“If I knew I would climb mountains, cross rivers, fight lions.” Her hands rose to her breasts and pressed them tightly. “I would even make love to him only twice a day. I swear it. No more - only twice a day. That is the proof of my love.”
“How long ago did he leave here?” asked Mr. Poopendal.
“Over a year.” She began weeping. “Right after I caught that Italian bitch making eyes at him.” Her head suddenly shot up and the tears stopped. “Merde alors!” she snarled. “That black-eyed putain of an Italian bitch. That’s where he went. That bitch snared that poor innocent darling.” She jumped to her feet, seized a vase of flowers, and sent it smashing to the floor. An ash tray went next, then half a dozen bottles of perfume, a chair which shattered her vanity mirror, a slipper against the door, and finally a jar of cream out through the window.
The three solicitors sat perfectly still on their chairs, not even blinking as each missile flashed by. That was quite understandable as La Flamme’s robe had fallen open and they were not about to miss one centimetre of the most enjoyable floor show of their lives.
Finally, La Flamme fell onto a sofa, weeping with frustration and rage.
“What was the girl’s name?” asked Mr. Snoddergas softly.
“That putain!” screamed La Flamme. “That Maria Teresca. She stole him.” She raised her head and spat. “She couldn’t do it more than five or six times a day even if she ate the balls of a bull. What could my darling Paul see in that plate of noodles?”
“Where would she have gone?” asked Mr. Snoddergas.
“Gone!” shouted La Flamme. “To hell, I hope. May that Roman whore’s tits dry up and her hair fall out and …”
Mr. Blatherbell stood up. “Thank you, Madame, and forgive us for upsetting you.” He motioned to his partners and they started to leave the room.
“Monsieur,” the call came from behind him. He turned. La Flamme was seated upright on the sofa. “Monsieur,” she begged. “If you find him, please tell him to come back to me. Please, Monsieur. Tell him I will do anything, anything. Just come back to me.”
The three solicitors sighed with envy as they passed through the door.
The Stazione Termini of Rome was more elaborately decorated and vastly more crowded than any the solicitors had seen. Its inner dome rose high in the air, making an excellent reflector for the incessant shouting and screaming and yelling which come naturally to the inhabitants of that strange land when arriving or departing or merely standing about.
Once the solicitors had found a carriage and been seated, Mr. Blatherbell leaned forward and said to the driver, “Ufficio Centrale della Regia Questura.” As they sped through the narrow, winding streets, they saw knots of soldiers strolling among the crowds milling about the squares and in front of fountains of water gushing from dragons’ mouths and women’s breasts and athletes’ penises, and whirled by statues of nobles and generals mounted high on their bright-eyed steeds with sabres in their hands and bird droppings on the tips of their noses, looking arrogantly down on the common herd cluttering up the walks. Bicycles had become the vogue, and the cyclists sped recklessly along the streets, turning their heads to watch a swaying tail wiggle by, crashing bloodily into each other, rising from the wreckage to shake their fists in each other’s faces, shouting and cursing, threatening vendetta to the twelfth generation, and riding off on wobbling wheels before their words were taken seriously.
At the Central Police Station, Mr. Blatherbell approached the first officer who appeared to be of some importance and had a few words with him in a corner. The officer saluted and raced down a musty corridor to a room at the far end, returning soon with a slip of paper which he offered with one hand while holding out the other. His grip remained firm on the slip of paper until enough banknotes had covered his palm, then Mr. Blatherbell, wiping the sweat from his forehead, returned to the carriage and looked at the address he had paid a small fortune to obtain.
It was the Royal Opera House, and as they drove by the Imperial Zoo and then past graceful swans in the lakes of the Imperial Park, he daringly doffed his hat at nursemaids wheeling their charges and saluted members of the Sisterhood plying their wares is broad daylight.
Upon their arrival at the Royal Opera House, they found the doorman unyielding.
Impossible, Signori,” he cried, holding out his hand. “The Prima Donna Teresca cannot be disturbed under any circumstances. She practices for her role tonight in La Traviata, No one,” he emphasized with vast expression, moving his hand nearer to them, “not even His Majesty himself, who would give rubies by the, bucket to meet her, is permitted to enter the building during rehearsals. Not even for two thousand lire would I consider breaking my mortal oath to protect her from interruption.” He eyed the three Englishmen who stood stolidly in front of him and cleared his throat, “Never, fine Signori, not even for one thousand, eight hundred lire.”
Mr. Blatherbell sighed, opened his wallet and counted out a sum of money. The doorman’s hand snapped shut on the bills and, with a flourish he bowed them through the door.
As they stepped into the darkened theatre, the sound of a clear, beautiful voice filled their ears. On stage was Maria Teresca - it could be no other. She was not just a woman, but fire, her raven-black hair piled high on her head, half-closed dusky eyes bewitching all who gazed into them, hand-filling pear-shaped breasts thrusting against the sheer silk of her bodice, long handsome legs spread wide apart as a pivot for her hips to sway in movements so provocative that all on stage and in the audience stared at her vortex, hidden beneath the layers of cloth, but visible in imagination.
Quietly, the three solicitors took seats until she finished her aria, then rose as one man to applaud loudly as she whirled off the stage.
“Come,” said Mr. Blatherbell, leading his two junior partners to the side of the theatre. He asked a stagehand for directions to Maria Teresca’s dressing room and knocked softly on the door. A maid looked out.
“I would like to speak with Signora Teresca regarding a Mr. Paul Sanderson,” he said.
“Paul!” screamed a voice from within, and the door was jerked open. The three solicitors were not completely disappointed even though she still had on her bloomers. Mr. Blatherbell sighed again as he came face to face with two naked breasts bouncing up and down with her excitement. She pushed him aside and looked out into the corridor. “Where is my Paul?” she shouted.
“Signora, please allow me to explain,” said Mr. Blatherbell, his head bobbing up and down with the movements of her breasts. “We are searching for Mr. Sanderson ourselves. We had hoped to find him here?
Maria threw herself on a chair and covered her face with her hands. I knew it was too good to be true,” she sobbed. “He will not come back to me - not from her.”
“From whom?” asked Mr. Snoddergas softly.
“That ... that beast!” she cried bitterly. The three solicitors looked at each other knowingly. Maria sat up with tear-stained face, her arms hanging limply by her sides, unaware that she was naked from the navel up. She sighed. “I curse the day we walked in the park. Until then, he was my Paul, mine to slave for, to caress, to awaken each morning with joy in my heart at seeing him there by my side. Never, never has there been a man like him.”
“Do you know the name of this woman?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.
Maria’s head rose sharply. “What
