Roman Nights by Dorothy Dunnett Page B

got in, unknown to either of us, and is lurking now in the bathroom, the developing room, the stockroom, the offices, the kitchen.
    The staircase was clear. I drew a deep breath and raced down to the stairs to the ground floor, giving the front door a slam as I passed it. I burst into the restroom, yelling for Jacko.
    He lay on the bottom bunk, snoring, and the room stank of beer. I banged him hard on the funny bone with my torch and when he made a loud and incoherent protest I said, ‘There’s someone in the Dome. There’s your torch. Come on.’
    The kitchen was next door. I left him sitting ejaculating and ran there, switching on my torch and flinging open the door with some bravado. There was no one there that I could see, and the cutlery drawer was two paces away. I jerked it open, snatched a couple of knives and raced back to Jacko, who was upright, saying ‘What?’ with his torch on. I put a knife in his other hand, grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the hallway. ‘Not again!’ Jacko said.
    ‘Yes, again,’ I hissed at him, and switched the lights on. The hall and staircase were flooded with light. A rush of footsteps coming down the marble stairs came to a halt and then the steps changed direction and receded in great leaping strides upward.
    Jacko said, ‘Christ, you were right,’ and took two bounds towards the foot of the stairs. Then he slowed down and said, ‘We’ve got him. He can’t get out. You phone the police and stay by the door. I’ll go up after him.’
    ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘He may be armed. He could hurt you. I’ll phone the villa.’ Then I thought and said, ‘Jacko. He could get out on the cupola.’
    It had been done. Every now and then the Dome sticks, and the workmen get up there and fix it. From there, the climb down to the ground isn’t impossible. Jacko said, ‘Hell,’ and then, ‘All right. I’ll follow him upstairs. You go outside and watch, and yell if you see him.’
    Upstairs, silence had fallen. I said, ‘I don’t think he’s gone up the iron stairs. I think he’s in one of the middle rooms, Jacko. Then if I go out and you go to the top, he can open the door here and walk out of it. We’ll stay together. We’ll go upstairs together and search every room till we get him. For example. . .’
    The lights went out.
    ‘For example,’ I said, ‘that’s one reason why he’s on the middle landing. He’s in the developing room.’
    It was like the repeat of a nightmare, only worse because there were only two of us. We didn’t run anymore, we walked up the stairs side by side, with our torches searching the landing, but our quarry was one step ahead of us. Before we reached the door and the developing room we heard the footsteps ringing on the spiral iron stair just above us, and the door to the telescope banged. A pang for my exposure blipped through the high-performance funk in six colourways which was gripping me: I switched off my torch and Jacko, from years of sheer bloody brainwashing, did the same.
    So we crashed through the door at the top of the stairs into darkness, and didn’t even stop to wonder why our intruder hadn’t paused to slide down the bench shelf that would bar it. The telescope loomed in its dome and the segment of sky, frosty with stars, twinkled behind it. Beside it was the lattice giraffe of the Eli Hoist Company of Philadelphia, with something solid and moving within it. A man was climbing the crane jib.
    I cried aloud. Jacko didn’t waste time on utterance. He jumped for the steps and caught the spring with the Dome switch and pressed it.
    There was a grinding roar and, above us, the slice of cold sky began dwindling. The roof of the Dome was rolling shut on its ratchets.
    The intruder realized it too. I have never seen a man move so quickly. He went up the crane like a lizard, one arm out flung to catch the spring switch and reverse it. Jacko jumped off the steps and dashed forward.
    I had a better idea. I hopped with