Street of the Five Moons

Chapter Eleven

I TURNED ASIDE and leaned against the door-frame, my hands over my eyes. Through the roaring in my ears I heard John’s footsteps, then a series of rustling, rubbing noises, unpleasantly suggestive. Finally he spoke, in a voice I never would have recognized as his.

‘It’s all right. I’ve covered her.’

I looked out of the corner of one eye. The thing on the bed was anonymous now – a long, low mound of white cotton sheeting. But it would be a long time before I could forget that hideous, bloated face. John was standing by the bed. His features were under control, but a tiny muscle in his cheek quivered like a beating pulse.

‘Why?’ I whispered. ‘Why would anybody want to kill her?’

‘I don’t know. She was so harmless. Stupid and vain and silly, but utterly harmless . . . And so proud of her pretty face.’

There was a note in his voice as he said that, a look on his face . . . It reminded me of the way he had looked earlier that day when I had asked him whether anyone knew about his apartment.

‘She knew,’ I said. ‘That’s how the gang found out. You brought her here. You and she were – ’

‘For God’s sake, do you think I’m that stupid? She was Pietro’s mistress, and utterly without guile. I wouldn’t risk telling her, or bringing her here.’

‘But you and she – ’

‘That makes no difference,’ John said. ‘Except, possibly, to me.’

‘You’ve got to get out of here,’ I exclaimed. ‘They put her here so that you would be blamed for her death.’

‘That was a mistake,’ John said, in the same quiet voice.

‘I can give you an alibi.’

He shook his head.

‘She’s been dead at least twelve hours, possibly longer. They will claim I killed her last evening, before they locked me in the cellar.’

I understood then why he looked so sick. It could not have been easy for him to handle the cold flesh he had once caressed.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said haltingly. ‘I rather liked her.’

The faintest ghost of his old smile touched the corners of his pale mouth.

‘So did I . . . This changes the situation, Vicky. I’m too confused to think clearly, but I don’t believe I can walk away from this.’

‘You must. I can’t seem to think either . . . When do you suppose they brought her here? John, you must have told her about this place. How else would they know about it?’

He started to speak. Then his jaw dropped, and the most extraordinary expression transformed his face.

Knowing what I know now, I’m not sure he would have told me the truth about the revelation that had just struck him, but I am sure that things would have worked out much more neatly for us if he had had time to think it over. But at that moment someone started knocking at the door of the apartment.

This final shock, on top of all the others, was almost too much for my bewildered brain. I can’t say I was surprised – only infuriated that I had not anticipated this. If the gang wanted to incriminate John, what better way to ensure that he would be caught than by making an anonymous phone call to the police? They had laid a neat little ambush, and now we were trapped.

John slammed the bedroom door shut and – after a moment’s hesitation – shoved the bed up against it.

‘There’s no way out,’ I gasped. ‘Maybe we should give ourselves up. John, I’ll tell them – ’

‘Shut up.’ He crossed the room in a single bound and flung up the window.

The wall went straight down, three stories, to a narrow alley paved with stone.

‘I am not a human fly,’ I said. The pounding at the outer door was now decidedly peremptory.

‘Up,’ John said. He had his head and shoulder out of the window. I looked out.

This building wasn’t one of your palatial high-ceilinged old mansions. The eaves of the roof were less than six feet above the windowsill. It still didn’t strike me as such a great idea, and I was about to say so when John grabbed me around the waist.

‘I hope you aren’t afraid of heights,’ he said, and helped me out the window.

I am not afraid of heights. As I stood there, my fingers curved over the eaves, and John’s arms clasping my thighs, I heard the outer door give with a crash. The pounding recommenced, on the bedroom door.

‘Get to a phone,’ John snapped. ‘Call Schmidt. Tell him everything.’

I started to say something, but before I could speak he transferred his grip to my knees and heaved me up. I saw his face go dead white as his arms took my full weight. Then my elbows were over the edge of the roof. From then on it was a piece of cake. John’s hands on the soles of my shoes gave one last push that took me onto the flat roof.

He had time to close the window and move away from it before the bedroom door gave way. When I peered down, I saw the window was closed, and I heard the sounds from inside the room. He put up quite a fight.

He could never have climbed onto the roof. I kept telling myself that as I scuttled across the steaming, tarred surface. Without his pushing me from below I couldn’t have made it myself, and he only had one good arm. I also kept telling myself that he was safe now, in the hands of the police, and that as soon as I could reach Schmidt he would be all right. At least he wouldn’t be charged with murder. I wondered if the Italian police used the third degree on suspects.

I knew he hadn’t killed Helena. I couldn’t think of a reason why anyone would want to kill her. Pietro wasn’t the type to fly into a jealous passion, even if he had discovered she was unfaithful to him; he would just curse and shrug and dump her. There was, of course, the possibility that she had stumbled on some information that made her dangerous to the gang. But what? She wasn’t awfully bright, poor girl, and I doubted that she could have learned more than John and I knew. The gang had imprisoned us when they decided we were dangerous. Perhaps they had meant to kill us. But why kill her? A handful of diamonds would have shut her mouth quite effectively – and they needn’t have been real diamonds. One of Luigi’s pretty copies would have fooled her nicely. No, there was no need to commit murder – unless the streak of hidden violence I had already sensed beneath the seeming harmlessness of the original plot had finally surfaced.

These ideas were swimming around in my mind, not quite as coherently as I have expressed them, as I went loping across the roofs of Trastevere like Zorro or the Scarlet Pimpernel or somebody of that ilk. Those fictitious heroes weren’t as foolhardy as they appeared; they always had a stooge down below, with a wagon filled with hay or with a snorting white stallion, so that they could drop dramatically onto the animal’s back and go riding off into the sunset shouting ‘Vengeance,’ or ‘I will return.’

I stopped and took a look around. Nobody had climbed the wall after me. Either John had convinced the policemen that he was alone, or they had concluded I had made my getaway. I felt horribly conspicuous up there, though. The apartment building was of moderate height; some of the neighbouring structures were higher, some were lower, and there were balconies and windows all around. I sat down in the shade of the parapet that ran around the roof and tried to catch my breath.

I wasn’t going to have any problem getting down from the roof. The old buildings of Trastevere don’t boast modern luxuries like fire escapes, but they have other features that would make cat burglary a cinch. There are no yards or gardens in that crowded quarter, so the people use the roofs for out-of-door living. Some of them were prettily arranged, with furniture and awnings and potted palm trees. Obviously there was access to the roofs from the lower floors. All I had to do was select a building at a safe distance from the one where I was sitting, and descend.

I was about to rise and go on my way when I heard noises from the street below. A car stopped with a faint squeak of tires and someone called out. I stood up and peeked over the parapet.

The car was big enough to fill the street from side to side. It was parked in front of John’s apartment building, and as I watched I saw three men emerge from the courtyard. All I could see from up there were the tops of their heads and odd, foreshortened views of shoulders, but it wasn’t hard to identify John. He had lost his hat, and his head flopped forwards as the other two pulled him along between them. They looked like big men, but that may have been because John wasn’t standing up straight. His feet dragged helplessly along the pavement as they threw him into the car. They got in after him and drove off.

I will not repeat the thoughts that passed through my mind. They were irrelevant and immaterial and sloppily sentimental.

I climbed up onto the roof of the adjoining building, pushed through a pretty little hedge of evergreens, and found myself face to face with a well-rounded Italian matron who was enjoying the sunshine. She let out a squeal when she saw me and clutched her towel to her bosom.

‘Buon gomo,’; I said politely. ‘Dovè l’uscita, per favore?’;

She just sat there with her mouth open, so I had to find the exit myself. The stairs went straight on down – and so did I, as fast as I could, expecting to hear shrieks from the roof. But she didn’t yell. I guess she decided I was harmless, if eccentric.

I knew that making a call to Munich wasn’t going to be easy. The intricacies of the Italian telephone system are incomprehensible to anyone who is used to the high-priced but efficient manipulations of Ma Bell. For instance – how do you make a long-distance call from a pay phone when the small change of Italy consists of dirty crumpled little paper bills? But money talks, and I had some left from what John had given me. After a long, agitated exchange with the operator, the proprietor of the tobacconist’s shop finally consented to take every cent I had and let me make the call. It was about three times what a call to Alaska would have cost, but I was in a hurry.

The greedy little so-and-so hovered over me, ready to snatch the phone from my hand if I talked more than three minutes. Finally, after a series of buzzes and shrieks in three different languages, and a misconnection with a garage in downtown Frankfurt, I heard the familiar voice of Schmidt’s secretary.

‘Gerda,’ I shouted. ‘It’s Vicky. Give me Herr – ’

‘Ah, Vicky. Where are you?’

‘Still in Rome. Let me talk to – ’

‘You lucky girl.’ Gerda sighed, a long, expensive sigh. ‘How is Rome? I’ll bet you have found a nice Italian friend, haven’t you? Tell me what – ’

‘Gerda, I can’t talk,’ I shrieked, glaring at the proprietor, who was breathing garlic over my shoulder.

‘Quick, let me talk to Schmidt.’

‘He isn’t here.’

‘What?’

‘Signorina, it is already two minutes – ’

‘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 nightclubs.’

‘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 assistance. From the rear of the shop came a huge woman brandishing 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 colour, came Helena’s face, black and swollen, framed by the swirling masses 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 colours, not grey, 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 pass 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 under 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 colour. 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 anticipating.) 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 passport. 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, 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 noble, 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 assuming I could enlist police assistance, 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 technicolour 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 documents, photographs, statements – all in my hot little hands. Yes, he would tell them that, damn his eyes, with no qualms about endangering me. As he would have said, he wasn’t that noble.

I wondered why they hadn’t chased after me, onto the roof. They must have known I was with John. Hell, 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 centre, 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 scrap of paper. It was a battered hundred-lira note, which had somehow escaped my notice when the bloodsucking tobacconist was relieving me of my worldly wealth. I had just enough money for one local phone call.

I bought a gettone from the clerk behind the counter of the first café 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 breasts 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 commg.’

‘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 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 glass.

‘Thank you,’ I took the glass, 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 assure you, you have missed a unique experience.’

Her lips tilted up at the corners . . . The Dragon Lady, the primitive goddess 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 rushing 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 glass 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 that 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 amusement 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 God’s name did 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. Nobody 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 forwards, 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 prostitute? 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.