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should have been suspicious, instead of pleased. I should have known there was a reason why the door wasn’t bolted.
    I heard the reason before I saw it. It was a growl that sounded as if it came from the throat of a grizzly bear — a low bass rumble, with lots of teeth behind it.
    I switched on the flashlight. In its beam I saw the source of the growl. Not a grizzly bear, nothing so harmless — but a dog the size of a small horse, black as Satan except for a mouthful of white fangs. Talk about the Hound of the Baskervilles. There it was, except for the phosphorescent slaver — a Doberman pinscher, the fiercest guard dog in the world.

Two

    NO WONDER THEY HADN’T BOLTED THE BACK door. I wondered why they had bothered to lock it.
    I could have slammed the door and taken to my heels. I had time. It wasn’t courage, but the reverse, that prevented me from taking flight. I was paralyzed. After a long second or two I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. The dog’s lips were curled back, its low growl never stopped; but its tail lifted and gave a tentative wag.
    The room into which the door opened wasn’t large; it was an entryway rather than a room. The floor was cement, the walls and ceiling were festooned with dirty cobwebs, and the canine amenities were not luxurious — only a pile of filthy sacks in one corner and a couple of battered tin plates, both empty. On one plate was a shriveled scrap of pasta, obviously the remains of the dog’s dinner. The other dish, the water dish, was bone dry.
    People say southern Europeans aren’t as sentimental about animals as Americans are. But I had seen scraps left by kindhearted Romans for the stray dogs and cats that infest the ancient ruins, and once I had watched a gruff, tough-looking laborer feed half a dozen cats in the Roman Forum, producing cans of food and a can opener from his pants pocket. It was undoubtedly a daily ritual, since the half-wild felines came running at his call and preened, purring, under his touch. The man who tended the Doberman wasn’t that kind of Roman. He hadn’t even bothered to give the animal fresh water.
    I walked into the room, crooning in the voice I use to Duke, my retriever back home in Cleveland.
    “Poor old boy, poverino , did the bad mans forget to feedums? Here, carissimo , sweetheart, mama will get you some water.”
    The dog leaped.
    He would have knocked me flat on my back if Duke hadn’t taught me how to brace myself against that kind of rush. The Doberman was a big fake — a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Dogs are like people, there are good ones and bad ones; but although even a nice dog may be soured by bad treatment, most of them are much more forgiving than humans.
    I managed to get the door closed, and then I sat down and played with the dog for a while, letting him drool happily all over my hands. I finally persuaded him to let me stand up, and then, before I did anything else, I went looking for a source of water.
    I found it in a tiny room that contained a sink and a toilet and a lot of cockroaches. I filled the dog’s water bowl and watched him gulp it up with growing indignation. He was awfully thin. I suppose they kept him underfed on the assumption that he would be all the more ready to munch up an intruder. So I thought I would just see if I could find something to eat. The most I expected was a coffeepot and a box of crackers, the sort of thing a clerk might have on hand for snacks. But I hit pay dirt. Another little cubbyhole next to the lavatory contained a hot plate and a surprising collection of goodies — cans of pâté and smoked oysters, and a tin of expensive English tea, plus another tin of cookies. “Fancy Biscuits,” it said on the lid.
    The Doberman adored the pâté, but he liked the smoked oysters best of all. I gave him a handful of cookies to finish off with, and I promised myself that if this place turned out to be the den of the master criminal, as I hoped it would be, I would see that the