`That's the last time I work with you. You've stolen my case!'
`I owe you one,' I acknowledged.
`Tell me he's dead. I want to hear the words.'
`He's dead,' I answered, seeing it again. Then I was sick. The vigiles blamed the smoke.
With arms across each other's shoulders, Petro and I staggered down to street level. In the lane we discovered Helena, clutching my discarded slippers. She must have watched my feat with the ladder. Just as well I didn't know.
Helena was white and trembling, but she managed to sound cheerful: `Bad news, I'm afraid. In the confusion poor Lenia lost track of her wedding presents and some rotter's swiped the lot.'
Well there you are. That's Rome all over. Organised crime never lies down for long.
Time for someone to compose a petition to the enquiry chief of the vigiles.
