The Etruscan Net by Michael Gilbert Page B

women looked up hopefully, but it was the crippled Dindoni who came into the kitchen, the usual malicious half-smile on his face.
    He said, ‘Not sitting at home tonight, Tina? What are the young men of Florence thinking about? Have they no eyes in their heads?’
    Tina said, ‘Be off, and mind your own business.’ But Dindoni seemed inclined to linger. He perched on the corner of the kitchen table, and said, ‘Who was that sweet, that really very sweet young man who stopped his car in the Via Tuornaboni yesterday afternoon to speak to you. And held up all the traffic for two minutes.’
    ‘It was the Sheik of Araby. He is in Florence to choose himself two or three more wives. Didn’t you know?’
    ‘He looked to me to be very like Mercurio, the son – or to be accurate, the adopted son – of Professor Bronzini. A pretty boy, isn’t he? Really very attractive.’
    ‘Which is more than can be said for you,’ said Tina.
    Dindoni hobbled to the door, and turned for a parting shot. He said, ‘But we mustn’t make Signor Roberto jealous, must we?’ He shut the door, and they heard his feet clattering off down the pavement.
    ‘Oaf,’ said Tina. But the colour had come into her cheeks. ‘How I hate the little toad.’
    ‘You shouldn’t allow him to tease you,’ said her mother. ‘I don’t care for him a great deal myself, but he is a hard-working little man, and it would be difficult for your father to get by without him.’
    ‘He’s vile,’ said Tina. ‘Do you know where he has gone now? To drink with that woman, Maria. She is no better than a whore.’
    ‘Agostina,’ said her mother, ‘that is a word no woman should use of another.’
    ‘All right,’ said Tina, ‘I won’t use the word. But it’s true, all the same. He’s gone to sit in her lap, like a little dog.’
    But Tina was wrong. Dindoni had not gone to the café to visit his Maria, although this was the impression that his carefully staged exit had been designed to create. He had hobbled off along the alleyway and turned to the left as though he were indeed making for the café. Ten yards down the street he had turned to the left again, and was now in an even smaller, and darker passage which paralleled the Sdrucciolo Benedetto, running along the backs of the houses. Dindoni paused at a door in the wall, extracted a key from the side pocket of his coat, and let himself in. He was now immediately behind Milo Zecchi’s house and work-shop. An external iron staircase ran up the end of the building, and led to the back door of Dindoni’s own quarters, which occupied the storey above the workshop. The staircase and back door constituted a private means of going out and coming back again which was much to Dindoni’s secretive taste.
    He clambered awkwardly, but quietly, up the stairs and let himself into his own flat. But he did not turn on the light.
     
    Broke had left home, on foot, shortly after nine o’clock. The afternoon wind had dropped, and the sky was clear. As dusk fell the hard blue of the afternoon took on subtle shades of green and grey, as though an Italian primitive painting was being retouched by a French impressionist.
    Over the river, Broke turned to his right, and found himself in the streets of the old quarter. He had taken the precaution of working out and memorizing his route. He knew that, sooner or later, he would strike the Via Torta, and had then only to continue along it until he found the Sdrucciolo Benedetto on his left.
    He was at the top of the Via Torta when he heard a clatter of excited voices. Two girls, English or Americans he guessed, were walking along the pavement, trailed by half a dozen youths on motor-scooters. They were the pappagalli, the little green parrots, who infested the streets of Florence and considered any girl fair game. Broke’s knowledge of colloquial Italian was insufficient for him to understand most of the screeched comments and invitations. He imagined that the girls didn’t