Read Street of the Five Moons for Free Online

leisurely fashion, and went into a couple of the shops. It was almost noon before I reached number 37.
    There were two German tourists in the shop. At least they were speaking that language, in loud, forceful voices. They had the solid look of prosperous merchants, and the woman was wearing slacks, which was a mistake on her part. I listened for a while, my back turned, pretending to examine the objects in a glass case near the door. The lady was a collector of Chinese snuff bottles, and her comments on the one that had been shown to her were not flattering. The price was too high, the carving was poor…. The usual comments made by a buyer who hopes to knock the price down.
    The proprietor responded in a voice so soft I could scarcely make out the words. It was obvious from his tone that he didn’t give a damn whether the gnädige Frau bought the bottle or not. After a while this became obvious to the Frau as well; with an irritated exclamation she stamped out of the shop, followed by her husband.
    I turned and stared interestedly at a Baroque lamp, dripping with gilded bobbles and bangles. I didn’t expect the clerk to approach me; he did not impress me as a supersalesman. My assumption was correct. He sat perfectly still, behind a desk at the back, and I wended my way toward him, looking at the merchandise like any casual shopper. Then I looked at him and smiled.
    “ Buon giorno ,” I said.
    “Good morning,” he answered.
    I waited for him to add something, like “May I help you?” but he didn’t. He just sat there, leaning back in his chair and studying me with a supercilious smile.
    I didn’t need the clipped, characteristic accent to tell me he was English. The tea and biscuits I had found the night before had led me to expect that the present manager of the shop was of that nation, and his appearance was unmistakable. He reminded me of Lord Peter Wimsey — not only the fair hair and the skin scarcely darkened by the Roman sun, but the air of mild contempt. You couldn’t say his nose was big, but it seemed to dominate his face, and although he was sitting down and I was standing, he gave the impression of looking down his nose at me.
    “Goodness gracious,” I said, opening my eyes very wide. “How did you know I was American?”
    The smile broadened.
    “My dear girl!” said the Englishman, and said no more.
    I was seized by a sudden desire to say something that would shock that irritating smile off his face — to ask whether he had any ancient Egyptian jewelry for sale, perhaps. But I thought better of it. There was something about the man, casual and overbred though he appeared to be, that made me suspect I had better deal carefully with him. His hands, clasped negligently on his knee, were as well tended as a woman’s. He had long, thin fingers — musicians’ fingers, people say, though most of the musicians I have known have hands like truck drivers.
    I started to babble, explaining that I wanted a present for my fiancé, who loved old things. The man’s cool blue eyes narrowed with amusement as I went on. He waved one of his beautiful, manicured hands.
    “Browse, then, love. Take your time. If you see anything you like, fetch it over and I’ll tell you about it.”
    “Thanks. Don’t get up,” I said.
    “I hadn’t intended to.”
    I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I was wondering what to do next when an outrageous explosion of noise erupted in the back of the shop. The Colosseum was only a few blocks away; I was irresistibly reminded of the Christians and the lions. Crashes, screams, growls….
    Growls. That was all the warning I had before the dog burst through the curtains at the back of the shop and launched himself at me. I hadn’t forgotten him, but I had assumed he would be tied up or removed to more rural surroundings during the day. I certainly had not counted on his memory, or his hearing, being so good.
    Some obscure impulse made me grab the Baroque lamp as I fell. It was