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brother’s addiction and death, all seemed to have blurred around the edges. It was as if she were losing her contact with the real world and slipping into that inhabited by her cousins. Alessandro di Malaspiga had disturbed her; she hated his arrogance, his cynicism; she had to fight consciously against his charm. It was a mistake to analyse him, to probe into the reasons why he was what he had become, to pass opinions on his mother. It was getting too close, becoming involved. That didn’t make it easier to go through his desk, to record his conversations.
    She had to remember that none of them was what they seemed. She had placed the bug and the recorder; the fact that her hands shook and she felt frightened afterwards were healthy reactions. Her unwillingness to go back and do it again were not. She had made the opening, saying she needed more time to look at her family papers. But as she crossed over the river and found a taxi to take her to the hotel, Katharine knew that the last thing in the world she wanted was to go to the villa or see any members of the family again. Back in the hotel she took a hot bath, trying to relax. She admitted that her confidence was shaken; thinking of the moments when she was reading the address book and searching the drawers, she felt numb with fright. If the door had opened, if the Duke had returned unexpectedly … Angrily, she reminded herself that in spite of these reactions she had learned two very important things: Malaspiga’s connection with a New York antique shop and his visit to Hollywood and the film star John Julius.
    Carpenter had emphasized the need to pass on information as soon as possible. She ordered herself a Campari soda and dialled the Florence telephone number which was the contact with the Italian Narcotics Bureau, the same number which Firelli had dialled before he disappeared. A woman answered and Katharine gave the code word. It was a man who came on the line.
    â€˜This is Cousin Rose,’ she said. ‘I’ve made contact and I want to report.’
    â€˜Any progress?’
    â€˜Yes, I think so.’
    â€˜Then we had better meet. I will be outside the east door of the Baptistry in half an hour. I will carry a large sketch pad under my arm, and I shall wear a panama hat with a green band. Use your call sign; mine will be Raphael.’
    In the Piazza del Duomo there were little groups of tourists on the steps of the Baptistry staring at the Ghiberti bronze doors, which were one of the wonders of the city, fingering the little raised figures, and listening to the explanations of a guide. She saw him standing a little apart, the sketch pad under his left arm, wearing the panama hat with a green ribbon, and she walked up to him.
    â€˜I’m Cousin Rose,’ she said. He took off his hat, showing a semi-bald scalp with a fringe of curly black hair. He shook hands with her and smiled.
    â€˜Raphael,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to meet you. Let’s go and have a drink. There’s a nice little café over there, on the other side of the piazza.’
    The place was full of tourists, drinking coffee and eating ice-cream; a few Italians sat sipping glasses of Stock, with the usual tumbler of iced water on the side. They found a corner table, and he tucked himself in, apologizing for the crush. He seemed a nice, ordinary man in his mid-forties. He could have been behind the counter in the café. He leaned towards her.
    â€˜Welcome to Florence,’ he said. ‘How do you like our city?’
    â€˜Very much,’ Katharine said.
    â€˜Have you been sightseeing yet?’
    â€˜Yes.’ She wondered how long he was going to waste time. ‘I went to the Uffizi and the Pitti when I first arrived.’
    â€˜Good,’ he said. ‘I didn’t order you a drink—what would you like?’
    â€˜Nothing,’ Katharine said impatiently.
    â€˜That wouldn’t look natural,’ he said.