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dear. I am glad, by the way, that I do not have to take official notice of your activities. I know the shop, Vicky. Signor Fergamo, the owner, is a most respected man.”
    “He might not know that the shop is being used for criminal purposes,” I argued. “That damn — I mean, that English manager—”
    “I don’t know him.” Her delicate brows drew together as she pondered. “He must be new. The former manager of the establishment was Fergamo’s son-in-law. Even so…”
    She paused politely, waiting for me to answer.
    She had me over a barrel. The single piece of conclusive, damning evidence I had was the story of my kidnapping, and that was the one thing I had omitted from my narrative. I’m not sure why I hadn’t told her about that; I guess I felt it sounded so demented that it would cast an air of incredibility over an already unbelievable story. After all, she was a member of the old Roman nobility, and so was the man I suspected of being part of the gang. Would she believe an accusation against Count Caravaggio? She was more likely to conclude that I was some kind of escaped lunatic.
    All this went through my head in a flash of thought. I couldn’t see any way out of the dilemma.
    “You’re sure you haven’t lost any jewels?” I asked feebly.
    Her eyes twinkled, but she managed to keep a straight face.
    “I will check. Does that please you?”
    “Thank you.”
    “Not at all. It was gracious of you to warn me. As you say, it does no harm to take precautions. But while I am looking over our collection, is there any way in which I can make your holiday in Rome more enjoyable? Introductions, suggestions?”
    That gave me an opening.
    “There are some private collections I’d like to see,” I said innocently. “I had intended to telephone, but it would certainly make things easier if you could vouch for me.”
    “It would be a pleasure. Which collections?”
    “Count Caravaggio’s.”
    “Caravaggio?” Her eyebrows soared. “My dear is that wise?”
    “Why wouldn’t it be?”
    She studied me thoughtfully, her chin in her cupped hand, her eyes shining.
    “Very well,” she said, after a moment. “You may find him amusing. I will telephone immediately.”
    Like every object in the room, even the utilitarian telephone was a work of art — a gilded mother-of-pearl set that might have stood on the desk of a French President. She got through right away, but it took the count’s butler some time to locate him. While she waited, Bianca put a cigarette in a long jade holder. She looked like a cross between the Dragon Lady and an ad for expensive, custom-made cigarettes.
    Finally the count came on the wire. She addressed him by his first name.
    “Pietro?… I am well, thank you, and you?… Excellent. I have a treat for you, my dear; a charming young lady from America who is a distinguished art scholar. She wishes to view your collection…. Yes, yes, indeed she is…. One moment, I will ask.”
    Her hand over the mouthpiece, she smiled at me.
    “Have you lunched yet, Vicky? Pietro would like you to join him if you have no other engagement. In half an hour’s time.”
    Knowing what I know now, I probably should have declined that invitation. Even knowing what I knew then, I should have taken time to think it over. Being me — impetuous and not always too bright — I was delighted, and said so. The principessa returned to the telephone.
    “She accepts with pleasure, Pietro. Bene ; in half an hour, then. Yes, my dear, we must dine one day soon…. Good-bye.”
    “I can’t thank you enough,” I said, as she replaced the instrument. “I guess I won’t have time to go back to the hotel first.”
    “I think not. Please make use of my private quarters if you wish to freshen up. My secretary will show you.”
    I thanked her again, and rose. She leaned back in her leather executive’s chair, her hand toying idly with a magnificent diamond brooch. Like her rings, it glittered expensively.