Street of the Five Moons by Elizabeth Peters

fire.
    “Wake up, darling,” said a voice. “Arise, fair moon, and dim the envious sun…. That’s the girl.”
    I turned my head and saw the face I had expected to see grinning down at me. The end of his nose was about half an inch from mine, and as my senses came back to me and I remembered what had happened, I was so angry I snapped at him, like a mad dog. He just laughed and kissed me. I didn’t struggle. It would have been undignified.
    When he had finished, he held me out at arms’ length and looked at me critically.
    “Not too bad. A young lady who has been out on the town must expect to show some signs of wear and tear. I can’t tell you how I’ve enjoyed this.”
    “No,” I said. “I wouldn’t try, if I were you… Where are we?”
    “Almost at your hotel. Can you walk, do you think?”
    I flexed my legs. He shifted position hastily, and I smiled — or rather, I bared my teeth.
    “Don’t worry, I won’t kick you. Although it would give me immense satisfaction to do so. Yes, I can walk. Demoralizing as your embraces are, they are not totally incapacitating.”
    “What a vocabulary,” the Englishman said admiringly. “Brains and beauty… All right, love, you should do well enough tonight, but I advise you to get out of Rome first thing tomorrow morning.”
    The taxi stopped. He had the door open and was out before I could think of a suitable retort. Reaching into the car, he pulled me out onto the sidewalk.
    We were dead smack in front of the hotel, one of those high-class establishments which looks like, and perhaps was, a Renaissance palace. The doormen have more gold on their uniforms than any other doormen in Rome. One of them — the same man who had seen me come in at 3 A.M. the night before — was a few feet away, staring.
    I had been drugged, tied up for who knows how many hours, and then punched on the jaw. I knew what I looked like — not a poor, defenseless, abused heroine — just another drunk.
    “ Buona notte, carissima ,” caroled my blond bête noire in dulcet tones. “ Grazie — per tutto ….” He put out his arms.
    I sidestepped the embrace, wobbled, staggered, and fell back against a convenient lamppost. The taxi driver chuckled. The Englishman grinned more broadly. I turned on my heel and, with what dignity I could muster, went reeling up the magnificent marble stairs of the Hotel Belvedere, under the concentrated stares of the doorman, two bellboys, a concierge, three taxi drivers, and a few dozen assorted tourists.
    I should have felt humiliated and defeated. But I was hiding a grin of my own — a lopsided grin; my jaw hurt. The hectic hours had been worth it. I had a clue. The first genuine honest-to-God clue I had found yet.

Four

    THERE WAS A DIFFERENT STAFF ON DUTY next morning, but they had clearly heard about me. The precocious lad who brought my breakfast lingered until I gave him the evilest look I could manage. He retreated hastily, and I hung out the “Do not disturb” sign.
    I drank about a pint of coffee to begin with, and then tackled the food. By the time I got through I felt my old self again, except for a slight tenderness around the chin. I didn’t need that to remind me of what I owed a certain smart-aleck Englishman.
    I should have been grateful to him, and I was — the way I was grateful to my dentist after he had filled a big cavity without anesthesia. The man had saved me from an undefined but unpleasant fate. And yet that grinning devil had somehow turned the whole affair into a farce. I simply couldn’t take seriously any plot that involved a weirdo like… I didn’t even know his name. He had reduced my case into a personal duel. My greatest desire now was not to catch the crooks, but to get even with… I didn’t even know his name!
    But I would find out. I needn’t say, I am sure, that I had no intention of taking his advice and clearing out. If he had planned it deliberately, he couldn’t have chosen a better way of making me stay