wall-to-wall stuff that is so popular back home. This floor covering was thinner, and once I tripped over what must have been fringe. Oriental rugs?
At any rate, before we had gone far, I was sure I was not in a cheap apartment or tenement. The smells of wax and polish, the general feeling of echoing spaciousness, suggested a large house – something rather grand, actually. We walked on marble for a while; at least it was hard and cool underfoot. And we walked for a long time, indoors. The place seemed as big as a museum.
My companion didn’t speak. The arm around my shoulders was stiff with taut muscle; his fingers curved over my upper arm with a tension that was more effective than any verbal warning. Once I heard voices off in the distance; another time he stopped and pulled me into a small, closed-in space until footsteps passed and faded.
As the flight proceeded I recovered some of my courage, and my curiosity revived. What sort of place was this? Could it be a museum after all?
I got the chance I was waiting for when we reached the top of a flight of stairs. I didn’t know they were stairs at first, not until he picked me up and began to descend them. I suppose it was easier for him to carry me than guide each step I took, but I had a feeling he rather enjoyed it. I put my arms around his neck and rubbed my face against his shoulder.
He laughed – if you could call it that – just a puff of air into my left ear. I tickled the back of his neck. It was all pretty corny. But he loved it – he can deny it all he wants to, but he did. When we reached the bottom of the stairs he didn’t put me down but continued to carry me along a marble-floored corridor lined with long mirrors. I knew the mirrors were there because I saw them. I had managed to shift the blindfold just enough to see out from under it with one eye.
The corridor went on for a long way. From time to time the mirrors were interspersed with oil paintings in long, heavy frames. I had never had that precise view of great paintings before; all I could see were feet, the hems of flowing robes, and the grass and rocks of painted backgrounds.
That gallery was long. Before we reached the end of it my gallant rescuer was pretty well out of breath. To do him justice, it wasn’t only exertion that made him gasp; my hands and mouth were free, and I was using them nicely. In the process I got the blindfold back in place. I had seen all I needed to see.
We passed through a swinging door – I heard the sound as it swung back into place – and into a narrower corridor that smelled faintly of cooking. Then he put me down. My arms were still around his neck and my blind face was lifted, trustingly . . . The position was ideal for what he had in mind. His fist landed neatly on the point of my upturned chin.
I woke up in the taxi, with my head on his shoulder. At first I didn’t know it was a taxi; all I could see were lights flashing by, like long streamers of fire.
‘Wake up, darling,’ said a voice. ‘Arise, fair moon, and dim the envious sun . . . That’s the girl.’
I turned my head and saw the face I had expected to see grinning down at me. The end of his nose was about half an inch from mine, and as my senses came back to me and I remembered what had happened, I was so angry I snapped at him, like a mad dog. He just laughed and kissed me. I didn’t struggle. It would have been undignified.
When he had finished, he held me out at arms’ length and looked at me critically.
‘Not too bad. A young lady who has been out on the town must expect to show some signs of wear and tear. I can’t tell you how I’ve enjoyed this.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t try, if I were you . . . Where are we?’
‘Almost at your hotel. Can you walk, do you think?’
I flexed my legs. He shifted position hastily, and I smiled – or rather, I bared my teeth.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t kick you. Although it would give me immense satisfaction to do so. Yes, I can walk. Demoralizing as your embraces are, they are not totally incapacitating.’
‘What a vocabulary,’ the Englishman said admiringly. ‘Brains
The taxi stopped. He had the door open and was out before I could think of a suitable retort. Reaching into the car, he pulled me out onto the sidewalk.
We were dead smack in front of the hotel, one of those high-class establishments which looks like, and perhaps was, a Renaissance palace. The doormen have more gold on their uniforms than any other doormen in Rome. One of them – the same man who had seen me come in at 3 a.m. the night before – was a few feet away, staring.
I had been drugged, tied up for who knows how many hours, and then punched on the jaw. I knew what I looked like – not a poor, defenceless, abused heroine – just another drunk.
‘
I sidestepped the embrace, wobbled, staggered, and fell back against a convenient lamppost. The taxi driver chuckled. The Englishman grinned more broadly. I turned on my heel and, with what dignity I could muster, went reeling up the magnificent marble stairs of the Hotel Belvedere, under the concentrated stares of the doorman, two bellboys, a concierge, three taxi drivers, and a few dozen assorted tourists.
I should have felt humiliated and defeated. But I was hiding a grin of my own – a lopsided grin; my jaw hurt. The hectic hours had been worth it. I had a clue. The first genuine honest-to-God clue I had found yet.
THERE WAS A DIFFERENT staff on duty next morning, but they had clearly heard about me. The precocious lad who brought my breakfast lingered until I gave him the evilest look I could manage. He retreated hastily, and I hung out the ‘Do not disturb’ sign.
I drank about a pint of coffee to begin with, and then tackled the food. By the time I got through I felt my old self again, except for a slight tenderness around the chin. I didn’t need that to remind me of what I owed a certain smart-aleck Englishman.
I should have been grateful to him, and I was – the way I was grateful to my dentist after he had filled a big cavity without anesthesia. The man had saved me from an undefined but unpleasant fate. And yet that grinning devil had somehow turned the whole affair into a farce. I simply couldn’t take seriously any plot that involved a weirdo like . . . I didn’t even know his name. He had reduced my case into a personal duel. My greatest desire now was not to catch the crooks, but to get even with . . . I didn’t even know his name!
But I would find out. I needn’t say, I am sure, that I had no intention of taking his advice and clearing out. If he had planned it deliberately, he couldn’t have chosen a better way of making me stay on. And thanks to his male vanity, I now had the clue I needed.
My knowledge of antique jewellery is not that of an expert. I had recognized the Charlemagne talisman because the original was in my own museum, and the Egyptian princess’s crown was an art object, rare and unforgettable. But I do know paintings. I had seen only the bottom half, sometimes less than that, of the paintings in the long gallery, but that was enough. I had recognized not one, but three of them. Murillo’s ‘Madonna of the Hills’ is barefoot, like any pretty, dark-eyed peasant girl. I would have known those dainty arched feet anywhere, just as I would have recognized the landscape that forms the setting for Raphael’s ‘Saint Cecilia.’ The third painting particularly was a giveaway. According to the legend, St Peter was crucified upside down. Solano had painted him in traditional position, and I had gotten an excellent view of the poor saint’s trailing white hair and beard. He looked a lot more peaceful than I would have looked in that position.
The only question remaining was: Who owned these pictures? It’s impossible to remember the location of every great work of art in the world; the ‘Pieta’ in St Peter’s, the ‘Mona Lisa’ in the Louvre, yes; but Raphael painted a lot of pictures, most of them saints or madonnas. It was no problem. All I needed was a library or a museum. I was feeling disgustingly pleased with myself as I leaped out of bed and headed for the shower.
The sun was high when I emerged from the hotel. I knew I had to get moving, because many of the museums are closed in the afternoon. But I lingered to admire the view, a rugged landscape of tiled roofs and
