Six Day Week

Monday, 11:30pm

Before the hotel's glass doors were locked that night every member of the staff who was on duty had been questioned in Troy's presence. Carboni was convinced that now he should call in the carabinieri, since at worst he would need their corroboration for an insurance claim; but Troy, remembering his London briefing and the confidential nature of his mission, prevailed on il direttore not to do so. To ease the little man's qualms Troy signed a paper which said that under no circumstances would the Globe hold the hotel financially responsible.

Carboni had himself inspected Fletcher's suite less than twenty-four hours before, when everything was in order. The disappearance of the baggage was to him all the more startling because, apart from the three blue expanding suitcases, there had been two cabin trunks far too heavy for a man to lift alone. That they had been spirited from the hotel was incredible.

The staff -- back, front, kitchen and bar -- had seen no sign of individuals humping baggage, apart from that belonging to guests who had departed during the day, and no 'suspicious' strangers had caught their attention. The conclusion to be drawn was that the trunks at least must still be in the building.

This line of reasoning led to a thorough if wildly animated search of the hotel near to midnight when several guests in pyjamas and nightshirts and next to nothing-at-all protested angrily at being disturbed. They were told that a large and valuable piece of baggage was missing from a guest's room, and that the investigation was on the advice of the police.

Most, on digesting this explanation, were reasonable enough, and awkward individuals were in the minority and mainly Teutons. Once individual rooms had been checked with due deference to their occupants, Carboni conducted the search with vast determination elsewhere, but without finding any trace of the Fletcher possessions.

Still fuffing, and now looking very tired, he at last called a halt and sent his staff to their respective beds. Whatever mysteries remained, they must still be fit for the early start and the exacting hotel routine. When the last of them had gone he invited Troy to his room for a brandy and a post-mortem.

They sat facing each other in comfortable black leather chairs of a quality the downstairs did not offer and Troy, who had recently given up cigarette smoking, pulled out a packet of Dutch-made whiffs that he had bought on the 'plane.

Gripping one between his lips he said through it, "I suppose it wouldn't have been too difficult for an intruder to lay hands on the key?"

"You saw where it was kept, signor. It is the usual custom with hotels in Roma. Certain of the staff have pass keys as well."

"How many of your staff were missing tonight?"

The Italian counted on his fingers. "Six were not on duty," he said after consideration.

"They will be here tomorrow morning?"

Another pause. "Si -- except for one, Carlo Mancini. He is our number one barman. He has a day of holiday. We can question the others as they arrive."

"And there is no one you can think of who might know what this is all about? ... someone who talked to Fletcher, who knew what he was doing? Every man has a confidant... someone he ..."

The last words were lost in the scrape of glass on mahogany made by the bottom of Carboni's brandy goblet as he set it down fiercely on an occasional table.

"Mancini, signor. Si. . . Mancini. I should have thought of this before? Fletcher, like most of our Italian newspapermen -- and I mean no disrespect -- liked to have his drink. And he was often in our bar with Mancini. Perhaps Carlo has some thought..."

"You say he's off duty tomorrow?"

Troy was immediately alert. This man might -- could conceivably -- have a lead to Fletcher.

He sat up in his chair and set down the whiff, spilling ash on to the Bokhara carpet.

"Si. But he will be here the day after. This one, I should tell you, is also a member of the Communist Party -- it is the disease of our time -- but he is a good worker. If you directed this hotel you would wish to keep him. The guests like him."

"The day after tomorrow is too far away," snapped Troy.

"You must have his address?"

"Si. He has an appartamento near Termini station with his mother and his sister. She is a pretty girl..."

He kissed his fingers. This man had a butterfly mind, no idea of essentials.

"Then give it to me."

"At this moment, signor?" He sounded surprised.

"Yes, I'll go there."

"But the staff books are locked away."

Troy thumped the arm of his chair with impatience. "Then unlock them."

"I do not hold the key."

"And when will they be unlocked?"

"As soon as the reception staff arrives. At half past seven hours. I shall leave a message if you wish."

"Do that -- without fail," insisted Troy. "Have the address 'phoned through to my room."

"More brandy?"

"No -- you get that message organised."

"Si, but there is plenty of time, signor."

"Please do as I say."

Carboni set off reluctandy for the desk and Troy went to his room. He hadn't even unpacked. Wearily he worked his fingers through the pigskin case until he found his pyjamas, an exotic pair in pale blue shot silk he had purchased one day when fancy took him in Simpson's sale.

The bed was comfortable but sleep didn't come at once. There was too much on his mind. He hadn't filed a first story, as he had been instructed, and MacLachlan would note the fact at the editor's conference tomorrow morning. Black mark for Golden Boy.

And Fletcher... when the Globe had telephoned for news of him, why hadn't Carboni questioned Mancini, his bar boy? Surely that was the obvious move?

Could it be that the pointing up of the mystery by the theft of the baggage had alerted an unimaginative mind? Or did Carboni know more than he cared to admit?

Who had stolen it? And why?

What was the significance of all these avowed Communists who ran the place? Had Fletcher somehow crossed them?

A neon sign winked yellowly across his window with a metronomic regularity and his subconscious swept him to an Ali Baba cave of sleep where Fletcher ruled a domain of Chinese brigands from a throne surrounded by pots of gold, each one mounted on a litle yellow trolley driven by a petrol engine.