Secretum

mortars in Asia! Heh,' he guffawed.

He stood before the door, pushing his thumbs under his belt and sticking his belly out strangely, breathing out rhythmically as though he were preparing to break the door down with his guts. He knocked. A few instants passed. Then we heard a bolt being shot. The hinges moved.

'Who is it?' asked a voice heavy with suspicion, of which I could not have said whether it was a man's or a woman's.

'Open up, this is Sfasciamonti.'

Instead of one of the tender mothers about whom I had been fantasising only moments before, there appeared before us a hunchbacked and ill-formed old woman who, as the catchpoll was later to explain to me, was landlady to our man. The woman did not even attempt to protest at the late hour; she seemed to be acquainted with my companion and knew that it was useless to talk back. She began to complain weakly only when she saw us mounting the stairs to the next floor.

'But he is sleeping…'

'Exactly,' replied Sfasciamonti, grabbing the candle from her hand to light our way and thus leaving the poor woman in the dark.

After climbing two flights of stairs, we found ourselves on a landing which gave in turn onto a closed door. The candle, which the catchpoll had handed to me, cast a sinister light on our faces from underneath.

We knocked. No answer.

'He's not sleeping. Otherwise he'd have replied. He always keeps one eye open,' murmured my companion. 'This is Sfasciamonti, open up!'

We waited a few moments. A key turned in the lock. The door opened up a mere crack.

'What is it?'

The catchpoll was right. The occupant of the room stood fully dressed with his nose protruding from the crack in the door. Faint candlelight glimmered from within. Weak though the light was, I could distinguish the man's features at once: an enormous rat's nose, long and swollen, with a pair of little black eyes surmounted by long, thick crow-black eyebrows; below these, an ugly, drooling and contorted mouth clumsily framing an undisciplined row of yellowing rabbit-like teeth.

'Let us in, Maltese.'

The little man who answered to that curious name (which in truth derived from the fact that he came from the island of Malta) sat down on a chair, without inviting us to take a seat, which we nevertheless did, for want of better, on his bed. He lit a third candle, the light from which gave the place a less cavernous appearance. I took a quick look around. The chamber was in reality a disorderly hovel, the furniture consisting of the bed on which we were sitting, our host's chair, a little table, a chest, a few old wooden cases and a heap of old papers half abandoned in a corner.

The Maltese seemed very nervous. He stayed seated, hunched up, his eyes avoiding contact, playing with a button of his shirt, plainly scared by the visit and anxious that we should be off as soon as possible. From the conversation, I understood that the two had shared a long acquaintance, in which they had always played the same parts: the man with the big stick and the man on the wrong end of the stick.

'We are assisting a person of note, a French abbot. They have taken some things of his to which he is very attached. He is a guest at the Villa Spada. Do you know anything?'

'Villa Spada at Porta San Pancrazio, of course. The Spadas' place.'

'Stop pretending you're a fool. I asked you if you know anything about the theft.'

The Maltese took one glance at me, then another, questioning one at my companion.

'He's a friend, Sfasciamonti reassured him. Behave as though he were not here.'

The Maltese fell silent. Then he shook his head.

'I know nothing.'

'They've robbed him of an object he absolutely wants to have back: a spyglass.'

'I know nothing and I've seen no one. Today I've been here all the time.'

'The injured party, the French abbot, is prepared to pay to recover what belongs to him. As I said, it matters greatly to him.'

'I am sorry, if I knew something, I'd tell you. I really have heard nothing.'

We were disappointed, but we did not insist. From our man's timorous, rat-like frown, there did seem to emanate something like sincerity. We rose.

'Then it will be better to go and ask Monsignor Pallavicini,' added Sfasciamonti carelessly. 'I shall request an audience with him. Moreover, he has just dined at the Villa Spada.'

The name of the Governor of Rome had the desired effect. We were about to leave when the Maltese's question stopped us on the threshold.

'Sfasciamonti, what is a spyglass?'

As our host did not know what a telescope was, we had to explain to him that it was a tubular optical apparatus, equipped with lenses, with which one could see distant objects close, and so on. Sfasciamonti's description was pretty crude and even somewhat uncertain, and I had to help him with it. In the end, the Maltese had given his reply: there was someone who might know something.

''Tis someone who buys only strange objects that are difficult to resell: antiquities, various instruments. And he seems to have a great passion for relics. Now, with the Jubilee, he has become very rich: I've heard tell that he has done excellent business. He has cronies who trade on his behalf, but no one ever sees him. I don't know why, perhaps he does not live in town. I have never had dealings with him. They call him the German.'

The grimace which Sfasciamonti could not suppress betrayed his disquiet.

'I know that a short while ago he bought something similar to the spyglass which you are looking for,' continued the Maltese, 'a device with lenses that can move, for seeing things bigger — or smaller — I know not which.'

Sfasciamonti assented: we were on the right track.

'I don't even recall who told me,' concluded the other, 'but I think I know who bought it for him. They call him Chiavarino.'

'I know him,' said Sfasciamonti.

Five minutes later, we were in the street, setting out in search of the mysterious personages named by the receiver. Sfasciamonti murmured curses against his informer.

''I know nothing, I know nothing.' That's that, nothing! When he heard the Governor's name, he got cold feet and asked what a spyglass was.'

'But did he really not know?'

'People like the Maltese are scum. They buy the loot from others' thefts for a couple of lire and pass them on to others. They don't know how to do anything else. They're animals; their only merit lies in shouldering the risk of being the first to buy after the crime. That's why they often pass for the authors of the theft, which they are not. Those who buy from him, however, are better acquainted with the value of goods. The Chiavarino's in another class, he's very well known in the criminal fraternity. He's a murderer and thief many times over.'

I had been struck by the catchpoll's expression the moment he heard the name of the Chiavarino's principal.

'And the German? Have you ever heard of him?'

'Of course, they've been talking of him for ages,' replied Sfasciamonti. 'Now, with the Jubilee…'

'And what do they say?'

'They don't even know whether he exists. They say he's in cahoots with the cerretani. Others say that the German's an invention of us catchpolls and that when we can't manage to find who's guilty of the theft of some valuables or the defrauding of some pilgrims, we blame it on him.'

'And is that true?'

'Come, come!' he snapped, taking offence, 'I believe that the German exists, just as I believe that the cerretani exist. Only, no one's really interested in finding him.'

'And why is that?'

'Perhaps he has done some favour to someone important. That's how Rome works. It must not be too clean, or too dirty. The sergeants and the Governor must be able to boast of keeping the town clean, otherwise what are they there for? But we also need the dirt to be there, fine dirt and plenty of it. Otherwise what are we there for?'