Genoa was a seaport like any other, and being accustomed to seaports, Flint knew where to find the kind of place he sought. A simple little inn, on the simple little harbor-front, catering for the needs of men like him which forty-eight hours ago, had been the same as the inn and the harbor front. Simple. Little.

He sauntered inside and sat down at one of the metal tables. Bustle and noise, laughter and some damnable racket from a burst mandolin surrounded him. He was lucky to ...