A few hours later Rome was at its magnificent best. This was the city of Henry James, the Rome that sent him 'reeling and moaning through the streets in a fever of enjoyment with the Italian feeling, the Spirit of the South, understanding the vital principle of grace'. A pale blue sky virgin of cloud offered the subtlest of backdrops, and the early morning sun slanting across the rooftops transformed walls of yellow ochre and bronze and the confusion of chimney pots into subjects of beauty and romance. Even the lines of overnight washing strung at odd levels below the television aerials took on a magical aspect, and the fountain in the square below was spinning a water web which froze the vivid colours of the capital scene and magnified them ten thousandfold before tossing them into the pool. The air tasted sweet and fresh after the previous night's purging, and puddles still lay among the cobbles.

Troy flung the windows wide and stepped on to the narrow terrace, knotting the cord of his dressing-gown tight around his waist as he moved into the sunshine. A seamstress was already bent over her mistress's material in an apartment across the square, and a street cleaner made leisurely progress below clearing the drain grilles of leaves and rubbish that had been swept there and trapped by the rain flurries. As he worked he whistled an Italian pop number that was unfamiliar to Troy, and when he spotted the Englishman he waved his broom cheerily.

Troy's experience had taught him to be friendly with everyone (since the unlikeliest subjects sometimes proved valuable on a story), but he scarcely noticed the fellow and did not acknowledge the salutation. He was thinking of Fletcher.

The telephone at his bedside summoned him with a deep, asthmatic growl. It would be the desk downstairs with Mancini's address. He ran back into the room, collecting notebook and Pentelpen from his jacket slung over the back of a chair, and lifted the receiver.

"Yes... yes... just a minute... yes, I've got it. Where is that? I see. Right, thank you."

Mancini's apartment was behind Via Cavour, one of Rome's busiest streets which links the old Roman Forum, the cradle of Western civilisation, with Termini, the futuristic main railway station built by Mussolini.

Troy withdrew into the bathroom and then dressed rapidly after selecting an eight-ounce suit he had bought the previous winter from Burdine's in Miami.

He carefully transferred his money and the notebook containing Mancini's address and then locked the door of his room, testing it afterwards to make sure that the levers had engaged. If there were thieves about it was prudent to take precautions.

Since childhood the light-fingered tendencies of the Italian race had been impressed on him by travellers he had met and books he had read.

The girl at the desk asked for his key as soon as she realised he was going out but he shook his head and said he preferred to keep it with him.

"As you wish, signor."

"Is there a cable office near here?"

"If you write a message we can take it."

"No -- I just want to introduce myself," lied Troy. If the staff was riddled with Reds they would probably read his service messages and he was damned if he was going to let that happen. His sixth sense, the caution that comes to every travelled journalist, warned him that there was a great deal about this hotel set-up that he didn't understand; for the time being he must regard it as hostile.

The girl gave him detailed instructions and drew a map on the back of one of the hotel's bar accounts. He thanked her and went down the steps two at a time.

He was in a hurry, but a beggar blocked his path... a beggar it was difficult to ignore. He was spread in an invalid chair with rusty chromium handlebars which tore abrasively at the drab, grey cloth covering him when he shifted the weight of his body. He was still a young man and his eyes were alert and his shoulders powerful; one felt that if he could have tossed away his crutch he would have made a fine figure. Instead he acted the parasite on the rich, the industrious, and the born lucky.

He was invested with an air of desperation, a misfit on the fringe of calamity, and his missing right leg had a baggy, possibly contrived trouser-full-of-nothing which was allowed to flop below the carriage seat to accentuate his infirmity. To each passer-by, Protestant, Catholic or Jew, he would supplicate "Da qualche cose!" -- give me something -- and most, for pity's sake, or perhaps because 'there but for the grace of God go I' -- would drop into his tin some of the coins that meant nothing to them. Fortunately there were still enough tourists about despite the troubles to keep him nourished, and he humbled himself to them with a passionate expertise that is matched only by dogs.

At least, that was how Troy saw him. He felt sorry for the poor devil and drew a thousand-lira note from his wallet.

This substantial offering drew embarrassing expressions of humility and thanks which sent Troy hurrying on.

A satisfied grin spread slowly across the dirty, unshaven face of helplessness, and as soon as the Englishman was in the next street he pulled out a grubby envelope and made a careful note.

Then he turned his back on the passing trade and shuffled his chair to a bar without a step where he knew he could use the public telephone. He purchased a gettone from the barkeeper with Troy's note, stuffed it into the coin-box, and spoke earnestly to the number he had dialled.