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as far as his visitor had been able to work it out, with that of a Chief Constable.
    ‘We are all so much honoured, my dear Superintendent,’ he continued. ‘Anything that we can do to further the already cordial relationship between our own Force and your most distinguished Yard.’
    ‘You are very kind. Of course, the whole problem of the drug traffic, as we both know, is predominantly an Interpol affair but as in this instance we are rather closely tied up with them—’
    ‘Perfectly,’ agreed Valdarno, many times nodding his head.
    ‘—and since this person is, presumably, a British subject—’
    The Questore made a large involved gesture of deprecation: ‘Of course!’
    ‘—in the event of his being arrested the question of extradition might arise.’
    ‘I assure you,’ said the Questore, making a joke, ‘we shall not try to deprive you!’
    His visitor laughed obligingly and extended his hand. The Questore took it and with his own left hand dealt him the buffet with which Latin gentlemen endorse their friendly relationships. He insisted on coming to the magnificent entrance.
    In the street a smallish group of young men carrying a few inflammatory placards shouted one or two insults. A group of police, gorgeously arrayed, pinched out their cigarettes and moved towards the demonstrators who cat-called and bolted a short way down the street. The police immediately stopped and relit their cigarettes.
    ‘How foolish,’ observed the Questore in Italian, ‘and yet after all, not to be ignored. It is all a great nuisance. You will seek out this person, my dear colleague?’
    ‘I think so. His sightseeing activities seem to offer the best approach. I shall enrol myself for one of them.’
    ‘Ah-ah! You are a droll! You are a great droll.’
    ‘No. I assure you. Arrivederci.’
    ‘Goodbye. Such a pleasure. Goodbye.’
    Having finally come to the end of a conversation that had been conducted in equal parts of Italian and English, they parted on the best of terms.
    The demonstrators made some desultory comments upon the tall Englishman as he walked past them. One of them called out, ‘Ullo, gooda-day!’ in a squeaking voice, another shouted. ‘Rhodesia! Imperialismo!’ and raised a cat-call but a third remarked ‘Molto elegante’ in a loud voice and apparently without sardonic intention.
    Rome sparkled in the spring morning. The swallows had arrived, the markets were full of flowers, young greens and kaleidoscopic cheap-jackery. Dramatic façades presented themselves suddenly to the astonished gaze, lovely courtyards and galleries floated in shadow and little piazzas talked with the voices of their own fountains. Behind magnificent doorways the ages offered their history lessons in layers. Like the achievements of a Roman pastrycook, thought the tall man irreverently: modern, renaissance, classic, mithraic, each under another in one gorgeous, stratified edifice. It would be an enchantment to walk up to the Palatine Hill where the air wouldsmell freshly of young grass and a kind of peace and order would come upon the rich encrustations of time.
    Instead he must look for a tourist bureau either in the streets or at the extremely grand hotel he had been treated to by his Department in London. He approached it by the way of the Via Condotti and presently came upon a window filled with blown-up photographs of Rome. The agency was a distinguished one and their London office well-known to him.
    He turned into an impressive interior, remarked that its décor was undisturbed by racks of brochures and approached an exquisite but far from effete young man who seemed to be in charge.
    ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the young man in excellent English. ‘May I help you?’
    ‘I hope so,’ he rejoined cheerfully. ‘I’m in Rome for a few days. I don’t want to spend them on a series of blanket-tours covering the maximum amount of Sights in the minimum amount of time. I have seen as much as I can take of celebrated