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you think he go?” The last question was a blend of malice and idle curiosity.
    “I don’t know!” Sybil exclaimed, her voice rising. Suddenly she was afraid. “Something must have happened to him! Can you call the police for me?” Her hands were shaking.
    Beppo jerked his head and shoulders in an ambiguous gesture…part shrug and part nod. “I will attempt. But perhaps no one there today. Venerdì santo .”
    “Good Friday,” Sybil translated. “Oh Lord, what a mess. Everything will be closed. Try the hospitals, too.”
    Tom and Ida bounced past. They held their forearms together and their hands up under their chins. They were playing Easter rabbit. Poor little orphans. Sybil’s eyes filled with quick tears.
    The night-clerk dialed a number, listened briefly, then hung up.
    “ Impossibile, Signora Bitter . I can do nothing.”
    Sybil knew better than to take no for an answer. She could see a light in an office behind the clerk. Someone in there would help her. “I would like to speak to the manager.”
    The night-clerk glanced longingly at the lobby doors. Where was Guido the day-clerk, that lazy pig of a Tuscan? Beppo’s lips pursed into a thin line of distaste. Perhaps if he ignored this woman she would go away. Find her husband, indeed. “The manager is not here, signora . Perhaps you should go to the carabinieri in person.”
    This was a mistake. Beppo had underestimated Sybil’s determination. Now she began to scream.
    “WON’T ANYBODY HELP ME? MY HUSBAND MAY BE DYING! WHAT KIND OF HOTEL IS THIS?”
    At the sound of her angry, frightened voice the children came to her side and stood there, wide-eyed and anxious. Some guests looked up from their breakfasts. A porter came over, glaring at Beppo. And then the manager’s door opened.
    “Of course,” Beppo began. “Of course I will help.” He fumbled at the telephone.
    “WON’T ANYBODY HELP ME FIND MY HUSBAND?” Sybil repeated.
    The manager came out of his office, wiping coffee from his mustache. He had a well-worn look, and kind-looking wrinkles on his forehead.
    “ Signora? ”
    Sybil drew a breath and gave him a smile. “My name is Sybil Bitter. We are staying in Room 201. Last night my husband went out for a walk, and he has not returned. I am afraid something has happened to him.” She fixed the night-clerk with a hard glance. “And this man…”
    Beppo gave a hugely insincere smile and handed the telephone to the manager.
    For the next few minutes the manager talked Italian over the phone, frequently asking Sybil or the night-clerk for bits of information: when Alwin had left, how to spell his name, what his passport number was, his physical appearance, what he had been wearing.
    “Where’s Daddy?” Tom whispered up at Sybil. “Did he run away?”
    “I don’t think he would do that,” Sybil answered softly. Why would he? They’d been having good food and great sex; why would he run away?
    “Maybe he got lost,” suggested Ida.
    The manager set the telephone down slowly, his forehead corrugated with worry. “Maybe you come into my office, a-Mrs. Bitter.”
    “Why? What is it? Just tell me!”
    The manager looked around the lobby, then leaned across the counter to speak confidentially. “A note has been a-found at USA Embassy.” His dark, liquid eyes stared at Sybil significantly.
    “What kind of note? From my husband?” Had he run away…or, oh God no, killed himself? “What are you trying to tell me?” The children at her sides began to babble questions.
    “Please, a-Mrs. Bitter. Do not excite. Beppo now take you to USA Embassy. Is only a-two hundred meter.” The manager spoke rapidly to the night-clerk. The gaunt man stood up and began slowly to shrug himself into his shiny black raincoat.
    “What did the note say?” Sybil asked, keeping her voice level.
    The manager sighed. “Is a-very bad in Rome this year. Your husband has been-a…” He paused, groping for the word. “Bandits give him a-back for money. Or