Secretum

quoth he, guffawing. 'And then, have you seen how the Maltese gets away with it? If something's stolen off someone influential, he's there to give us a hand. In exchange, the Governor leaves him in peace, even though he knows perfectly well where he lives and could have him arrested at any time.'

To the considerations already expressed concerning Sfasciamonti, another was to be added. He did not mince his words (and I was to have other demonstrations of that) when describing the misconduct and unsavoury doings of his colleagues and even the Governor. Some might have taken him for a bad defender of public order, incapable of fidelity and attachment to the secular institutions of Holy Mother Church. I, for my part, did not see it that way. If he was capable of seeing evil wherever it was, and admitting as much, even to myself, that was a sign that his character tended naturally to plain speaking and simplicity. The roughness of soul necessary for the operation which we were conducting was, moreover, not lacking. He had indeed revealed to me from the outset that he wanted in the end to undertake investigations on the cerretani, but the Governor and his fellow-sergeants would not let him. That he should be in some way in cahoots with proven criminals like the Maltese, or perhaps the Chiavarino, whom we were going to meet, well, I considered that to be a necessary part of his work. The main thing was that he should, at the bottom of his heart, be honest. I was to discover only far later that such thinking was not far removed from the truth, yet at the same time utterly mistaken.

As we were walking, I noticed that Sfasciamonti, who had just gone so boldly into the receiver's den, had begun to look around and behind himself with a certain frequency. We reached Piazza Montanara, then turned right into an alleyway.

''Tis here.'

It was a little two-storey house whose occupants seemed to be sunk in nocturnal repose. We stopped at the front door and then followed the instructions of the Maltese: we knocked three times loudly, three times gently and then again, loudly.

It seemed almost as though no one had come to the door, when behind it we heard a muffled voice.

'Yes?'

'We're looking for Chiavarino.'

They made us wait outside, without telling us whether the person we sought would be coming or not, and not even whether our request would be honoured.

'Who's looking for him at this time of night?' we heard at last from another voice.

'Friends.'

'Speak, then.'

Our man must have been there behind the door, but did not seem to want to open up.

'This evening at the Villa Spada on the Janiculum, a spyglass was stolen. The owner is someone dear to us, and he's willing to pay well to have it back.'

'What is a spyglass?'

We repeated in a few words the explanation given to the Maltese: the lenses that make you see little or enlarged, the metal device, and so on and so forth. This was followed by a few moments' silence.

'How much is the owner willing to pay?' asked the voice.

'Whatever's necessary.'

'I shall have to ask a friend. Come back tomorrow after Vespers.'

'Very well,' replied the catchpoll, after a moment's hesitation, 'we shall return tomorrow.'

We moved off a few yards, whereupon Sfasciamonti pointed to the first side-road and there we stood guard keeping a close watch on the Chiavarino's house.

'He is not willing to conclude the deal. He told me to return tomorrow. Does he take me for a fool? By then the stolen goods will be a thousand miles from here.'

'Are we waiting for him to come out?' I asked with no little trepidation, thinking of the homicides which Chiavarino had to his name.

'Exactly. Let us see where he goes. He'll suspect that the goods are too hot to handle and that he'd be wise to be rid of them as soon as possible. If I were him, I'd not move from my house. But, like the Maltese, he's a fugitive, and he'll be pretty nervous.'

The prognosis proved correct. Within ten minutes, a hesitant figure peeped out from the Chiavarino's doorway, looked all around and ventured into the street. The moonlight was really too weak to be able to tell with any certainty, but he did seem to have something, a sort of package, under his arm.

We followed him from a fairly prudent distance, religiously attentive to making not the least noise. We both knew that our quarry must be carrying a knife. Better to lose him than our lives, I thought.

First, he took the road to Campo di Fiore, so that we thought he was going to the Maltese, whose secret dwelling lay more or less in that direction. Then, however, he continued through the Piazza de' Pollaioli and, after that, Piazza Pasquino.

Chiavarino, who was fortunate enough not to encounter any rounds of the watch, at length entered the Piazza Navona. Just at that instant, what remained of the moon was covered by an untimely cloud. Although the light was almost non-existent, we took the precaution of stopping behind the corner of Palazzo Pamphili, at the entrance to the piazza. Thence, we scanned the great esplanade divided into three by the great central fountain of the Cavalier Bernini and two other fountains at the opposite ends. The piazza seemed empty. We looked more carefully, but in vain. We had lost him.

'A curse on all lazy sentries,' grunted Sfasciamonti.

Just then, we heard a rapid pattering of footsteps in front of us. Someone was running to our right at great speed. Chiavarino must have become aware of our presence and was in full flight.

'The fountain, he was behind the fountain!' exclaimed Sfasciamonti, alluding to the nearer of the two great complexes of aquatic statues which stand at either end of Piazza Navona.

Even now, I could not say what hidden virtue of the soul (or rather, what weakness and false audacity) caused me to emulate Sfasciamonti, who was already following the fugitive to the right.

For quite a while, I managed to keep up with the perspiring mass of the catchpoll who, despite the fact that he was giving his all, was losing ground.

'To the left, he's gone to the left!' yelled Sfasciamonti, his voice broken by his efforts.

Hardly had I turned to the left than, to my great surprise, I saw that the pursuit was about to come to an end. The fugitive, who had hitherto kept up and even increased his lead, had fallen.

Sfasciamonti was almost on top of his prey when the man recovered his senses: skilfully dodging, he rolled to one side so that Sfasciamonti went flying into the void and fell in his turn. Although exhausted, the fugitive ran once more in the direction of the Theatre of Pompey; at that moment, I too had almost reached him. I was, however, distracted by an unexpected event: our man had left a parcel on the ground, so that when I arrived, I found myself at an equal distance between the object and the man who had got rid of it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that only then was Sfasciamonti rising to his feet with something of a limp.

'You, go ahead!' he exhorted me, breaking once more into a run.

It was pure folly on my part unhesitatingly to follow that order in circumstances in which, given the extreme excitement that reigned, no one could possibly discern the consequences of his acts. So I did not leave off from running even when I saw the individual hesitate between right and left, then, quite unexpectedly, rush into a doorway which he perhaps already knew to be open. I crossed myself mentally and, hastening through the door in my turn, heard his footsteps on the stairs and rushed headlong after him.

The mad upward pursuit, amongst the inky shadows of the stairway, as I tripped clumsily on the steps in an effort to keep my balance, running with hands outstretched before me into clammy landing walls, all seems to me today the height of idiocy which could have resulted in something far worse than what in fact happened. It was scant consolation to hear Sfasciamonti's approaching footsteps, still far below.

I do not know, and perhaps I never shall, whether the man we were following already knew where the steps of that building led. Nevertheless, it came as no small surprise to me to see, in the last stretch of the staircase, the steps becoming, first bluish, then grey, and in the end whitish. Thus it was that, suddenly, almost forgetting what 1 was doing there and what awaited me, Dawn's rosy fingers gently parted my eyes and showed me, free at last of dependence on candles and torches, the precious spectacle of a new day being born.

I had opened a door at the top of the stairs. At first, it was only half open, then I was on a terrace. Above and all around I was engulfed by the harsh clarity of morn: first light had already appeared when I caught up with Sfasciamonti at Campo de Fiore but, so immersed was I in action that I was almost unaware of it.