“All right, all right,” said the Major. “Had he?”

“They say not.”

“They might not have noticed him,” Grant offered.

“It’s possible, of course, but they know him by sight and say they were waiting for him to go out. They check the numbers of tickets for the lower regions in order to guard against shutting someone in.”

“What’s he doing, skulking down there?” the Major demanded. “I call it a damn’ poor show. Leaving us high and dry.” He attacked Grant. “Look here, Grant, you’re on the strength here, aren’t you? Part of the organization, whatever it is.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve nothing to do with it. Or him,” Grant added under his breath.

“My dear fellow, your name appears in their literature.”

“In a purely honorary capacity.”

“I suppose,” Kenneth said, “it’s publicity for you, isn’t it?”

“I’m not in need—” Grant began and then turned white. “Isn’t all this beside the point?” he asked Alleyn.

“I’d have thought so. The people in charge have gone down to find him. There’s a complete system of fluorescent lighting kept for maintenance, excavation and emergencies. If he’s there they’ll find him.”

“He may have been taken ill or something,” Sophy hazarded.

“That is so, that is so,” cried the Van der Veghels like some rudimentary chorus. They often spoke in unison. “He is of a sickly appearance,” the Baroness added. “And sweats a great deal,” said her husband, clinching the proposition.

The two drivers now crossed the road. Giovanni, the one who spoke English and acted as an assistant guide, invited the ladies and gentlemen to take their seats in the cars. Alleyn asked if they had seen Mr. Mailer.- The drivers put their heads on one side and raised their hands and shoulders. No.

“Perhaps,” Lady Braceley said in an exhausted voice, “he’s fallen down those horrid-awful stairs. Poorest Mr. Mailer. Do you know, I think I will sit in the car. I’m no good at standing about on my gilded pins.”

She swivelled one of her collective stares between Grant, Alleyn and the Baron and got into the car, finding a moment to smile into the face of Giovanni as he opened the door. Established, she leant out of the window. “The offer of a cigarette,” she said, “would be met with in the spirit in which it was made.”

But only Kenneth, it seemed, could oblige and did so, leaning his face down to his aunt’s as he offered his lighter. They spoke together, scarcely moving their lips, and for a moment or two looked alike.

Grant muttered to Alleyn: “This is a bloody rum turn-up for the books, isn’t it?”

“Rum enough, yes.”

Sophy said: “Of course, they’ll find him, won’t they? I mean they must.”

“You were together, weren’t you, after the rest of us left?”

“Yes,” they said.

“And returned together?”

“Of course,” Grant said. “You saw us. Why?”

“You were the last out by some moments. You didn’t hear anything? Mailer’s wearing rather heavy shoes. They made quite a noise, I noticed, on the iron steps.”

No, they said. They hadn’t heard a thing.

“I think I’ll go back, Grant. Care to come?”

“Back? You mean — down below again?”

“If necessary.”

“I’ll come,” Grant said, “as far as the office — the shop. I’m not madly keen to traipse round the nether regions after Mailer. If he’s there the staff’ll find him.”

“All right. But don’t you think something ought to be done about this lot?”

“Look here,” Grant said angrily, “I’ve already said I accept no responsibility for this turn-out. Or for anyone in it—” His voice wavered and he glanced at Sophy. “Except Miss Jason, who’s on her own.”

“I’m all right,” Sophy said airily and to Alleyn: “What should we do? Can you suggest anything?”

“Suppose you all carry on with your picnic on the Palatine Hill? The drivers will take you there. The one that speaks English — Giovanni — seems to be a sort of second-in-command. I’m sure he’ll take over. No doubt they’ll unpack hampers and lay on the charm: they’re wonderful at that. I’ll unearth Mailer and if he’s all right we’ll follow you up. It’ll be a lovely evening on the Palatine Hill.”

“What do you think?” Sophy asked Grant.

“It’s as good an idea as any other.” He turned to Alleyn. “Sorry to be bloody-minded,” he said. “Shall we go back in there, then?”

“On second thoughts I won’t bother you. If you wouldn’t mind fixing things with Giovanni — I suggest that even if I don’t reappear with Mailer in hand, you carry on with the programme. The alfresco tea, then back to your hotels and the cars will pick you all up again at nine o’clock. You’re at the Gallico, aren’t you? You might be very kind and just make a note of where the others are staying. There I go, bossing again. Never mind.”

He gave Sophy a little bow, and as Major Sweet bore down upon them neatly sidestepped him and returned to the basilica.

“I’ll be damned,” said Barnaby Grant.

“I daresay,” Sophy said. “But all the same you’ll do it. It’s like what you said.”

“What did I say, smarty-pants?”

“He’s got authority.”

When Alleyn got back to the vestibule he found the shop still in process of closure. An iron lattice gate with a formidable padlock shut off the entrance to the lower regions. San Tommaso in Pallaria like its sister Basilica, San Clemente, is in the care of Irish Dominicans. The monk in charge — Father Denys, it transpired — spoke with a superb brogue. Like so many Irishmen in exile, he had the air of slightly putting it on, as if he played his own part in some pseudo-Hibernian comedy. He greeted Alleyn like an old acquaintance.

“Ah, it’s yourself again,” he said. “And I have no news for you. This fellow Mailer’s not below. We’ve had the full power of the lighting on and it’s enough to dazzle the eyes out of your head. I’m after looking beneath with these two young chaps—” He indicated his assistants. “We made a great hunt of it, every nook and cranny. He’s not there, at all, no doubt of it.”

“How very odd,” Alleyn said. “He’s in charge of our party, you know. What can have happened to him?”

“Well now, it’s strange occurrence and no mistake. I can only suggest he must have slipped through here at a great pace when we were all occupied and never noticed ’um. Though that’s not an easy thing to credit, for as I’ve mentioned we keep a tally ever since a Scandinavian lady twisted a fetlock and got herself locked in five years ago and she screeching all night to no avail and discovered clean demented, poor soul, in the morning. And another thing. Your party was the only one beneath for the one or two odd visitors had come out before you arrived. So he would have been on his own and the more noticeable for it.”

“I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself, Father, and I don’t for a moment suggest your search wasn’t thorough, but would you mind if I—”

“I would not but I can’t permit it. It’s the rule of the place, d’ye see. No visitors beneath under any pretext after closure.”

“Yes, I see. Then I wonder — is there a telephone I could use?”

“There is and welcome. In here. You can go, now,” he said over his shoulder to his assistants and repeated it in Italian.

He opened a door into a store-cupboard, pointed to a telephone and switched on a light.

There wasn’t much room or air when the door was shut. Alleyn backed gingerly into an open box of holy trinkets, eased himself into a crouch supported by the edge of a shelf, examined his memory and dialed the resulting number.

Il Questore Valdarno had not left his office. He listened to Alleyn’s story with an animation that was tangible but with few interruptions. When Alleyn had finished Valdarno said in English: “He has run.”

“Run?”

“Flown. He recognized you and decamped.”

“They seem pretty sure, here, that he couldn’t have got past them.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” said the Questore contemptuously, “who are they? a monk and two pale shop boys. Against this expert! Pah! He has run away at the double-up behind the showcases.”