“Look here,” he said, “I’m very sorry but I simply cannot see the point of all this reiteration. Surely by now it’s abundantly clear that whether the noise we heard was or was not this bloody lid it would have been quite impossible for the Baron, the Baroness, Alleyn, Miss Jason or me to have killed this man. I imagine that you don’t entertain the idea of a conspiracy and if you don’t, you have irrefutable proof that none of us was ever, throughout the whole trip, alone.”

“This may be so, Signor Grant. Nevertheless, statements must be taken—”

“All right, my dear man, all right. And they have been taken. And what are we left with, for pity’s sake?”

He looked at Alleyn, who raised an eyebrow at him and very slightly shook his head.

“We’re left,” Grant said, raising his voice, “as far as the touring party is concerned with a field of three. Lady Braceley in the atrium. I’m sorry, Lady Braceley, but there you were and I’m sure nobody supposes you left it. Dorne—”

“No!” Kenneth whispered. “No! Don’t you dare. Don’t dare!”

“—Dorne on his way up — and alone.”

“—and who else — who else? Go on. Who else!”

“—and Major Sweet, who seems to be taking an unconscionable time getting to this meeting—”

“There,” Kenneth chattered. “There! You see? What I always said. I said—”

“And heaven knows what intruder from outside,” Grant ended. “As far as I can see you’ve no absolute proof that some complete outsider didn’t lie in wait down there for Mailer, kill him and make a getaway. That’s all. I’ve spoken out of order and I don’t regret it.”

Valdarno had begun: “Mr. Grant, I must insist—” when his telephone rang. He gestured angrily at Bergarmi, who lifted the receiver. A spate of Italian broke out at the other end. Bergami ejaculated and answered so rapidly that Alleyn could only just make out what he said. He picked up something like “—insufferable incompetence. At once. All of you. You hear me! All!” He clapped the receiver down and turned to Valdarno.

“They have lost him,” he said. “Buffoons! Idiots! Lunatics! He has given them the slip.”

“Vecchi!”

“Vecchi! No, Signor Questore, no. Sweet. Major Sweet.”

He made his getaway during the riots.

After Alleyn left him on the previous afternoon he had begun to keep watch from behind his window-blind on a man in the street below. The man had changed three times, the second to last being a short, swarthy fellow wearing a green hat. Sweet could not be sure if these watchers were police agents or spies employed by Giovanni. The latter would be infinitely more dangerous.

He had eaten in his room, giving it out that he was unwell, and had managed to keep on the safe side of the whisky bottle although, as evening came on, he had taken more than most men could stand.

Once when he was not looking into the street, he made a tiny fire of paper in an ashtray. Two larger papers he tore into fragments and put down the lavatory across the landing. But he had never carried much really incriminating stuff about with him and these were soon disposed of.

When it grew dark he did not turn on his light but still watched. The man in the green hat was at no pains to make himself inconspicuous. Often, he looked directly at the window so that, although Sweet knew this was not possible, he felt as if they stared into each other’s eyes. When the man’s relief came — he arrived on a motor-bicycle — they pointed out the window to each other.

The lavatory was at the back of the landing. He had stood on the seat and looked through the window louvres. Yes, sure enough there was another man, watching the rear of the hotel.

When he got down he saw he had left marks of shoe polish on the seat. He had always been particular about his shoes, liking the arches of their soles to be attended to. He wiped the marks.

If they were Agenti down there, it meant that Alleyn had told the police and they had decided he should be kept under observation. And if, as Alleyn had suggested, Giovanni was under arrest? He might still have managed to lay this on. And if he had done that, then things looked black indeed.

At eleven o’clock he was still watching and being watched. At five past eleven the telephone on the landing rang and went on ringing. He heard the man in the next room groan and go out. He was prepared for the bang on his own door and the slam of the neighbouring one. He answered the telephone. It was somebody speaking basic English for the Vice-Questore Bergarmi. The travellers were required to report next morning at the office where they had formerly been interviewed. At 10:30.

He waited for two or three seconds while he ran the tip of his tongue over his trim little moustache. His hand slithered on the receiver.

“Jolly good,” he said. “Can do.”

“I beg your pardon, Signore? You said?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait a bit. Hold on.”

“Signore?”

“Have you found Mailer?”

A pause. A consultation in Italian.

“Hullo? Are you there?”

“Yes, Signore, Mailer has been found.”

“Oh.”

“His body has been found. He has been murdered.”

He should have said something. He shouldn’t have hung up the receiver without a word. Too late now.

He lay on his bed and tried to think. The hours went by and sometimes he dozed but always came to with a jerk and returned to look down into the street. The brief quietude of the small hours came over Rome and then, with the first light, the gradual return of traffic. Presently there was movement within the hotel.

At eight o’clock he heard a vacuum cleaner whining in the passage. He got up, shaved, packed a small overnight bag and then sat looking at nothing and unable to think coherently.

At 9:30 the biggest student demonstrations of the year began. The point of assembly was Navona but as they increased in violence the crowds overflowed and erupted into the narrow street below. A gang of youths ran down it manhandling parked cars into a herringbone pattern. He could see bald heads among them, urging them on. He began to make frantic preparations. Still watching the street he struggled into his overcoat. There was a scarf in the pocket. He wound it over his mouth. Then he found a tweed hat he hadn’t worn since he arrived. He checked that he had his passport and money in his pockets and took up the overnight bag. There was now a great deal of noise in the street. A group of students milled round the watcher’s motor-bicycle. They had opened the tank and then set fire to the petrol. Six or seven of them swarmed about the man. A fight broke out.

He heard windows opening and voices in the other rooms exclaiming.

The landing and stairs were deserted.

When he reached the street the bicycle was in flames. The crowd manhandled the owner. He struggled, caught sight of Sweet and yelled.

Sweet dodged and ran. He was hustled and thrust aside and finally caught up in a general stampede down the street and into the main thoroughfare. Here he took to his heels and ran, disregarded, until he was winded.

There was a traffic block at an intersection. He saw an empty taxi in midstream, got to it, wrenched open the door and fell in. The driver shouted angrily at him. He pulled out his wallet and showed a 10,000-lire note. “Stazione!” he said. “Stazione!”

The traffic moved and the cars behind set up a great hooting. The driver gestured, seemed to refuse but finally moved with the stream, still shouting incomprehensibly.

Then Sweet heard the siren.

The police car was some way behind them but the traffic between made way for it. Sweet and the driver saw each other in the rear-vision glass. Sweet pounded with both fists on the driver’s back. “On!” he screamed. “Go on!”