Sfasciamonti assented: we were on the right track.
"I don't even recall who told me," concluded the other, "but I think I know who bought it for him. They call him Chiavarino."
"I know him," said Sfasciamonti.
Five minutes later, we were in the street, setting out in search of the mysterious personages named by the receiver. Sfasciamonti murmured curses against his informer.
'"I know nothing, I know nothing.' That's that, nothing! When he heard the Governor's name, he got cold feet and asked what a spyglass was."
"But did he really not know?"
"People like the Maltese are scum. They buy the loot from others' thefts for a couple of lire and pass them on to others. They don't know how to do anything else. They're animals; their only merit lies in shouldering the risk of being the first to buy after the crime. That's why they often pass for the authors of the theft, which they are not. Those who buy from him, however, are better acquainted with the value of goods. The Chiavarino's in another class, he's very well known in the criminal fraternity. He's a murderer and thief many times over."
I had been struck by the catchpoll's expression the moment he heard the name of the Chiavarino's principal.
"And the German? Have you ever heard of him?"
"Of course, they've been talking of him for ages," replied Sfasciamonti. "Now, with the Jubilee…"
"And what do they say?"
"They don't even know whether he exists. They say he's in cahoots with the cerretani. Others say that the German's an invention of us catchpolls and that when we can't manage to find who's guilty of the theft of some valuables or the defrauding of some pilgrims, we blame it on him."
"And is that true?"
"Come, come!" he snapped, taking offence, "I believe that the German exists, just as I believe that the cerretani exist. Only, no one's really interested in finding him."
"And why is that?"
"Perhaps he has done some favour to someone important. That's how Rome works. It must not be too clean, or too dirty. The sergeants and the Governor must be able to boast of keeping the town clean, otherwise what are they there for? But we also need the dirt to be there, fine dirt and plenty of it. Otherwise what are we there for?" quoth he, guffawing. "And then, have you seen how the Maltese gets away with it? If something's stolen off someone influential, he's there to give us a hand. In exchange, the Governor leaves him in peace, even though he knows perfectly well where he lives and could have him arrested at any time."
To the considerations already expressed concerning Sfasciamonti, another was to be added. He did not mince his words (and I was to have other demonstrations of that) when describing the misconduct and unsavoury doings of his colleagues and even the Governor. Some might have taken him for a bad defender of public order, incapable of fidelity and attachment to the secular institutions of Holy Mother Church. I, for my part, did not see it that way. If he was capable of seeing evil wherever it was, and admitting as much, even to myself, that was a sign that his character tended naturally to plain speaking and simplicity. The roughness of soul necessary for the operation which we were conducting was, moreover, not lacking. He had indeed revealed to me from the outset that he wanted in the end to undertake investigations on the cerretani, but the Governor and his fellow-sergeants would not let him. That he should be in some way in cahoots with proven criminals like the Maltese, or perhaps the Chiavarino, whom we were going to meet, well, I considered that to be a necessary part of his work. The main thing was that he should, at the bottom of his heart, be honest. I was to discover only far later that such thinking was not far removed from the truth, yet at the same time utterly mistaken.
As we were walking, I noticed that Sfasciamonti, who had just gone so boldly into the receiver's den, had begun to look around and behind himself with a certain frequency. We reached Piazza Montanara, then turned right into an alleyway.
"'Tis here."
It was a little two-storey house whose occupants seemed to be sunk in nocturnal repose. We stopped at the front door and then followed the instructions of the Maltese: we knocked three times loudly, three times gently and then again, loudly.
It seemed almost as though no one had come to the door, when behind it we heard a muffled voice.
"Yes?"
"We're looking for Chiavarino."
They made us wait outside, without telling us whether the person we sought would be coming or not, and not even whether our request would be honoured.
"Who's looking for him at this time of night?" we heard at last from another voice.
"Friends."
"Speak, then."
Our man must have been there behind the door, but did not seem to want to open up.
"This evening at the Villa Spada on the Janiculum, a spyglass was stolen. The owner is someone dear to us, and he's willing to pay well to have it back."
"What is a spyglass?"
We repeated in a few words the explanation given to the Maltese: the lenses that make you see little or enlarged, the metal device, and so on and so forth. This was followed by a few moments' silence.
"How much is the owner willing to pay?" asked the voice.
"Whatever's necessary."
"I shall have to ask a friend. Come back tomorrow after Vespers."
"Very well," replied the catchpoll, after a moment's hesitation, "we shall return tomorrow."
We moved off a few yards, whereupon Sfasciamonti pointed to the first side-road and there we stood guard keeping a close watch on the Chiavarino's house.
"He is not willing to conclude the deal. He told me to return tomorrow. Does he take me for a fool? By then the stolen goods will be a thousand miles from here."
"Are we waiting for him to come out?" I asked with no little trepidation, thinking of the homicides which Chiavarino had to his name.
"Exactly. Let us see where he goes. He'll suspect that the goods are too hot to handle and that he'd be wise to be rid of them as soon as possible. If I were him, I'd not move from my house. But, like the Maltese, he's a fugitive, and he'll be pretty nervous."
The prognosis proved correct. Within ten minutes, a hesitant figure peeped out from the Chiavarino's doorway, looked all around and ventured into the street. The moonlight was really too weak to be able to tell with any certainty, but he did seem to have something, a sort of package, under his arm.
We followed him from a fairly prudent distance, religiously attentive to making not the least noise. We both knew that our quarry must be carrying a knife. Better to lose him than our lives, I thought.
First, he took the road to Campo di Fiore, so that we thought he was going to the Maltese, whose secret dwelling lay more or less in that direction. Then, however, he continued through the Piazza de' Pollaioli and, after that, Piazza Pasquino.
Chiavarino, who was fortunate enough not to encounter any rounds of the watch, at length entered the Piazza Navona. Just at that instant, what remained of the moon was covered by an untimely cloud. Although the light was almost non-existent, we took the precaution of stopping behind the corner of Palazzo Pamphili, at the entrance to the piazza. Thence, we scanned the great esplanade divided into three by the great central fountain of the Cavalier Bernini and two other fountains at the opposite ends. The piazza seemed empty. We looked more carefully, but in vain. We had lost him.
"A curse on all lazy sentries," grunted Sfasciamonti.
Just then, we heard a rapid pattering of footsteps in front of us. Someone was running to our right at great speed. Chiavarino must have become aware of our presence and was in full flight.
"The fountain, he was behind the fountain!" exclaimed Sfasciamonti, alluding to the nearer of the two great complexes of aquatic statues which stand at either end of Piazza Navona.
Even now, I could not say what hidden virtue of the soul (or rather, what weakness and false audacity) caused me to emulate Sfasciamonti, who was already following the fugitive to the right.