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“It might explain the existence of two Mona Lisas.” I began to warm to my theory. “Perhaps he did this one and then decided it would have been better with the hands in repose.”

“In that case,” Carole said reasonably, “why didn’t he just paint the hands over again?”

“Ah … well … yes.” I swore at myself for having concocted such a dumb theory. “You’ve got a point there.”

“Let’s go.” Carole got to her feet and began wrapping the painting in its brown paper covering.

“Where to?”

“Italy, of course.” A look of impatience flitted across her beautiful features. “I’m employing you to find out if this painting is legally mine, and it’s quite obvious you won’t be able to do it sitting here in Los Angeles.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then realized that the assertive Miss Colvin was right in what she said, that I needed some of the money she so obviously had, and that a spell in the Mediterranean sun would probably do me a lot of good. There was also a powerful element of curiosity about both the painting itself and that part of my psi vision I hadn’t yet mentioned to her—the dark cavern and its enigmatic wheel-like machine …

“Yes?” Carole challenged. “You were going to say something?”

“Not me. I’ll be glad to wave goodbye to this place for a few days. How do you say arrivaderci in Italian?”

We caught the noon sub-orbital to Rome, were lucky with a shuttle connection, and by early evening had checked into the Hotel Marco Polo in Milan.

The travelling had made me hungry and I did justice to the meal which Carole and I had in a discreet corner of the dining room. A glass of brandy and a good cigar helped me to enjoy the cabaret, even though most of the singers had to rely on the new-style tonsil microphones to make their voices carry. I guess it’s a sign of age, but I insist that real singers can get along perfectly well with the old type of mike they used to clip on to their back teeth. Still, considering how badly the day had started off, there was little to complain about. I had a glow of wellbeing, and Carole was looking incredibly feminine in something gauzy and golden. Into the bargain, I was earning money.

“When are you going to start earning your money?” Carole said, eyeing me severely through a small palisade of candle flames.

“I’m already doing it,” I assured her, somewhat hurt by her attitude. “This is the hotel your father stayed in while he was in Milan, and there’s a good chance this is where he made the connection. If it is, I’ll pick up an echo sooner or later.”

“Try to make it sooner, will you?”

“There’s no controlling a wild talent.” Sensing the need for more customer relations work, I introduced a bit of echo chamber into my voice. “Right now, as we sit here, the intangible billowing nets of my mind are spreading outwards, ever out …”

“Yes?”

“Hold on a minute,” I said. Quite unexpectedly, the intangible billowing nets of my mind had caught a fish—in the shape of a passing wine waiter. He was a slim dark youth with knowing brown eyes, and my psi faculties told me at once that his recent past was linked in some unusual way with that of Carole’s father. I immediately tried to connect him with the Mona Lisa Mk. II. There was no positive response on the intuitive level, and yet I became more certain the wine waiter would be worth questioning. That’s the way ESP works.

Carole followed my gaze and shook her head. “I think you’ve had enough to drink.”

“Nonsense—I can still crawl a straight line.” I left the table and followed the waiter out through double doors and into a passageway which probably led to the cellars. He glanced back when he heard me, then turned around, his eyes sizing me up like those of a cattle-buyer examining a steer.

“Pardon me,” I said. “Do you mind if I speak to you for a moment?”

“I haven’t got a moment,” he said. “Besides, I don’t speak English.”

“But …' I stared at him for a few seconds, baffled, then the message came through, loud and clear. I took out the expense money Carole had given me, peeled off a ten and tucked it into the pocket of his white jacket. Will that buy you a Lingua-phone course?”

“It all comes back to me now.” He smiled a tight, crafty smile. “You want a woman? What sort of woman do you want?”

“No. I do not want a woman.”

He grew even more shifty-looking. “You mean …?”

“I mean I’ve got a perfectly good woman with me.”

“Ah! Do you want to sell a woman? Let me tell you, signor, you have come to the right man—I have many connections in the white slave market.”

“I don’t want to sell a woman, either.”

“You are sure? As long as she has got white skin I can get you two thousand for her. It doesn’t even matter,” he said generously, jiggling cupped hands in front of his chest, “if she hasn’t got much accoutrements. As long as she has that flawless white skin …”

I began to get impatient. “All I want from you, Mario, is some information.”

The gleam of avarice in the waiter’s eyes was quickly replaced by a look of wariness. “How did you know my name?”

“I have ways of knowing things,” I told him mysteriously. Actually, I wasn’t sure whether I had esped his name or whether it was the only Italian one I could think of on the spur of the moment.

“Pissy,” he said. “That’s what you are—pissy.”

I grabbed him by the lapels and raised him up on his toes. “Listen, Mario, any more lip out of you and I’ll …”

“You’ve got me wrong, signor,” Mario babbled, and I was relieved to discover he was more of a coward than I am. “I mean, you are one of the pissy ones who know things without being told of them.”

“P-S-I is pronounced like sigh,” I said, letting go of his jacket. “Try to remember that, will you?”

“Of course, signor.” He stood back to let another waiter pass between us with a bottle of wine. “Now, tell me what information you want to buy, and I will tell you the cost. My scale of charges is very reasonable.”

“But I’ve already paid you.”

“Non capisco,” Mario said in a stony voice and began to walk away.

“Come back,” I commanded. He kept on walking. I took out the roll of bills and he, displaying a sixth sense which aroused my professional envy, promptly went into reverse until we were facing each other again. It was as if he had been drawn towards me by a powerful magnet, and I began to realize that here was a man who was capable of selling his own grandmother. Indeed, from his earlier conversation, it was possible that he had already disposed of the old lady, venerable accoutrements and all. Making a mental note to be careful in my dealings with Mario, I asked him if he could remember a Trevor J. Colvin staying at the hotel in April.

“I remember him.” Mario nodded, but I could tell he was puzzled and slightly disappointed, which meant he had no idea of the money potentials involved. I decided to keep it that way.

“Why do you remember Mr Colvin in particular? Had you any … ah … business dealings with him?”

“No—he didn’t want a woman, either. All I did was introduce him to Crazy Julio from Paesinoperduto, my home village.”

“Why was that?”

Mario shrugged. “Signor Colvin is an art dealer. Crazy Julio, who hasn’t two lira to rub together, came to me with some ridiculous story about an old painting he had found on his farm. He wanted to show it to an art dealer, preferably one from another country. I knew it was a waste of time, but I’m a businessman and if Crazy Julio was prepared to pay for my services …”

Wondering how much he knew of what had transpired, I said, “Did you perhaps translate for them?”

“No. Julio has English. Not very good English, though—he is too crazy for that.”