suspicions to be well-founded. Frugoni had fallen not so much on hard times as through the skylight of the restaurant he had been robbing
—his 'war wound' had been the compound fracture of the leg and the mild concussion which had resulted from this descent.
Central criminal records had also revealed that in addition to being an inveterate and unsuccessful petty thief, Frugoni was a quarrelsome boozer who had abandoned his wife and children—it had been that last detail, rather than the man's dummy2
actual misdemeanours, which had finally directed the General's charity—
'Put the woman on my list then, Boselli—she's probably better off without him anyway.'
'What about the man, sir?'
'Leave him to me. It'll be a pleasure to kick his backside again after all these years. . . .'
'My wound—of course!' Frugoni twitched into full consciousness. 'You must pardon me, Signor Boselli—
naturally I remember you— but my health, you understand. . . .' He heaved a gallant sigh '. . . at my age things are hard.'
Boselli nodded sympathetically.
'Not that I am grumbling, you understand,' Fragoni added hastily, uncertain of the most profitable role open to him until he could establish just how much Boselli knew. 'But let us not speak of such things. You said—I believe you said—?'
'That I have something for you. That is correct. But something in turn for something, Signor Frugoni. Perhaps I might step inside for a moment, yes?'
Frugoni regarded him in complete bewilderment; the possibility that he possessed something—anything—which was likely to be saleable, but of which he was totally unaware, seemed to have knocked away what little balance he could muster so early in the day.
'I—but of course, Signor Boselli—'
dummy2
The moment he entered the attic room it was Boselli in his turn who was knocked off balance, however. The smell on the dingy landing had been unpleasant enough, combined as it was of all the different aromas of cooking and concentrated humanity which had risen up the stairway from the warrens below. But in Frugoni's room this smell graduated to the rank of stench, in which stale wine and the sweet-sour mustiness of old unwashed linen united into a miasma.
Boselli dragged out his damp silk handkerchief and held it across the lower part of his face, fighting his sickness.
'Signor Boselli—?' Frugoni was looking at him solicitously, oblivious of the foulness.
'A moment's giddiness—no, please do not bother—' Frugoni was removing some unmentionable garments from a rickety-looking chair '—I'd prefer to stand, if you don't mind. It will pass.'
'A cup of—' Frugoni looked uneasily towards what must be his kitchen '—coffee?'
'No. . . . thank you.' The thought of consuming anything—of even touching anything—coming from these rooms made his stomach turn.
'How can I serve you, then?'
Boselli took a firm grip of his senses. It was always better to offer types like this something in exchange for something if one was not relying on good old-fashioned blackmail. He would have preferred the latter method, and he had no doubt dummy2
that with very little digging he could have uncovered the right lever. But digging took time, which he didn't have—and digging would also involve exposing his actions to others, which multiplied the danger of the General coming to hear of it.
But if unsolicited charity would have roused Frugoni's suspicions, or at least his curiosity, the chance of doing some sort of deal would arouse his trading instinct, and that must be squashed quickly.
'It is nothing of great importance—nothing you will find in the least taxing, my dear Frugoni,' he began heartily. 'You are simply one among a number of veterans I am consulting for your wartime recollections, you see—for a work of history a colleague of mine is undertaking.'
Frugoni's expression sagged with disappointment.
'It will be a scholarly work—a work of reference primarily, so I fear there will be little profit in it for anyone—' Boselli nodded regretfully '—but remembering that you had served with the General in the mountains I knew I could rely on your strong sense of patriotism—' Frugoni looked as if he was about to burst into tears; it was time to dust the pill with a trace of sugar '—and naturally your name would be mentioned in the acknowledgements in addition to the modest honorarium we are making to some contributors.'
'Honorari—?' Frugoni abandoned the attempt.
'Payment,' said Boselli briskly. 'Small, of course. More a dummy2
gesture than a payment. But in deserving cases like yourself we do the best we can ... if the information supplied is of use, of course.'
'Of use?'
'Of interest. I'm sure you saw a great deal of action when you were in the mountains immediately after the Armistice of 1943.'
'When we threw in the sponge, you mean?' Frugoni gave a short, bitter laugh. 'Jesus Christ! You can say that again—
more than I wanted to, that's how much action I saw. But I wasn't in the mountains, Signor Boselli, not at first, anyway.'
