Free Dolly and the Starry Bird-Dorothy Dunnett-Johnson Johnson 05 by Unknown

nose was pounding madly down it, we deduced we were still in the ranks of the pursuers. We ran hopefully on.
    Steps to the right: Galleria Colonna, blocked by one of the carabinieri attempting to form a one-man cordon. More steps to the right: the Palazzo della Rinascente, full of people running both up and down and colliding with one another. Further steps to the right: the Piazza Silvestro, with six people standing on the stairs waving their arms around and arguing. The stairs up, at which was standing the other carabiniere, listening to two drivers and a waiter shouting at one another. Johnson and I came to a halt.
    “What a pity,” said Johnson. “I rather hoped they would catch him for us.”
    I said, “We’ve lost him, then?”
    “Not at all,” said my friend Johnson. “You underrate the speed and resourcefulness of any Roman citizen who thinks he has suffered an injury. If no one is running up those steps yelling blue murder, it is because Mr. Paladrini hasn’t run up those steps either. In which case he’s still here.”
    “In the shop?” I said, LA RINASCENTE, said the shop sign beside us. Behind double glass doors we could see a busy lit interior full of men’s clothes and executive briefcases.
    “Right,” said Johnson mildly. But he didn’t leap into the shop. He stood aside and, raising his voice, called in excellent Italian to the carabiniere at the end, “Here! Your man went in here! I saw him just now in the shop here!” Then he stood back, holding my arm, while every man in the passage poured past us and in through the doorway.
    I looked at Johnson as the shop door swung to, and a ruminative quiet returned to the passage. “You didn’t see him,” I said.
    “No,” said Johnson. “But I know where he is.” And walking six paces back he came to a halt by the Rinascente staircase, now empty. At the bottom of it was an erection like a small telephone booth, with a sign above which said FOTO-TESSERA AUTOMATICO, and a curtain closing the doorway. The curtain trembled, and Johnson addressed it.
    “Mr. Paladrini,” he said. “They’re going to come back. And then I’m afraid you’re in trouble. Why not come with me? Miss Russell and I just want to talk to you.”
    Silence. The curtain stopped moving.
    “Mr. Paladrini,” I said. “We think someone asked you to pass on a message about the Fall Fair, and it got to the wrong person. We know about the theft of the fashion pictures, and we don’t want any publicity. If you’ll come and tell us about it, no one will do a thing to harm you.”
    I tried to say the right things. I was thinking so hard that I didn’t notice that Johnson’s hand had slipped between the curtain and the edge of the cubicle. There was a chink of metal and then from inside the box a volley of brilliant white flashes, followed by a terrified cry. The curtain was wrenched back and the exponent of fairy tales tumbled out, just as the sky above the Rinascente steps was darkened by a column of people pouring down them.
    I had forgotten that the main door of the department store debouches on to the street up above. The pursuit had raced through the shop and, finding nothing, had simply descended into the passage again. I heard Johnson swear feelingly just before we were bowled over and Mr. Paladrini, setting off like the hammers, tore along the rest of the passage with the four drivers and two carabinieri and the audience in full cry after him.
    I gave, sitting there, a passing thought to the four impacted cars, still presumably blocking the streetway above us, but justice is justice after all, and a clearway at the rush hour isn’t everything. We walked slowly after and stood at the top of the Corso steps watching. After twenty yards the shouting increased and then died away; so did the action. They had lost him.
    We walked down the steps and back again, slowly, in the direction of the Piazza Colonna. The underground passage was empty.
    “Heigho,” said Johnson, and