The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [59]
A fly buzzed by and settled on her paper. Jean swatted at it, and missed; she hadn’t meant to hit it anyway. She was getting sleepy; the droning fly and the hot sun acted like sedatives. Virgin saints and Roman churches. It would make a good title for a book, a popular book on early Christian archaeology.
That was all the sense it made, though. Jacqueline wasn’t too communicative these days, but she had already considered this equation, and Jean assumed she had derived nothing meaningful from it. Their expeditions to Santa Cecilia and the other churches dedicated to virgin saints had produced no comment from Jacqueline; in fact, Jean had wondered at the time if the sightseeing was only an excuse for conversation with various Sinners.
There was one consoling feature in their discovery of that morning. It was unlikely that Albert would think of his seven acquaintances in terms of Roman numerals. The Seven Sinners…She cursed Andy for inventing that unoriginal name….
“Hey,” Andy said in her ear. “If you’re going to sleep you might as well do it in a bed.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” Jean rubbed her eyes. “Not very asleep…This place is getting hotter by the minute.”
“It’s even hotter back in the stacks. How about a swim?”
“All the way to Ostia? I haven’t got the strength.”
“Maybe Jake would let us use her pool. We wouldn’t need to bother her. Oh, cripes,” Andy said. “I forgot. Maybe you don’t feel like swimming.”
“Sure I do,” Jean said, with more bravado than truth. “I don’t think Jacqueline would mind. Let’s go ask the others.”
The others were only too glad to leave their sweltering studios. José was the only holdout; barely glancing up from his easel, he informed them that he almost had it, and if they would get their worthless carcasses out of there he just might get it. All right, all right—he would meet them later for dinner, he would do anything they wanted—later. But now, would they please get out?
They left, unoffended; all of them had been through that stage themselves.
The quickest way to their goal was along the old Via Aurelia, which Jean had traveled once at night, by car. It was a hot, dusty walk, and by the time they reached the back entrance to the compound where Jacqueline lived, they were all panting. Jean had shared the apartment for a week now and had her own key; she led the way upstairs without a second thought. She did caution the others to be quiet. Jacqueline might be taking a nap, since she had expected to be alone all afternoon.
But when they stepped out of the elevator, Jean realized that Jacqueline was not asleep. Nor was she alone. A few breathless words and an odd scuffling sound from the salone alarmed her; she darted forward, followed by the others. Then she stopped, staring.
On the couch that faced the foyer, Jacqueline was disentangling herself from her visitor. She was flushed and disheveled. Her companion looked familiar to Jean. Tall, suave, distinguished, elegantly dressed in a pale tan suit and dark shirt…
“Lieutenant,” said Jean, her voice rising to a squeak.
“Signorina,” said di Cavallo resignedly. “And”—his voice became a snarl—“signori, signorina…. Are there more of you? I see, Signora Kirby, that you are molto occupato.”
“Too busy for that,” Jacqueline said, closing her mouth with the snap of a trapdoor shutting. “I must say, Lieutenant, that your behavior—”
“Enough,” said di Cavallo, bounding to his feet. “We have no more to say to one another. It is finished. Buona sera, signora. Arrivederla.”
Regrettably, Jean found this amusing. Arrivederla is the formal version of the Italian word for