Free North from Rome by Helen MacInnes Page A

something. What’s your number?”
    Ferris scribbled it down on a piece of paper. “I’ll be here most of the day,” he said, pointing to the books opened on his desk. “I’m finishing a paper to deliver this week-end at the opening of the summer school in Perugia.” Then he noticed Lammiter’s gradual edging towards the door. He smiled, “Well, I shan’t keep you now.”
    “Goodbye,” Lammiter said, restraining his eagerness. “And many thanks. In fact, many many thanks.” He added truthfully, “Hope we get together some day.”
    “I’ll give you a ring when we come up to New York for Christmas shopping. Perhaps Bunny will be on leave then, and we can make it a party. You knew him in Korea, didn’t you? He makes a good story of the time you met.”
    They shook hands. A clatter of high heels on a marble floor suddenly made Ferris snatch the cigarette from his lips, nick its burning end with his fingers, and then jam the broken stub into the cuff of his trousers. “Gave up smoking months ago,” he said cheerfully as he opened the door. “Doctor’s orders. Sure you won’t stay for coffee? That’s one thing our small gas ring can cook around here.”
    “Some other time. Oh, by the way, you are a historian, aren’t you? How long did that Roman wall—the Aurelian Wall—how long did it keep out the barbarians?”
    “More than a hundred years.”
    “Then they might have managed it?”
    “The Romans? Yes. If only they had invented gunpowder.” Ferris was delighted by the effect this produced. “Or a United Nations. Or both.” He smiled. “Yes, they might have been here yet. Frankly, I don’t know whether it’s better that they aren’t still around. They’d be too clever for the rest of us, by this time.” He smiled again. “Goodbye.”
    “See you in New York.” Lammiter ran lightly down the flights of shallow stairs, his hand sliding down, the smooth stone banisters. Once this house had been a villa standing in its own grounds, now the various floors were broken into small apartments. Someone moved on the landing above; a small hard object, a pebble, a nail, grated under a cautious shoe. The little sound was silenced so quickly that Lammiter knew that someone regretted it and was now standing motionless, not even daring to breathe. For a moment, he wondered if he should retrace his steps just to spread more alarm and confusion. But he continued on his way, whistling cheerfully. Nothing that had been said either near or actually at the door of Ferris’s apartment could possibly be interesting to anyone else.
    In the hall, he stopped to look at the eighteenth-century ceiling, now peeling here and there, fading in patches, a little scabby. But there was still plenty of opulent draperies, pearly arms, pink chins, sofalike clouds, and a sunburst over all. A young man came out of the ground-floor apartment, leaving the sound of a piano, fortissimo brillante, behind him, and caught Lammiter craning back his neck to admire the painting. “Hits you with a splash, doesn’t it? You’ll get a better view from the top floor,” he suggested.
    “I’ve had my quota of stairs for today.”
    “You at the school?”
    “No. Just visiting an old friend before I leave for home.” From above, there came no sound of movement.
    “Thought I hadn’t seen you around much. Like a lift into town?”
    “Thanks, I would.”
    “Most people do. There’s a long wait between buses.”
    They left the villa with its curlicued trim around the front door, stepped on to the half-acre of sparse gravel which formed the garden along with clusters of rhododendron bushes, and passed through the elaborate gate, broad enough to take a coach and four. The young man started his motor bicycle. “Hold my books, will you?” He thrust a small pile of learned-looking objects into Lammiter’s arms. “All set?” Lammiter, perched behind, could only nod and grip with his knees.
    They roared down the Janiculum Hill towards the