Six Day Week

Tuesday, 8:30am

The cable office was closed. From interchange of conversation with passers-by in abysmal Italian, it appeared it would open shortly.

This suited Troy. He could use the interval to draft a message to MacLachlan in London.

There was a ristorante nearby. There is always a ristorante nearby in Rome. Troy selected a table on the pavement under a large orange umbrella and ordered a coffee. While it was being brewed by the espresso machine he pulled out his notebook and started to phrase a cable.

REGRET UNFILING YESTERDAY STOP HAD INTENDED SEND PIECE BUT MAJOR DEVELOPMENT HERE PREVENTED STOP SOMEONE LIFTED THE FLETCHERS CLOTHES FROM THEIR SUITE AND THIS NOT SURPRISING SINCE HOTEL IS FULL OF REDS STOP HAVE LEAD AND AM INVESTIGATING STOP ARE YOU SURE YOU NOT NOW WISH INVOLVE POLICE AND EMBASSY QUESTION PROMISE STORY TONIGHT AND SUGGEST YOU CALL AT SDC FOR FIRST EDITIONS REGARDS TROY

That would hold them. Mancini might know nothing, and if this were the case he would have to think again. On the other hand . ..

The coffee was scalding and he left it to cool while he walked down the street with his message. He handed it in at the counter, showing his cable card. Then he returned to the ristorante and ordered a cab. He kept it waiting while he drank his coffee and paid the bill.

The apartment block in which Mancini lived lay behind the Via Cavour, and was old and dirty. Most of the name cards at street level were illegible but the porter, a surly individual until a couple of hundred lire was pressed into his hand, knew the layout. Mancini was on the third floor.

Troy rapped three times before getting an answer.

The yapping of a dog told him that the occupants could not be far away, and it grew louder as doors were opened. At last a child confronted him. She was holding a small terrier. From her appearance she was a teenager, but only just.

She opened the door cautiously.

"Is Carlo Mancini here?"

Troy spoke softly, attempting to win her confidence. He didn't want to frighten the child, and he didn't know if she spoke English.

"No, he is out."

The way she said it, without hesitation, put him in his place. At least language was one barrier that had not to be surmounted.

"Oh, you speak English," he remarked, unnecessarily.

"Yes."

"Good. That's a great help. Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find Mr. Mancini. I want to speak to him most urgently."

"He has gone to the beach."

"The beach?"

One didn't immediately associate Rome with beaches.

"Yes, he has two days' holiday."

"So I was told," said Troy, feeling awkward at the door and yet not liking to ask the child to invite him inside. "Can you tell me how I can find him?"

"Yes," said the teenager, "he's at Ostia."

"That's the nearest spot on the coast -- the lido -- isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry if I'm talking like an idiot," he said, disconcerted by this youngster who spoke in monosyllables, "but you must understand that I'm a stranger to Rome. I live in America -- although I'm English... it's all a bit complicated. And I only got here last night. So, you see, the geography of the place is still pretty puzzling."

She considered him through pale lashes.

"Then you had better come in."

He noticed that she had the rich olive skin of the true Roman and she would have been boyish but for the suspicion of pout at her breasts. The remarkable and obvious accomplishments she displayed were her composure and her command of English.