In the end he compromised, as Boselli had hoped he would.
"Almost the only ones, signore," he said.
"You mean there are others here?" That was just the right note of not-quite-polite disbelief: "I haven't seen anyone."
"Oh, yes—" the refreshment man was on his honour now. He stepped out into the sunlight and stared down the Decumano Massimo —"just a few minutes ago there was a foreign couple
—a big bull of a man and a woman in a big hat, slender like a model-girl—"
"Well, they seem to have disappeared," murmured Boselli.
"Perhaps they knew where to go—where the best things to see are, eh?"
"But there is much to see, signore!" The refreshment man spread his hands. "Behind here there is the Piazzale delle dummy2
Corporazioni— they come from all over the world to see the mosaics there—and—" He stopped suddenly as though it had dawned on him that only a barbarian could have come so far and remained unmoved by his surroundings.
"Where did they go, then, the foreigners," persisted Boselli, like a man who has had what he believes to be a sharp idea which he intends to pursue to the exclusion of better advice.
The man shrugged, disillusioned. "I think maybe they turned off to the right, to the House of Diana or maybe the Temple of Livia. Or they may have gone to the Museum—but it is closed now."
Boselli acknowledged the information with a nod as he heard Villari's footfall on the stair.
But the man was a trier. Even as Boselli turned away from him he called out: "You want for me to get you that drink now, signore?"
Boselli raised a negative hand. He wanted a cool drink, it was true, but it would only make him want to urinate more than he did already —it was that damned drink he had had back at the fountain in the city which was already beginning to discomfort him. Nevertheless— he had made progress, and a good deal more of it than had Villari, who appeared round the corner of the theatre with a face like thunder.
"They went—"
Villari cut him off. "I heard. Come on."
He strode off, bristling. Not a word of approbation, thought dummy2
Boselli hotly, panting after him—not even an encouraging look could he manage. It was childish, even allowing for the fact that Villari had always worked alone in the past, but more than that it might soon become positively dangerous and he could not afford to allow it to go on much longer.
A few metres farther on Villari stopped to examine the map again.
But this time Boselli closed up on him and craned over his shoulder.
"The House of Diana—which is that?" he asked. The map was crudely drawn, and although the streets were named the buildings along them were numbered according to a key which was under Villari's thumb on the far side. "And the Temple of Livia—"
Villari refolded the map just as Boselli had managed to identify a Via di Diana, which seemed to run parallel to the main thoroughfare. There was no way of telling from the numbers where any of the actual buildings were.
"Signor Villari, this is ridiculous—" he began.
"Be quiet!"
It was not the order that stopped Boselli, but the fact that Villari had embarked on a curious sequence of hand signals to the detective ahead of them. But curious or not, the detective seemed to understand what he was trying to convey, for he bobbed his head before starting off again.
"Now—" Villari turned back to him "—what the devil is the dummy2
matter?"
Boselli swallowed, then nerved himself. "I cannot—Signor Villari —I cannot continue like this, not knowing what is happening. You do not tell me anything—and you do not show me anything—" the words foamed out as though a dam had broken "—you ignore me, you treat me like a child! I must insist—"
"Insist?" Villari showed his teeth.
"Yes, signore—insist!" Boselli was desperate now. "If things go wrong—General Montuori spoke to both of us—if things go wrong then I shall be held responsible just as much as you
—"
He paused, aware that his voice was rising towards a plaintive squeak.
"If there is nothing for me to do here, then I will return to the city," he said firmly. "And I will report to the General that you have no use for me."
As a final statement of intent that was not wholly without dignity, he decided. From the spreading smile on Villari's face, however, it seemed to lack something as an ultimate threat, though under the face-concealing glasses it was difficult to make out what species of smile it was.
"Then you have a long walk ahead of you," said Villari equably. "But I have never said I had no use for you—you must have patience, little Boselli. This is a game of patience, you know, is it not?"
dummy2
"What use am I, then?" Perversely Boselli found the Clotheshorse's amiability as off-putting as his insolence: it made him wonder whether his real usefulness was not in truth simply as someone to carry half the responsibility for failure. Perhaps he had underrated the man after all. ...
"You can put names to faces for me, I'm told. And that's what we need at the moment, a few more names to add to this Englishman's. Then we can really get started." Villari sounded almost friendly now. "Does that answer your question?"
Boselli stared at him wordlessly, conscious once more of the insistent pressure on bis bladder.
"Is there anything else you'd like?" asked Villari.
"I—I—you must excuse me for one moment," Boselli muttered. "The call of nature—"
He stumbled down the nearest alleyway until he was just out of sight of the main street, fumbling as he went for the zip fastener on his fly. It was partly nerves, of course, as well as nature, but it was also hugely humiliating. Why did people like Villari never, never need to do it, though?
He sighed with relief at the little lizard staring at him with bright eyes from a crack in the wall just above his head. To his right he had a part view of a little courtyard with a faded black and white geometric mosaic pavement already half covered by modern detritus. Around it were splintered columns like a line of tree stumps felled by inexpert foresters.
dummy2
A little hysterically, physical and mental relief at two distracting jobs done restoring his spirit, he thought: this is the moment when the Englishman and his contact come strolling round the corner, or if not them then the Englishman's model-girl wife in her wide hat, catching him in the unstoppable moment of midflow.
The thought made him rise on tiptoe and peer round him, and then back away from the spattered wall as he pulled up the zip, still searching the alleyway for prying eyes—
There was a man leaning in a ruined opening halfway down the alley—a man with a bright red cravat like a stain running down his white shirt front—
As he stared, hypnotised, the man raised a red hand to adjust the cravat, turning slightly away from him as he did so, totally ignoring him.
Boselli's mouth opened—he felt it open as though his lower jaw was falling away from the upper one, its muscles severed
—and a meaningless sound rose out of it.
The bright blood rippled over the fingers suddenly and the head sank against the wall as though the man was overcome by weariness. In ghastly slow motion he sank on to his knees, head and shoulder scraping down the stone work; for one instant he remained balanced, then he began to fold forward until he was bent double, the top of his head resting on the ground—
The sound inside Boselli became coherent.
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" Villari!" he wailed.
As though released at last by the sound, the kneeling man pitched over suddenly on to his side, his back towards Boselli. His left leg straightened and kicked convulsively at the stone doorstep on which he had been standing.