“Yes?”

“I remarked that it was quite a coincidence you should enquire about him. That is because he was here earlier today. Not for the first time. He asked to be put on our books some weeks ago but his reputation, his appearance — everything — did not recommend his venture to us and we declined. Then, this morning as a new inducement he brings us his list of patrons. It was quite astonishing, Signore, this list.”

“May I see it?”

“We still have not accepted him. I–I don’t quite—”

“Signor Pace, your guess was a good one. My interest in this person is professional.”

“Ah!”

“But I am most anxious to appear simply as a tourist. I remember that in London your chief spoke very highly indeed of your discretion and promise — a promise that is evidently being fulfilled.”

“You are kind enough to say so, sir.”

“I realize that I can’t get a booking with Il Cicerone through you but perhaps you can tell me—”

“I can arrange it with another agency and will be delighted to do so. As for the list of patrons: under the circumstances, I think there is no reason why I should not show it to you. Will you come into the office, if you please. While you examine it I will attend to your booking.”

The list Signor Pace produced was a day-by-day record of people who had put themselves down for Il Cicerone expeditions. It was prefaced by a general announcement that made his visitor blink: “Under the distinguished patronage of the celebrated author, Mr. Barnaby Grant.”

“This is coming in strong!”

“Is it not?” Signor Pace said, busily dialling. “I cannot imagine how it has been achieved. Although—” He broke off and addressed himself elegantly to the telephone. “Pronto. Chi parla? — ” and, as aside,

“Look at the patronage, Signore. On the first day, Saturday, the twenty-sixth, for instance.”

Here it was, neatly set out in the Italianate script.

After further discussion, Signor Pace broke out in a cascade of thanks and compliments and covered the mouthpiece. “All is arranged,” he cried. “For whichever tour you prefer.”

“Without hesitation — the first one. Saturday, the twenty-sixth.”

This, evidently, was settled. Signor Pace hung up and swung round in his chair. “An interesting list, is it not? Lady Braceley — what chic!”

“You may call it that.”

“Well, Signore! A certain reputation, perhaps. What is called the ‘jet set.’ But from the point of view of the tourist trade — extremely chic. Great éclat. We always arrange her travel. There is, of course, immense wealth.”

“Quite so. The alimony alone.”

“Well, Signore.”

“And the Hon. Kenneth Dorne?”

“I understand, her nephew.”

“And the Van der Veghels?”

“I am dumb. They have not come our way. Nor have Miss Jason and Major Sweet. But, Signore, the remarkable feature, the really astonishing, as one says, turn-up for the book, is the inclusion of Mr. Barnaby Grant. And what is meant, I ask myself, by Guest of Honour?”

“ ‘Prime attraction,’ I imagine.”

“Of course! But for him to consent! To lend his enormous prestige to such a very dim enterprise. And, we must admit, it appears evident that the gimmick has worked.”

“I wouldn’t have thought Lady Braceley was a natural taker for the intellectual bait.”

“Signore, he is impressive, he is handsome, he is famous, he is prestigious — am I correct in saying ‘prestigious’?”

“It really means he’s a bit of a conjuror. And so, of course, in a sense, he is.”

“And therefore to be acquired by Lady Braceley. Or, at least, considered.”

“You may be right. I understand she’s staying at my hotel. I heard her name at the desk.”

“Her nephew, Mr. Dorne, is her guest.”

“Fortunate youth! Perhaps. By the way, what are the charges for these jaunts?”

“In the top bracket and, at that, exceedingly high. I would have said impertinently so but, as you see, he is getting the response. One can only hope the patrons are satisfied.”

“In any case you have given me the opportunity to form an opinion. I’m extremely obliged to you.”

“But, please! Come,” said the jaunty Signor Pace, “let us make our addition to the list.”

He gaily drew it towards him and at the bottom wrote his addition.

“You see!” he cried in playful triumph. “I remember everything! The rank! The spelling!”

“If you don’t mind, we’ll forget about the rank and the spelling.”

The visitor drew a line through the word “Superintendent” and another through the letter “y,” so that the entry read:

3

Saturday, the Twenty-Sixth

It became fairly clear from the outset why Mr. Sebastian Mailer made extravagant charges for his expeditions.

At 3:30 in the afternoon two superb Lancias arrived at the rendezvous near the Church of the Trinity and therefore within a very short distance of the hotel where three of Mr. Mailer’s prospects were staying.

From here, as they assembled, his seven guests looked down at April azaleas flaring on the Spanish Steps and at Rome suddenly laid out before them in a wide gesture. There was a sense of opulence and of excitement in the air.

Alleyn got there before the appointed time and saw the cars draw up. They had small labels in their windows: Il Cicerone. Out of one of them stepped a dark man of romantic appearance whom he at once recognized as Barnaby Grant and out of the other the person he had come to see: Sebastian Mailer. He was smartened up since Barnaby Grant’s last encounter with him and was dressed in a black suit of some material that might have been alpaca. This, together with a pair of clumping black shoes, gave him a dubiously priestly look and made Alleyn think of Corvo and wonder if he might turn out to be such another. The white silk shirt was clean and the black bow tie looked new. He now wore a black beret on his cropped head and no longer had the appearance of an Englishman.

Alleyn kept his distance among a group of sightseers who milled about taking photographs. He saw that while Sebastian Mailer, half-smiling, talked vivaciously, Grant seemed to make little or no response. He had his back to Alleyn, who thought the nape of his neck looked indignant. “It looks,” Alleyn thought, “like the neck of a learner-driver seen from the rear. Rigid, cross and apprehensive.”

A young woman approached the cars, spotted Mailer and made towards him. She had a glowing air about her as if Rome had a little gone to her head. “Miss Sophy Jason,” Alleyn said to himself. He saw her look quickly at Barnaby Grant. Mailer pulled slightly at his beret, made a little bow and introduced her. The girl’s manner was shy, Alleyn thought, but not at all gauche: rather charming, in fact. Nevertheless, she said something to Grant that seemed to disconcert him. He glared at her, replied very shortly and turned away. The girl blushed painfully.

This brief tableau was broken by the arrival of two oversized persons hung about with canvas satchels and expensive cameras: a man and a woman. “The Van der Veghels,” Alleyn concluded and, like Barnaby Grant before him, was struck by their resemblance to each other and their strangely archaic faces. They were well dressed in a non-with-it sort of way: both of them in linen and both wearing outsize shoes with great rubber-studded soles and canvas tops. They wore sensible shady hats and identical sunglasses with pink frames. They were eager in their greetings and evidently had met Grant before. “What great hands and feet you have, Baron and Baroness,” thought Alleyn.