Passing through the ticket barrier, they made their way across the crowded concourse to the exit, a long flight of very wide stone steps.
'Keep close to me,' Beaurain warned, his eyes everywhere.
As they descended towards a vast paved open space Paula gazed at the extraordinary edifice looming up higher than any of the other solid stone blocks situated round the space. A shaft of sunlight broke through the hazy clouds, beamed like a searchlight on the dominant edifice.
Immensely tall and slim, its sides were curved. They swung round at the end nearest to her, creating the impression of a gigantic cone. She sucked in her breath.
'That must be the world-famous Pirelli building. It really is an architectural masterpiece.'
'Yes, that's Pirelli…'
Beaurain sounded abstracted. He never stopped surveying the scene as though expecting trouble. No pedestrian coining towards them escaped his eagle eye, checked with a brief glance. They had left the steps and were walking towards Pirelli when Paula noticed a long black stretch limo parked by the kerb. As they reached the limo her attention was distracted by an Italian pushing a trolley towards them laden with fruit.
The rear door of the limo suddenly swung open, blocking Beaurain's way. At the same moment the Italian pushing the fruit trolley lost control. Fruit spilt all over the pavement.
'We have been expecting you, Signor Beaurain,' the expensively dressed businessman type seated inside the limo called out. 'We have made reservations at the Hassler…'
He stopped talking as Beaurain pointed his Smith amp; Wesson revolver at him. At the same moment the driver dashed out of his seat, ran round the front of the limo, holding a Clock pistol, a deadly weapon. He was aiming it at the Belgian's back when Paula rammed the muzzle of her Browning into his side.
'Drop that bloody gun,' she shouted. 'Or say goodbye now,' she snarled.
It was probably the ferocity in her voice which frightened the driver. He dropped the gun. She kicked it under the car. Beaurain leaned inside the car, struck the passenger savagely across the forehead. He slumped down in his seat.
'Let's go,' Beaurain whispered as he hit the driver such a blow on the jaw the man sagged to the pavement.
Bending down, he hoisted the unconscious driver up by the armpits, threw him into the back of the car, slammed the door shut.
'You're a major asset,' he said as he grasped Paula by the arm and hustled her out of the square. 'We can just catch that tram, I hope. ..'
They were inside as the automatic doors closed behind them and the almost empty tram began moving. With both their weapons already bolstered, they sank into a couple of seats together.
Paula wiped her clammy hands on her trousers. She had removed her gloves when Beaurain had warned her as they left Centrale. Despite the bitter cold which hit them on leaving the express she'd taken that precaution in case she had to use her weapon. At least it was warm inside the trundling tram. She rubbed her hands together.
'You know something?' she remarked. 'No one took any notice of what happened. Maybe it's an everyday occurrence in Milan. You know where we're going?'
'Yes. I know Milan well. This tram stops at a point near where we're going. Are you OK?'
'Never felt better,' she fibbed. 'Does our friend know we are coming?'
'You heard me calling someone on my mobile as we got near Milan. He knows the time that express arrives. And he's never been inside the Hassler in his life – equivalent to the Ritz in London.'
'Any idea who those two men were?'
'None at all. But I don't think they were interested in looking after our health…'
She peered out of the windows as the tram stopped. This street was lined on both sides with old four- and five-storey buildings. The ground floors were mostly small shops – bakeries, grocers, bookshops and the inevitable supermarket. The tram moved off again. Passengers had alighted, no one had come aboard. They were now the only travellers. Peering out, Paula watched women shrouded in headscarves, heads bent against the bitter wind, clutching plastic bags as they hurried along. The sun had vanished and it was getting dark.
'Next stop we get off,' Beaurain said. 'It's a bit of a walk but we can survey where we're going. Which is rather necessary after our reception at Centrale…'
When they got off after Beaurain had paid the fares Paula wrapped her woollen scarf round her head. Even so, the biting wind chilled her face. They walked along in silence as the tram passed them and Beaurain kept glancing back over his shoulder…
'Expecting more trouble?' Paula enquired.
'Someone may have used his mobile to warn that we have arrived.'
'But both those thugs in the limo were knocked out,' she protested.
'You're forgetting the man on the express – Coiffeured Hair as you called him. He probably saw what happened and has again phoned ahead. There's the building, Murano's HQ and home.'
There were fewer shops, few pedestrians, but still plenty of traffic. Beaurain had nodded towards a strange building which jutted out into the street, narrowing it. Constructed of large blocks of grey stone, it had a weird eyebrow window on the first floor, an entrance below of two heavy wooden doors. Reaching it, Beaurain pressed the bell alongside a speaker phone. Before he could say anything an accented voice spoke in English.
'Saw you come, my dear Jules. Push the right-hand door, when it opens walk in and up the stairs. Door closes automatically behind you
…'
'It's very quiet round here,' Paula remarked.
'Too quiet,' Beaurain snapped.
Beaurain led the way across a small stone-paved entrance hall. He began to climb a spiral stone staircase in a corner, its sides solid stone. It curved all the way to the top, where someone opened a door. They entered a large stone-paved room with a low ceiling, so low Beaurain had to dip his head. He gestured to Paula, made an introduction to the sole occupant of the room.
Mario Murano was short and stocky. His hair was brown and short, his plump face wreathed in a welcoming smile. He reminded Paula of a teddy bear as he took her hand in both of his. He was garbed in a sleeveless leather jacket, leather trousers, suede shoes.
'You bring me a lovely present,' he gurgled. 'This beautiful young lady, who wears an air of competence, knows what she is doing. A professional. I sense it.'
His English was fluent and with barely a trace of an Italian accent. Paula immediately felt at home in this strange room. She smiled back at him.
'You exaggerate, Signer Murano…'
'Mario! Please. I am Mario to my friends. I can tell you are already a good friend. Now, you find my home interesting, I can tell. Explore! Please do while I am pouring the wine.'
'Thank you, Mario. Yes, I do find your home interesting. It is so unusual…'
Her eyes had scanned the room swiftly. A quick scan to avoid giving offence. But Mario had noticed. She went over to the only window in the room, the eyebrow-shaped window she had noticed when they were walking along the street.
To examine it she had to crouch. Its base line was flush with the floor. At either end it curved upwards in an artistic arch. From the tip of the arch to the base it was no more than three feet high. She was looking down the street and pavement they had walked along. She stood up.
'So this is how you spotted that we were coming.'
'Yes, indeed.' Mario chuckled. 'Now come and join your friend, Jules, who has already made himself comfortable. But only when you have completed your exploration. I can tell it interests you, my rabbit's warren.'
Beaurain had quickly seated himself in one of the high-backed chairs with armrests. The chairs were covered with old and tasteful tapestry, placed round a heavy and large antique table. Paula continued her exploration, while Jules sat with an amused smile.
In three of the stone walls facing the window were alcoves which began at knee-height above the floor. She looked at several of the leather-bound books perched spine to spine. They covered a variety of subjects in different
