Street Of The Five Moons Part 17

"Shut up! No, not you, Gerda."

"What did you say, Vicky?"

"Signorina, you have told me you would only speak-"

I turned away from the fat, hairy hand that was trying to grab the phone from me.

"Gerda - where is the Professor?"

"He had to go out. Tell me about the night clubs."

"Signorina!"

"When will he be back?"

"Oh, soon. Was he expecting a call from you?"

"Yes," I screamed, spinning around as the proprietor made another grab at the phone. The cord wound around my neck.

"Signorina, you cheat me! I call the police-"

"You blood-sucking leech, I paid you twice what this call will cost!"

"Vicky, who are you talking to?"

"You, unfortunately! I was supposed to call Professor Schmidt at five, Gerda. It's vital - an emergency."

"Your voice sounds funny," said Gerda interestedly.

"That's because I am being strangled by a telephone cord," I said, jabbing my elbow into the tobacconist's stomach.

Gerda giggled.

"You are so funny, Vicky. Always we say here, Vicky is the one who makes us laugh."

"Polizia! Polizia!"

"Who is calling the police?" Gerda asked. "Oh - oh, is it a robbery, your emergency? Vicky, you should not be calling Herr Professor Schmidt; you should telephone the police."

"Gerda," I said, between my teeth, "tell me when Professor Schmidt will be back. Tell me now, this instant, or I will send you a bomb in the mail."

"But at five, of course," said Gerda. "He said you would be calling then. Vicky, have you bought any clothes? The boutiques of Rome are famous."

I glanced over my shoulder. The tobacconist had never had any intention of calling the police, his cries had only been an attempt to scare me off. He had summoned more effective a.s.sistance. From the rear of the shop came a huge woman brandis.h.i.+ng a frying pan. I dropped the phone and ran.

I ran all the way down the Viale Trastevere till I reached the river, not because I feared pursuit from the angry spouse of the tobacconist, but because my frustration demanded rapid movement. It was unreasonable of me to be angry with Schmidt; I couldn't expect him to sit in his office all day waiting for me to call, when I told him I would telephone at a specific hour. But now I didn't know what to do. I couldn't telephone Munich police because I had no money.

I collapsed onto one of the benches along the boulevard by the Tiber. People looked at me oddly as I sprawled there, streaming with perspiration and gasping for breath, but I didn't care. What bothered me was the fact that I wasn't thinking clearly. The situation wasn't all that bad; there was no reason for me to get in a state just because I couldn't find Schmidt. I had no watch, but I knew it must be late in the afternoon, and Schmidt would be sitting in his office like a good little spy in a couple of hours at the latest. In the meantime, I could go to the Rome police and get things started. I could call Schmidt from the station. It was the only sensible thing to do. So why did I have the feeling that time was running out - that every second now was a matter of life and death?

I respect hunches. Sometimes they are the product of irrational, neurotic fears, but I am no more neurotic than the next person, and a good many of my "premonitions" have been caused by subconscious but perfectly rational thinking. As I sat there with the cool breeze from the river fanning my hot face, I knew there was something I hadn't taken into account - some fact, observed but not yet consciously catalogued, that was responsible for my present state of uneasy tension. I put my head down into my hands, pressed my knuckles into my skull, and tried to think.

Bright against the black background of my closed eyes, in full living color, came Helena's face, black and swollen, framed by the swirling ma.s.ses of her silvery hair.

I opened my eyes in a hurry. The sun was halfway down the sky, its mellow rays gilding the golden domes and spires of Rome. The shadows were lovely soft colors, not gray, but shades of blue and lavender and mauve.

Go back to Helena's death, I told myself. Never mind why she was killed; just take the fact itself and go on from there.

Once she was dead, some smart guy - The Boss, perhaps - got the idea of killing two birds with one stone. It is very difficult to pa.s.s off death by strangulation as an accident. By putting Helena's body in John's apartment they provided the police with a murderer, and discredited anything John might say about them.

John was their big problem. Not me; I couldn't prove anything. Give them a few hours in which to dismantle the workshop and hide any other incriminating evidence, and I would have a very hard time nailing them. The kidnapping, the hours of imprisonment in the cellars, the homicidal chase across the gardens - all my word against theirs. By this time the little room tinder Luigi's studio might be full of extra canvases, or bales of hay. Thanks to the lists John had given me, I knew the names of the collectors he had sold things to, and eventually I would be able to track down the fake jewels. But the gang didn't know I had that information. They couldn't be greatly worried about me.

John was a horse of a different color. He knew names and details, and he would talk, to clear himself of a murder charge....

Alarm bells began ringing in my brain. Something didn't make sense. A murder charge might discredit John's testimony, but the police were bound to check up on the things he told them, and that wouldn't be too good for the gang. They could count on his silence if he was not provoked; he couldn't accuse them of fraud without incriminating himself. But murder...

They knew where his apartment was located. (Another alarm bell jangled; I ignored it, that was a side issue, and I was nose down on another trail, hoping against hope that I wouldn't arrive at the conclusion I was already antic.i.p.ating.) They had taken Helena's body to the apartment, and then.... No. No, of course they wouldn't call the police. They could call later, if the concierge didn't discover the body, but not right away. Because there was a good chance that John would return to the apartment before he left the country. He had to have that pa.s.sport. And when he returned...

Then I remembered. I knew what it was that had been nagging at my subconscious, the unnoticed fact that had started those alarm bells ringing. It was such a little thing - just a small metal insignia on the hood of a car. I don't care much about cars, and my attention had been focused on more important details in that scene, as John was heaved into the waiting vehicle, but the emblem had registered, all the same. The car had been a Mercedes. Romans are great believers in making a bella figura bella figura, but I doubted they would go so far as to buy a Mercedes for their policemen to drive around in.

I started up off that bench as if I had been stabbed, then forced myself to sit down again. I had already committed one catastrophic error of logic. From now on I had to consider all the angles.

John had never been under any illusions as to who our pursuers were, I realized that now. I was developing a deplorable tendency to think of him as surrounded by a rosy halo of heroism, but helping me to get away hadn't been n.o.ble, it had just been common sense. Together we could never have made it. He was counting on me to come to his rescue. Why he thought he could count on it I couldn't imagine - but of course he was right. Only I didn't know how to go about it.

John had told me to call Schmidt. With my boss to back me up I could convince the Roman authorities of my bona fides much more quickly, but even a.s.suming I could enlist police a.s.sistance, where was I supposed to look for John? They wouldn't take him to the palace or the villa. Maybe they would just kill him immediately.

Again I forced my brain away from a series of nasty technicolor images - all the possible methods of mayhem and torture John might be experiencing at this moment - and tried to think positively. They wouldn't kill him, not if he got a chance to talk first. John had a few heroic qualities - more than he liked to admit - but he also had a very devious mind. I knew the way that mind worked, and I could make a good guess as to the type of story he would tell. Incriminating doc.u.ments, photographs, statements - all in my hot little hands. Yes, he would tell them that, d.a.m.n his eyes, with no qualms about endangering me. As he would have said, he wasn't that n.o.ble.

I wondered why they hadn't chased after me, onto the roof. They must have known I was with John. h.e.l.l, they must have seen us go in together. Several answers suggested themselves. For one thing, they wouldn't be anxious to be seen galloping around the roofs of Rome. They had made quite a bit of noise breaking into the apartment, and it behooved them to get out in a hurry before someone called the real police.

I had it figured out now, clever me. I almost wished I hadn't. John was in the hands of Pietro and his friends, who were probably calling the police now, if they hadn't already done so, to inform them that there was a dead woman in an apartment just off the Viale Trastevere - an apartment rented by a blond Englishman. When Helena was identified, Pietro would be prepared with a convincing story. Alas, the murderous foreigner was his missing secretary, who had seduced and then murdered his mistress. The police would look for John - and they would find him. But not alive.

I couldn't sit still any longer. I started across the bridge, weaving in and out of the traffic at top speed. No local police station for me; I was going straight to the center, on the Piazza San Vitale. It was a long walk, but I didn't have money for a taxi.

I was about halfway across the bridge when another idea hit me. It was such a brilliant idea I wondered why I hadn't thought of it before. I kept on walking, and as I went I fumbled around in the bottom of my purse. I always have odds and ends at the bottoms of my purses, even when I have owned the purse for only a few hours. I almost cheered when my fingers found a crumpled, limp sc.r.a.p of paper. It was a battered hundred-lira note, which had somehow escaped my notice when the blood-sucking tobacconist was relieving me of my worldly wealth. I had just enough money for one local phone call.

I bought a gettone gettone from the clerk behind the counter of the first cafe I came to, and dashed to the phone. There was no telephone book, of course, but the operator gave me the number. I identified myself, and was put through to the secretary. from the clerk behind the counter of the first cafe I came to, and dashed to the phone. There was no telephone book, of course, but the operator gave me the number. I identified myself, and was put through to the secretary.

The principessa wasn't in her office. With a little pressure I got her home address from the secretary. I don't know what I would have done if she had lived out in one of the suburbs. I didn't even have bus fare. Fortunately her house was on the Gianicolo, not far away.

I could call Schmidt on her telephone. And even if she didn't believe my story, she could vouch for me to the police. I wondered why it had taken me so long to remember that I had a prominent reference, right here in Rome.

Europeans like privacy. They don't put up cute little picket fences, they build walls. The principessa's house was a fairly modest modern structure, but the walls were very high. The gate stood invitingly open, however, and I walked along the graveled path between beds of flowers up to the front door.

Before I could search for a bell or a knocker, the door was opened by the principessa herself.

The rays of the declining sun cut straight across the garden, so that she stood pilloried against the darkness of the hall as if by a searchlight. She was wearing a long silky robe of brilliant scarlet. It was belted tightly at the waist and clung to her hips and b.r.e.a.s.t.s like plastic wrap. The light was not flattering to her face. I saw sagging muscles and wrinkles I had not noticed before.

"Oh," I said startled. "Did - I guess your secretary must have told you I was coming."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to bother you. I wouldn't have come if it hadn't been an emergency."

"That is quite all right. Do come in."

She stepped back, with a welcoming gesture. The hall inside was dusky, all the shades drawn against the heat of the day. Suddenly I was so tired my knees buckled. I caught at the door frame.

"Poor child," she said warmly. "Something has happened. Come in and tell me about it."

She put out her hand to help me. It closed over my arm with a strength I would not have suspected, and drew me in. The door closed, and we were in semi-darkness.

"This way," she said, and preceded me along the hall, past several doors that were closed or slightly ajar. She opened a door at the end of the hall. Sunlight flooded into the dark.

The salone salone was a long room with a fireplace on one wall and a series of windows looking out upon a green garden. I collapsed into the nearest chair, and Bianca went to a table. Ice tinkled. was a long room with a fireplace on one wall and a series of windows looking out upon a green garden. I collapsed into the nearest chair, and Bianca went to a table. Ice tinkled.

"You need a stimulant," she said, handing me a gla.s.s.

"Thank you." I took the gla.s.s, but I was literally too bushed to raise it to my lips.

"Now tell me."

"I don't know where to start," I mumbled. "There's so much to tell you.... And I've got to tell it right, you have to believe me. They have him. They'll kill him, if we don't stop them."

"Him?" Her arched brows lifted. "Ah, yes. Your lover."

"He's not my lover," I said stupidly. "We never - I mean, there wasn't time!"

"No? What a pity. I a.s.sure you, you have missed a unique experience."

Her lips tilted up at the corners.... The Dragon Lady, the primitive G.o.ddess smiling her strange archaic smile.

All at once my exhaustion and confusion vanished. I was wide awake, enjoying a kind of mental second wind. It was a pity it hadn't happened just a few minutes earlier.

She was a canny lady. She saw my face change, and her smile stiffened.

"Ah, so you know. How, I wonder?"

"I should have known a long time ago," I said disgustedly. "I kept telling myself to sit still, stop rus.h.i.+ng around, think.... I did figure most of it out. But I ignored one signal. I should have stopped to think it through all the way." I raised the gla.s.s to my lips, then did a silly double take and put it carefully down on the table. She found my caution amusing.

"I haven't tried to drug you." She smiled. "Tell me how you knew."

"It was the apartment," I explained. "John said he had never taken Helena there, and there was no reason for him to lie about it. He made no bones about the fact that... But somebody knew about the place. If he didn't take Helena there, he might have taken some other - let's say 'lady,' shall we, just for laughs?"

"But why me?" she asked, smiling. "I don't imagine I am the only - do let us say 'lady' - whom Sir John has distinguished with his attentions."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," I said irritably. "He may be the greatest lover since Casanova, but there are only twenty-four hours in a day. He's been in Rome for less than a week, and he has had other things to do. You and Helena - how many others could he work into his schedule? Besides, you fill a great gap in my speculations, Bianca. I wondered who the mastermind could be; you are the only person I know who is smart enough and selfish enough to organize this swindle. It had to be someone in Rome, someone close enough to the Caravaggios to know about Luigi's talent. Besides, it isn't fair to have a villain whom the reader doesn't meet till the very end. What have you done with John?"

"He is here." The amus.e.m.e.nt had left her face. She studied me curiously. "We had thought of using him as a hostage to ensure your silence. Who would have supposed you would be foolish enough to come of your own free will? Why in G.o.d's name did did you come?" you come?"

I thought I knew the answer to that one, but it was too complicated to explain. My good old useful unconscious mind had been working again, supplying the missing answers, but working as it was against a superstructure of solid stupidity, it had only succeeded in conveying a partial message. I had thought of Bianca, but didn't realize why her name came to my mind. In the future I might do better to stop thinking altogether, and operate on sheer blind instinct. If I had a future...

"You don't suppose I came here like a lamb to the slaughter without taking precautions," I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. "Ha, ha. n.o.body would be that stupid, my dear principessa. If I don't walk out of here in five minutes, with John, you will be in trouble."

She didn't seem to be listening to me. She was sitting straight and rigid in her chair, her head slightly tilted, as if she heard sounds I couldn't hear.

"I said, you had better let us go," I repeated. "We'll give you time to make your escape. I bet you have a tidy sum stashed away. You can get halfway around the world in a few hours. You're a sensible woman, Bianca; you must realize you can't keep strewing the landscape with dead bodies."

"That is true," she murmured.

"Then..."

"I am sorry." She shook her head. "But I am afraid you don't understand. You have committed one serious error, my dear."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I am not the one who decides your fate." She leaned forward, flinging out her thin hands in a gesture that was oddly convincing in spite of its theatrical quality. "Oh, yes, I began the scheme. It was mine from the start. Can you believe that a mind of such subtlety, such - forgive my immodesty - such intelligence could commit the unforgivable blunder of destroying that poor little fool of a prost.i.tute? That was stupid, brutal, unnecessary. You must suspect-"

"That is enough, Bianca," said a voice.

The sea-green draperies near the fireplace billowed and parted. There was a door behind them. Out he stepped, beautiful as a Michelangelo sculpture, holding his little gun. Luigi.

Twelve.

HE LOOKED SO YOUNG. THE SULKY FROWN on his face made him appear like an unhappy child, several years younger than his real age. I couldn't believe what I had heard. If it hadn't been for the gun, I wouldn't have believed what I was seeing.

"You had better stop calling me stupid," he said, glowering at Bianca. "That was how she spoke to me. Stupid child, infant, innocent... me, the most important of all! Without me you could not have done it. The rest of you can be replaced; but without me, there was no plan! It took me too long to realize that. But now I am in control, I take my rightful place. And none of you will laugh at me again, do you understand?"

She was no coward, I'll say that for her. She was in greater danger than I was at that moment; he was as unstable as a two-legged table, his adolescent ego smarting and hurting. But she didn't cower or cringe or try to apologize. She gave me a twisted smile.

"Like other tyrants, I have been supplanted, you see. A palace coup. Behold the new ruler."

"He's right, of course," I said smoothly. "Without him, you couldn't have done it. He's a genius. You know, Luigi, you could be the greatest jeweler the world has ever seen."

He liked the first part of that disingenuous speech. His scowl smoothed out as he turned toward me. But at the last sentence he shook his head.

"Jewelers are artisans, craftsmen. I am an artist. If my father had not tried to crush my talent, this would not have been necessary. I am no stupid craftsman!"

"Cellini was a maker of jewelry," I said. "Holbein designed jewels for Henry the Eighth."

"That is true," he said thoughtfully.