need to commit murder – unless the streak of hidden violence I had already sensed beneath the seeming harmlessness of the original plot had finally surfaced.
These ideas were swimming around in my mind, not quite as coherently as I have expressed them, as I went loping across the roofs of Trastevere like Zorro or the Scarlet Pimpernel or somebody of that ilk. Those fictitious heroes weren’t as foolhardy as they appeared; they always had a stooge down below, with a wagon filled with hay or with a snorting white stallion, so that they could drop dramatically onto the animal’s back and go riding off into the sunset shouting ‘Vengeance,’ or ‘I will return.’
I stopped and took a look around. Nobody had climbed the wall after me. Either John had convinced the policemen that he was alone, or they had concluded I had made my getaway. I felt horribly conspicuous up there, though. The apartment building was of moderate height; some of the neighbouring structures were higher, some were lower, and there were balconies and windows all around. I sat down in the shade of the parapet that ran around the roof and tried to catch my breath.
I wasn’t going to have any problem getting down from the roof. The old buildings of Trastevere don’t boast modern luxuries like fire escapes, but they have other features that would make cat burglary a cinch. There are no yards or gardens in that crowded quarter, so the people use the roofs for out-of-door living. Some of them were prettily arranged, with furniture and awnings and potted palm trees. Obviously there was access to the roofs from the lower floors. All I had to do was select a building at a safe distance from the one where I was sitting, and descend.
I was about to rise and go on my way when I heard noises from the street below. A car stopped with a faint squeak of tires and someone called out. I stood up and peeked over the parapet.
The car was big enough to fill the street from side to side. It was parked in front of John’s apartment building, and as I watched I saw three men emerge from the courtyard. All I could see from up there were the tops of their heads and odd, foreshortened views of shoulders, but it wasn’t hard to identify John. He had lost his hat, and his head flopped forwards as the other two pulled him along between them. They looked like big men, but that may have been because John wasn’t standing up straight. His feet dragged helplessly along the pavement as they threw him into the car. They got in after him and drove off.
I will not repeat the thoughts that passed through my mind. They were irrelevant and immaterial and sloppily sentimental.
I climbed up onto the roof of the adjoining building, pushed through a pretty little hedge of evergreens, and found myself face to face with a well-rounded Italian matron who was enjoying the sunshine. She let out a squeal when she saw me and clutched her towel to her bosom.
‘
She just sat there with her mouth open, so I had to find the exit myself. The stairs went straight on down – and so did I, as fast as I could, expecting to hear shrieks from the roof. But she didn’t yell. I guess she decided I was harmless, if eccentric.
I knew that making a call to Munich wasn’t going to be easy. The intricacies of the Italian telephone system are incomprehensible to anyone who is used to the high-priced but efficient manipulations of Ma Bell. For instance – how do you make a long-distance call from a pay phone when the small change of Italy consists of dirty crumpled little paper bills? But money talks, and I had some left from what John had given me. After a long, agitated exchange with the operator, the proprietor of the tobacconist’s shop finally consented to take every cent I had and let me make the call. It was about three times what a call to Alaska would have cost, but I was in a hurry.
The greedy little so-and-so hovered over me, ready to snatch the phone from my hand if I talked more than three minutes. Finally, after a series of buzzes and shrieks in three different languages, and a misconnection with a garage in downtown Frankfurt, I heard the familiar voice of Schmidt’s secretary.
‘Gerda,’ I shouted. ‘It’s Vicky. Give me Herr – ’
‘Ah, Vicky. Where are you?’
‘Still in Rome. Let me talk to – ’
‘You lucky girl.’ Gerda sighed, a long, expensive sigh. ‘How is Rome? I’ll bet you have found a nice Italian friend, haven’t you? Tell me what – ’
‘Gerda, I can’t talk,’ I shrieked, glaring at the proprietor, who was breathing garlic over my shoulder.
‘Quick, let me talk to Schmidt.’
‘He isn’t here.’
‘What?’
‘Signorina, it is already two minutes – ’
‘Shut up! No, not you, Gerda.’
‘What did you say, Vicky?’
‘Signorina, you have told me you would only speak – ’
I turned away from the fat, hairy hand that was trying to grab the phone from me.
‘Gerda – where is the Professor?’
‘He had to go out. Tell me about the nightclubs.’
‘Signorina!’
‘When will he be back?’
‘Oh, soon. Was he expecting a call from you?’
‘Yes,’ I screamed, spinning around as the proprietor made another grab at the phone. The cord wound around my neck.
‘Signorina, you cheat me! I call the police – ’
‘You blood-sucking leech, I paid you twice what this call will cost!’
‘Vicky, who are you talking to?’
‘You, unfortunately! I was supposed to call Professor Schmidt at five, Gerda. It’s vital – an emergency.’
‘Your voice sounds funny,’ said Gerda interestedly.
‘That’s because I am being strangled by a telephone cord,’ I said, jabbing my elbow into the tobacconist’s stomach.
Gerda giggled.
‘You are so funny, Vicky. Always we say here, Vicky is the one who makes us laugh.’
‘
‘Who is calling the police?’ Gerda asked. ‘Oh – oh, is it a robbery, your emergency? Vicky, you should not be calling Herr Professor Schmidt; you should telephone the police.’
‘Gerda,’ I said, between my teeth, ‘tell me when Professor Schmidt will be back. Tell me now, this instant, or I will send you a bomb in the mail.’
‘But at five, of course,’ said Gerda. ‘He said you would be calling then. Vicky, have you bought any clothes? The boutiques of Rome are famous.’
I glanced over my shoulder. The tobacconist had never had any intention of calling the police, his cries had only been an attempt to scare me off. He had summoned more effective assistance. From the rear of the shop came a huge woman brandishing a frying pan. I dropped the phone and ran.
I ran all the way down the Viale Trastevere till I reached the river, not because I feared pursuit from the angry spouse of the tobacconist, but because my frustration demanded rapid movement. It was unreasonable of me to be angry with Schmidt; I couldn’t expect him to sit in his office all day waiting for me to call, when I told him I would telephone at a specific hour. But now I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t telephone Munich police because I had no money.
I collapsed onto one of the benches along the boulevard by the Tiber. People looked at me oddly as I sprawled there, streaming with perspiration and gasping for breath, but I didn’t care. What bothered me was the fact that I wasn’t thinking clearly. The situation wasn’t all that bad; there was no reason for me to get in a state just because I couldn’t find Schmidt. I had no watch, but I knew it must be late in the afternoon, and Schmidt would be sitting in his office like a good little spy in a couple of hours at the latest. In the meantime, I could go to the Rome police and get things started. I could call Schmidt from the station. It was the only sensible thing to do. So why did I have the feeling that time was running out – that every second now was a matter of life and death?
I respect hunches. Sometimes they are the product of irrational, neurotic fears, but I am no more neurotic than the next person, and a good many of my ‘premonitions’ have been caused by subconscious but perfectly
