I was seized by a sudden desire to say something that would shock that irritating smile off his face - to ask whether he had any ancient Egyptian jewelry for sale, perhaps. But I thought better of it. There was something about the man, casual and overbred though he appeared to be, that made me suspect I had better deal carefully with him. His hands, clasped negligently on his knee, were as well tended as a woman's. He had long, thin fingers - musicians' fingers, people say, though most of the musicians I have known have hands like truck drivers.

I started to babble, explaining that I wanted a present for my fiance, who loved old things. The man's cool blue eyes narrowed with amus.e.m.e.nt as I went on. He waved one of his beautiful, manicured hands.

"Browse, then, love. Take your time. If you see anything you like, fetch it over and I'll tell you about it."

"Thanks. Don't get up," I said.

"I hadn't intended to."

I didn't seem to be getting anywhere. I was wondering what to do next when an outrageous explosion of noise erupted in the back of the shop. The Colosseum was only a few blocks away; I was irresistibly reminded of the Christians and the lions. Crashes, screams, growls....

Growls. That was all the warning I had before the dog burst through the curtains at the back of the shop and launched himself at me. I hadn't forgotten him, but I had a.s.sumed he would be tied up or removed to more rural surroundings during the day. I certainly had not counted on his memory, or his hearing, being so good.

Some obscure impulse made me grab the Baroque lamp as I fell. It was a heavy thing, but it went over with a satisfying crash. The manager leaped to his feet with a profane remark. Flat on my back, with the dog rapturously licking my face, I writhed and shrieked.

"Help, help, get him off, he's gnawing at my jugular!"

The Englishman came trotting toward me. He didn't trot fast, and I was infuriated to observe that instead of flying to my rescue he stopped to pick up the lamp and examine it, scowling, before he twisted his hand in the dog's collar and yanked him off me. He did it effortlessly, although the animal must have weighed almost a hundred pounds.

"Jugular indeed," he said contemptuously. "Get up, young woman, and wipe your face. You have damaged a very valuable lamp. Bruno!"

I thought he was talking to the dog, for the poor creature immediately lay down at his feet, cringing. But Bruno was a man - a swarthy, heavy-set, villainous-looking fellow who came rushing in from the back of the shop brandishing a heavy stick. The Englishman caught this weapon as Bruno was about to bring it down on the dog's back.

"Stop it, you fool," he said in Italian.

"But he is a killer," snarled Bruno. "See, he has attacked me, ripped my shirt-"

"Intelligent dog. Good taste - sartorial and otherwise.... Leave the animal alone, cretin. Americans are foolish about animals; she'll have the police on us if you aren't careful."

The word cretino cretino is a particularly nasty insult in Italian. Bruno's unshaven jowls darkened and his eyes narrowed; but after a moment he shrugged, lowered the stick, and snapped his fingers. is a particularly nasty insult in Italian. Bruno's unshaven jowls darkened and his eyes narrowed; but after a moment he shrugged, lowered the stick, and snapped his fingers.

"Come, Caesar."

The dog followed him, belly down on the floor. It made me sick to watch. The Englishman's face was quite impa.s.sive throughout this exchange - which, naturally, I pretended not to understand - and my initial dislike for him took a great leap forward. Usually the English are fond of dogs. Obviously this one was a degenerate specimen. It confirmed my conviction that he was a crook.

I scrambled to my feet, unaided by any gentleman, and brushed my dusty skirt.

"The lamp," said the Englishman, eyeing me coldly.

"My ribs," I said, just as coldly. "Now don't give me any nonsense about paying for the lamp. You're lucky I don't sue you. What do you mean, keeping a dangerous animal like that around?"

He didn't speak for a moment, he just stood there with his hands in the pockets of his beautifully tailored jacket. His face was superbly controlled, but as the seconds ticked away I had an uncomfortable impression that all sorts of ideas were burgeoning behind the bland facade.

"You are quite right," he said finally. "I must apologize. In fact, we owe you more than an apology. Perhaps you had better consult a doctor, to make sure you are not injured."

"Oh, that's all right," I said. "I'm not hurt, just shaken."

"But your dress." He was all charm now, smiling, showing even white teeth. "At the very least it will need to be cleaned. You must let us pay for it. Do give me your name and the name of your hotel, so we can make good the damage."

I wanted to swear. There was a good mind behind that handsome face of his, and now he had me neatly boxed in. He knew enough about animals to draw the proper conclusion from the dog's behavior. He couldn't be positive that I was the midnight intruder, but he was d.a.m.ned suspicious, and if I refused to give him my name, his suspicions would be strengthened. Furthermore, he was quite capable of having me followed; that's what I would have done if I had been in his shoes. So whether I refused to answer, or gave him a false name, he could check up on me. I wasn't a professional, there was no way I could hope to shake off an anonymous follower who would probably look exactly like half a million other Roman men. The only possible course now was to tell the truth arid hope that my candor would disarm his suspicion.

So I told him who I was and where I was staying, and fluttered my eyelashes and wriggled my hips at him, as if I hoped there was a more personal motive behind his interest. He responded, in an outrageous parody of male ego that would have been funny if I had not lost my sense of humor. If he had had a mustache he would have twirled it.

My vanity was somewhat wilted as I retraced my steps toward the Piazza Navona; but as I walked on I began to hope that perhaps the incident hadn't been so disastrous after all. I was at an impa.s.se in my investigations; now the gang might be forced to make the next move.

How right I was! I was only wrong about one thing. I expected it would take them a day or two to check up on me, so I didn't antic.i.p.ate trouble right away. Certainly not before nightfall. Instead they s.n.a.t.c.hed me out of the Roman Forum, right under the noses of a thousand tourists.

Three.

I DREAMED ABOUT SPAGHETTI. WHEN I WOKE up I could still taste the garlic. I soon discovered that the taste came from the cloth that was wound over my mouth. I was blindfolded, too, and my wrists and ankles were tied. I was lying on a flat, fairly soft surface. That was the extent of my knowledge. I couldn't move, I couldn't see, and breathing wasn't awfully easy either. I like garlic, but not on rough cotton cloth.

I had a beast of a headache and a funny feeling in my stomach, which was mostly terror, but might also have been a reaction to the drug I had been given.

It was the blindfold that made me panic. Once, when I was about twelve, I ran away from home and crept into a cave in the hills when night fell. I woke up in total darkness, and for a minute I couldn't remember where I was. It was horrible. I still have nightmares, about it. This was even worse - this time I knew knew the unseen surroundings held danger, and not being able to see what form it would take made it harder to endure. I squirmed and strained at the ropes for some time - I don't know how long, it seemed like an eternity. Then I got a grip on myself. I was only making things worse and my best hope was to get my wits about me and try to think. Though I had no doubt what had happened to me, I couldn't imagine how they had managed it. The last thing I remembered was the sunlight on the weathered white columns of the Forum - the single column of Phocas, near the Rostrum, and the magnificent triad of the Temple of the Dioscuri. The dark pines and cypresses of the Palatine Hill made a fitting backdrop for that ruined splendor. The Palatine... Yes. I had been on the hill, later; I had climbed the paved slope toward the ruins of the imperial palaces. After that it was a complete blank. I forced myself to go back to the events I did remember. the unseen surroundings held danger, and not being able to see what form it would take made it harder to endure. I squirmed and strained at the ropes for some time - I don't know how long, it seemed like an eternity. Then I got a grip on myself. I was only making things worse and my best hope was to get my wits about me and try to think. Though I had no doubt what had happened to me, I couldn't imagine how they had managed it. The last thing I remembered was the sunlight on the weathered white columns of the Forum - the single column of Phocas, near the Rostrum, and the magnificent triad of the Temple of the Dioscuri. The dark pines and cypresses of the Palatine Hill made a fitting backdrop for that ruined splendor. The Palatine... Yes. I had been on the hill, later; I had climbed the paved slope toward the ruins of the imperial palaces. After that it was a complete blank. I forced myself to go back to the events I did remember.

After leaving the antique shop I had had lunch at one of the open-air restaurants on the Piazza Navona. I could have sworn no one followed me there. The people at the nearby tables were all tourists: a young French couple, arguing angrily about money; a German family; a group of American Midwesterners gobbling down spaghetti as if they were all underweight, which they weren't. The piazza was crowded, as it always is. Bernini's great sculptured figures of the rivers poured out the flowing water, and some ragged little Roman urchins splashed in it, giggling, till a policeman came and chased them away. Across the piazza the facade of St. Agnese in Agone raised twisted towers into the sky. Cars and motorcycles roared around the oval track; just as the Roman chariots had raced around Domitian's stadium in the bad old days. The piazza had replaced the stadium, but the spirit of speed lingered on.

I looked suspiciously at the other pedestrians when I left the restaurant, but, as I had antic.i.p.ated, it was impossible for me to tell whether anyone was after me - for purposes of violence, I mean. One little man, who barely reached my shoulder, trotted after me for half a mile, flashing his teeth in what he mistakenly believed to be an irresistible smile. This swain had a rival - a boy on a Vespa, who trailed me for blocks, shouting things like "What ya say, baby?" until he ran into a large policeman. But surely neither of them.... Come to think of it, the famed Roman ardor would make a super excuse for following a female suspect. But neither of my boyfriends had stuck with me after I bought my ticket to the Foro Romano.

I went to the Forum because it's practically the only place in town that is open in the afternoon, and because I thought I might find a quiet place to plan somewhere in the ruins. A lot of other people had had similar ideas. The Forum was crowded, and baking in the afternoon sun. So I had climbed the Palatine Hill looking for shade and privacy. It's a maze up there, with ruined walls crossing and crisscrossing each other. The first primitive settlement of Rome had been on that hill, and occupation continued without a break for centuries. I got lost. Everybody does. I don't know where I was when they caught up with me. There were low walls of crumbling brick, and a lot of scraggly bushes.... And that was my last coherent memory, except for a nightmare flash of a dark, scowling face and a needle p.r.i.c.king my arm. They could have walked right out with my unconscious body draped over a shoulder, if they did it brazenly enough. Spectators would a.s.sume I had fainted.

Having figured out how how I got where I was, I tried to find out I got where I was, I tried to find out where where I was. The only senses left to me were smell and hearing. I sniffed vigorously. No use; the only thing I could smell was garlic. At first my ears were no more useful. Then I heard the rattle of a lock. I was. The only senses left to me were smell and hearing. I sniffed vigorously. No use; the only thing I could smell was garlic. At first my ears were no more useful. Then I heard the rattle of a lock.

I lay still, on my left side, as they had originally placed me. Thanks to the echo, I knew I was facing the door of the room - closet - hall... wherever it was, I heard the door open, then a man's voice.

"She still sleeps," he said in Italian. I didn't recognize the accent; it resembled the harsh Roman dialect, but was more rustic.

There was a laugh - a nasty laugh; and another voice said something I can't repeat because I didn't recognize the key word - some variety of local slang, probably. The gist of the suggestion was unfortunately only too clear.

"No," the first voice said regretfully. "It is not allowed. She must be questioned."

"I would like to question her," said Villain Number Two, with another merry chuckle. I had a clear picture of him in my mind, from that horrid, high-pitched laugh. He would be short and squat, with greasy black hair and a mouth like that of a toad - wide and lipless and wet.

"After all," he added, "who would know or care? It would not harm her voice, eh, Antonio?"

They went on talking about it for a while. I followed the debate with considerable interest. Finally they left; I heard the door open and dose. I was relieved, but not much. Antonio had been steadily losing the argument, perhaps because his heart wasn't in it. For some idiotic reason I was more worried about Villain Number Two than I was about the anonymous characters who were going to question me. I had every intention of squealing, without shame or reserve, if the questioning involved physical violence. Why should I be a heroine? But that greasy, leering voice, when I was blind and helpless....

When the door opened again, I tried my best to scream. Nothing came past the gag except a gurgle. Footsteps ran toward me. I started to thrash around. Someone scooped me up as easily as if I had been a hundred-pound weakling, one arm under my knees, the other under my shoulders; and off we went, at the same rapid pace. We hadn't gone far before my struggles made him lose his grip. Instead of picking me up again, he shoved me up against a flat surface, one arm squeezing my arms against my sides, the length of his body pressed against mine so I couldn't move. His other hand was on the back of my head, squashing my face against his shoulder.

"Stop squirming," muttered a voice into my ear. "Or shall I give you back to Antonio and Giorgio?"

I think I knew who he was even before I heard his voice, from the general aura of him - the scent of soap, starched cotton, expensive tobacco. Contrary to orders, I continued to squirm, because I couldn't breathe. He caught on; the fingers at the back of my head relaxed, allowing air to reach my nose, while he plucked at the knot that held the gag in place. As soon as it came off I sucked in my breath. I had about a million questions, but I never got to ask them. His lips and tongue blocked my mouth just as effectively as the gag had done - and a lot more distractingly.

In its inception, it was a purely practical kiss; he had to shut me up, without a second's delay, for Antonio and Giorgio burst into the room we had just left. Their voices sounded as if they were only a few feet away, but it was clear from my companion's behavior that they could not see us, though they could hear us as easily as I could hear them. My eyes were still blindfolded, remember, and as that crazy embrace continued, I became less able to concentrate on essentials.

As kisses go, it was memorable. After I started to cooperate - which, I am ashamed to admit, occurred almost immediately - his partic.i.p.ation became less practical and more enthusiastic. It was a ridiculous performance, as leisurely and thorough and effective as if he had all day and nothing else on his mind. Without wishing to sound immodest, I believe my own contribution was not negligible.

He stopped what he was doing, though, as soon as the agitated steps of Antonio and Giorgio had retreated. I noticed that his whisper was a little breathy, but if anything he sounded more amused than pa.s.sionate.

"Thank you, that was very nice.... No, don't talk. I don't intend to answer any of your questions, so it would be a waste of time. I'm going to get you out of here. Giorgio is not a nice man; I'd hate to think of wasting talents like yours on him. Besides, my boss may have plans.... Don't talk! You won't be out of danger until we leave the house, and you must do everything I tell you and keep utterly quiet, or you will be recaptured; and then Giorgio will have an excuse to work his dastardly will. Capisce, signorina dottoressa Capisce, signorina dottoressa?"

"How did you know?" I began. Again his lips brushed mine. This time they did not linger.

"I said, shut up. I shan't answer questions. Will you do as I say, or shall I raise the view halloo for Giorgio?"

I didn't think he would actually carry out the threat, but I was not about to take chances. There was a hint of ruthlessness in that suave voice, even when it whispered.

"Okay," I said meekly.

"Good. I am going to untie you, but you must leave the blindfold on. You owe me that for saving your life, or at least your... can one say 'virtue,' these days? I doubt it. And 'virginity,' surely-"

"Oh, stop it," I hissed irritably. "I agree. I suppose you are going to tell me to drop this case and leave well enough alone."

"Precisely. You don't know anything vital, that's obvious, or you wouldn't have done anything so idiotic as come round to the shop. I don't intend that you shall learn anything from tonight's adventure. If you know what is good for you, you will go home, like a nice little doctor of philosophy, and stop meddling in matters that don't concern you. Now come along, and for G.o.d's sake, keep quiet."

During the last speech - he was a long-winded devil - he had cut the ropes on my ankles and wrists, and rubbed the former till the numbness had worn off.

While he spoke I had been devoting my operative senses to learning all I could about the place where we were standing. It wasn't too difficult to figure out where we were. The sense of enclosure and the smell of dust, plus the feel of draperies brushing me when I moved.... We were behind some heavy curtains, velvet or plush, in the same room where I had been held prisoner. I understood why Giorgio and Antonio had not seen us, and why it was imperative for me to be utterly still while they were in the room.

There were several witty, debonair comments I might have made, but to tell the truth I wasn't feeling particularly debonair. This was not the first time I had been in danger. In fact, I had been in worse spots. I had not become blase about it, though. I don't think I ever will. I was willing to do anything to get out of - wherever I was - alive. Afterwards... well, I would cross that bridge when I got to it.

So I let him put his arm around my shoulders in order to guide me, and I minced along in meek silence. It was surprising how much I was able to deduce about my surroundings even without my sight. The floor, for instance. It was smooth and slightly slippery - highly polished wood, probably. When the surface changed to carpeting, my feet knew the difference right away. I could even tell that the material wasn't the thick synthetic 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 s.p.a.ciousness, 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 s.p.a.ce until footsteps pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 and and beauty... All right, love, you should do well enough tonight, but I advise you to get out of Rome first thing tomorrow morning." beauty... All right, love, you should do well enough tonight, but I advise you to get out of Rome first thing tomorrow morning."

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-cla.s.s 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, defenseless, abused heroine - just another drunk.

"Buona notte, carissima," caroled my blond bete noire in dulcet tones. "Grazie - per tutto...." He put out his arms.

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 a.s.sorted 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-G.o.d clue I had found yet.

Four.

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 jewelry 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, Saint Peter was crucified upside down. Solario 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.