door and knocked. A maid put out her head.
“Three gentlemen to see La Flamme”.
“La Flamme is resting,” said the maid pettishly. “Furthermore, she never sees a man without first speaking with his banker. And three at one time! Well, I never! Such things have not been done since she stopped working…” Her voice faded away.
Mr. Blatherbell leaned forward. “Would you be kind enough to tell Mademoiselle Potier that we are here in connection with a Mr. Paul Sanderson.”
The door was abruptly pulled open, propelling the maid back into the room. Standing in front of them was a tall goddess, thick red hair falling to her waist, a startling-white face framing huge, deep-blue eyes and a wide, scarlet mouth, rounded shoulders that were being covered by a silk robe, but not before the dimple in each screamed to be kissed, and deep, white breasts, heavy and full as if bursting with sweet-tasting cream, a trim waist flaring into demanding hips touched by reddish-gold at the vortex. Actually, she had been naked when she wrenched open the door, and the three solicitors, their eyes racing down at break-neck speed, managed to get in a glimpse of nerve-shattering delights before the robe slammed shut.
Paul!” she screamed, dragging Mr. Blatherbell into the room. Her robe fell open, and Mr. Blatherbell grew pale at the sight of a large quivering nipple staring him directly in the face only a couple of inches away and at the exact height of his lips. He started to bite it, but reason prevailed and he shut his eyes tightly and began to recite to himself the preamble to the Magna Carta.
“Where is he?” screamed La Flamme.
He opened one eye tentatively and saw the nipple still there, now swelling and growing dark from the intensity of her emotion.
He snapped shut his eye and leaned forward to conceal the sudden bulge in his trousers.
“May we be seated, Madame?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Of course, of course,” shouted the excited woman. “Josette, chairs for the gentlemen, quickly.”
Mr. Blatherbell groped about until he found a chair, sat down cautiously, then opened his eyes towards the floor and worked them up slowly until he saw that La Flamme’s robe was closed again. He took a deep breath and looked into her face.
“Madame, we are solicitors from England. A relative of Lord... Mr. Sanderson has recently died and we are here to inform him of his great loss.”
La Flamme’s shoulders sagged. “Then you have no message from him for me?” she asked plaintively.
“No, Madame. We found a letter in his relative’s files in which he had asked for some mon… information of sorts, and your name in care of La Reine de Coeur was given as a forwarding address.”
“Paul, Paul,” whispered La Flamme, sitting down heavily.
“Do you know where he is now?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.
She shook her head sadly. “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