The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [50]
“Taxi,” he said. “There may be time if we take a taxi.”
He caught one by the simple expedient of stepping out in front of it, and shoved the women in.
“Piazza Colonna,” he told the driver. “Subito, pronto, fast—okay?”
The traffic was heavy, and the drive took longer than Michael liked; he kept up a stream of muttered complaints, and absolutely refused to answer questions. When they reached the piazza, marked by the tall circular column of Marcus Aurelius, he pushed them out of the taxi as ruthlessly as he had pushed them in. Jacqueline tossed the driver some money; she didn’t get to collect her change.
Michael dragged them into the famous pastry-shop café that occupied one corner of the piazza. As usual, it was crowded with people.
“They’re still there,” Michael said. “I can see them. Move up to the door, but don’t go out. Third table on the right, in the outside row.”
Through the doorway Jean could see the expanse of the Galleria, a favorite meeting place for opulent tourists. It was a long glass-covered shopping arcade, and the café had tables occupying a considerable stretch of the paving. It was one of the more expensive cafés in the city; a musical ensemble played, and the prices, like the pastry, were rich.
“I don’t even know who I’m looking for,” Jean said irritably. “What—”
Then she saw the pair Michael indicated.
Ted was sitting with his back to them, but by that time Jean knew her friends well enough to recognize them from any angle. The girl across the table from him was facing the doorway. Jean could see her features plainly. It was someone she had never seen before.
She wasn’t a pretty girl. Her features were too sharp and too strongly marked for beauty. But it was a striking face, the sort of face some people might turn to stare at. The girl was as dark-skinned as a Sicilian, but the high cheekbones and fierce, slightly hooked nose had never come out of an Italian village. Her black hair, swept back from a high forehead, was held in place by a band of brightly embroidered fabric, but that was her only concession to feminine vanity. She wore no jewelry and no makeup; the open-necked tan shirt showed a slim throat whose tendons stood out with the vigor of her conversation. She was angry or distressed, or both; the black eyes flashed and the wide mouth shaped vehement words.
“She came after all,” Jean said, bewildered. “Ted’s girlfriend. Why don’t we go and—”
Michael’s hand clamped rightly over her shoulder.
“No, you idiot! That isn’t Ted’s fiancée.”
“How do you know?”
“He showed us her picture.”
“Yes, but—”
“But you don’t remember it. Faces are my thing,” said Michael. “That girl is not Ted’s girl. My God, how could you forget a face like that?”
“She looks like a young hawk,” Jacqueline said softly. “A beautiful, predatory falcon.”
“Oh, she’s beautiful,” Michael said, as if it didn’t matter. “And Ted has been meeting her here every day at about this time. This place is way out of our usual beat. I guess that’s why he thought it was safe. I happened to come through this way last week, and spotted them then.”
“Once? How did you know they would be here today?”
“They were here yesterday and the day before,” Michael said. “I checked.”
“Why?”
The dark girl looked up, and Michael pulled Jean back out of the doorway. She smacked at his hand.
“Stop pushing me around. I don’t understand all this, Michael. Why the secrecy?”
“I didn’t initiate the secrecy,” Michael pointed out. “Ted did. We know each other’s friends; why hasn’t he introduced her to any of us? Why do they meet here, in this tourist trap, unless it’s to avoid attention?”
“But it’s Ted’s business whom he meets,” Jean exclaimed. “If he has a thing going with some girl, and a fiancée back home—”
“Look at them,” Jacqueline interrupted. “Does that look like romance to you?”
The two had risen. Ted still had his back to them, but even his back radiated anger. He stood stiff as a judge, his slender body drawn up to its full height and his hands clenched into fists. The girl, leaning slightly forward,