his stomach. Words came back to him: unwise to say too much in telegram. He sighed.
'All right then young Evan,' he muttered to himself, 'we shall play this thing to the hilt. Enter Godolphin, the veteran spy.' Carefully he examined the case for hidden springs: felt along the lining for anything which might have been put underneath. Nothing. He began to search the room, prodding the mattress and scrutinizing it for recently- stitched seams. He combed the armoire, lit matches in dark corners, looked to see if anything was taped to the bottoms of chair seats. After twenty minutes he'd still found nothing and was beginning to feel inadequate as a spy. He threw himself disconsolate into a chair, picked up one of his father's cigarettes, struck a match. 'Wait,' he said. Shook out the match, pulled a table over, produced a penknife from his pocket and carefully slit each cigarette down the side, brushing the tobacco off onto the floor. On the third try he was successful. Written in pencil on the inside of the cigarette paper was: 'Discovered here. Scheissvogel's 10 P.M. Be careful. FATHER. '
Evan looked at his watch. Now what in the devil was all this about? Why so elaborate? Had the old man been fooling with politics or was it a second childhood? He could do nothing for a few hours at least. He hoped something was afoot, if only to relieve the grayness of his exile, but was ready to be disappointed. Turning off the gas, he stepped into the hall, closed the door behind him, began to descend the stairs. He was wondering where Scheissvogel's could be when the stairs suddenly gave under his weight and he crashed through, clutching frantically in the air. He caught hold of the banister; it splintered at the lower end and swung him out over the stairwell, seven flights up. He hung there, listening to the nails edge slowly out of the railing's upper end. I, he thought, am the most uncoordinated oaf in the world. That thing is going to give any second now. He looked around, wondering what he should do. His feet hung two yards away from and several inches above the next banister. The ruined stairway he'd just left was a foot away from his right shoulder. The railing he hung on swayed dangerously. What can I lose, he thought. Only hope my timing isn't too off. Carefully he bent his right forearm up until his hand rested flat against the side of the stairway: then gave himself a violent shove. He swung out over the gaping well, heard the nails shriek free of the wood above him as he reached the extreme point of his swing, flung the railing away, dropped neatly astride the next banister and slid down it backwards, arriving at the seventh floor just as the railing crashed to earth far below. He climbed off the banister, shaking, and sat on the steps. Neat, he thought. Bravo, lad. Do well as an acrobat or something. But a moment later, after he had nearly been sick between his knees, he thought: how accidental was it, really? Those stairs were all right when I came up. He smiled nervously. He was getting almost as loony as his father. By the time he reached the street his shakiness had almost gone. He stood in front of the house for a minute, getting his bearings.
Before he knew it he'd been flanked by two policemen. 'Your papers,' one of them said.
Evan came aware, protesting automatically.
'Those are our orders, cavaliere.' Evan caught a slight note of contempt in the 'cavaliere.' He produced his passport; the guardie nodded together on seeing his name.
'Would you mind telling me -' Evan began.
They were sorry, they could give him no information. He would have to accompany them.
'I demand to see the English Consul-General.'
'But cavaliere, how do we know you are English? This passport could be forged. You may be from any country in the world. Even one we have never heard of.'
Flesh began to crawl on the back of his neck. He had suddenly got the insane notion they were talking about Vheissu. 'If your superiors can give a satisfactory explanation,' he said, 'I am at your service.'
'Certainly, cavaliere.' They walked across the square and around a corner to a waiting carriage. One of the policemen courteously relieved him of his umbrella and began to examine it closely. 'Avanti,' cried the other, and away they galloped down the Borgo di Greci.
V
Earlier that day, the Venezuelan Consulate had been in an uproar. A coded message had come through from Rome at noon in the daily bag, warning of an upswing in revolutionary activities around Florence. Various of the local contacts had already reported a tall, mysterious figure in a wideawake hat lurking in the vicinity of the Consulate during the past few days.
'Be reasonable,' urged Salazar, the Vice-Consul. 'The worst we have to expect is a demonstration or two. What can they do? Break a few windows, trample the shrubbery.'
'Bombs,' screamed Raton, his chief. 'Destruction, pillage, rape, chaos. They can take us over, stage a coup, set up a junta. What better place? They remember Garibaldi in this country. Look at Uruguay. They will have many allies. What do we have? You, myself, one cretin of a clerk and the charwoman.'
The Vice-Consul opened his desk drawer and produced a bottle of Rufina. 'My dear Raton,' he said, 'calm yourself. This ogre in the flapping hat may be one of our own men, sent over from Caracas to keep an eye on us.' He poured the wine into two tumblers, handed one to Raton. 'Besides which, the communique from Rome said nothing definite. It did not even mention this enigmatic person.'
'He is in on it,' Raton said, slurping wine. 'I have inquired. I know his name and that his activities are shady and illegal. Do you know what he is called?' He hesitated dramatically. 'The Gaucho.'
'Gauchos are in Argentina,' Salazar observed soothingly. 'And the name might also be a corruption of the French gauche. Perhaps he is left-handed.'
'It is all we have to go on,' Raton said obstinately. 'It is the same continent, is it not?'
Salazar sighed. 'What is it you want to do?'
'Enlist help from the government police here. What other course is there?'
Salazar refilled the tumblers. 'First,' he said, 'international complications. There may be a question of jurisdiction. The grounds of this consulate are legally Venezuelan soil.'
'We can have them place a cordon of guardie around us, outside the property,' Raton said craftily. 'That way they would be suppressing riot in Italian territory.'
'Es posibile,' the Vice-Consul shrugged. 'But secondly, it might mean a loss of prestige with the higher echelons in Rome, in Caracas. We could easily make fools of ourselves, acting with such elaborate precautions on mere suspicion, mere whimsy.'
'Whimsy!' shouted Raton. 'Have I not seen this sinister figure with my own eyes?' One side of his mustache was soaked with wine. He wrung
