Don Pasquale nodded gravely. In an Italian family, you turn first to one another for help. Even if the family is Rosa and me.

“Soon after that, someone telephoned me. He threatened me with acid, and told me to stay away from the priory. And eventually, in fact, someone did throw acid on me. Walter Novick.”

I picked my next words with utmost care. “Now naturally, I am curious about those forged securities. But to be truthful, if they are going to be investigated and the facts about them discovered, it will be the FBI that does it. I don’t have the money or the staff to do that kind of work.” I watched Pasquale’s face. Its expression of polite attention didn’t change.

“My main concern is for my aunt, even though she is a disagreeable old woman. I made a promise to my mother, you see, a promise as she was dying. But when someone attacks me, then my honor is involved, too.” I hoped I wasn’t overdoing it.

Don Pasquale looked at his cigar, measuring the ash. He puffed on it a few times and carefully knocked the ash into a bronze cube at his left hand. “Yes, Miss Warshawski. I sympathize with your tale. But still-how does it involve me?”

“Walter Novick has… boasted… of being under your protection. Now I am not certain, but I believe it was he who tried to stab Stefan Herschel two days ago. Because this man is old, and because he was helping me, I am obligated to seek out his assassin. That is two counts against Walter Novick.

“If it were clear to everyone that he is not under your protection, I could deal with him with a clear conscience just on the grounds of his stabbing Mr. Herschel. I would forget the attack on me. And I would lose all interest in the securities-unless my aunt’s name became involved in them again.”

Pasquale gave a little smile. “You are one woman working alone. You are very brave, but you are still alone. With what do you propose to bargain?”

“The FBI has lost interest in the case. But if it knew in which direction to look, its interest might be aroused again.”

“If you never left this house, the FBI would never know.” The parchment voice was gentle, but I felt the hairs prickle along the back of my neck.

I looked at my hands. They appeared remarkably small and fragile. “It’s a gamble, Don Pasquale,” I finally said. “I know now who called to threaten me. If your interests are tied to his, then it’s hopeless. One of these times, someone will kill me. I won’t always make it out of the burning apartment, or be able to break my attacker’s jaw. I will fight to the end, but the end will be clearly discernible to everyone.

“But if you and my caller are-business acquaintances only-then the story is a little altered. You’re right-I have nothing to bargain with. The Herald-Star, the Chicago police, even the FBI, all these would vigorously investigate my death. Or even a tale of forgery if I told it. But how many indictments have you avoided in the past?” I shrugged.

“I appeal only to your sense of honor, your sense of family, to understand why I’ve done what I’ve done, and why I want what I want.” To the myth of the Mafia, I thought. To the myth of honor. But many of them liked to believe it. My only hope was that Pasquale’s view of himself mattered to him.

The ash on the cigar grew long again before he spoke. “Ernesto will drive you home now, Miss Warshawski. You will hear from me in a few days.”

Gravel Voice, or Ernesto, had stood silently by the door while we talked. Now he came to me with the blindfold. “Unnecessary, Ernesto,” Pasquale said. “If Miss Warshawski decides to tell all she knows, she will be unable to say it.”

Once again the goosepimples stood out on my neck. I curled my toes inside my boots to control the shaking in my legs. Trying hard to keep my voice level, I bade the don good-night.

I told Ernesto to take me to the Bellerophon. By now Phil Paciorek was right. I was in no condition to drive a car. The strain of talking to Pasquale, on top of the other stresses of the day, had pushed me over the edge of fatigue. So what if driving me home showed Ernesto where I lived. If Pasquale wanted to find me, this would only cut a day or two off his time.

I slept all the way back. When I got to the Bellerophon, I staggered up the stairs to the fourth floor, kicked off my boots, dropped the new dress on the floor, and fell into bed.

IT WAS PAST eleven when I woke up again. I lay in bed for a while, reveling in the sense of rest, trying to reconstruct a dream I’d had in the middle of my sleep. Gabriella had come to me, not wasted as in the final days of her illness, but full of life. She knew I was in danger and wanted to wrap me in a white sheet to save me.

I had an urgent feeling that the dream held a clue to my problem or how to solve it, but I couldn’t grab hold of it. I had very little time, and needed whatever prodding my subconscious could give me. Don Pasquale had said I would hear from him in a few days. That meant I might have forty-eight hours to straighten matters out to the point that any action of his against me would be superfluous.

I got out of bed and took a quick shower. The burns on my arms were healing well. Physically I was in condition to run again, but I couldn’t bring myself to put on my sweats and go into the cold. The fire in my apartment had upset me more than I would admit to Roger. I wanted some security, and running through winter streets didn’t feel like a way to get it.

I pulled the clothes out of my suitcase. The laundered ones still smelled of smoke. I put them away in the closet that housed the Murphy bed. My mother’s wineglasses I set on the little dining table. That done, I’d moved in.

I bundled up the remaining clothes to take to a dry cleaner and went downstairs. Mrs. Climzak, the manager, saw me and called to me as I was walking out the door. She was a thin, anxious woman who always seemed to be gulping for air.

She came out from behind the lobby counter and hurried over to me with a brown paper bag. “Someone left these for you this morning,” she gasped.

I took the bag dubiously, fearing the worst. Inside were my red Magli pumps, forgotten in Don Pasquale’s limousine last night. No message. But at least it was a friendly gesture.

After so much breathless protesting that I could have walked the four flights up to my room and back, Mrs. Climzak agreed to keep them downstairs for me until I returned. She came running up behind me as I was going to the door to add, “And if you’re taking those to a dry cleaner, there’s a good one around the corner on Racine.”

The woman at the cleaners informed me triumphantly that it would cost me extra to get the smoke out. She made a great show of inspecting each garment, clucking her teeth over it, and writing it down on a slip with the laboriousness of a traffic cop writing a ticket. At last, impatient, I grabbed up the clothes and left.

A second cleaner, sharing a dingy storefront with a tailor several blocks down, was more obliging. The woman at the counter accepted the smoky clothes without comment and wrote up the ticket quickly. She directed me to a lunch counter that served homemade soup and stuffed cabbage. Not the ideal choice for the day’s first meal, but the piping hot, fresh barley soup was delicious.

Using their pay phone to check in with my answering service, I learned Phil Paciorek had called several times. I’d forgotten all about him, Murray Ryerson. Detective Finchley.

I called Illinois Bell and explained my situation. They agreed to switch my number over to the Bellerophon. Also to charge me for the stolen phone. I called Freeman Carter and said I’d seen Uncle Stefan and would make a statement to the police if they would drop charges. He agreed to look into it. I called Phil and left a message with the hospital that I would get back to him. I saved Murray and the police for later.