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"Brief case-what kind?" This he said absently,
his
eyes on
church doors.
"Pigskin. I had in it-" Here Fidelman's voice could
be
cracking, "-a chapter of a critical work on Giotto I was
You know, I'm sure, the Trecento painter?"
"Who doesn't know Giotto?"
"Do you happen to recall whether you saw,
if,
that
is--"
stopped, at a loss for words other than accusatory.
"Excuse me-business." Susskind broke away and bounced
the steps two at a time. A man he approached shied away.
He
beads, didn't need others.
Fidelman had followed the refugee. "Reward," he muttered
close to his ear. "Fifteen thousand for the chapter, and who
baa
can keep the brand new brief case. That's his business, no
asked. Fair enough?"
Susskind spied a lady tourist, including camera and guide
"Beads-holy beads." He held up both hands, but she was just a
theran, passing through.
"Slow today," Susskind complained as they walked down
stairs, "but maybe it's the items. Everybody has the same.
If
I
some big ceramics of the Holy Mother, they go like hot
good investment for somebody with a little cash."
"Use the reward for that," Fidelman cagily whispered,
Holy Mothers."
If
he heard, Susskind gave no
sign.
At the sight of a
of nine emerging from the main portal above, the refugee,
addio over his shoulder, fairly flew up the steps. But Fidelman
tered no response. I'll get the rat yet. He went off to hide behind
high fountain in the square. But the flying spume raised by
the
wet him, so he retreated behind a massive column and peeked
at short intervals to keep the peddler in sight.
At two o'clock, when St. Peter's closed to visitors,
dumped his goods into
his
raincoat pockets and locked up
Fidelman followed him all the way home, indeed the ghetto,
though along a street he had not consciously been on before,
led into an alley where the refugee pulled open a left-handed
and without transition, was "home." Fidelman, sneaking up
caught a dim glimpse of an overgrown closet containing
bed
