The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [11]
“Such as archaeology,” Jean agreed. “From what I’ve heard about him, Dr. Scoville isn’t typical.”
“Oh, yeah? The swinging anthropologist is a subcategory of the general stereotype. The ivory-tower image irks some scholars; they have to prove they are just as much with it as the next man, just as brilliant about contemporary issues as they are in their specialty.”
“I don’t think Dr. Scoville is trying to prove anything.”
“Oh, dear, I’m attacking one of your heroes,” Jacqueline said sweetly. “On the surface he appears to have everything—sex appeal, virility, scholarly prestige, popular charm. But maybe the really basic thing about the man is that he gets bilious when he eats onions, and has to pull in his stomach when he looks at himself in the mirror. This would explain his deeds of derring-do, which, you must admit, verge occasionally on exhibitionism.”
Jean studied her companion’s calm profile in amazement.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything more cynical in my life.”
“You’re young yet.”
Jacqueline turned the car into a dark, narrow street, lined on both sides with high walls. She switched on the headlights; in the modern, well-lit streets she had used only the driving lights prescribed by Roman law. Jean said, “I don’t think I’ve been this way.”
“This is the old Via Aurelia,” Jacqueline said. They both winced as a car roared toward them and passed without, to their mutual surprise, any scraping of fenders. “It’s hard for me to drive it; I always want to climb the right-hand wall when I meet another car. But the very name thrills me.”
“I’m glad to see you’re not a hardened cynic.”
“I’m only cynical about people. Places and things still make me go all soft like a jelly doughnut. That’s a sign of middle age, if you like.”
The walls disappeared, to be replaced by new apartment buildings; the street widened, and the romance died. Jacqueline made several more turns, following a maze of side streets, and finally drove through a narrow entranceway which was marked “private.” There was a small lodge; a portiere came out, recognized the car, and returned to his dinner.
“Wow,” Jean said. “I didn’t know library work paid this well.”
The drive led into one of the private apartment complexes which were becoming common in the new subdivisions of the city. The only car entrance was the one through which they had come, with its guard on duty to question tradesmen and uninvited guests. Unlike the big blocklike apartments for lower-cost living, this complex had only four apartments to a building, and these were scattered at random through a handsomely landscaped park. Even the poorest Roman apartment has one balcony; these had five or six. As they followed the private drive, past bushes of evergreens and azaleas, Jean saw that the soft shaded lights in the center of the compound illumined a large swimming pool, its waters glowing soft blue-green.
“Wow,” she said again.
“Wow indeed.” Jacqueline slid the car into a slot between a low-slung European sports car and a Cadillac limousine. “Don’t get any wild ideas. Lise has a private income in addition to her salary. Come along; you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
The building had an elevator, which did not open until Jacqueline inserted a key into the door lock. Above, it opened directly into the foyer of the apartment. This room, which was larger than Jean’s bedroom, was marble-floored. The marble extended into the salone, or living-dining area, which occupied the entire front of the building. One curving wall was all windows, with two French doors opening onto the long front balcony. Through the glass Jean could see masses of flowers, geraniums and plumbago and roses, in boxes along the balcony rail. Beyond, the shimmering aquamarine shape of the pool looked like a magnified jewel.
Feeling particularly grubby, Jean followed her hostess into the room, which