evening . . . I had to remind myself that I had more important matters to deal with.
I ducked into the first dark doorway and put on my disguise. It wasn’t very complex, just a dark raincoat, a pair of glasses, and a navy-blue scarf tied closely over my hair. I was wearing sneakers and brown slacks. That was all I needed – that, and a stooped, shuffling walk and a sour look that curved the corners of my mouth down. Nobody bothered me after that.
I prowled the streets of Rome for almost three hours. Lights went out as I wandered. Shops closed, windows darkened. When midnight struck from the countless church towers, I was on the Lungotevere Sangello, one of the broad boulevards that follow the winding course of the Tiber. I stood for a long time with my elbows on the stone parapet, looking down at the river where the reflected shapes of St Peter’s and the Castel Sant’ Angelo shimmered in the dark waters. The lights of the Via delle Conciliazione led straight as a ruler toward the circular piazza of St Peter’s, and the great dome blocked out a circular section of the sky.
Rome is a swinging city; it doesn’t roll up the pavements at midnight. But some areas are more lively than others, and the antique area had gone to bed at ten o’clock. When I tore myself away from the magnificent view, I found most of the streets deserted.
It was a good thing I had visited that part of town by day: I had a hard time finding my way. Once I had left the busy boulevards by the Tiber, I might have been in another world, for this part of Rome hasn’t changed in externals for hundreds of years, and it doesn’t go in for streetlights. I had a flashlight – one of my purchases earlier that day – but I didn’t want to use it. So I shuffled along, head bowed, through the darkened streets. Occasionally I passed another form as dark and shadowy as my own. At the far end of a curving street I would sometimes catch a glimpse of bright lights and hear a ghostly echo of revelry from the Piazza Navona. It is one of the tourist centres, and some of the cafes and restaurants stay open far into the night. It was only a few blocks away, but it might as well have been a few miles. The lights didn’t penetrate into the gloomy passageways where I wandered. I hoped the constabulary of the city kept itself busy watching over exuberant tourists.
Finally I found number 37 and the passageway alongside the shop. Lord, was it dark in there! The street was dark enough; this slit looked like the mouth of a big animal. I groped into it, sliding my feet so as not to stumble over something I could not see. My hands felt gritty as they trailed along the crumbling brick of the wall.
There may have been windows in the wall, though I doubt it; why construct windows that open onto a two- foot-wide alley? I was looking for a door, and I soon found it. Then I used my flashlight, shielding it with the ample folds of my raincoat. The door was solid and the lock was a big, old-fashioned type.
Any adolescent with a grain of initiative learns how to pick locks. I learned in tenth grade from Piggy Wilson. He used to steal bikes – not for filthy gain, just to ride around on. He had a thing about bicycles . . . Anyhow, all you need for an ordinary lock – not the combination, or Yale, types – are a couple of long, stiff steel probes and another long metal gadget with a hook on the end. Remember buttonhooks? They were before my time, too, like the high- buttoned shoes on which they were once used. But I had read about them, and I had found one in an antique shop of the cheaper sort, on the fringes of the Via dei Coronari area.
With the buttonhook and a thin steel probe it was no problem to force the lock. I had expected there might be chains and bolts as well, and had planned to worry about them when I found them. To my surprise and pleasure the door gave to the pressure of my hand as soon as I had unlocked it. I should have been suspicious, instead of pleased. I should have known there was a reason why the door wasn’t bolted.
I heard the reason before I saw it. It was a growl that sounded as if it came from the throat of a grizzly bear – a low bass rumble, with lots of teeth behind it.
I switched on the flashlight. In its beam I saw the source of the growl. Not a grizzly bear, nothing so harmless – but a dog the size of a small horse, black as Satan except for a mouthful of white fangs. Talk about the Hound of the Baskervilles. There it was, except for the phosphorescent slaver – a Doberman pinscher, the fiercest guard dog in the world.
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,
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 pate 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 pate, 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.
