The Etruscan Net by Michael Gilbert Page B

away.’
    ‘We are not in the army now. You do not give orders to me. If I wish to speak, I will speak.’
    Broke sighed. The street was empty for some way in either direction. He could run, and probably outdistance Labro. But that would be undignified. He could knock him down, but Labro was undoubtedly drunk, and it went against the grain. Or he could listen to him.
    He said, ‘If you have something to say, I will listen. But don’t take all night about it.’
    ‘Fine,’ said Labro. ‘Excellent. You will listen.’
    ‘But stop grabbing my coat. I’m not going to run away.’
    ‘First, let me tell you, that I have been dismissed from my job, by Signor Ferri. I care nothing for Signor Ferri; or for his master, Professor Bruno–’ Labro proceeded to describe Danilo Ferri and the Professor. Broke hardly understood one word in five of the gutter Italian, but was left in no doubt of Labro’s opinion of his employers. ‘To cease to serve such people is a blessing. But there is another side to it. For a man must live.’
    I thought money was going to come into it somewhere, thought Broke. He could see a distant figure patrolling towards them.
    ‘Money is always difficult,’ said Labro, ‘I am not a beggar, I am not asking for money for charity. But I have something to sell. Something of great value, to the right person.’
    ‘Yes?’ Twenty yards to go.
    ‘To someone interested in the affairs of antiquity.’
    ‘If you have something you wish to sell me, come to my house in the morning. You will find me in the directory. Meanwhile, good night.’
    Larbo started to say something, realized that he was being observed, by a sardonic carabiniere, thumbs hooked in his black leather belt, and shuffled off down the pavement. Broke proceeded on his way. The carabiniere watched both men, turning his head slowly, from one to the other, as though memorizing their faces.
    He was a big young man. He had smooth black hair and his face was bisected by a line of black moustache.
    At a quarter to ten Broke backed his car out of the garage, and drove up the Viale, using dipped headlights. The rush of traffic had thinned out, and the last of the stall-holders on the Piazzale Michelangiolo had sold the last copy of the Statue of David, closed up his stall and gone home to count his profits. Broke turned into the Viale Galileo, still climbing, and brought the car to rest in the lay-by at the head of the Via Canina.
    He got out and sat on the parapet. Below him, to left and right, as far as the eyes could see, the lights of Florence filled the valley. A shaving of new moon hung in the sky.
    ‘On such a night as this, when the sweet wind did softly kiss the trees, and they did make no noise.’ But you could still hear the unsleeping traffic of Florence’s narrow streets, muffled by the distance, like a bee in a bottle.
    What had Labro wanted to sell him? Information, or some Etruscan relic, filched from the digging? Or nothing at all, like the beggar in the street who offered you a box of matches and was hurt if you took it?
    The clocks of Florence started to say ten o’clock.
    A car passed the end of the street, slowed, as if to pull into the lay-by, changed its mind, and drove on. Broke smiled to himself. A courting couple, he guessed, cursing him and now looking for somewhere else to park.
    His own courting had been swift and, on the face of it unromantic. He had met Joanie when he was spending a duty weekend with his elder sister, Felicia, at Ware. They had gone for a walk after tea, and had discovered a sheep with its head stuck in a wire fence. It was whilst they were releasing the wildly kicking animal that he had decided he liked her. Liking her had gone on for a month. Then he had discovered he wanted her. They were married two months later. And, by God, it had been a right thing, from the very start. Better not to think too much about it. Bury it. Try to forget about it.
    When Broke looked at his watch it was nearly half