be more bullets in the killer's gun and it was there almost within his reach. But even as he lifted his hand to stretch out for it he heard a tiny scraping sound behind him which turned the movement to stone instantly.
'Signore!'
The voice was almost as startled as he was, but it was not an enemy's voice. With a sigh of relief Boselli relaxed in exhaustion against the paving stones.
'Signore—are you all right?'
Boselli raised his head suddenly as he remembered the hidden marksman: his rescuer must be in plain view behind him. He turned on his elbow just as Porro bent over him.
'There's—' his own voice cracked hoarsely, '—there's someone down the street with a gun. ... By the bushes, I think
—'
The concern vanished from Porro's face immediately as his eyes followed Boselli's nod. But after he had studied the empty street for five seconds he shook his head and sank on to one knee beside Boselli.
'I think he's gone, signore. . . . There was a car just now—
somewhere beyond the trees on the upper road, beside the museum—did you not hear it?'
Boselli shook his head. He had heard nothing and Porro sounded decidedly relieved that the enemy had retreated; certainly under his tan he was almost as pale as Villari had been when—
dummy2
Villari!
'Where are you hit? Can you walk?'
'Hit—?' Boselli frowned.
'There's blood on your face,' Porro spoke slowly. 'Are you wounded?'
Boselli instinctively raised his right hand to search for the injury. There was a stickiness on his temple, and what might be the beginning of a bump.
'I don't know—I don't think so.' He stared at his fingers: there was blood on them, but only a little. 'I must have grazed myself when I—when he fired at me I threw myself down in the street. I'm not hurt.'
'And you got the murdering swine!' There was grim satisfaction in Porro's voice and admiration—undoubted admiration—as his glance shifted briefly to the body and then returned to Boselli. For a moment Boselli was confused both by the tone and the look. Then he saw Porro's error and the circumstantial reasons for it.
'I didn't—' he began, embarrassed, 'I didn't mean—'
Porro patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. 'That's all right, signore. This is one they won't blame you for— it was him or you and no time for questions.' He stood up. 'I must get back to the car, signore—we can't get the other swine, but at least we can pick up the Englishman double-quick. And I can call up an ambulance for your friend.'
'He's alive?'
dummy2
'Your friend's alive—he was a minute ago, anyway,' said Porro heavily. 'Sergeant Depretis is dead.'
'Wait!' Boselli scrambled to his feet. His clothes were covered with dust and there was a tear in his trousers at the knee—his best office trousers. He brushed at himself ineffectually. Alive or dead, Villari was out of it now, and the immediate decisions were up to him.
'We'll lose 'em both, signore—if I stay here.'
Boselli screwed up his brain.
'Don't pick the Englishman up. Phone General Montuori's office. Tell him what has happened—get through to the General himself, not some—some underling. Don't touch the Englishman unless he says so. That's an order.'
Porro stared at him.
Boselli took a deep breath. He felt appallingly tired—drained.
With the last shred of his will he met Porro's stare.
'That's an order,' he repeated.
After Porro had gone he stood in a dream, thinking of nothing. Then he stumbled the few paces to the junction of the streets. It was remarkable, he thought, how his immediate surroundings had contracted: Villari and the dead police sergeant lay only a very short distance up the alley on his left and the killer just those two or three steps behind him. Yet the distances had seemed immense only a few minutes ago.
How many minutes? Maybe it was no more than a matter of dummy2
seconds, during which time as well as distance had somehow been elongated.
The effort of thinking was beyond him. There were probably other things he should have done, or should be doing. But he knew so pathetically little about what was going on. He looked up the alley again: the place was like a battlefield with himself the sole unlikely survivor on it—and he didn't even know why he was fighting. Or who.
But he ought to do something for Villari, anyway.
It was up the General now.
He had done his best.
VIII
THE ELGIN MARBLES gallery wasn't difficult to find, which was just as well in view of the time shortage; and although it was by no means empty a merciful providence had just cleared it of chattering schoolchildren.
