He smiled amiably. “I’m Richard Courtney from the embassy. We thought you might require something, and we would be glad to be of service. Can we help you in any way?”
“No, thank you.”
“Will you be in Rome long?”
“I don’t know. Must you know?”
“No, no.” He perished the thought. “We don’t want to intrude on your affairs — just let us know if you need any information, any assistance at all.”
“I shall, Mr. Courtney.”
“Please do. And I hope you won’t mind—” From the inside breast pocket of his dark gray tailored coat that had not come from stock he produced a little black book and a pen. “I would like very much to have your autograph.” He opened the book and proffered it. “If you will?”
Wolfe took the book and pen, wrote, and handed them back. The well-dressed college boy thanked him, urged him not to fail to call on them for any needed service, included Drogo and me in a well-bred smile, and left us.
“Checking on you?” I asked Wolfe.
“I doubt it. What for?” He said something to Drogo and then to the bluecap, and we started off, with Drogo in the lead and the bluecap with the bags in the rear. After a stretch on concrete and a longer one on gravel of a color I had never seen, we came to a hangar, in front of which a small blue plane was parked. After the one we had crossed Europe in it looked like a toy. Wolfe stood and scowled at it a while and then turned to Drogo and resumed the noises. They got louder and hotter, then simmered down a little, and finally ended by Wolfe telling me to give him ninety dollars.