Street of the Five Moons by Elizabeth Peters Page A

on. And thanks to his male vanity, I now had the clue I needed.
    My knowledge of antique jewelry is not that of an expert. I had recognized the Charlemagne talisman because the original was in my own museum, and the Egyptian princess’s crown was an art object, rare and unforgettable. But I do know paintings. I had seen only the bottom half, sometimes less than that, of the paintings in the long gallery, but that was enough. I had recognized not one, but three of them. Murillo’s “Madonna of the Hills” is barefoot, like any pretty, dark-eyed peasant girl. I would have known those dainty arched feet anywhere, just as I would have recognized the landscape that forms the setting for Raphael’s “Saint Cecilia.” The third painting particularly was a giveaway. According to the legend, Saint Peter was crucified upside down. Solario had painted him in traditional position, and I had gotten an excellent view of the poor saint’s trailing white hair and beard. He looked a lot more peaceful than I would have looked in that position.
    The only question remaining was: Who owned these pictures? It’s impossible to remember the location of every great work of art in the world; the “Pietà” in St. Peter’s, the “Mona Lisa” in the Louvre, yes; but Raphael painted a lot of pictures, most of them saints or madonnas. It was no problem. All I needed was a library or a museum. I was feeling disgustingly pleased with myself as I leaped out of bed and headed for the shower.
    The sun was high when I emerged from the hotel. I knew I had to get moving, because many of the museums are closed in the afternoon. But I lingered to admire the view, a rugged landscape of tiled roofs and twisted towers, with the dome of St. Peter’s off in the distance floating like a giant balloon against the blue sky.
    There are a lot of museums in Rome, but I had no problem deciding which one to visit. The Galleria Concini has a particularly fine collection of jewelry. I had meant to check it out in case my other lead didn’t work, because it struck me as being the sort of place a gang of thieves would find enticing. The Vatican has a more valuable collection of treasures, but a small, private museum like the Concini would be considerably more vulnerable.
    I trotted down the Spanish Steps, between the great tubs of flowering azaleas and the gawking tourists. The younger ones were sprawled all over the steps, drinking Cokes and soda. People were hawking cheap jewelry and leather goods, and offering their services as guides. Down at the bottom the charming little fountain was almost hidden by loungers, some of whom, in defiance of authority, were surreptitiously soaking their hot feet. It was all very cheerful and noisy, and it was only by chance that I spotted a face that looked familiar.
    After a near stumble, I decided the man wasn’t Bruno, the dog handler. He looked enough like him to be his brother, but so did a lot of other men in the crowd. Bruno was a typical southern Italian — swarthy, stocky, dark haired. The man wasn’t paying any attention to me, and by the time I turned into the Via del Babuino I had lost sight of him. My euphoria had received a slight check, however. The incident had reminded me that I was all the more vulnerable to attack because I knew only a couple of the members of the gang by sight. It was silly to assume that they were all sinister, dark men; a pursuer could be disguised as a housewife, a nun, or a tourist. Just then a tourist did approach me. The poor guy only wanted to know how to find the Colosseum, but I shied like a nervous mare when he thrust his map at me.
    The Galleria Concini is near the Pincian Hill. I prefer not to be any more specific about its location, and that isn’t its right name, either. The reason for my reticence will become apparent as I proceed.
    I reached it without further incident, as a novelist might say, except for a narrow escape from a Volkswagen as I circumnavigated the Piazza del