The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan by P. B. Kerr Page A

what,” he said. “Get me a cab and we’ll call it quits.”
    “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”
    Groanin carried Angus to the telephone and put him down; immediately the Scotsman dialed a number and spoke in Italian. This happened several times. Finally, Angus confessed that there were no taxis to be had in the whole of Naples.
    “Because of the rail strike,” he explained.
    “You’d better find me some transport to Rome and pronto,” growled Groanin, “or you’ll find there’s no shortage of police cars prepared to come and ferry people to jail.”
    “Yes, sir,” squealed Angus, and once again he picked up the telephone.
    Half an hour later, Angus put down the phone with a look of relief.
    “All right,” he said. “I’ve got someone who’s prepared to take you to Rome. It’s not what you’d call a car, exactly, but I promise you it’s all there is this morning.”
    “If it’s not a car, what is it?”
    “A van,” said Angus. “The driver’s name is Bruno Tattaglia. Turns out Bruno was going to Rome, anyway. To visit his mother. You won’t have to pay him anything. He’s doing this as a favor to me.”
    Groanin nodded. “A van will have to do, I suppose.”
    “You promise you won’t call the police?”
    “If this van turns up, yes, I promise. But if it doesn’t, you’re cell meat.”
    An hour later, Groanin and Angus were standing outsidethe front of the hotel beside the butler’s leather suitcase and waiting on his ride to Rome.
    “Where is this blighter?”
    “This is him coming now, sir.”
    A cheeky jingle heralded the arrival of a pale blue van at the front of the hotel. On the roof of the van was a large cone from which a scoop of ice cream seemed to have melted over the side while the black-and-white seats inside appeared to have been upholstered in the skin of a dairy cow. The name on the van said TOOTSIE FROOTSIE GELATI .
    “It’s a flipping ice-cream van,” protested Groanin. “I’ve a good mind to turn you into the police after all, you impudent rascal.”
    “Honestly, sir, it’s the only transport I could find.” Angus shrugged. “Perhaps, if you gave me more time, I could find a suitable replacement, but today of all days —”
    “It’ll have to do,” said Groanin. “I can’t wait any longer.”
    The van pulled up, the jingle stopped, the window came down, and the driver leaned out.
    He was a big man with short, gray hair, an ample stomach, and bulging, bullfrog eyes. He spoke with a voice that sounded like crushed charcoal. Groanin thought he was rather frightening for an ice-cream man. He couldn’t imagine too many children buying ice cream from a man who looked more like a pro wrestler. And not just any wrestler but the bad wrestler, the evil, win-at-all-costs sort of wrestler.
    “Is this the English?” asked Bruno.
    “Yes,” said Angus. “This is him.”
    “
Andiamo
,” said Bruno. “We go. You put your bag in the back, English. Then ride shotgun, in the front. Okay?”
    Groanin put his suitcase in the back as ordered and then got into the van alongside Bruno. As they moved away from the hotel, the jingle played again.
    Minutes later, they were driving north on the
autostrada
, toward the Italian capital city of Rome.
    It was several more minutes before Groanin noticed the shotgun behind his seat, and several more minutes after that before he had worked up the courage to mention it to Bruno himself. But not right away. He decided to come at the subject from the side, by first talking about music which, it’s said, soothes the savage beast and even on occasion persuades him to buy ice cream.
    “Er, that tune your van plays,” he says. “Sounds familiar. What is it?”
    “It’s called ‘Parla Più Piano.’ You like it, English?”
    “Very much I like, yes. Very soothing and romantic, is that music.”
    “Is very Italian, too.”
    “Yes. It is. It’s the sort of music that makes you think of summer and flowers and friendly Italian people and good