"There is no time to talk," Luigi said. "I must - I must act."

The trouble was, he didn't really know what to do. He didn't have Bianca's experience or intelligence, he had simply flipped his lid and flown into action, and a bizarre combination of circ.u.mstances had put him in temporary control of a situation he could not handle. He would be caught sooner or later, but by the time the police or his father stopped him, a lot of people would be dead - including me.

I'm sure the Freudians could glibly account for Luigi's breakdown. His father's dislike and contempt, his mother's death (I a.s.sumed she was dead, since n.o.body even mentioned her), the succession of cheap women who had replaced her in his father's life.... It doesn't matter; n.o.body really knows why some people crack and some don't.

"What are you going to do?" John asked, nervously eyeing the gun that was waving around six inches from his head.

"I suppose I will have to kill you," Luigi said uncertainly. "I regret, Signorina Bliss; you have been simpatico simpatico, but you understand-"

"There is an alternative," I said. "You've been so busy you probably haven't had time to think about it."

"What is that?" Luigi asked.

How long would it take Pietro to get from the palazzo to the Gianicolo? It was after five, rush hour in Rome; the traffic would be appalling.

"We could make a deal," I said, with my most engaging smile. "Bianca is already involved; she doesn't want to go to the police. I'm sure she would be happy to continue in her present role - under your direction, of course. The same thing applies to - er - Sir John."

"And you, signorina?" Luigi asked. "You are a scholar, an honorable lady. You came here to stop us. My father told me so."

Here we were, back on the rotten ice. The wrong word, the false step... I couldn't be too obvious about my change of heart. Paradoxically, the boy's respect for me depended on that honorable facade I had presented to him.

"It is difficult for me," I said truthfully. "But there are circ.u.mstances where the ordinary rules of conduct do not apply. There are men who stand outside the conventions of society. You are such a man, Luigi. How can I presume to judge you?"

"You are right," said Luigi modestly.

He stood pondering. I risked a glance at John, and what I saw made my breath catch. He hadn't forgotten the gun, which was now dangling in perilous proximity to his body; but his eyes were narrowed with amus.e.m.e.nt. As I caught his eye it closed in a wink, and the corners of his no longer well-shaped mouth quivered.

"But the woman," Luigi said suddenly. "I killed her, you know. The filthy wh.o.r.e, she took my mother's jewels - lived in her room.... She had no right. And when she came to me, laughing at me, and yet touching me, stroking me, as if she wanted..." His lips curled in savage disgust. "I killed her and she deserved it. But... I didn't mean to, you know. I only meant to stop her, shut her dirty mouth. She was saying such things...."

I forgot discretion in sheer pity.

"Luigi, I understand. You won't have to go to prison. There are doctors. You are sick, you can't help-"

"Foul," John said suddenly.

It was too late. I had seen my mistake too, but I couldn't take the words back.

"So that is what you think," Luigi whispered. "You think I am mad. You want to lock me up in a... They had my mother in one of those places. I remember. I remember how she wept when she came home for a visit, and my father forced her to go back...."

Well, there it was. A nice facile textbook explanation. I had thought the dowager's concern for Luigi's health was only grandmotherly fussing. She had reason to worry. Whether his problem was congenital or not, having a mother who had to be confined in an inst.i.tution hadn't done the boy's mental health any good.

Poor old Bruno was staring at the boy in bewilderment. Luigi's face was unrecognizable. He was crying, but the tears didn't dim his vision. The gun was pointed straight at me.

It wavered when we heard an automobile horn blare and the crunch of gravel as a heavy car screeched into the driveway. I had just time enough to d.a.m.n Pietro - why hadn't he brought a couple of police cars, with sirens? - when John came up out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box. His shoulder knocked the boy's arm up, and the bullet whined over my head. Not for the first time, I regretted my inches.

The room exploded into chaos. I hit the floor, Bruno hit John, the principessa streaked toward the front door, and Luigi fumbled wildly for his gun, which he had dropped. I got to it before he did, but I needn't have worried. The boy slumped over in a sobbing heap before I plucked the weapon from under his fingers.

I pointed the gun at Bruno, who had John in a bear hug.

"Let him go," I gasped.

"Don't shoot," said Bruno and John in chorus.

The front door banged and an outraged miniature fury came stalking into the room. Pietro must have been changing when my call came. He was still in his dressing gown, a gorgeous heavy green silk affair; and I knew then why even the fatter, funnier-looking Caesars had been able to command an empire.

"Bruno," he thundered. "Drop him!"

So Bruno did. John hit the floor like a sack of wet cement. It had not been one of his better days. He was unconscious when I crawled over to him and lifted his head onto my lap.

"Where are those smelling salts?" I asked.

II.

Thanks to his kindly disposition, and a five-thousand-lira bribe, the little man at the door of the terminal let me go out onto the field to make sure the crate was loaded properly. There was no mistaking which one it was; it was the biggest box on the truck, and as it pa.s.sed me I heard a low grumbling sound coming from it. The vet had given Caesar a ma.s.sive dose of tranquilizers, to prepare him for the flight, but even in a semiconscious state Caesar had his doubts about the whole thing.

Standing beside me, one hand in his jacket pocket and the other arm supported by a black silk sling, John looked dubiously at the crate.

"What the h.e.l.l are you going to do with that monster?"

"Take long walks," I said dreamily. "Late at night. Through the slums of Munich. I can hardly wait."

"I'm glad you warned me. I shall try to limit my nocturnal activities to other cities."

"I don't suppose you would consider getting a job. An honest job."

"What, go straight? Me, the local successor to Raffles and the Saint and all those other debonair, gallant British adventurers?" John started to smile and then thought better of it; his lower lip was still a peculiar shape. "Anyhow, I can't very well quit now, with the police of at least three countries after me."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Oh, that's quite all right. I'd hate to have your little conscience hara.s.sing you because you had failed in your duty. Are you at peace with yourself, my child?"

"Luigi is under treatment, so that's all right," I said, refusing to be baited. "My poor little conscience will be at rest once rest.i.tution is made to those stupid millionaires. But Pietro is going to weasel out of it, you watch. He'll say-"

"That he sold his jewels through an intermediary, in good faith, and had copies made because he was embarra.s.sed to admit to the world that he had been forced to sell his family treasures. He had no idea his emissary would cheat his customers! He was quite candid about it," John said. "I was the intermediary, and I am therefore the logical scapegoat. I'd be in for it anyway, so why not take all the blame?"

"I suppose he sweetened his candor with a considerable bribe," I said.

"Oh, quite. You must admit he has behaved rather well."

"I guess I can't blame him for anything except being dishonest. Bianca was the one who wanted to have us put down."

"Oh, didn't she explain that? She never intended any such thing. Pietro misunderstood her."

"So she says. I can't think too fondly of dear Bianca. She helped us with Luigi, but only because he threatened her. I feel sorry for Pietro, though. He's awfully upset about Luigi. And with reason."

"I think the boy will be all right," John said gently.

"I wish I thought so. But everything possible will be done. Pietro really loves the kid. Too bad he didn't realize it until the damage was done."

"Didn't he offer you a little present?" John asked.

"Yes, he did. The most gorgeous necklace - emeralds and opals. Of course I couldn't take it."

"Why not?"

"It wouldn't have been ethical. Besides," I added, with a rueful laugh, "I'd never be sure whether it was real or fake."

"It was such a beautiful swindle," John murmured wistfully.

"And the only one who is going to suffer for it is you. d.a.m.n it, John, I really am sorry. I know you don't believe me, or understand, but-"

"I understand. I don't agree, but I understand. I had the same trouble myself, years ago. Only constant practice can overcome the disability. The day I forged my first check I really felt quite uncomfortable for a few hours. The second time-"

"Can't you ever stop joking?"

"No, why should I? Laughter is one of the two things that make life worthwhile. Aren't you going to ask me what the other one is?"

"That was totally meaningless," I said haughtily, lowering my eyes before his meaningful regard. "Merely an interlude. It would never have happened if you hadn't taken unfair advantage last night - flaunting your cuts and bruises and pretending to be helpless. That, and the fact that I was curious about..."

"About what? Don't be so mysterious."

"Never mind," I said, with my most mysterious smile. There was no sense in telling him what Bianca had said - or that I was inclined to agree with her evaluation. The man's ego was swollen to monumental proportions already.

"It was just one of those things," I repeated. "One of those crazy things..."

"Not for me, it wasn't. Never before in my life... Well, perhaps one other time, but she was Spanish, and you know how these Latin-"

"Ships that pa.s.s in the night," I said loudly. "Never to meet again..."

"Oh, we'll meet again," John said coolly. "I'll be in touch."

"How? One red rose, once a year?"

John forgot himself and started to laugh.

"Caught you," he said, dabbing tenderly at his lower lip. "I knew it; I knew that under that tough exterior you were a secret romantic. The Prisoner of Zenda The Prisoner of Zenda, for G.o.d's sake."

"No, Rupert of Hentzau Rupert of Hentzau. And I'm not a romantic, I'm a compulsive reader. Mother has shelves of books like that - Graustark, The Scarlet Pimpernel Graustark, The Scarlet Pimpernel... I read everything in the house, including old Sears, Roebuck catalogs."

"You protest too much."

The loudspeaker overhead burst into a babble of Italian, in which I caught the word "Monaco." That's Italian for "Munich."

"My flight," I said. "Good-bye."

"Time for one last pa.s.sionate embrace," said John, and put his arm around me.

I braced myself; even with one arm he could literally sweep a lady off her feet, as I had good reason to know. But instead of pulling me close to him he just stood there looking into my eyes. His face was unmasked and vulnerable - and dangerously appealing. It was an unbelievably effective performance; my insides started to go soft, like melting jello. I had to remind myself that with John it was hard to tell what was real from... a forgery.

He brushed my lips gently with his, and stood back.

"I'll be in touch," he said again, and walked away.

"One red rose?" I called. He turned.

"Nothing so jejune. I won't tell you what the message will be. You'll know."

That was six months ago; but he was right. When the message came, I knew who it was from.

It arrived yesterday. There was no note, nothing in writing. Only a little box containing Marie Antoinette's engagement ring. Six rose-cut diamonds encircling a ten-carat sapphire.

It's in the Louvre. I think.

I have some leave time coming. Schmidt agreed I didn't have to count the Rome trip. Getting kidnapped, hit on the jaw, and threatened by a mixed-up kid with a gun is not anybody's idea of a vacation - not even Schmidt's. I've always wanted to go to Paris. They say if you stand on the Champs elysees, sooner or later you will meet everyone you've ever known.

About the Author.

Elizabeth Peters was named Grandmaster by the Mystery Writers of America in 1998. She earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology from the University of Chicago's famed Oriental Inst.i.tute. In addition to the Vicky Bliss mysteries, Elizabeth Peters is the author of the bestselling Amelia Peabody mysteries.

Books by Elizabeth Peters

THE FALCON AT THE PORTAL*

THE APE WHO GUARDS THE BALANCE*

SEEING A LARGE CAT*

THE HIPPOPOTAMUS POOL*

NIGHT TRAIN TO MEMPHIS.