THE LAST MOHICAN
117
With a groan he sank down on the bed, insulting
himself
for
not having made a copy of the manuscript, for he had more than
once warned himself that something like
this
might happen to it. But
he hadn't because there were some revisions he had contemplated
making, and he had planned to retype the entire chapter before be–
ginning the next. He thought now of complaining to the owner of
the hotel, who lived on the floor below, but it was already past mid–
night and he realized nothing could be done until morning. Who
could have taken it? The maid or hall porter? It seemed unlikely
they would risk their jobs to steal a piece of leather goods that would
bring them only a few thousand lire in a pawnshop. Possibly a
sneak thief? He would ask tomorrow if other persons on the floor
were missing something. He somehow doubted it.
If
a thief, he would
then and there have ditched the chapter and stuffed the brief case
with Fidelman's oxblood shoes, left by the bed, and the fifteen-dollar
R. H. Macy sweater that lay in full view of the desk. But if not the
maid or porter or a sneak thief, then who? Though Fidelman had
not the slightest shred of evidence to support his suspicions he could
think of only one person- Susskind. This thought stung
him.
But if
Susskind, why? Out of pique, perhaps, that he had not been given
the suit he had coveted, nor was able to pry it out of the armadio?
Try
as he would, Fidelman could think of no one else and no other
reason. Somehow the peddler had followed him home (he suspected
their meeting at the fountain) and had got into his room while he
was out to supper.
Fidelman's sleep that night was wretched. He dreamed of pursu–
ing the refugee in the Jewish catacombs under the ancient 'Appian
Way, threatening
him
a blow on the presumptuous head with a
seven-flamed candelabrum he clutched in his hand; while Susskind,
clever ghost, who knew the ins and outs of all the crypts and alleys,
eluded him at every turn. Then Fidelman's candles
all
blew out, leav–
ing
him
sightless .and alone in the cemeterial dark; but when the stu–
dent arose in the morning and wearily drew up the blinds, the yellow
Italian sun winked him cheerfully in both bleary eyes.
Fidelman postponed going to Florence. He reported his loss to
the Questura, and though the police were polite and eager to help,
they could do nothing for him. On the form on which the inspector
noted the complaint, he listed the brief case as worth ten thousand
lire,
and for "valore del manuscritto" he drew a line. Fidelman, after
