Table of Contents
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
The Wary Transgressor
James Hadley Chase
1952
chapter one
They came out of the coach like treacle out of a tin: twenty-two of them; mostly fat, middle-aged women with a sprinkling of elderly men. They stood in a group, gaping up at the Duomo with its one hundred and thirty-five pinnacles, and its two thousand, two hundred and forty-five statues, looking about as intelligent as a flock of sheep.
You could tell at a glance who were British and who were Americans in that bunch. The British tourists were supercilious, since they had something equally as old and as big in their own country, while the Americans were knocked right back on their heels, unashamedly fumbling with feverish haste for their cameras.
"This is my party; my Gethsemane," Umberto said out of the corner of his mouth. "What a bunch of cows! Even before they've stuck their fat backsides into the coach again they'll have forgotten every word I have said. By tomorrow they won't even remember what the Duomo looks like."
"I sympathize with you," I said. "A man of your talents shouldn't waste his time on such cattle. To prove what a good friend I am, I will take them for you."
"You?" Umberto said contemptuously. "What do you know about the Duomo? Oblige me by going away. Gratify me by breaking a leg."
He adjusted his peaked cap which bore the legend: Authorized Guide, straightened his threadbare tie, and then swaggered over to the group of tourists, a false smile on his hatchet face, his left hand concealing the large grease stain on his jacket.
Another coach edged into the parking lot, and another crowd of tourists got out.
"And this is my party," Filippo said, nipping out his cigarette and carefully stowing the butt in his hat. He grinned at me. "What a collection of brainless monsters! What a splendid half-hour of boredom I intend to inflict on them! If that fool Umberto doesn't hurry up I shall have to compete against his raucous twaddle."
I caught hold of his arm.
"Now, wait. You don't look well this morning. You and I, Filippo, have always been good friends. Why not rest in the shade, and let me conduct these morons over the Duomo for you? I will gladly save you the trouble for a small sum of five hundred lire, and all the tips I get will naturally be yours."
"Go away, you thief," Filippo said, snatching his arm away.
"Oblige me by cutting your throat. A cut throat is a certain cure for envy."
"Why do you imagine I envy you?" I asked, scowling at him.
"Look at yourself. Your shirt is dirty, and you have a hole in your coat. You are no better than a tramp. Do you seriously think you are the cause for envy?"
"It is better to have a dirty shirt than no shirt at all," Filippo said, grinning, "and it is more decent to have a hole in one's coat than in one's trousers. Look at yourself before you criticize others."
I watched him take charge of his party, and then, a little furtively, I inspected my shirt cuffs. They were clean, but a little frayed. My shoes worried me more than my clothes. This morning I had made a pair of new soles for them from a piece of stout cardboard I had stolen from my landlady. But I knew the first wet day would force me of the streets and would cut of my meagre source of income. If I wasn't to borrow again, I would have to buy a new pair of shoes before very long.
Had I been an Italian instead of an American I should have had no difficulty in becoming an official guide. But being an American I was unable to get the necessary permit.
The difference between an official guide and an unofficial one is considerable. The system works in this way: tourist agencies have their own courier to accompany a coach-load of tourists. The courier's job is to take the tourists to various towns, handle the hotel bills, arrange about the meals and make himself generally useful, but he isn't expected to know the historical details of the various churches or places of interest. He arranges for official guides at each town to meet the coach and to take charge of his party. He pays the guides for their work, and arranges with them to meet the next coach that will be arriving the following week. In this way an official guide has a regular job, and can rely on regular money.
An unofficial guide, like myself, has to be content with sightseers travelling, on their own, who are generally short of money owing to the currency restrictions, and more often than not have to be coerced into hiring a guide. To make the handicap even greater, an unofficial guide may not wear an armlet nor a guide's cap, and is therefore always viewed with suspicion when he offers his services.
But being a guide, even in an unofficial capacity, is a convenient method of earning a living and, in my case, the only method, since I was living in Milan without a police permit.
This particular morning hadn't so far been a profitable one.
For the past two hours I had been waiting patiently for a client.
I was becoming a little anxious as I had no money, and in half an hour it would be my lunchtime. I was hungry, and I began to wonder if I should hunt up Torrchi, who is one of the best pickpockets operating in the Duomo, and borrow a hundred lire from him before he went home to his lunch. I could always rely on Torrchi for a small loan, but as I already owed him two hundred lire I was reluctant to borrow again from him.
As I was trying to make up my mind whether to go without lunch or hunt up Torrchi, a girl came towards me out of the hot sunlight, moving lightly and with easy grace.
She was in her late twenties, compactly built, and dressed in a fawn pleated linen skirt and an emerald green silk blouse, open at the neck. Her short wavy hair was the colour of old copper, her eyes were big and wideset, and her mouth a glistening rectangle of vivid scarlet.
She wasn't beautiful in the accepted sense of the word, but she attracted attention with the force of a lone neon sign blazing in an unlit street.
She paused within a few feet of me, and opened her handbag.
From it she took a copy of the Guide Bleu of Italy and began, with frowning concentration, to turn its pages.
Two other unofficial guides were already moving towards her before I dragged my eyes from her long slim legs in the sheerest silk stockings, and started into action myself.
I reached her in two strides. The other guides fell back, muttering and glaring at me.
"Excuse me, signora," I said, giving her an elaborate bow.
"Perhaps you would care for a guide? There are many things of great interest not covered by the Guide Bleu I should be most happy to show you.” She glanced up and her eyes met mine. She had that look in them that jolted me right down to my heels, and then I became aware that under her emerald green blouse was a shape to set a man crazy.
She was smiling now. She had big even teeth as white as the pith of an orange, and I saw her eyes were the colour of violets, and her eyelashes were long and black.
"What qualifications have you to compete with the Blue Guide?” she asked.
"I am a leading authority on Gothic architecture, and an expert on Italian cathedrals in general, signora," I told her. "For the past year I have shown no less than one thousand, one hundred and twenty-three people over the Duomo without a complaint."
She closed the guidebook.
"Goodness! As many as that? Are you an official guide?"
"You have only to see an official guide to be glad I am not. There is one standing in the doorway now: the gentleman with the blue veins in his nose and the beautiful china teeth."<
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She giggled as she looked at Giuseppe, one of my best friends, even if he isn't an oil painting and gets drunk every night.
"I see what you mean." She touched the curls at the back of her neck. "Yes, I don't think it would be very amusing to hire him. But perhaps you are very expensive?"
"I am the best and cheapest guide in Milan, signora."
She pointed her chin at me.
"I will give you a thousand lire, but no more."
"For a thousand lire, signora, I will also show you da Vinci's ‘Last Supper,’ which is in the Cenacolo Vinciano, a taxi ride from here, and I will even pay for the taxi."
"I've already seen it," she returned. "Are you an American?"
"A fellow countryman, shall we say?"
She looked sharply at me.
"I thought my Italian accent was impeccable."
"So it is, but you have an American appearance."
She laughed.
"Is that it? Well, as you are my guide, shall we go into the cathedral?"
"Willingly, signora."
We walked side by side into the vast, dimly lit interior of the Duomo where Umberto was delivering his lecture with much waving of hands in a vain attempt to hold the attention of his group of tourists.
When he caught sight of me with the girl at my side, his automatic flow' of words faltered, and he had to thump his forehead to remember what he was saying.
"The Duomo is exceptionally crowded today," I said, as I led the girl past Filippo and his bunch of rubbernecks. Filippo stared hungrily at the girl, and then scowled at me. "I suggest we go and see the body of San Carlo Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, who died in 1586, and who, up to a year ago, was quite presentable to look at. Now, unfortunately, the flesh has fallen from his face, and he isn't quite the handsome fellow he used to be. But at least it 'is interesting to see him exactly as he was laid to rest three hundred and sixty odd years ago. After we have seen him you will find the crowds have thinned out."
"I didn't know he was buried here. I've often seen that enormous statue of him overlooking the Lago Maggiore. Why did they make it so immense?"
"His friends were afraid he would be forgotten. They thought a seventy-five foot statue would impress his memory on the minds of the people. You know the Lago Maggiore then, signora?"
"I have a villa there."
"It is a beautiful place. You are very fortunate."
We paused at the head of the steps leading to the subterranean chapel where the Archbishop lies in state.
"May I make a request to save embarrassment?" I asked.
She looked up at me. We were alone in the semi-darkness, close to each other, and I had to check a strong impulse to take her in my arms. This impulse both annoyed and startled me, as I am usually safe when alone with a woman.
"What is it?"
"The Brother who will show you the Archbishop's resting place will expect a trifle for his trouble. Unfortunately, I am without money at the moment. I would be grateful if you would give him a hundred lire. I will deduct it from my fee when we get outside."
"You mean you haven't any money at all?" she asked.
"Just a temporary embarrassment."
She opened her handbag and gave me two hundred lire.
"You can't make much as a guide."
"That doesn't mean I'm not a good guide. It merely proves I have my share of bad luck."
"I think you are a very good guide," she said, smiling at me.
"If you will excuse me."
I jumped forward and grabbed Torrchi as he tried to slip past me. Holding him firmly by the arm, I led him over to the girl.
"Permit me, signora, to introduce you to signor Torrchi, the most renowned pickpocket working in the Duomo. Torrchi, be so good as to return to the signora the articles you have just stolen from her."
Torrchi, a fat little man with a round, jolly face, beamed at me as he began to go through his pockets.
"It was for the practice only; nothing more, signor David," he assured me, handing the girl a diamond clip, her wristwatch, her cigarette case and a lace handkerchief she had been carrying, tucked into the pocket of her blouse. "You know I never molest your clients. Everything was to be returned."
"Go away, you scoundrel!" I said. "If you ever try that trick on me again I'll tear out your thieving heart!"
"Such language in the Duomo!" Torrchi said, genuinely shocked. "Remember, you are in the house of God."
I raised my fist threateningly and he retreated hastily into the darkness.
"I'm sorry about that," I said.
The girl returned her things to her handbag.
"It was very clever of him. How on earth did he do it?"
I laughed.
"That was child's play. His great masterpiece was to remove the suspender belt belonging to a young woman he met in the street. It wasn't until her stockings descended that she realized what was missing. He has the belt hanging over his bed to this very day."
"For goodness' sake!"
"Torrchi is a great artist, but he isn't the only one. The Duomo is always full of expert pickpockets. They make an excellent living from the tourists. Fortunately, I know most of them, and usually they leave my clients alone. I'm afraid the diamond clip was a little too tempting."
"I shouldn't have worn it." She turned to look doubtfully at the dimly lit steps. "May I hold your arm? These steps look dangerous."
"I was going to suggest it."
She leaned a little on my arm as we began to descend. Halfway down, she made a false step. If I hadn't been holding on to her she would have fallen. I pulled her against me to steady her.
"It's these damned high heels," she said breathlessly.
"That's what it is. The steps are really quite safe."
I felt her breast against my arm. I looked down at her. Her face was six inches from mine. In the dim light her eyes seemed to shine like a cat's, I bent my head and kissed her on the mouth. I felt her body sag a little against mine. We stayed like that for a moment, then without moving her feet she leaned away from me.
"We shouldn't be doing this," she said, looking up at me.
"No," I said, and my arm circled the small of her back, pulling her hard against me.
I kissed her again, and she kissed back.
"No, please . . ."
I released her. I was breathing hard and unsteadily.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I really am sorry. I don't know what got into me."
She touched her lips with her fingertips as she looked up at me.
"Don't say you're sorry. There's nothing to be sorry about. I think I liked it. Let's get away from this gloomy place, shall we?"
The hot, violent sunshine, the noise of the traffic and the dense crowd were almost overpowering after the quiet and dimness of the Duomo.
We stood for a moment blinking in the sunlight, the waves of sound beating upon us, and yet feeling isolated in the teeming mass of people who surged around us, "I've put a thousand lira note in your pocket," the girl said.
"I think with a little practice I could become as expert as signer Torrchi."
"But I haven't earned it!" I protested. "I can't accept it."
"Please shut up about it. I hate scenes about money, so please shut up about it."
"At least let me take you up on the roof. There's a lift just round the corner. The statues are worth seeing at close quarters."
"And please shut up about the Duomo. Let's go somewhere and eat. I want to talk to you."
While she was speaking she opened her handbag and took out a pair of dark green sunglasses. When she put them on, they completely hid her eyes, and I realized with a slight sense of shock that her eyes were the only living thing in her face which was now as expressionless and as cold as a death mask, "But what can you want to talk to me about?" I asked blankly.
"Are you usually so stupid? Don't you want to talk to me? Where shall we go?"
My mind floundered. I couldn't believe she was serious.
"I want a trattoria: a working man's place where the food is good."
"Are you quite sure you want to go to a place like that?"
"Yes: take me to the place where you usually eat."
I took her to Piero's that is down an alley of Corso Vittorio Emanuele, fifty yards from the Duomo.
Piero came from behind the cash desk to serve us. He was a little man with a potbelly and a wizened face which he tried to hide behind a bushy black beard. As he came up to the table he gave the girl a long, searching look, and then surprise and admiration came into his eyes.
"Signora; signore," he said. "What may I have the very great pleasure to bring you?"
She had taken of her sunglasses, and in the red shaded light of the table lamp her eyes looked like rubies.
"Order something, please," she said to me. "What is best here?"
"The risotto is very good. It is the classical speciality of Milan, and there is none better than Piero's."
"Then risotto," she said, smiling at Piero.
"Followed by Cotolette alia Milanese."
She nodded.
"And a bottle of Sassella?"
"Yes."
When Piero had gone into the kitchen, she opened her handbag and offered me her cigarette case. I took a cigarette, the first I had had for two days. I lit hers and then mine. I wasn't sure if I was dreaming this. I was like a man holding a soap bubble, afraid to move or breathe in case it burst.
"I expect you're thinking terrible things about me," she said, looking straight at me.
"No, but I can't believe my good fortune."
She smiled.
"All the same you imagine I must be slightly neurotic, behaving like this."
"I think nothing of the kind. I think you acted on an impulse and you are now wondering if you'll regret it."
"That's exactly what happened. I can't make up my mind if I should run away or brazen it out."
"Brazen it out," I said. "We should all give way to impulses much more often. The world would be a much more exciting place if we behaved in a less civilized manner."
"You really think so?"
"I'm positive of it."
1952 - The Wary Transgressor Page 1