Street of the Five Moons vbm-2 Page 3

  There was no alley behind the Via delle Cinque Lune.

  The street didn’t even form one side of a square. As I have said, it was curved. Maybe there was only one entrance to the shop. From the rubbish piled by the door that seemed a likely hypothesis.

  I turned and went back along the Street of the Five Moons. I didn’t stop to look at the mandarin’s robe this time, but I took careful note of number 37 itself. There was nothing distinctive about it except for a name painted in discreet black lettering above the door – A. Fergamo. It meant nothing to me. But I saw something else I had not noticed before – a slitlike opening on one side of the building, so narrow that the sun did not penetrate the gloom within.

  On my way back to the hotel I stopped to make several purchases. I took them to my room and freshened up; then I went to the hotel dining room and ordered the specialty of the house, with a bottle of Frascati. It was all on Professor Schmidt, and I toasted him as I drank my wine.

  I left the hotel at about ten. It was too early for breaking and entering, but I didn’t want to wait any later for fear of attracting attention. Even in Rome, nice girls don’t go out alone at 2 a.m. The streets were still crowded with people. They all seemed to be paired off like Siamese twins, even the middle-aged tourists. The elderly ladies arm in arm with their paunchy, balding escorts looked rather sweet. There is something about Rome on a spring evening . . . I had to remind myself that I had more important matters to deal with.

  I ducked into the first dark doorway and put on my disguise. It wasn’t very complex, just a dark raincoat, a pair of glasses, and a navy-blue scarf tied closely over my hair. I was wearing sneakers and brown slacks. That was all I needed – that, and a stooped, shuffling walk and a sour look that curved the corners of my mouth down. Nobody bothered me after that.

  I prowled the streets of Rome for almost three hours. Lights went out as I wandered. Shops closed, windows darkened. When midnight struck from the countless church towers, I was on the Lungotevere Sangello, one of the broad boulevards that follow the winding course of the Tiber. I stood for a long time with my elbows on the stone parapet, looking down at the river where the reflected shapes of St Peter’s and the Castel Sant’ Angelo shimmered in the dark waters. The lights of the Via delle Conciliazione led straight as a ruler toward the circular piazza of St Peter’s, and the great dome blocked out a circular section of the sky.

  Rome is a swinging city; it doesn’t roll up the pavements at midnight. But some areas are more lively than others, and the antique area had gone to bed at ten o’clock. When I tore myself away from the magnificent view, I found most of the streets deserted.

  It was a good thing I had visited that part of town by day: I had a hard time finding my way. Once I had left the busy boulevards by the Tiber, I might have been in another world, for this part of Rome hasn’t changed in externals for hundreds of years, and it doesn’t go in for streetlights. I had a flashlight – one of my purchases earlier that day – but I didn’t want to use it. So I shuffled along, head bowed, through the darkened streets. Occasionally I passed another form as dark and shadowy as my own. At the far end of a curving street I would sometimes catch a glimpse of bright lights and hear a ghostly echo of revelry from the Piazza Navona. It is one of the tourist centres, and some of the cafés and restaurants stay open far into the night. It was only a few blocks away, but it might as well have been a few miles. The lights didn’t penetrate into the gloomy passageways where I wandered. I hoped the constabulary of the city kept itself busy watching over exuberant tourists.

  Finally I found number 37 and the passageway alongside the shop. Lord, was it dark in there! The street was dark enough; this slit looked like the mouth of a big animal. I groped into it, sliding my feet so as not to stumble over something I could not see. My hands felt gritty as they trailed along the crumbling brick of the wall.

  There may have been windows in the wall, though I doubt it; why construct windows that open onto a two-foot-wide alley? I was looking for a door, and I soon found it. Then I used my flashlight, shielding it with the ample folds of my raincoat. The door was solid and the lock was a big, old-fashioned type.

  Any adolescent with a grain of initiative learns how to pick locks. I learned in tenth grade from Piggy Wilson. He used to steal bikes – not for filthy gain, just to ride around on. He had a thing about bicycles . . . Anyhow, all you need for an ordinary lock – not the combination, or Yale, types – are a couple of long, stiff steel probes and another long metal gadget with a hook on the end. Remember buttonhooks? They were before my time, too, like the high-buttoned shoes on which they were once used. But I had read about them, and I had found one in an antique shop of the cheaper sort, on the fringes of the Via dei Coronari area.

  With the buttonhook and a thin steel probe it was no problem to force the lock. I had expected there might be chains and bolts as well, and had planned to worry about them when I found them. To my surprise and pleasure the door gave to the pressure of my hand as soon as I had unlocked it. I should have been suspicious, instead of pleased. I should have known there was a reason why the door wasn’t bolted.

  I heard the reason before I saw it. It was a growl that sounded as if it came from the throat of a grizzly bear – a low bass rumble, with lots of teeth behind it.

  I switched on the flashlight. In its beam I saw the source of the growl. Not a grizzly bear, nothing so harmless – but a dog the size of a small horse, black as Satan except for a mouthful of white fangs. Talk about the Hound of the Baskervilles. There it was, except for the phosphorescent slaver – a Doberman pinscher, the fiercest guard dog in the world.

  Chapter Two

  NO WONDER THEY hadn’t bolted the back door. I wondered why they had bothered to lock it.

  I could have slammed the door and taken to my heels. I had time. It wasn’t courage, but the reverse, that prevented me from taking flight. I was paralyzed. After a long second or two I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. The dog’s lips were curled back, its low growl never stopped; but its tail lifted and gave a tentative wag.

  The room into which the door opened wasn’t large; it was an entryway rather than a room. The floor was cement, the walls and ceiling were festooned with dirty cobwebs, and the canine amenities were not luxurious – only a pile of filthy sacks in one corner and a couple of battered tin plates, both empty. On one plate was a shrivelled scrap of pasta, obviously the remains of the dog’s dinner. The other dish, the water dish, was bone dry.

  People say southern Europeans aren’t as sentimental about animals as Americans are. But I had seen scraps left by kindhearted Romans for the stray dogs and cats that infest the ancient ruins, and once I had watched a gruff, tough-looking labourer feed half a dozen cats in the Roman Forum, producing cans of food and a can opener from the pocket of his trousers. It was undoubtedly a daily ritual, since the half-wild felines came running at his call and preened, purring, under his touch. The man who tended the Doberman wasn’t that kind of Roman. He hadn’t even bothered to give the animal fresh water.

  I walked into the room, crooning in the voice I use to Duke, my retriever back home in Cleveland.

  ‘Poor old boy, poverino, did the bad man forget to feedums? Here, carissimo, sweetheart, mama will get you some water.’

  The dog leaped.

  He would have knocked me flat on my back if Duke hadn’t taught me how to brace myself against that kind of rush. The Doberman was a big fake – a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Dogs are like people, there are good ones and bad ones; but although even a nice dog may be soured by bad treatment, most of them are much more forgiving than humans.

  I managed to get the door closed, and then I sat down and played with the dog for a while, letting him drool happily all over my hands. I finally persuaded him to let me stand up, and then, before I did anything else, I went looking for a source of water.

  I found it in a tiny room that contained a sink and a toilet and a lot of cockroaches. I filled the dog’s water bowl
and watched him gulp it up with growing indignation. He was awfully thin. I suppose they kept him underfed on the assumption that he would be all the more ready to munch up an intruder. So I thought I would just see if I could find something to eat. The most I expected was a coffeepot and a box of crackers, the sort of thing a clerk might have on hand for snacks. But I hit pay dirt. Another little cubbyhole next to the lavatory contained a hot plate and a surprising collection of goodies – cans of pâté and smoked oysters, and a tin of expensive English tea, plus another tin of biscuits. ‘Fancy Biscuits’, it said on the lid.

  The Doberman adored the pâté, but he liked the smoked oysters best of all. I gave him a handful of biscuits to finish off with, and I promised myself that if this place turned out to be the den of the master criminal, as I hoped it would be, I would see that the custodian of the dog got an extra-heavy sentence.

  With the dog right behind me, breathing noisily on the back of my raincoat, I explored the shop.

  Heavy metal shutters had been pulled across the front windows, so I was able to use my flashlight. I didn’t spend much time in the front of the shop, though I would happily have lingered over some of the treasures it contained. All the objects were beautiful and expensive. Most of the furniture was of the ornate, heavily gilded Baroque type that is still popular in Italy. There was a Venetian glass chandelier that might have graced a ducal palace in the seventeenth century, plus shelf after shelf of crystal, silver, and rare china. One case held jewellery, and I examined it eagerly. A single glance told me there was nothing for me here. Most of the pieces were nineteenth century – handsome and expensive, but not rare like Charlemagne’s unique gem. So I returned to the back of the shop.

  It was fitted up as an office, with a desk and a couple of straight chairs, and a big rusty filing cabinet. The dog lay down and started chewing absentmindedly on the end of the tattered rug while I looked through the desk drawers.

  They held the things one might expect to find – paper, pens, pencils, and the like. I turned to the filing cabinet.

  I was handicapped by not knowing what I was looking for. I didn’t expect to find a detailed plan of some larcenous plot, complete with the names of the conspirators and floor plans of museums. But I hoped I would run across something that would prime the pump – if you will excuse a homely metaphor dating back to my days on the farm – some name or phrase that would have a sinister meaning to my suspicious mind.

  The surprising thing was that I found it, but not in the filing cabinet. Like the desk, that article of furniture contained only the things normal to a business establishment like this one. There were folders full of receipts from the craftsmen with whom an antique dealer ordinarily deals – furniture restorers, weavers, and so on. Several jewellery firms were mentioned. I jotted down the names, but I didn’t expect much from that source. A dealer in antique jewellery sometimes has to have a piece cleaned or restored. I recognized one of the firms, an old, prestigious establishment on the Via Sistina. These transactions appeared to be open and aboveboard.

  One of the folders was interesting, but I don’t suppose I would have noticed it if I hadn’t been groping desperately for some clue. It was a thin folder, with only a dozen pieces of paper inside, and unlike the other things in the file drawer it was comparatively new and clean. The papers consisted of a list of names – very distinguished names. Practically all of them had titles, and a few of them were familiar to me.

  For reasons which will become evident as this narrative proceeds, I am going to change those names – to protect the innocent, as they say. ‘The innocent’ is me. I have enough trouble getting along in life, I don’t need lawsuits. The point is that the names I recognized were those of men who owned rare and beautiful art objects. The title of the Graf von––, to select just one example, went back to the tenth century, and so did some of the contents of his castle in the Bavarian Alps. One of his possessions, a saltcellar that was attributed to Cellini, had been reproduced in a dozen art books.

  I looked over the names with considerable interest. Were these men potential victims of a master thief? The prizes would be well worth the effort, and a private home, however grand, is a lot easier to rob than a museum. But it was only a theory. I could hardly call on these ladies and gentlemen and ask to look over their collections. I had no proof of anything yet. Besides, if the Charlemagne talisman was a representative example of the forger’s work, I wouldn’t be able to identify a fake.

  The dog had become bored with the rug, although, from the stains on it, I imagine it had an interesting variety of flavours. He was lying with his head on my foot, which had gone numb from his weight. I was feeling ridiculously relaxed by that time – there is nothing more soothing than a dog at one’s feet – and I began to get a little peckish. So I went to the pantry to get some biscuits. I was tempted to make myself a cup of tea, and went so far as to take the lid off the tin. The box was almost full.

  The box of biscuits had been almost full too. That probably proved something, but I couldn’t believe it was anything important. I decided not to bother with the tea, but I ate the rest of the biscuits, with considerable help from the dog. What the hell, there was no way I could conceal the fact that someone had broken into the shop. Whatever else the dog might have done, he could not have opened the cans of smoked oysters.

  I dusted the crumbs off my hands and returned to the office for a final look around. There was nothing in the wastebasket, nothing behind the filing cabinet. I decided I might as well go. I hated to leave the dog, but I could hardly take him to my hotel. When I bent down to pat his massive head and apologize for deserting him, I saw he had found something else to nibble. The design on the paper caught my eye, and I pulled it out of the dog’s jaws.

  He had eaten one corner of the paper, but enough remained. It was a drawing – a detailed, scale drawing – of a crown. Not one of those big, fat, plushy crowns modern monarchs wear when they are opening Parliament; this was a diadem of twisted gold wire and tiny enamelled flowers. The flower petals were made of turquoise and lapis lazuli and carnelian. The colours weren’t indicated on the drawing; but I knew that crown. Talk about antique jewellery – this piece was four thousand years old. It had come from the tomb of an Egyptian princess. The Metropolitan Museum has one like it. This one had been found early in the nineteenth century, before governments established regulations about removing antiquities from the country in which they were discovered. Like the Elgin Marbles, it had been taken to England by the wealthy excavator. Unlike the Marbles, it was still in a private collection.

  I put the drawing in my pocket and headed for the back door. I had to talk to the dog for quite a while before he would let me out. I had refilled his water dish, but I still felt guilty; the last thing I saw before I switched off my flashlight was his mournful look. I didn’t bother locking the door. Why should I protect the premises of a gang of crooks?

  The shop was one of the hangouts of the people I was after. I was sure of that now. The drawing might not be proof for a court of law, but it was good enough for me. The detailed measurements and scale sketch were precisely what a craftsman would need in order to copy a piece, and this particular piece of jewellery was made to order for the man who had produced the copy of the Charlemagne talisman. The value of the crown lay in the design and the workmanship and the rarity. It could be duplicated at a fairly reasonable cost.

  I got back to the hotel about 3 a.m. having divested myself of my coat and scarf along the way. The desk clerk smiled slyly as I went through the lobby, and I thanked God for dirty minds. It never would have occurred to that man that I was late because I had been breaking into an antique shop.

  I had breakfast in bed next morning, and very good it was, too, except for the coffee. I cannot imagine why the people who invented espresso have never learned to produce decent coffee of any other variety.

  It was a gorgeous morning, like practically every morning in Rome. The fountains in the Piazza d’Esedra sparkled
in the sunlight. I was wearing my brightest tourist costume, all red-and-white stripes and big sunglasses. I wanted to be noticed. There was no way the shop people could know I was their nocturnal visitor. I strolled along the Via dei Coronari in a leisurely fashion, and went into a couple of the shops. It was almost noon before I reached number 37.

  There were two German tourists in the shop. At least they were speaking that language, in loud, forceful voices. They had the solid look of prosperous merchants, and the woman was wearing slacks, which was a mistake on her part. I listened for a while, my back turned, pretending to examine the objects in a glass case near the door. The lady was a collector of Chinese snuff bottles, and her comments on the one that had been shown to her were not flattering. The price was too high, the carving was poor . . . The usual comments made by a buyer who hopes to knock the price down.

  The proprietor responded in a voice so soft I could scarcely make out the words. It was obvious from his tone that he didn’t give a damn whether the gnddige Frau bought the bottle or not. After a while this became obvious to the Frau as well; with an irritated exclamation she stamped out of the shop, followed by her husband.

  I turned and stared interestedly at a Baroque lamp, dripping with gilded bobbles and bangles. I didn’t expect the clerk to approach me; he did not impress me as a supersalesman. My assumption was correct. He sat perfectly still, behind a desk at the back, and I wended my way towards him, looking at the merchandise like any casual shopper. Then I looked at him and smiled.

  ‘Buon giorno,’ I said.

  ‘Good morning,’ he answered.

  I waited for him to add something, like ‘May I help you?’ but he didn’t. He just sat there, leaning back in his chair and studying me with a supercilious smile.