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you looking at me that way?” He laughed.
    Guidi shrugged. “I was thinking that it’s not a good idea to talk by the window,” he simply said. Drawing back into the room, he gestured toward a chair. “Will you take a seat?”
    “No, thanks. Working in Rome is sedentary enough.”
    There was such negligence in the reply, Guidi was tempted to believe there might be less to the invasion than rumored. But Bora did look tired, and there was no denying that.
    Over lunch they discussed the Reiner case.
    “Rome is ours.” Bora dropped the political hint as if he were speaking of real estate. “No murderer will get out – if there’s a murderer. We want him.”
    “The King of Rome wants him,” Guidi specified mildly. “You can’t possibly approve of Maelzer, Major. He’s a drunken oaf. The Romans can’t stand him.”
    “Well, I’m not Roman.”
    “But I think I know you better than that.”
    Bora ate slowly, without looking up. “You don’t know me at all.” And while Guidi discovered his own appetite in the presence of good food, the German seemed to have lost interest in the meal. Sitting back, he took a house key out of his pocket, and laid it on the table. “My schedule is tight, so we’ll visit the Reiner place right after this.”
    “If you don’t mind, I’ll come in my own car.”
    “Fine. I’d rather go in the morning, but I’m a bit tied up.” It was only one of Bora’s understatements, since he was due to visit the Anzio front on behalf of General Westphal. But his composure was genuine, because he was not afraid. “Tomorrow after work, however, we’re off to a Pirandello play. I’ll tell you why later on.”
    At the Reiner apartment on Via Tolemaide – a side street of Via Candia, in the Prati district – Bora leaned to look out of the window at the sidewalk hemming the street four floors down. “Did anybody see her fall?” he asked Guidi.
    “No. Curfew was at seven those days, and it was past that time. As prescribed, all lights were off. A neighbor says he heard a woman scream between seven-thirty and eight, but he’s not sure it had anything to do with the incident.”
    Bora turned. “It’s not a cold winter by German standards, but it is cold. Why would her bedroom window be open at night?”
    “Perhaps for the very purpose of ending her life. Notwithstanding the absence of keys – someone could have picked them up from the street if she was holding them when she fell – we can’t rule out suicide, or even an unlikely accident. I’ll look into every possibility.”
    While Guidi began searching the room, Bora remained by the windowsill, moodily observing the minute debris of life on it – a pigeon’s silvery waste, lint caught up in it, a cinder speck flown here from God knows where. How little remains after our death , he thought. His next question came negligently over the rattle of windowpanes, caused by far away artillery. “What was she wearing at the time of death?”
    With his head in the wardrobe, Guidi pulled an envelope from his pocket, and handed it over. “Here are the photos. You may want to take a look between meals.”
    Bora looked at once. “They’re horrible.”
    “You can see she was wearing a nightgown and a robe. Next you’ll ask me if someone was here with her, and I haveno answer for that. Out of twelve, only two other apartments in the house are tenanted. There was a seasonal party on the floor below, and enough noise for people not to realize what had happened. A policeman found her at seven fifty-five. Although she was undeniably past help, they transported her to the neighborhood pharmacy. Its owner, Dr Mannucci, had the common sense of declaring her dead for good.” As he spoke, Guidi opened drawers and poked into them. “By the way, Major, someone has come here before us. Except for her bed – a pillowcase is missing, did you notice? – this room has been straightened out.”
    “I will inquire,” Bora said.
    “It’d help if I