When in Rome

5 Evening Out

They had dined by candlelight at a long table in the garden. Between leafy branches of trees and far below, shone Rome. It might have been its own model, laid out on a black velvet cloth and so cunningly illuminated that its great monuments glowed in their setting like jewels. At night the Colosseum is lit from within, and at this distance it was no longer a ruin but seemed so much alive that a mob might have spewed through its multiple doorways, rank with the stench of the circus. It was incredibly beautiful.

Not far from their table was a fountain, moved there at some distant time from its original site down in Old Rome. At its centre lolled Naptune: smooth, luxurious and naked, idly fingering the long ringlets of his beard. He was supported by tritons and all kinds of monsters. They spouted, jetted and dribbled into basins that overflowed into each other making curtains of water drops. The smell of water, earth and plants mingled with cigar smoke, coffee, cosmetics and fumes of wine.

“What is all this like?” Sophy asked Grant. “All this magnificence? I’ve never read Ouida, have you? And anyway this is not at all Victorian.”

“How about Fellini?”

“Well — all right. But not La Dolce Vita. I don’t think I get any whiffs of social corruption, really. Do you?”

He didn’t answer and she looked across the table at Alleyn. “Do you?” she asked him.

Alleyn’s glance fell upon Lady Braceley’s arm, lying as if discarded on the table. Emeralds, rubies and diamonds encircled that flaccid member, veins stood out on the back of the hand, her rings had slipped to one side and her talons — does she have false ones, he wondered, and saw that she did — made little dents in the tablecloth.

“Do you” Sophy persisted, “sniff the decadent society?” and then, evidently aware of Lady Braceley and perhaps of Kenneth, she blushed.

Sophy had the kind of complexion Jacobean poets would have praised, a rose-blush that mounted and ebbed very delicately under her skin. Her eyes shone in the candlelight and there was a nimbus round her hair. She was as fresh as a daisy.

“At the moment,” Alleyn said, smiling at her, “not at all.”

“Good!” said Sophy and turned to Grant. “Then I needn’t feel apologetic about enjoying myself.”

“Are you liking it so much? Yes, I see you are. But why should you apologize?”

“Oh — I don’t know — a streak of puritan, I suppose. My Grandpapa Jason was a Quaker.”

“Does he often put in an appearance?”

“Not all that often but I thought he lurked just now. ‘Vanity, vanity’ you know, and the bit about has one any right to buy such a sumptuous evening the world being as it is.”

“Meaning you should have spent the cash on doing good?”

“Yes. Or not spent it at all. Grandpapa Jason was also a banker.”

“Tell him to buzz off. You’ve done a power of good.”

“I? How? Impossible.”

“You’ve turned what promised to be a perfectly hellish evening into—” Grant stopped short, waited for a moment and then leant towards her.

“Yes, well, all right,” Sophy said in a hurry. “You needn’t bother about that. Silly conversation.”

“—into something almost tolerable,” Grant said.

On the other side of the table Alleyn thought: “No doubt she’s very well able to take care of herself but I wouldn’t have thought her one of the easy-come easy-go sort. On the contrary. I hope Grant isn’t a predatory animal. He’s a god in her world and a romantic-looking ravaged sort of god, at that. Just the job to fill in the Roman foreground. Twenty years her senior, probably. He’s made her blush again.”

Major Sweet, at the head of the table, had ordered himself yet another cognac but nobody followed his example. The champagne bottles were upside down in the coolers and the coffee cups had been removed. Giovanni appeared, spoke to the waiter and retired with him, presumably to pay the bill. The maître d’hôtel, Marco, swept masterfully down upon them and not for the first time inclined, smiled and murmured over Lady Braceley. She fished in her golden reticule and when he kissed her hand, left something in his own. He repeated this treatment with subtle modulations, on the Baroness, worked in a gay salute to Sophy, included the whole table in a comprehensive bow and swept away with the slightest possible oscillation of his hips.

“Quite a dish, isn’t he?” Kenneth said to his aunt.

“Darling,” she replied, “the things you say! Isn’t he too frightful, Major?” She called up the table to Major Sweet, who was staring congestedly over the top of his brandy glass at Sophy.

“What!” he said. “Oh. Ghastly.”

Kenneth laughed shrilly. “When do we move?” he asked at large. “Where do we go from here?”

“Now we are gay,” cried the Baroness. “Now we dance and all his hip and nightlife. To the Cosmo, is it not?”

“Ah-ha, ah-ha, to the Cosmo!” the Baron echoed.

They beamed round the table.

“In that case,” Lady Braceley said, picking up her purse and gloves, “I’m for the ritirata.”

The waiter was there in a flash to drop her fur over her shoulders.

“I too, I too,” said the Baroness and Sophy followed them out.

The Major finished his brandy. “The Cosmo, eh?” he said. “Trip a jolly old measure, what? Well, better make a move, I suppose—”

“No hurry,” Kenneth said. “Auntie’s best official clocking in la ritirata is nineteen minutes and that was when she had a plane to catch.”

The Baron was in deep consultation about tipping with the Major and Grant. Their waiter stood near the door into the restaurant. Alleyn strolled over to him.

“That was a most excellent dinner,” he said and overtìpped just enough to consolidate his follow-on. “I wonder if I may have a word with Signor Marco? I have a personal introduction to him which I would like to present. Here it is.”

It was Valdarno’s card with an appropriate message written on the back. The waiter took a quick look at it and another at Alleyn and said he would see if the great man was in his office.

“I expect he is,” Alleyn said cheerfully. “Shall we go there?”

The waiter, using his restaurant walk, hurried through the foyer into a smaller vestibule where he begged Alleyn to wait. He tapped discreetly at a door marked Il Direttore, murmured something to the elegant young man who opened it and handed in the card. The young man was gone for a very short time and returned with a winning smile and an invitation to enter. The waiter scuttled off.

Marco’s office was small but sumptuous. He advanced upon Alleyn with ceremony and a certain air of guarded cordiality.

“Good evening, again Mr. — ” he glanced at the card. “Mr. Alleyn. I hope you have dined pleasantly.” His English was extremely good. Alleyn decided to be incapable of Italian.

“Delightfully,” he said. “A superb evening. Il Questore Valdarno told me of your genius and how right he was.”

“I am glad.”

“I think I remember you some years ago in London, Signore. At the Primavera.”

“Ah! My ‘salad days.’ Thirty-one different salads, in fact. Perhaps five are worth remembering. Can I do anything for you, Mr. Alleyn? Any friend of Il Questore Valdarno—?”

Alleyn made a quick decision.

“You can, indeed,” he said. “If you will be so kind. I think I should tell you, Signore, that I am a colleague of the Questore’s and that I am not in Rome entirely for pleasure. May I—”

He produced his own official card. Marco held it in his beautifully manicured fingers and for five seconds was perfectly motionless. “Ah, yes,” he said at last. “Of course. I should have remembered from my London days. There was a cause célèbre. Your most distinguished career. And then — surely — your brother — he was Ambassador in Rome I think some time ago?”

Alleyn normally reacted to remarks about his brother George by falling over backwards rather than profit by their relationship. He bowed and pressed on.

“This is an affair of some delicacy,” he said and felt as if he spoke out of an Edwardian thriller or, indeed, from No. 221B Baker Street. “I assure you I wouldn’t have troubled you if I could have avoided doing so. The fact is Il Questore Valdarno and I find ourselves in something of a quandary. It’s come to our knowledge that a certain unsavoury character whose identity had hitherto been unknown is living in Rome. He has formed associations with people of the highest standing who would be appalled if they knew about him. As I think you yourself would be.”

“I? Do you suggest—?”

“He is one of your patrons. We think it proper that you should be warned.”

If Marco had seemed, for an Italian, to be of a rather florid complexion he was so no longer. His cheeks were wan enough to make his immaculately shaven jaws look, by contrast, a cadaverous purple. There was a kind of scuffling noise behind Alleyn. He turned and saw the beautiful young man who had admitted him seated behind a table and making great play with papers.

“I didn’t realize—” Alleyn said.

“My secretary. He does not speak English,” Marco explained and added in Italian. “Alfredo, it might be as well for you to leave us.” And still in Italian, to Alleyn: “That will be better, will it not?”

Alleyn looked blank. “I’m sorry,” he said and spread his hands.

“Ah, you do not speak our language?”

“Alas!”

The young man said rapidly in Italian: “Padrone, is it trouble? It is—?” and Marco cut him short. “It is nothing. You heard me. Leave us.”

When he had gone Alleyn said. “It won’t take long. The man I speak of is Mr. Sebastian Mailer.”

A short pause and Marco said: “Indeed? You are, I must conclude, certain of your ground?”

“Certain enough to bring you the information. Of course you will prefer to check with the Questore himself. I assure you, he will confirm what I’ve said.”

Marco inclined and made a deprecatory gesture. “But of course, of course. You have quite taken me aback, Mr. Alleyn, but I am most grateful for this warning. I shall see that Mr. Mailer’s appearances at La Giaconda are discontinued.”

“Forgive me, but isn’t it rather unusual for La Giaconda to extend its hospitality to a tourist party?”

Marco said rapidly and smoothly: “A normal tourist party — a ‘package’—would be out of the question. A set meal and a fiasco of wine — with little flags on the table — unthinkable! But this arrangement, as you found, is entirely different. The guests order individually, à la carte, as at a normal dinner party. The circumstance of the conto being settled by the host — even though he is a professional host — is of little significance. I confess that when this Mailer first approached me I would not entertain the proposal but then — he showed me his list. It was a most distinguished list. Lady Braceley alone — one of the most elegant of our clientela. And Mr. Barnaby Grant — a man of the greatest distinction.”

“When did Mailer first approach you?”

“I believe — about a week ago.”

“So tonight was the first of these dinner parties?”

“And the last, I assure you, if what you tell me is true.”

“You noticed, of course, that he did not appear?”

“With some surprise. But his assistant, Giovanni Vecchi, is a courier of good standing. He informed us that his principal was unwell. Am I to understand—”

“He may be unwell, he has undoubtedly disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” The colour seeped back, unevenly, into Marco’s cheeks. “You mean—?”

“Just that. Vanished.”

“This is very confusing. Should I understand that you believe him to have—” Marco’s full lips seemed to frame and discard one or two words before they chose “absconded.”

“That is the Questore’s theory.”

“But not yours?” he asked quickly.

“I have none.”

“I conclude, Mr. Alleyn, that your attendance here tonight, which must have followed your enrollment in today’s tour, is professional rather than recreational.”

“Yes,” Alleyn agreed cheerfully. “That’s about it. And now I mustn’t take up any more of your time. If — and the chances I believe are remote — if Mr. Mailer should put in an appearance here”—Marco gave an ejaculation and a very slight wince— “Il Questore Valdarno and I would be most grateful if you would say nothing to him about this discussion. Simply telephone at once to — but the number is on the Questore’s card, I think.”

“The Questore,” said Marco in a hurry, “will I am sure appreciate that any kind of unpleasantness, here, in the restaurant, would be—” He flung up his hands.

“Unthinkable,” Alleyn filled in. “Oh, yes. It would all be done very tactfully and quite behind the scenes, you know.”

He held out his hand. Marco’s was damp and exceedingly cold.

“But you think,” he persisted. “You yourself think, isn’t it, that he will not come back?”

“For what it’s worth,” Alleyn agreed, “that’s my idea. Not, at any rate, of his own volition. Good-bye.”

On his way out he went to the telephone booth and rang Il Questore Valdarno, who reported that he had set up further enquiries but had no news. Mailer’s flat had been found. The porter said Mailer left it at about three o’clock and had not returned. The police briefly examined the flat, which seemed to be in order.

“No signs of a sudden departure?”

“None. Yet I am still persuaded—”

“Signor Questore, may I ask you to add to the many favours you have already granted? I am not familiar with your police regulations and procedures but I understand you are less restricted than we are. Would it be possible to put a man in Mailer’s flat at once and could that man answer the telephone and make a careful note of any calls, if possible tracing their origin? I think it’s highly probable that Marco of La Giaconda will at this moment be trying to get him and will try again. And again.”

“Marco! Indeed? But — yes of course. But—”

“I have spoken to him. He was discreet but his reaction to the disappearance was interesting.”

“In what way? He was distressed?”

“Distressed — yes. Not, I think, so much by Mailer’s disappearance as by the thought of his return. That prospect, unless I’m very much mistaken, terrifies him.”

“I shall attend to this at once,” said Il Questore.

“If Mailer is still missing, tomorrow, would you allow me to have a look at his rooms?”

“But of course. I will instruct my people.”

“You are too kind,” said Alleyn, as usual.

When he returned to the vestibule of La Giaconda he found all the party there except Lady Braceley. He noticed that Giovanni was having little conferences with the men. He spoke first with Kenneth Dorne, who responded with an air of connivance and cast furtive looks about him. Giovanni moved on to the Major, who, ignoring Kenneth, listened avidly but with an affectation of indifference much at odds with the grin that twitched the corners of his mouth. Giovanni seemed to send out a call of some sort to Baron Van der Veghel, who joined them. He too listened attentively, the Etruscan smile very much in evidence. He said little and presently rejoined his wife, linked his arm in hers and stooped towards her. She put her head on one side and gazed at him. He took the tip of her nose between his fingers and gently, playfully, waggled it. She beamed at him and tapped his cheek. He pulled her hand down to his mouth. Alleyn thought he had never seen a more explicit display of physical love. The Baron slightly shook his head at Giovanni, who bowed gracefully and looked at Grant, who was talking to Sophy Jason. Grant at once said quite loudly: “No, thank you,” and Giovanni moved on to Alleyn.

“Signore,” he said. “We go now to the Cosmo, a very elegant and exclusive nightclub where the guests will remain for as long as they wish. Perhaps until two when the Cosmo closes. That will conclude the programme for this tour. However, Signor Mailer has arranged that a further expedition is available for those who are perhaps a little curious and desire to extend their knowledge of Roman nightlife. Some drinks. A smoke. Congenial company. Boys and girls, very charming. Everything very discreet. The cars will be available without further charge but the entertainment is not included in the tour.”

“How much?” Alleyn asked.

“Signore, the fee is fifteen thousand lire.”

“Very well,” Alleyn said. “Yes.”

“You will not be disappointed, Signore.”

“Good.”

Lady Braceley re-entered the vestibule.

“Here I am!” she cried. “High as a kite and fit for the wide, wild way-out. Bring on the dancing girls.”

Kenneth and Giovanni went to her. Kenneth put his arm round her waist and said something under his breath.

“Of course!” she said loudly. “Need you ask, darling? I’d adore to.” She advanced her face towards Giovanni and widened her eyes.

Giovanni bowed and gave her a look, so overtly deferential and subtly impertinent that Alleyn felt inclined either to knock him down or tell Lady Braceley what he thought of her. He saw Sophy Jason looking at her with something like horror.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” said Giovanni, “to Il Cosmo.”

The Cosmo was a nightclub with a lavish floor show. As soon as the party was seated, bottles of champagne were clapped down on their tables. They hadn’t been there long before the members of the orchestra left their dais and walked severally to the front tables. The bass and cello players actually planted their instruments on the tables and plucked the strings. The fiddlers and saxophonists came as close as possible. The tympanist held his cymbals poised above the shrinking Major Sweet’s head.

Eight marginal nudes trimmed with tropical fruit jolted round the floor space. “Black lighting,” was introduced and they turned into Negresses. The noise was formidable indeed.

“Well,” Grant asked Sophy. “Still keeping Grandpapa Jason at bay?”

“I’m not so sure he doesn’t ride again.”

The uproar was such that they were obliged to shout into each others’ ears. Lady Braceley was jerking her shoulders in time with the saxophonist at her table. He managed to ogle her while continuing his exertions. “She seems,” Grant said, “to be on the short list of persona grata here as well as at the Giaconda.”

“It’s a bit hard to take, I find.”

“Say the word if you’d like to go. We could, you know. Or do you want to see the rest of the show?” Sophy shook her head vaguely. She tried to get her reactions into some kind of perspective. It was odd to reflect that less than twelve hours ago she had met Grant for virtually the first time. It was not the first time by many that she made an instant take, but she had never before experienced so sharp an antagonism followed for no discernible reason by so complete a sense of familiarity. At one moment they had blackguarded each other to heaps and at another, not fifteen minutes later, they had gossiped away in the shrine of Mithras as if they had not only known but understood each other for years. “Me,” thought Sophy, “and Barnaby Grant. Jolly odd when you come to think of it.” It would have been quite a thing if she could put it all down to the violent antagonism that sometimes precedes an equally violent physical attraction but that was no go. Obviously they were under no compulsion to fall into each other’s arms.

“If we stay,” Grant was saying, “I can snatch you up in my arms.”

Sophy gaped at this uncanny distortion of her thoughts.

“In a cachucha, fandango, bolero or whatever,” he explained. “On the other hand—Do pay attention,” he said crossly. “I’m making a dead set at you.”

“How lovely,” Sophy rejoined. “I’m all ears.”

The rumpus subsided, the orchestra returned to its dais, the Negresses were changed back into naked pink chicks and retired. A mellifluous tenor, all eyes, teeth and sob-in-the-voice, came out and sang “Santa Lucia” and other familiar pieces. He too moved among his audience. Lady Braceley gave him a piece of everlasting greenery from her table decoration.

He was followed by the star of the programme, a celebrated black singer of soul music. She was beautiful, and disturbing, and a stillness came over the Cosmo when she sang. One of her songs was about hopelessness, injury and degradation and she made of it a kind of accusation. It seemed to Sophy that her audience almost disintegrated under her attack and she thought it strange that Lady Braceley, for instance, and Kenneth could sit and look appreciative and join so complacently in the applause.

When she had gone Grant said: “That was remarkable, wasn’t it?” Alleyn, overhearing him, said: “Extraordinary. Do modern audiences find that the pursuit of pleasure is best satisfied by having the rug jerked from under their feet?”

“Oh,” Grant said, “hasn’t that always been so? We like to be reminded that something is rotten in the state of Denmark. It makes us feel important.”

The programme ended with a very stylish ensemble, the lights were subdued, the band insinuated itself into dance music and Grant said to Sophy: “Come on. Whether you like it or not.”

They danced: not saying very much, but with pleasure.

Giovanni appeared and Lady Braceley danced with him. They did intricate things with great expertise.

The Van der Veghels, half-smiling, closely embraced, swayed and turned on sixpence, keeping to the darkened perimeter of the floor.

Major Sweet, who had made a willing but belated attempt upon Sophy, sank back in his chair, drank champagne and moodily discoursed with Alleyn. He was, Alleyn concluded, the sort of practiced drinker who, while far from being sober, would remain more or less in control for a long time. “Lovely little girl, that,” he said. “Natural. Sweet. But plenty of spunk, mind you. Looks you bang in the eye, what?” He maundered on rather gloomily: “Just a nice, sweet natural little girl — as I was saying.”

“Are you going on to this other show?” Alleyn asked.

“What about yourself?” countered the Major. “Fair’s fair. No names,” he added more obscurely, “no pack-drill that I’m aware of. Other things being equal.”

“I’m going, yes.”

“Shake,” invited the Major extending his hand. But finding that it encountered the champagne bottle he refilled his glass. He leant across the table.

“I’ve seen some curious things in my time,” he confided. “You’re a broadminded man. Everyone to his own taste and it all adds up to experience. Not a word to the ladies: what they can’t grieve about they won’t see. How old am I? Come on. You say. How old jer say I am?”

“Sixty?”

“—and ten. Allotted span, though that’s all my eye. See the rest of you out tonight, my boy.” He leant forward and looked dolefully at Alleyn with unfocussed eyes. “I say,” he said. “She’s not going on, is she?”

“Who?”

“Old Bracegirdle.”

“I believe so.”

“Gawd!”

“It’s pretty steep,” Alleyn suggested. “Fifteen thousand lire.”

“Better be good, what? I’m full of hopes,” leered the Major. “And I don’t mind telling you, old boy, I wouldn’t have been within coo-ee of this show tonight in the orinry way. You know what? Flutter. Green baize. Monte. And — phew!” He made a wild gesture with both arms. “Thassall — phew!”

“A big win?”

“Phew!”

“Splendid.”

And that, Alleyn supposed, explained the Major. Or did it?

“Funny thing about Mailer, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Phew!” said the Major, who seemed to be stuck with this ejaculation. “ ’Strordinary conduct,” he added. “Conduct unbecoming if you ask me but let it go.” He slumped into a moody silence for some moments and then shouted so loudly that people at the neighbouring table stared at him: “Bloody good riddance. ’Skuse language.”

After this he seemed disinclined for conversation and Alleyn joined Kenneth Dorne.

With the departure of the soul singer, Kenneth had slumped back into what seemed to be chronic inertia interrupted by fidgets. He made no attempt to dance but fiddled with his shirt ruffles and repeatedly looked towards the entrance as if he expected some new arrival. He gave Alleyn one of his restless, speculative glances. “You look marvellous,” he said. “Are you having a gay time?”

“An interesting time, at least. This sort of thing is quite out of my line. It’s an experience.”

“Oh!” Kenneth said impatiently. “This!” He shuffled his feet about. “I thought you were terrific,” he said. “You know. The way you managed everybody after Seb vanished. Look. Do you think he’s — you know — I mean to say — what do you think?”

“I’ve no notion,” Alleyn said. “I’ve never set eyes on the man before. You seem to be quite friendly with him.”

“Me?”

“You call him Seb, don’t you?”

“Oh well. You know. Just one of those things. Why not?”

“You find him helpful perhaps.”

“How d’you mean?” Kenneth said, eyeing him.

“In Rome. I rather hoped — I may be quite wrong, of course.” Alleyn broke off. “Are you going on to this late party?” he asked.

“Of course. And I don’t care how soon.”

“Really?” Alleyn said. And hoping he introduced the jargon correctly and with the right inflexion, he asked: “May one expect to meet ‘a Scene?’ ”

Kenneth swept his hair from his eyes with a finger tip.

“What sort of a scene?” he said cautiously.

“A group — a — have I got it wrong? I’m not turned on — is that right? — as yet. I want to ‘experience.’ You know?”

Kenneth now undisguisedly inspected him. “You look fabulous, of course,” he said. “You know: way up there. But—” He drew a rectangle with his forefingers in the air. “Let’s face it. Square, sweetheart. Square.”

“Sorry about that,” Alleyn said. “I was depending on Mr. Mailer to make the change.”

“Don’t let that trouble you. Toni’s terrific.”

“Toni?”

“Where we’re going, Toni’s pad. It’s the greatest. Groovy. You know? Grass, hard stuff, the lot. Mind you, he plays it cool. There’ll be a freak-out.”

“A—?”

“A happening. Psychedelic.”

“A floor show?”

“If you like — but way-out. Ever so trendy. Some people just go for giggles and come away. But if it sends you, which is what it’s for, you move on to the buzz.”

“Obviously you’ve been there before?”

“Not to decieve you, I have. Seb took us.”

“Us?”

“Auntie came too. She’s all for experience. She’s fabulous — honestly. I mean it.”

With considerable effort Alleyn said casually, “Did Seb — turn you on?”

“That’s right. In Perugia. I’m thinking,” Kenneth said, “of making the move.”

“To—?”

“The big leap. Pothead to mainliner. Well, as a matter of fact I’ve had a taste. You know. Mind you, I’m not hooked. Just the odd pop. Only a fun thing.”

Alleyn looked at a face that not so long ago might have been attractive. Policemen are as wary of reading character into other people’s faces as they are of betraying their thoughts in their own, but it occurred to him that if Kenneth were a less repellent colour and if he would shut his mouth instead of letting it droop open in a flaccid smirk he wouldn’t be a bad-looking specimen. He might, even at this stage, be less dissolute than his general behaviour suggested. “And whatever has happened or is about to happen to Mr. Sebastian Mailer,” Alleyn thought, “it cannot be one millionth fraction of what he most richly deserves.”

Kenneth broke the silence that had fallen between them.

“I say,” he said, “it’s idiotic of course but wouldn’t it be a yell if after being on about Seb and Toni’s pad and all that bit, you were The Man?”

“The Man?”

“Yes. You know. A plain-clothes fuzz.”

“Do I look like it?”

“Nobody less. You look gorgeous. That might be your cunning, though, mightn’t it? Still, you couldn’t have me busted when we’re not on British soil. Or could you?”

“I don’t know,” Alleyn said. “Ask a policeman.”

Kenneth gave an emaciated little laugh. “Honestly, you kill me,” he said, and after another pause: “If it’s not going too far, what do you do?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Something frightfully high-powered and discreet. Like diplomacy. Or has that gone out with the lord chamberlain?”

“Has the lord chamberlain gone out?”

“Gone in, then. I suppose he still potters about palatial corridors with a key on his bottom.” A disturbing thought seemed to strike Kenneth. “Oh God!” he said faintly. “Don’t tell me you are the lord chamberlain.”

“I am not the lord chamberlain.”

“It would have been just my luck.”

The dance band came to an inconclusive halt. Barnaby Grant and Sophy Jason returned to the table. Giovanni elegantly steered Lady Braceley to hers, where the Major sat in a trance. The Van der Veghels, hand-linked, joined them.

Giovanni explained that the second driver would return Sophy, the Van der Veghels and Grant to their hotels whenever they wished and that he himself would be responsible for the other members of the party.

Alleyn noticed that Toni’s pad had not been named by Giovanni and that there had been no general, open announcement of the extra attraction. Only those rather furtive approaches to the male members of the party. And through Kenneth to Lady Braceley.

The Van der Veghels said they would like to dance a little more and then go home. Sophy and Grant agreed to this and when the band struck up again returned to the floor. Alleyn found himself alone with the Van der Veghels, who contentedly sipped champagne.

“I’m not much good, Baroness,” Alleyn said. “But will you risk it?”

“Of course.”

She herself, like many big women, was very good — steady and light. “But you dance well,” she said after a moment. “Why do you say not so? It is this British self-deprecation we hear about?”

“It would be hard to blunder with you as one’s partner.”

“Ah-ha, ah-ha, a compliment! Better and better!”

“You are not going on to this other party.”

“No. My husband thinks it would not suit us to go. He did not very much care for the style of the suggestion. It is more for the men, he said, so I tease him and say he is a big square and I am not so unsophisticated.”

“But he remains firm?”

“He remains firm. So you go?”

“I’ve said yes but now you alarm me.”

“No!” cried the Baroness with a sort of obligatory archness. “That I do not believe. You are a cool one. A sophisticate. That I see very clearly.”

“Change your mind. Come and take care of me.”

This brought peals of jollity from the Baroness. She floated expertly and laughed up and down the scale and then, when he persisted, suddenly adopted an air of gravity. Her voice deepened and she explained that though she was sure Alleyn would not believe her, she and the Baron were in fact quite puritanical in their outlook. They came, she said, of Lutheran stock. They did not at all fancy, for instance, Roman nightlife as portrayed by Italian films. Had Alleyn ever heard of the publishing firm of Adriaan and Welker? If not she must tell him that they took a very firm stand in respect of moral tone and that the Baron, their foreign representative, upheld this attitude.

“In our books all is clean, all is honest and healthful,” she declared and elaborated upon this high standard of literary hygiene with great enthusiasm.

It was not a pose, Alleyn thought, it was an attitude of mind: the Baroness Van der Veghel (and evidently her husband, too) was a genuine pietist and, he thought, with a sidelong look at that Etruscan smile, in all probability she was possessed of the calm ruthlessness that so often accompanies a puritanical disposition.

“My husband and I,” she said, “are in agreement on the — I think you call it ‘permissive’ society, do you not? In all things,” she added with stifling effrontery, “we are in absolute accord. We are sure of ourselves. Always we are happy together and agreeing in our views. Like twins, isn’t it?” and again she burst out laughing.

In her dancing, in her complacency, in her sudden bursts of high spirits she bore witness to her preposterous claims: she was a supremely contented woman, Alleyn thought; a physically satisfied woman. Intellectually and morally satisfied, too, it would appear. She turned her head and looked towards the table where her husband sat. They smiled at each other and twiddled their fingers.

“Is this your first visit to Rome?” Alleyn asked. When people dance together and there is concord in their dancing, however alien they may be in other respects, they are in physical agreement. Alleyn felt at once a kind of withdrawal in the Baroness but she answered readily that she and her husband had visited Italy and in particular Rome, on several previous occasions. Her husband’s publishing interests brought him there quite often and when it was convenient she accompanied him.

“But this time,” Alleyn mentioned, “it is for fun?” and she agreed.

“For you also?” she asked.

“Oh absolutely,” said Alleyn and gave her an extra twirl. “Have you made any of the Il Cicerone trips on previous visits?” he asked. Again: it was unmistakable — a withdrawal.

She said: “I think they are of recent formink. Quite new and of the greatest fun.”

“Does it strike you as at all odd,” asked Alleyn, “that we none of us seem to be particularly bothered about the nonappearance of our cicerone?”

He felt her massive shoulders rise. “It is strange, perhaps,” she conceded, “that he disappears. We hope all is well with him, do we not? That is all we can do. The tour has been satisfactory.” They moved past their table. The Baron cried: “Good, good!” and gently clapped his enormous hands in praise of their dancing. Lady Braceley removed her gaze from Giovanni and gave them a haggard appraisal. The Major slept.

“We think,” said the Baroness, resuming their conversation, “that there was perhaps trouble for him with the postcard woman. The Violetta.”

“She certainly made him a scene.”

“She was down there, we think. Below.”

“Did you see her?”

“No. Miss Jason saw her shadow. We thought that Mr. Mailer was unhappy when she said so. He made the big pooh-pooh but he was unhappy.”

“She’s a pretty frightening lady, that one.”

“She is terrible. Such hatred so nakedly shown is terrible. All hatred,” said the Baroness, deftly responding to a change of step, “is very terrible.”

“The monk in charge had the place searched. Neither Mailer nor Violetta was found.”

“Ah. The monk,” Baroness Van der Veghel remarked and it was impossible to read anything at all into this observation. “Possibly. Yes. It may be so.”

“I wonder,” Alleyn presently remarked, “if anyone has ever told you how very Etruscan you are.”

“I? I am a Dutchwoman. We are Netherlander, my husband and I.”

“I meant, if you’ll forgive me, in looks. You are strikingly like the couple on that beautiful sarcophagus in the Villa Giulia.”

“My husband’s is a very old Netherlands family,” she announced apparently without any intention of snubbing Alleyn but merely as a further statement of fact.

Alleyn thought he also could pursue an independent theme. “I’m sure you won’t mind my saying so,” he said, “because they are so very attractive. They have that strong marital likeness that tells one they, too, are in perfect accord.”

She offered no comment unless her next remark could be construed as such. “We are distantly related,” she said. “We are in fact descended upon the distaff side from the Wittelsbacks. I am called Mathilde Jacobea after the so celebrated Countess. But it is strange, what you say, all the same. My husband believes that our family had its origins in Etruria. So perhaps,” she added playfully, “we are backthrows. He thinks of writing a book on the subject.”

“How very interesting,” said Alleyn politely and entered upon a spinning manoeuvre of some virtuosity. It rather irritated him that she followed with perfect ease. “Yes,” she said, confirming her own pronouncement, “you dance well. That was most pleasant. Shall we return?”

They went back to her husband, who kissed her hand and contemplated her with his head on one side. Grant and Sophy joined them. Giovanni asked if they were ready to be driven to their hotels and, on learning that they were, summoned the second driver.

Alleyn watched them leave and then, with the resignation that all policemen on duty command, addressed himself to the prospect of Toni’s pad.

The entrance to Toni’s was through a wrought iron gate, opened after a subdued exchange with Giovanni, by a porter. Then across a paved courtyard and up five floors in a lift. Giovanni had collected fifteen thousand lire from each member of his party. He handed these amounts to someone who peered through a trap in a wall. A further door was then opened from the inside and the amenities of Toni’s pad were gradually disclosed.

They were everything — and more — that might be expected on a pretty elaborate scale and they catered for all tastes at predictable levels. The patrons were ushered into a pitch-dark room and seated on velvet divans round the wall. It was impossible to discover how many were there, but cigarette ends pulsed in many places and the room was full of smoke. Giovanni’s party seemed to be the last arrivals. They were guided to their places by someone with a small blue torchlight. Alleyn contrived to settle near the door. A voice murmured: “A ‘joint,’ Signore?” and a box with a single cigarette in it was displayed by the torch. Alleyn took the cigarette. Every now and then people murmured and often giggling broke out.

The freak-out was introduced by Toni himself, holding a torch under his face. He was a smooth man who seemed to be dressed in floral satin. He spoke in Italian and then haltingly in English. The name of the performance, he said, was “Keenky Keeks.”

A mauve light flooded the central area and the show was on.

Alleyn was not given to subjective comment where police fieldwork was concerned, but in a report that he subsequently drew up on the case in hand he referred to Toni’s Kinky Kicks as “infamous” and, since a more explicit description was unnecessary, he did not give one.

The performers were still in action when his fingers found the door handle behind a velvet curtain. He slipped out.

The porter who had admitted them was in the vestibule. He was big, heavy and lowering and lay back in a chair placed across the entrance. When he saw Alleyn he did not seem surprised. It might be supposed that rebellious stomachs were not unknown at Toni’s.

“You wish to leave, Signore?” he asked in Italian and gestured towards the door. “You go?” he added in basic English.

“No,” Alleyn said in Italian. “No, thank you. I am looking for Signor Mailer.” He glanced at his hands which were trembling and thrust them in his pockets.

The man lowered his feet to the floor, gave Alleyn a pretty hard stare and got up.

“He is not here,” he said.

Alleyn withdrew his hand from his trouser pocket and looked absentmindedly at the 50,000-lire note. The porter slightly cleared his throat. “Signor Mailer is not here this evening,” he said. “I regret.”

“That is disappointing,” Alleyn said. “I am very surprised. We were to meet. I had an arrangement with him: an arrangement for special accommodation. You understand?” He yawned widely and used his handkerchief.

The porter, watching him, waited for some moments. “Perhaps he has been delayed,” he said. “I can speak to Signor Toni on your behalf, Signore. I can arrange the accommodation.”

“Perhaps Signor Mailer will come. Perhaps I will wait a little.” He yawned again.

“There is no need. I can arrange everything.”

“You don’t even know—”

“You have only to speak, Signore. Anything!”

The porter became specific. Alleyn affected restlessness and discontent. “That’s all very fine,” he said. “But I wish to see the padrone. It is an appointment.”

Alleyn waited for the man to contradict the term “padrone” but he did not. He began to wheedle. Mellifluously he murmured and consoled. He could see, he said, that Alleyn was in distress. What did he need? Was it perhaps H. and C.? And the equipment? He could provide everything at once and a sympathetic couch in privacy. Or did he prefer to take his pleasure in his apartment?

Alleyn realized after a minute or two that the man was trading on his own account and had no intention of going to Toni for the cocaine and heroin he offered. Perhaps he stole from the stock in hand. He himself kept up his display of “withdrawal” symptoms. The 50,000-lire note shook in his grasp, he gaped, dabbed at his nose and mopped his neck and brow. He affected to mistrust the porter. How did he know that the porter’s stuff would be of good quality? Mr. Mailer’s supplies were of the best: unadulterated, pure. He understood Mr. Mailer was a direct importer from the Middle East. How was he to know—?

The porter said at once that it would be from Mr. Mailer’s stock that he would produce the drugs. Mr. Mailer was indeed an important figure in the trade. He became impatient.

“In a moment, Signore, it will be too late. The performance will end. It is true that Toni’s guests will retire to other rooms and other amusements. To be frank, Signore, they will not receive the service that I can provide.”

“You guarantee that it is of Signor Mailer’s supply?”

“I have said so, Signore.”

Alleyn consented. The man went into a sort of cubbyhole off the vestibule that was evidently his office. Alleyn heard a key turn. A drawer was shut. The porter returned with a sealed package neatly wrapped in glossy blue paper. The cost was exorbitant: about thirty per cent on the British blackmarket price. He paid and said agitatedly that he wanted to go at once.

The man opened the door, took him down in the lift and let him out.

A car was drawn up in the alley and at its wheel, fast asleep, Giovanni’s second-in-command. Alleyn concluded that Giovanni found himself fully occupied elsewhere.

He walked to the corner, found the name of the main street — the Via Aldo — and took his bearings. He returned to the car, woke the driver and was driven to his hotel. He maintained his withdrawal symptoms for the driver’s benefit, made a muddle over finding his money and finally overtipped lavishly with a trembling hand.

After Toni’s pad the hotel vestibule might have been in the Austrian Tyrol, so healthful did its quietude, its subdued luxury, its tinkling fountains and its emptiness appear. Alleyn went to his room, bathed, and for a minute or two stood on his small balcony and looked down at Rome. Eastward there was a faint pallor in the sky. In those churches, shut like massive lids, over the ancient underworld, they would soon be lighting candles for the first offices of the day. Perhaps the lay brother at San Tommaso in Pallaria was already awake and preparing to go slap-slap in his sandals through the empty streets with a key to the underworld in his habit.

Alleyn locked the cigarette and the package of cocaine and heroin in his briefcase and, telling himself to wake at seven o’clock, went to bed and to sleep.

Much earlier in the night Barnaby Grant and Sophy Jason from the top of the Pensione Gallico had also looked at Rome.

“It’s not very late,” Grant had said. “Shall we go out on the roof garden for a minute or two? Would you like a drink?”

“I don’t want any more alcohol, thank you,” Sophy said.

“I’ve got some oranges. We could squeeze them out and add cold water, couldn’t we? Fetch your tooth mug.”

The roof garden smelt of night-scented stocks, watered earth and fern. They made their orange drinks, pointed out the silhouettes of Rome against the sky and spoke very quietly because bedrooms opened on to the roof garden. This gave their dialogue an air of conspiracy.

“I wish I had one of them,” Sophy said.

“I did last time I was here. That one over there with the french windows.”

“How lovely.”

“I — suppose it was.”

“Didn’t you like it?”

“Something rather off-putting happened that time.”

If Sophy had asked “What?” or indeed had shown any kind of curiosity Grant would probably have fobbed her off with a vague sentence or two, but she said nothing. She looked at Rome and sipped her drink.

“You have the gift of Virgilia, Sophy.”

“What was that?”

“A gracious silence.”

She didn’t answer and suddenly he was telling her about the morning of the thunderstorm in the Piazza Colonna and the loss of his manuscript. She listened with horror, her fingers at her lips. “Simon,” she muttered. “You lost Simon!” And then: “Well — but obviously you got it back.”

“After three days of sweltering hell spent largely on this roof garden. Yes. I got it back.” He turned away and sat in one of the little wrought-iron chairs. “At this table, actually,” he said indistinctly.

“I wonder you can face it again.”

“You don’t ask how I got it back.”

“Well — how, then?”

“Mailer — brought it here.”

“Mailer? Did you say Mailer? Sebastian Mailer?”

“That’s right. Come and sit here. Please.”

She took the other chair at his table, as if, she thought, the waiter was going to bring their breakfast. “What is it?” she asked. “You’re worried about something. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I suppose I must. To this extent, at least. Do you believe me when I tell you that at the moment I can almost wish he had never recovered the thing?”

Sophy said, after a pause: “If you say so I believe you, but it’s a monstrous idea. For you to wish Mailer hadn’t found it — yes. That I can imagine.”

“And that is what I meant. You’re too young to remember when my first book came out. You were a child of course.”

“Aquarius? Well, I was about fourteen, I think. I read it with goggling eyes and bated breath.”

“But afterwards. When you came into Koster Press? You heard about — the scandal? Well, didn’t you? You can’t tell me they don’t still thumb it over in those august premises.”

“Yes,” Sophy said. “I heard about the coincidence bit.”

“The coincidence bit! Did you, by God! And did you believe that I could have repeated in exact detail the central theme of a book I’d never read?”

“Certainly. That’s the general opinion at Koster’s.”

“It wasn’t the opinion of twelve good, bloody men and true.”

“Token damages, though, weren’t they? And there’s a long list of proven literary coincidences. I write children’s books. I found last year that I’d lifted the entire story-line of Mrs. Molesworth’s Cuckoo Clock. Actually it wasn’t coincidence. My grandmother had read her copy aloud to me when I was six. I suppose it was stowed away in my subconscious and bobbed up unbeknownst. But I swear I didn’t know.”

“What did you do when you found out?”

“Scrapped it. I was just in time.”

“You were lucky.”

“Does it still hurt so much?”

“Yes,” Grant said. “Yes, my girl, it does.”

“Why, though? Because people may still believe you cribbed?”

“I suppose so — yes. The whole thing’s a nightmare.”

“I’m sorry,” Sophy said. “That’s beastly for you. But I can’t quite see—”

“What it’s got to do with this book — and Mailer?”

“Yes.”

Grant said: “Was it at half past three last afternoon that we met for the first time?”

“We’ve been thrown together. Like people in ships,” Sophy said with a practical air that was invalidated by the circumstance of her being obliged to murmur.

“Mailer kept the manuscript for three days.”

“Why?”

“He says because he flaked out. Cocaine. He showed me his arm to prove it. I don’t believe it for a moment.”

“Was he waiting for a reward to be offered?”

“He wouldn’t take it.”

“Amazing!” said Sophy.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s an addict. I think he’s a pusher in a big way and they never are. He took me to the place they’ve gone on to, tonight. Toni’s. It’s a highly tarted-up junk and flop shop. Caters for all tastes. It’s outrageous. Where was I?”

“You were going to say—”

“Why he waited three days. Because it took him that amount of time to cook up a novella with a resemblance in theme to an incident in Simon. He asked me to read it and give him a criticism. I’m certain now that he’d opened my case, read the ms. and deliberately concocted this thing. It had all the characteristics only I was too dumb to spot them. I gave him an opinion and mentioned, as an amusing coincidence, the resemblance. We were in a restaurant and he told some friends about it. Later on in that damnable evening he told other people. He made a great story of it.”

Grant stopped speaking. A belated horse-carriage clopped down the street under their garden. Much further away a babble of Italian voices broke out, topped by a whistle, laughter and a snatch of song. A driver in Navona changed gears and revved up his engine.

“Do I begin to see,” Sophy said, “why you put up with — this afternoon?”

“Do you begin to see!” he burst out. “Yes, you do begin to see. You haven’t heard half of it yet but my God you do begin to see.” He brought his clenched fist down on the table with a crash and their tooth mugs clattered together.

“Pardon me,” said a shrill lady behind the french windows. “But is it too much to ask for a mite of common courtesy and consideration?” And then in an access of rage: “If you can’t keep your voices down you can belt up and get out.”

Morning was well established when Giovanni and Kenneth Dorne with Lady Braceley, maintained by lateral pressure and support from the armpits and not so much propelled as lifted, crossed the foyer of the hotel and entered the lift.

Cleaning women with black-currant eyes exchanged looks with the night porter, who was preparing to go off duty. The man with the vacuum cleaner watched their progress to the lift and then joined them and, with back turned and averted glance, took them up to their floor. A chambermaid, seeing their approach, opened the door into their suite and hurried away.

They put Lady Braceley into a chair.

Kenneth fumbled in his pocket for his note-case.

“You’re sure, aren’t you,” he said to Giovanni. “It’s going to be O.K. I mean — you know—?”

Giovanni, indigo about the jaws but otherwise impeccable, said: “Perfectly, Signore. I am fully in Signor Mailer’s confidence.”

“Yes — but — you know? This thing about — well, about the police — did he—?”

“I will be pleased to negotiate.”

They both looked at Lady Braceley.

“We’ll have to wait,” Kenneth said. “It’ll be all right, I promise. Later. Say this afternoon when she’s — you know?”

“As soon as possible. A delay is not desirable.”

“All right. All right. I know. But — see for yourself, Giovanni.”

“Signore, I have already perceived.”

“Yes. Well, in the meantime — here.”

“You are very kind,” Giovanni said, taking his dirt-money with infinite aplomb. “I will return at 2:30, Signore. Arrivederci.”

Left alone, Kenneth bit his knuckles, looked at his aunt and caught back his breath in a dry sob. Then he rang for her maid and went to his room.

“You have enjoyed yourself, my beloved?” the Baron had asked the Baroness in their own language as they prepared for bed.

“Very much. The tall Englishman is a good dancer and clearly a person of some distinction. He what the English call ‘funned’ me about not going on to the other place. To take care of him, he said. He is a flirt.”

“I am jealous.”

“Good — good. Almost, I wish we had decided to go.”

“Now, you tease me, my love. It is quite unthinkable that I should take you to one of these places, Mathilde. You would be insulted. I wonder that this person, Allen, suggested it.”

“He was ‘funning’ me, my darling.”

“He had no business to do so on that subject.”

The Baroness turned her back to her husband, who deftly unzipped her dress and awarded her a neat little slap.

“The relief,” she said, “is so enormous, Gerrit. I dare not believe in it. Tell me, now, fully, what happened.”

“In effect — nothing. As you know I hoped to negotiate. I kept the appointment. He did not. It is very strange.”

“And, for the moment at least, we are free of our anxiety?”

“I think we are free altogether, darling. I think we shall not see this Mailer again.”

“No?”

“My feeling is that he is in trouble with the police. Perhaps he was recognized. Perhaps the woman who threatened him has some hold over him. I am sure he has bolted. We shall not be troubled by him again, my poor love.”

“And our secret — our secret, Gerrit?”

“Remains our secret.”

The Baron’s winged smile tilted his mouth. He opened his eyes and put his head on one side. “And as for our financial disaster,” he said. “It is vanished. Look.”

He unlocked a cupboard, removed from it the great satchel in which he carried his photographic equipment, unlocked that and displayed a large sealed package.

“Such a business it was,” he said, “getting it all together. And now — back to Geneva and lock it all up again. What a farce!”

“What a farce,” she echoed obediently.

He put the satchel away, locked the cupboard, turned and opened wide his arms.

“So,” he said. “And now—! Come to me, my beloved.”

Major Sweet was the last of his party to return to his lodging. He was taken to his room by the second driver, being in a trance-like condition from which he neither passed into oblivion nor wholly recovered. The second driver watched him make a pretty good hash of withdrawing money from his pockets and did not attempt to conceal his own chagrin when given a worse than conservative tip.

Alone, the Major was at laborious pains to retrieve the money he had dropped on the carpet. He was reduced to crawling after it like a botanist in search of some rare specimen.

Having achieved several pieces of cash and two notes he sat on the floor with his back to the bed, stared at his gleanings with astonishment and then, incontinently, threw them over his shoulder.

He rolled over, climbed up his bed, fell on it, removed his tie and slept.