thick dark hair tumbled over his high forehead. His costume was casual: slacks, a rumpled shirt open to the navel, espadrilles on his feet.

Pietro let out a roar.

‘So there you are! What do you mean by being late? Pay your respects to your grandmother. And do you not see that we have a guest? Per Dio, you are a sight! Could you not at least wash your hands before appearing?’

I was amused – which shows you I am not as smart as I think I am. But Pietro sounded like so many of the exasperated parents of teenagers whom I had known in America and in Germany. The boy was obviously his son. Only a father could be so annoyed.

The boy, who had been wandering slowly towards his chair, stopped and looked blankly at his father. Then he turned towards the dowager and bowed.

‘Grandmother, excuse me. I have been working. I lost track of the time.’

‘That is all right, my darling,’ said the old lady fondly.

‘It is not all right,’ snarled Pietro. ‘Vicky, this ill-bred young boor is, for my sins, my only son. Luigi, greet the distinguished lady doctor Miss Bliss, a scholar of art history. No, do not offer your hand, idiota, it is too dirty. Go and wash!’

Luigi had obediently advanced towards me, his hand extended. It resembled a sculpture by someone like Dali – perfectly shaped, with long, spatulate fingers; but it was blue and pink and green and red.

‘Of course,’ I said, smiling. ‘You are a painter.’

‘He is a bad painter,’ said Pietro. ‘He dabbles in oils. He makes messes.’

The boy gave his father a look of naked loathing. I really couldn’t blame him.

‘I’d like to see your work someday,’ I said tactfully.

‘You will hate it,’ Pietro said. ‘Go, Luigi, and wash yourself.’

‘Never mind, never mind,’ snapped his grandmother. ‘You make too much of a small thing, my son. Sit down, Luigi. Eat. You are too thin. Eat, dear boy.’

Pietro shut up. With a triumphant look at his father, Luigi took his seat.

‘She spoils him,’ Pietro muttered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘How can I maintain discipline when she contradicts everything I say?’

I had no intention of getting involved in a family argument. So I just smiled and ate my soup.

The conversation did not scintillate. The dowager addressed a few courteous remarks to me, but she spoke mostly to Luigi, urging him to eat more, asking how he had slept, and so on. He was faultlessly sweet to her, and I decided that Pietro was too hard on the boy. He had lovely manners. So what if he was untidy and absent-minded? There are worse faults.

Pietro was too busy gobbling to talk much, though he and Smythe exchanged a few words on business matters – all Greek to me. Helena didn’t say a word. She was seated directly across from me, and her unblinking stare would have gotten on my nerves if I hadn’t been so fascinated by the way she was eating. Her hair kept getting in the spaghetti. I kept expecting her to fork up a strand of it, but she never did.

There was plenty of wine with the meal, and by the time the servants removed the last plates I was, to say the least, replete. Pietro was in far worse condition. When he stood up, I feared for the cummerbund. It was strained to the utmost.

The dowager was helped out of her chair by one of the footmen. She limped towards the door, leaning heavily on a handsome ivory-headed stick, pausing only long enough to thank me for coming and to apologize for the infirmity that made it necessary for her to retire.

Pietro tried to bow to his mother. He managed to incline his head a couple of inches, but he didn’t bend well. The look he turned on me was fond, but glazed.

‘He will make the arrangements,’ he wheezed, waving a pudgy hand in Smythe’s general direction. ‘Tell him when you will be ready, dear lady; the car will be there. I anticipate that moment. You will doubtless wish to return to the hotel now to pack. Sir John will have the car brought round.’

Helena came up out of her chair as if she had been stung.

‘Car?’ she repeated, in a voice as shrill and toneless as an old phonograph record. ‘Tomorrow? What is this, Pietro?’

Pietro was already halfway to the door.

‘Later, my treasure, later. I must retire now. You will excuse me – my old war wound – ’

He went scuttling out. Helena turned furious eyes on me.

‘What is this? The car, tomorrow – ’

Smythe came around the table and stood beside me.

‘Car, tomorrow,’ he agreed. ‘The lady is joining us at Tivoli. Ah’ – as she started to speak – ‘don’t lose your temper, Helena. Think it over. It won’t do you any good to make scenes, his Excellency hates them. In fact, I think he is getting weary of your scenes.

‘Ah, you think so?’ Helena had no gift of repartee. ‘You think so, do you?’

‘Yes, I think so. Have another piece of cake, my dear, and calm yourself. You will excuse us? I felt sure you would . . .’

To my amusement, Helena took his advice, sinking back into her chair and beckoning to one of the servants. John Smythe took my arm and led me out.

‘Don’t bother ordering the car for me,’ I said. ‘I need a walk. I feel like a stuffed cabbage.’

‘You’ll soon lose your girlish figure if you visit the count,’ Smythe said. ‘And that isn’t all you might lose . . . Don’t you ever listen to advice?’

‘Not from people named Smythe,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you think up a better name than that?’

‘Why bother? Most people aren’t as critical as you. Stop trying to change the subject. If you hurry, you can catch the evening express to Munich.’

I started across the hall, putting my feet down hard.

‘I will be ready tomorrow morning,’ I said. ‘Nine o’clock?’

‘Pietro doesn’t get up till noon. Did you hear what – ’

‘I heard. I’ll be ready at nine; tell Pietro that. I don’t think,’ I added thoughtfully, ‘that he would appreciate your attempts to interfere with his private arrangements.’

‘If that were all you had in mind, I wouldn’t interfere,’ said this deplorable man. ‘Helena is about due to be retired; the position will be open.’

I saw no reason to dignify this suggestion with a reply. As I approached the front door, the butler slid out of an alcove and opened it for me. I turned and waved gaily at Smythe. He was standing with his arms folded, and if looks could kill . . .

‘Until tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Arrivederla, Sir John.’

Michaelangelo’s ‘Pietà’ is behind glass now, ever since that maniac tried to hack it up a few years ago. There are no words to describe it, although a lot of people have tried. As I stood looking up at it I wondered, as I have so often, what flaw of the flesh or the soul impels vandals to want to destroy beautiful things. Even religious sanctions couldn’t save works of art; the followers of one god use ‘faith’ as an excuse for mutilating the images of another. The two strains run through the human race, from the earliest time: dark and bright, foul and fair – the destroyers and the creators. Sometimes I get the feeling that the former type is winning.

I had walked across to St Peter’s from the Aventine, and a darned long walk it was, too. I needed it, not only for the physical exercise. I had some thinking to do, and I think best when I’m moving. Besides – not to be morbid about it – I thought I might not have a chance to do much more sightseeing in Rome.

I wasn’t worried about being followed.

Why should they follow me when I was about to walk into the lions’ den like a good little Christian? I did not doubt that the palazzo was the lions’ den, but I wasn’t at all sure who the lions were. Pietro couldn’t be the mastermind. He just couldn’t be. It was possible that there were things going on in the palace that he didn’t know about; it was a huge pile, a city block square, three or four stories high; there was room enough there to train a guerrilla army without his noticing.

Nor could I believe that Smythe was the head crook. A crook he was, undoubtedly, but not the boss. Of the other inhabitants of the palazzo only one seemed to me to be a likely possibility – the dowager. Helena was classically stupid, the boy was too young. On the face of it, it might seem silly to suspect a bent old woman, but the mastermind needn’t be actively engaged; all he (she) had to do was plot. And I suspected there was an active mind behind the contessa’s wrinkled face.

However, there might be other people in the family whom I had not yet met. Or Pietro might be a subordinate conspirator under the direction of a smarter crook who lived elsewhere. Certainly someone in the palace was involved in the plot. It was the only lead I had, and I had been presented with a unique opportunity to follow it.

I managed to put the whole business out of my mind when I reached the basilica, feeling I was entitled to a few hours off duty. I had bought a guidebook from one of the shops along the Via della Conciliazione, and I wandered around the vast body of the church reading and looking like any other tourist. My mind kept wandering, though. The monument to the exiled Stuart kings reminded me of Smythe. The little statue of St Peter, whose bronze foot has been worn smooth by the kisses of generations of pilgrims, recalled his less saintly namesake. The porphyry disk on the paving near the main altar marked the spot in the old basilica where Charlemagne had received the imperial crown, and I thought of the sapphire talisman that had started me on my quest.

It was a pleasant interlude, though. I sat for a long time on the rim of one of the fountains in the piazza, drinking a warm (and outrageously expensive) Coke I had bought from a vendor, and admiring the sweeping curves of the great colonades.

After I had gotten back to the hotel I wrote a long letter and made a telephone call. I gave the letter to the concierge when I went down to dinner. He swore he would see to its dispatch personally. He looked like a nice, honest man, but I figured a ten-thousand-lira tip wouldn’t hurt. It was a legitimate business deduction, after all.