Street of the Five Moons

Chapter Eight

I WOKE UP in the cellars. There was no question about it. I had seen those rough-hewn limestone walls before, though I did not recall this particular room. There were actually three rooms, as I discovered when I got my aching body off the floor. Open archways, doorless, led from one chamber to the next. The only exit from the suite, if I may call it that, was in the room where I had awakened. The door was of wood so old it was practically petrified. When I pounded on it experimentally, I hurt my knuckles.

The rooms were windowless, but there was light in the first one from a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. I appreciated that light, though there was little to be seen: only a pile of blankets and comforters, upon which I had been lying, and a low wooden table. The air was cool and dank. The farthest room of the three, dirt-floored, had sprouted a fine crop of mushrooms. This room also boasted a primitive sanitary arrangement. I must admit I was relieved to see this. I had always wondered how prisoners managed that little detail; my favourite mysteries and thrillers ignored the point with prissy delicacy, but let’s face it, the problem is important to the prisoner.

Exploring my prison did not take long. I lay down on the pile of blankets and nursed my aching jaw. I had been hit on the same place twice in a week, and it hurt. Maybe I would have to go on a liquid diet. Of course that might not be a problem. My captors might decide not to feed me at all.

I don’t usually wear a wristwatch, so I had no idea of the time, not even the time of day. But I fancied it must be later the same evening. My next telephone call to Professor Schmidt wasn’t due until five o’clock the following day. They had all night and most of the next day to decide what to do with me.

Schmidt would go to the police if I failed to report on time. I knew him well enough to be sure of that. I also knew him well enough to suspect that the police would not be impressed by what he told them. They would call the villa, and Pietro would have a plausible story to account for my failure to telephone. A young, healthy female has to be missing for much longer than twenty-four hours these days before any police department in the world is going to get worried. Pietro’s social position would disarm suspicion, and even if they suspected something, they would be unable to prove it unless they could find me. My daily telephone calls had been a bluff, nothing more; and the gang had called my bluff.

Pietro must be a member of the gang after all. That workshop could not have been equipped without his being aware of it. I wondered how deeply involved Luigi was. Some famous forgers have claimed they were used by unscrupulous people; they had no idea their pretty little replicas were being sold as genuine art objects! Well – it was possible, if implausible; people can be pretty naïve. Luigi might be innocent, but his father was guilty as hell. As a detective, I was batting about .200. I hadn’t figured Pietro for the mastermind.

I was lying there staring up at the stained ceiling and trying to decide whether the biggest patch of mould looked like a map of South America or George Washington’s profile, when someone came to the door.

They had that place locked up like Fort Knox. Chains rattled, bolts squeaked, bars slid back, rusty keys turned in rusty locks. I lay still. There was nothing else I could do. I might have hidden behind the door and tried to hit the newcomer over the head, if (a) I knew which way the door opened, in or out; and (b) there had been anything in the room to hit him with.

The door opened inward. That wasn’t much help, since point b was still negative. I closed my eyes and pretended to be unconscious. I felt sick. The man outside the door might be my executioner.

I was not reassured to recognize Bruno. However, the fact that he was carrying a tray cheered me somewhat. The cups and silver covers on the tray looked outré in that dank underground hole, but they obviously contained food, and if they were going to feed me, they couldn’t intend to kill me right away.

Bruno stood in the doorway eyeing me suspiciously through squinted eyes, and I lay still, watching him through my lashes. Finally he put the tray on the floor, shoved it into the cell with his foot, and closed the door. I waited till the jangle of bolts and chains had stopped, and then got to my feet.

My appetite was not too good, but I took the covers off the plates to see what they were giving me. The food had undoubtedly come from Pietro’s dinner menu; there was a veal Marsala with mushrooms, a dish of pasta, salad, bread, and even a carafe of red wine. I was reminded of the old tradition of feeding the condemned man a hearty meal just before the hanging.

However, I told myself I ought to keep my strength up and began to nibble on the salad. Then my appetite revived and I started on the veal. I had eaten most of the food before it occurred to me that it might have been drugged or poisoned. When it did occur to me, I shrugged mentally. There was no need for them to drug me, they could walk in and knock me out cold anytime they wanted to. Conscious or unconscious, I was no match for Bruno.

The food revived me, and I set out on another tour of my prison. It would have been a waste of time if I had had anything better to do, which I didn’t. I found a pile of rotting wood, the remains of shelves, perhaps, and a couple of pieces of metal so rusted they broke in my hands. There was nothing that could possibly be used as a weapon, even supposing I got up enough nerve to try and ambush Bruno.

I thought about digging myself out, like the Count of Monte Cristo. How long had it taken him and his buddy, the old abbé, to get out of the Château d’If? Years. And if I remembered the story correctly, the tunnel hadn’t worked anyway. The floor of the third room was of dirt, to be sure, but the only implement I had to dig with was the spoon that had been on the tray. Figure a teaspoonful of dirt every two seconds, one hundred teaspoons to a cup, four cups to a peck, five billion pecks of dirt between me and the open air . . . I went back to the pile of blankets and lay down.

I should have been plotting and scheming and thinking up ways to escape. Instead I fell asleep. I don’t know how long I slept, but I woke with a start when the chorus of chains and bolts began again. This time I was able to rise before the door opened.

It was good old Bruno again. He had brought me another present. It hung over his left shoulder, feet dangling. When Bruno saw me on my feet, he put his hand in his pocket and took out a long, shiny knife.

‘Stand still,’ he muttered. ‘Do not move.’

‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.

He gave his shoulder a casual twitch. Smythe’s body slid to the floor and lay still. His head happened to land on the edge of the pile of blankets, which probably saved him from a concussion, since the floor was of stone, and quite hard. I say ‘happened’ because I don’t think Bruno really cared where or how he landed. Bruno didn’t need the knife; he would have looked quite at home in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Murderers without any deadly implement except his hands.

He went out and closed the door. I stood pressed against the wall, staring at Smythe’s recumbent body.

I hope I will not be accused of being paranoid if I admit I suspected a trick. What trick, I didn’t know, but Smythe was not precisely the most straightforward individual I had ever met.

He was unconscious, though. Limp as a stuffed snake. He had fallen on his back, and his upturned face was an ugly shade of grey. The blood trickling down his cheek was still flowing, so I surmised that he had been hit on the head not long before.

I sat down next to him and took a closer look. It wouldn’t have surprised me to smell ketchup. But the blood came from an actual wound. It wasn’t very deep, although the area surrounding it was beginning to swell and would soon be a nice rich purple colour. If Smythe was up to something, he had gone to considerable lengths to ensure authenticity.

He was out for quite a while. I was beginning to get worried – the damned cellar was gruesome enough without having a corpse for company – when his eyelids popped open. He looked at me, then closed his eyes. An expression of acute agony contorted his face.

‘Where does it hurt?’ I cooed. ‘Tell Vicky and she’ll kiss it and make it better.’

As I had surmised, the expression of pain was not caused by physical discomfort. Without opening his eyes, Smythe let out a string of expletives remarkable for their originality and vigour.

‘Serves you right,’ I said. ‘People who poke their noses into other people’s business deserve – ’

‘Shut up,’ Smythe said.

I shut up. He really did look bad. After a moment, overcome by an uncharacteristic and, in his case, undeserved streak of kindness, I poured some wine into a glass and held it to his lips.

‘Try this,’ I said. ‘A modest little wine, but I think you’ll be amused at its presumption.

Smythe looked at me over the rim of the glass, and a faint spark warmed his blue eyes.

‘Thurber,’ he said. ‘Thanks . . . I needed that.’

He sat up slowly and took the glass from my hand. I leaned back and crossed my legs.

‘Have you dined?’ I asked courteously. ‘There’s some veal left, and quite a bit of bread.’

‘Thank you, I have dined. At least . . .’ Smythe twirled the empty wineglass in his fingers and frowned. ‘Yes, that’s right; it’s coming back to me. You weren’t at dinner.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I was here.’

‘The principessa asked about you,’ Smythe went on slowly. ‘Pietro said you had gone to Rome for the evening – you had a date.’

‘I had a date, all right. With Bruno.’

‘In Luigi’s studio? Pietro told me, later. He put on a good act at dinner, but as soon as it was over he called me into the study and told me what had happened. He was quite upset. You forced his hand, you know. He had to act at once, to prevent you from telling anyone about the workshop; but he is a rotten criminal. He hates violence.’

‘You aren’t trying to tell me it was Pietro who hit me and put me here?’

‘No, no, he wouldn’t sully his hands with that sort of thing,’ Smythe said contemptuously. ‘But you must have suspected that you have been watched whenever you left the villa. Bruno was the man in charge of you today. He had sense enough to snatch you as soon as you came out of the studio.’

‘And after ordering Bruno to lock me up in this den, Pietro contributed nice soft blankets and veal Marsala. He’s a little inconsistent, isn’t he?’

‘Not really. If it were up to Pietro, you wouldn’t have a thing to worry about.’

Silence fell – a pregnant, unpleasant silence.

‘You mean Pietro is not the one who is going to decide what happens to me?’ I suggested.

‘You’ve got it.’

‘Then who is? You?’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ Smythe said, with ineffable contempt. ‘Despite my pleasing facade, I am in my heart of hearts a sadist of the worst sort. I like to strangle my victims personally. I haven’t quite decided whether to do it that way, or inflict some other, even more ghastly torture on you first, but – ’

‘All right; enough!’ I interrupted. ‘Of all the things I loathe about you, I think I loathe your nasty sarcastic tongue the most. You aren’t trying to imply that you are here because you quarreled with the mastermind on my behalf?’

Smythe didn’t answer. He wriggled slowly back until he could lean against the wall; and there he sat, his legs stiffly extended, the wineglass poised in his hand, his face a mask of cold fury. If he had been six years old, I would have called it a bad case of the sulks.

‘My hero,’ I said. ‘I have misjudged you. I am abject. I grovel. And of course my girlish heart is palpitating with rapture because you risked your life – ’

The wineglass smashed against the wall with a musical tinkle, and Smythe, turning, threw his arms around me and yanked me up against his chest with a force that drove the wind out of my lungs.

‘Will he kiss her or kill her?’ I gasped. ‘Tune in tomorrow and hear the next – ’

Smythe’s face broke up. He began to laugh. He didn’t release me, but his grasp relaxed, so that I was able to find a more comfortable position. We sat there side by side till he finished laughing. Then he said,

‘Suppose we declare a truce. I find your sense of humour as dreadful as you find mine; and I really don’t think this is the time or the place for banal jokes.’

‘Have you got a plan?’ I asked.

‘I was hoping you had one,’ was the discouraging reply.

‘I can’t plan till I know more. If you would care to confide in me – ’

‘In return for immunity?’ He cocked an inquisitive blue eye at me. What he saw in my face seemed to discourage him. He shook his head morosely. ‘All right, we’ll skip that question for now. Unless we get out of here, the problem remains academic. I’ll tell you as much as I can safely do.’

‘Safely for you?’

‘Of course.’

‘All right, then. Who is the mastermind?’

‘I don’t know. Honestly! Whoever he is, he is too smart to let his identity be known to the rank and file. I’m something of a commuting courier, as you might say, so I know a number of the people involved, but I have never seen or spoken to the boss. He writes little messages. Here in Rome the only people I know are Pietro and Bruno and Antonio, and a few of the old family retainers who act as hatchet men.’

‘And Luigi?’

‘Luigi is outside the structure of the organization,’ Smythe said. ‘You might say he is the organization. Without his talent, this business would never have begun.’

‘I’m sorry about him. I had hoped he was unwitting.’

‘Well, really, he’d have to be pretty stupid not to suspect what was going on,’ Smythe pointed out. ‘Luigi is not stupid. But in a peculiar way he is innocent. He doesn’t think of what he is doing as wrong. It’s a gigantic joke – ’

‘Luigi was the ghost,’ I exclaimed.

‘Obviously. Who did you think it was?’

‘You.’

‘I am incapable of such childish tricks,’ Smythe said, insulted. ‘Luigi has a child’s resentment of adults. Any trick perpetrated on a grown-up is fair in his book.’

‘It’s not surprising, when you see how his father treats him.’

‘I gather you have fallen for his pretty face,’ Smythe said nastily. ‘The maternal instinct springs up in the most unexpected places . . . He hates his father and finds poor old Pietro’s amours disgusting. According to his ethical code, fornication is only acceptable for the young.’

‘Then why is he cooperating?’

‘You figure it out. Perhaps because in this game he and the old man are equals. Actually, Luigi is more important than Pietro, and he is well aware of it, though he is so accustomed to being bullied by his father that he doesn’t take advantage of his position as much as he might.’

‘And what precisely is this game you speak of? I have an idea, but – ’

‘That is all you are going to have,’ Smythe said calmly. ‘I have no intention of telling you anything except what you need to know to help me get out of this place.’

‘You surely can’t imagine I’m going to keep quiet about – ’

‘You may talk all you like to whomsoever you like, darling. I will have taken my departure by then, to parts unknown, but if Pietro has an iota of common sense, he will have removed the evidence.’

‘Now, see here, Smythe – ’

‘That isn’t my name.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Never mind. You may call me John. That really is my name, believe it or not.’

‘I don’t care if it’s Rumpelstiltskin. Damn it, you can’t hope to walk away clean from this mess. It is a criminal conspiracy – ’

‘Oh, yes, but the law is so dull, isn’t it? I’m afraid you have a very medieval idea of right and wrong. Many people do. They still tend to punish crimes against property more severely than crimes against people. Now I support the old Robin Hood ideal,’ Smythe said, warming to his subject. ‘I honestly do not feel that anything I have done is reprehensible. Dishonest, no doubt, but not immoral. A simple redistribution of wealth, no more. No widows and orphans have been deprived, no struggling old couples have been robbed of their sole means of support, no one has been injured – ’

‘I don’t know about that,’ I said, interrupting this speech, which seemed to be developing into a lecture. ‘What about us?’

John’s face fell.

‘Nothing has happened yet,’ he said.

‘What about kidnapping me?’

‘That was Bruno. He’s the overseer of the servants – the muscle, as we say – and like all noncoms, he has an exaggerated idea of his intelligence. He is dedicated to the family and sometimes acts on his own initiative.’

‘What about the man in Munich?’

‘That really was an accident,’ John said, brightening. ‘He had a weak heart. We think a thief held him up, probably scared him to death, literally. He was a gentle soul . . .’

‘Kind to his aging mother, good to his parakeet,’ I said sarcastically. ‘I don’t really care about him except as a portent of things to come. You can’t avoid the question, John. Pietro, or someone else through Pietro, presented a scheme for dealing with me that met with your vehement disapproval – if I am to believe your story of why you are here with me. What was the proposal?’

‘He didn’t mean it,’ Smythe said.

‘You fail to convince me.’

‘He really didn’t. He was sweating and wringing his hands and uttering agitated little screams in Italian at the very idea.’

‘What idea?’

Suddenly the situation was too exasperating to endure; the two of us sitting cozily side by side, with Smythe’s arm draped casually over my shoulder as we talked about murder – my murder. I put my hands on his chest and shoved. I only meant to get away from him, stand up, pace, get some of my frustration out through physical action. I shoved too hard. His head banged against the wall and the second blow, on top of the first, was too much. He didn’t pass out, but his eyeballs rolled up till only the whites were showing, and he started to slide slowly sideways.

I caught his head before it hit the floor and eased him down till he was lying across my lap. After a while his eyes rolled back into place.

‘Remind me,’ he said feebly, ‘to throttle you when I get my strength back.’

‘I imagine that little matter will be taken care of for you,’ I said, absentmindedly running my fingers through his hair. ‘Wasn’t that the suggestion – to silence me permanently?’

He sighed and turned his head slightly, so that my hand was against his cheek.

‘Perhaps I had better tell you exactly what happened.’

‘That would be nice,’ I said, trying to free my hand.

‘Don’t do that, it hurts my head . . . That’s better. You see, when Pietro told me he had received orders to deal with you, I remonstrated. No, don’t thank me; my motives were purely selfish. I signed up for a spot of larceny, not for murder. I had, and have, no intention of being caught in the act, but if something should go wrong, there is quite a difference between ten years with time off for good behaviour, and the gallows.’

‘Do they hang people in Italy?’ I asked.

‘I have no idea. I carefully refrained from looking it up. But I’ve no desire to spend the years of my youth in prison, here or in jolly old England. Don’t interrupt, it’s difficult enough for me to think coherently with my head aching as it is . . . Where was I?’

‘You remonstrated.’

‘Oh, yes. Well, Pietro agreed with my reasoning, but he is in abject terror of his boss. That’s what he calls him, by the way. The Boss. Curious, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe The Boss is American. Or English.’

‘Don’t start getting ideas. I am not the master criminal. So, after an inconclusive argument, I went banging out of the library, leaving Pietro gibbering. I went into the gardens. I wanted to walk, think what I ought to do. He must have telephoned the big cheese as soon as I left, and received further instructions. I hadn’t been outside for more than a quarter of an hour before Bruno and one of his friends caught up with me.’

‘I see. Well, it’s all terribly interesting, but, I’m afraid, not very helpful. Er . . . was any specific method of extermination mentioned? I mean, it makes a difference whether they are going to flood the cellar and drown me, or pump in poisonous gas, or put something in the food, or – ’

‘Good Lord, you have a lurid imagination,’ Smythe said, grimacing. ‘I don’t really see that it matters, since there is nothing we can do to prevent any method from being carried out, including the ones you have mentioned.’

‘Do you have any idea what part of the cellar we are in?’

‘No.’ John closed his eyes.

‘You aren’t being much help.’

‘I’m thinking.’

‘No, you aren’t. You’re getting ready to go to sleep. Not on me, if you please.’

‘I am thinking.’

‘Prove it.’

‘Have you explored this unwholesome den?’

‘Yes. There are two other rooms, more or less like this one, but even less comfortable. No visible door or window. Stone walls, stone floors, except in the third room, which has a dirt floor.’

‘You seem to have done a very thorough job,’ John said agreeably. ‘No point in my going over the same ground.’

‘I doubt if you would see anything I missed,’ I said. ‘What I want you to do is stand up and start exercising. Get yourself limbered up.’

‘Why, for God’s sake?’

‘So you will be in condition to jump Bruno the next time he comes in.’

That roused him. He opened his eyes as far as they would go without actually popping out of his head.

‘That is the most idiotic suggestion I’ve ever heard.’

‘It’s our only hope of getting out of here. You can hit him with the tray.’

‘Why don’t you hit him with the tray?’

I would hate to tell you how long this sort of thing went on. That man will debate with the devil when he comes to carry him away. (If he hasn’t sold his soul, it is only because Old Nick isn’t ready to meet his price.) Eventually I got John on his feet, not because he was convinced by my arguments, but because my shouting in his ear made him uncomfortable. The exercise did him good. After a few artistic stumbles and staggers he gave up trying to convince me that he was wounded unto death, and he regained his normal strength quite quickly. He even went so far as to investigate the other two rooms. He had to agree that there was no more practical method of escape than the one I had proposed.

It was not really all that practical, for we had no weapon. The tray and utensils were of silver, and although the tray was heavy enough to raise a bump on a normal skull, it was large and unwieldy. Besides, as John was quick to point out, Bruno’s skull was a good deal thicker than normal.

‘I might only irritate the fellow,’ he said. ‘And I would hate to do that.’

‘What’s wrong with your fists?’ I inquired.

‘I might break a bone in my hand. Would you ask Rubinstein to hit a villain?’

‘No. He’s ninety years old.’

‘That is irrelevant.’

‘Besides, he plays better than you.’

‘In another sixty years or so, assuming I live that long, I expect to improve.’

Ah, well. As John said, it passed the time. We had nothing else to do. But we had not prepared ourselves for action of any kind, and the now-familiar rattle at the door caught us off guard. I jumped up and gestured frantically.

‘Get behind the door!’

‘I’m not ready,’ said John, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘I’m still giddy. By morning I’ll be in better shape. Let’s wait till the next time.

‘There may not be a next time. How long do you think – oh, damn!’

By then it was too late. The door was swinging open.

When I saw Bruno, I had a dizzying sensation of déjà vu. Once again he was carrying a limp body. The contours of this one were quite different from John’s; I recognized the plump haunches and Gucci shoes.

Bruno didn’t heave this body carelessly on the floor. He started into the room and then stopped and looked warily from me to John. There was nothing alarming about John’s appearance, he was flattened up against the wall like a timid damsel expecting to be assaulted. Bruno jerked his head to the side.

‘Come here,’ he grunted. ‘No, not you, signorina, you stay where you are. You, Smythe. Take him.’

John advanced slowly. Bruno snarled.

‘Avanti, avanti! Come, little coward, I will not hurt you. Take the master. Be careful. Do not drop him.’

John received Pietro’s limp form with all the ardour of a man embracing a large sack of fertilizer. His knees buckled as the weight dropped into his embrace, but Bruno’s growl encouraged him to keep his feet.

‘I said, do not drop him! Put him down, cretino; why are you standing there like a fool? Put him on the blankets – gently, gently. Do not hurt him.’

With an eloquent glance at me, John obeyed.

‘Bene,’ said Bruno. ‘Take care of him. If he comes to harm . . .’

‘Don’t you worry, Bruno, old chap. I’ll tend him as if he were my own.’

Bruno grunted and withdrew. John put his ear to Pietro’s chest, flipped up his eyelid, took his pulse. Then he sat back on his heels.

‘Drugged.’

‘Is he going to be all right?’

‘Oh, yes. Just look at him.’

Pietro looked like a sleeping baby, or a small pink piglet with a moustache. His lips were curved in a sweet smile. John loosened his silk cravat, tucked a blanket over him, and got to his feet.

‘Nothing we can do for him. He’ll have to sleep it off.’

‘Do you suppose he objected to The Boss’s plans for us?’

‘Possibly. A lot of good it did him.’

‘John, he must know who The Boss is. We’ve got to wake him up and talk to him.’

‘No chance. He’ll be out for hours. Besides, what makes you suppose he would tell us? He’s in no danger. The Boss probably tossed him in here to cool off. He tends to become hysterical in a crisis, but when he wakes up and looks at the situation sensibly, he will realize that he has to go along with whatever The Boss decides to do.’

John leaned up against the wall, his hands in his pockets, but he no longer appeared lazy and helpless. Even his voice had changed. It was quick and crisp, with no trace of the irritating drawl.

‘Look at it this way,’ he went on, in the same incisive voice. ‘Pietro can’t risk going to the police. He’s in this scheme up to his fat little neck. He can’t run away and establish a new identity; he’d have to give up everything he possesses, and somehow I can’t see him making a successful career as an honest tradesman. He’s not vicious, but he is weak. He had been drinking heavily tonight, and I expect he lost his nerve and started talking wildly. But tomorrow . . . He’ll simply turn his back, Vicky. We will be handed over to another arm of the organization, and Pietro will never know what happened to us. He won’t ask.’

‘Well, you are a cheery soul,’ I said glumly. ‘I think I preferred you in your giddy mood.’

‘So did I,’ said John, with a sigh. ‘You have no idea how I dislike coming to grips with cruel reality. But when my precious skin is at stake . . . I think we had better make our move immediately. They may decide to deal with us while Pietro is unconscious – present him with a fait accompli. That would relieve his miserable little conscience. Yes, I think that’s quite probable.’

‘Move?’ I gaped at him. This new personality had me baffled. ‘What move?’

John was bending over Pietro, removing the blanket, arranging the lax body into a twisted position.

‘You saw how concerned Bruno was about his master. Unless I miss my guess, he’s hanging about somewhere outside. I’m going to bang on the door and scream. When he comes in, you start flipping Pietro around. Make it appear as if he’s having a convulsion.’

He looked up, saw my stupefied expression, and said irritably, ‘Come on, girl, get with it. Something along these lines.’ And he began to shake Pietro’s arms and legs, the way you might pretend to animate a large stuffed doll. It did look convincing. If you didn’t know what he was doing, you would think he was trying to restrain the thrashing limbs of a man in an epileptic seizure.

Pietro’s round head rolled back and forth, but his fixed smile never altered.

‘Make sure your body hides his head,’ John added, with a disgusted look at poor Pietro. ‘I can’t do anything about his silly face.’

He stood up, dusting the knees of his trousers, and I took his place.

‘I thought you were too weak to tackle Bruno,’ I said, practicing. The game had a bizarre fascination. Pietro was so nice and plump and roly-poly.

‘I am. But at least this gives me a fighting chance, while he is off guard and thinking of other things. Don’t be afraid to pitch in, darling, if you see me getting the worst of it.’

He didn’t give me time to reply, but went at once to the door and started kicking and pounding.

‘Help, help!’ he bellowed. ‘Aiuto! Avanti! Catastrophe, murder, sudden death. The master is dying. The count is dead. Help, help, help . . .’

Bruno must have been right outside the door. Bolts and chains jangled in an agitated fashion. I started shaking Pietro, keeping a wary eye on the door. So far the scheme seemed to be working.

It almost failed in its inception, however. Bruno was so upset he threw himself against the door, and John let out a yell of pain as the heavy panels smashed him against the wall.

After that, things got confused. I slid out of Bruno’s way as he came rushing towards me like a mother buffalo protecting her calf. He flung himself down on his knees and reached for Pietro. I stood up and clasped my hands together. If John was out of action, it was up to me. I planned to hit Bruno on the back of the neck, the way detectives do on TV, but I wasn’t awfully optimistic about what would happen. The back of his neck looked like a chunk of granite.

Then John came staggering out from behind the door. His hand hid the lower part of his face and his eyes were swimming with tears. I don’t know whether Bruno heard him, or whether he realized that his master was no worse off than before; something alerted him, at any rate, and he looked up at me with a scowl darkening his ugly face. Still on his knees, he reached out for me. I skipped back. Rumbling like an earthquake, Bruno began the monumental task of heaving himself to his feet. He was halfway up, still off balance, when John lowered his head and ran straight at him.

I have never seen – or heard – anything like it. Every bit of breath in Bruno’s lungs went out of them, in a single explosive sound like a singing kettle under full steam. His arms flew out, his head jerked forwards. He hit the wall and slid down to a sitting position. His eyes were still half open.

John straightened up and rubbed his head. His other hand covered his nose.

‘I think I fractured my skull,’ he said in a muffled voice.

‘At least your precious hands are intact,’ I said callously. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘Tie him up,’ John said, indicating Bruno.

I looked dubiously at Bruno. I would just as soon have approached a semi-conscious grizzly bear.

‘Cover me,’ I said.

‘What with?’ John took the tip of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and wriggled it gently. ‘I guess it isn’t broken. It just feels like it. Come on, don’t stand around arguing, we’ve got to get moving.’

We tied Bruno up with strips of blanket, using his own knife to cut the fabric, and gagged him with another sizable scrap. He was beginning to stir and mutter by the time we finished. Pietro had not so much as wriggled. He must have been having lovely dreams, though. His smile had become positively seraphic.

In addition to the knife, we found another useful item in Bruno’s pockets – a box of matches. It was the only light we had, once we had closed the cell door. The corridor was black as pitch. I lighted one of the matches while John restored the bars and chains to their position.

‘Which way?’ I whispered.

‘Don’t know. Try right.’

His hand groped out. If he was reaching for my hand, he missed by a mile. I slapped his fingers.

‘Naughty, naughty,’ I said softly.

‘Pure accident.’ His voice was equally soft, but he sounded as jaunty as I felt.

Success had gone to our heads, but the euphoria didn’t last long. We stumbled along the dark passageway, hands clasped, our free hands trailing along the wall on either side, dragging our feet for fear of stumbling. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a gaping hole in the floor, or a mantrap; it was that kind of a place. I suggested lighting another match, but John vetoed the idea. We only had a few of them, and we might find ourselves in a situation where we would have greater need of them.

Finally we came to a dead end. There was a door at the end of the passageway, but it was locked. There was nothing to do but retrace our steps and try the other direction. We went faster now, not only because we knew the way, but because we were both conscious of the passage of time. Even if Bruno managed to free himself, his shouts wouldn’t be heard upstairs, but John’s theory had impressed me as being only too plausible. There was no reason why the gang should wait until morning to dispose of us. They might come at any moment.

We got back to the cell – I felt the door as we passed – and went on more slowly. Despite my care I tripped over a chair – the one where Bruno had been sitting, I suppose. No reason why he shouldn’t be comfortable.

This end of the passageway opened into another corridor. Here for the first time I saw a glimmer of light. We moved in that direction and discovered that it came from a barred window high in the wall. My eyes were adjusted to total darkness, so this radiance seemed almost brilliant, though it was only moonlight diffused by three-foot-thick walls and a screen of shrubs. We were in a room lined with shelves holding a miscellaneous assortment of objects, a storeroom, obviously. A dark opening on the other side of the room marked the exit. A flight of stairs led up to a door. John pushed it ajar and peered through the crack.

‘Another storeroom,’ he said, after a moment. ‘All clear.’

This room, on a slightly higher level, had several windows, and rows and rows of bins.

‘Wine cellar,’ I whispered. ‘I know where we are now. I didn’t realize this door was here. I never reached the part of the cellars where we were.’

‘Never mind the travelogue, just lead the way,’ John muttered.

It was easier said than done. The room was like a maze, with one row of bins looking just like the next. We had traversed one row without finding the door, and had started on the next, when John’s hand clenched painfully over mine.

I heard the sound almost as soon as he did. They weren’t bothering to move quietly. Why should they? One of them was whistling. There was at least one other man, from the sound of the footsteps. A few seconds ticked past, while we stood frozen. Then we saw a light, broken into grotesque shadows by the surrounding wine racks, but growing steadily brighter.

John dropped to the floor, dragging me with him. They passed not five feet from us. If they had looked to one side, they would have seen us. There were two of them. I recognized two of the men I had seen working near the garage. The light from the electric torch was so bright I hid my eyes.

Oh, well, I may as well be honest. I hid my eyes in the style of an ostrich, hoping they wouldn’t see me if I couldn’t see them. I have never felt more exposed and helpless.

But they went by without breaking stride, and turned into the next aisle. The light receded along with the sound of their footsteps.

John yanked me to my feet. He didn’t need to tell me to hurry. We had about a minute and a half before the alarm would be raised.

I was ready to run, I didn’t care where to. As soon as we got out of the wine cellar, John pulled me to a stop.

‘Wait, let’s not go riding off in all directions. Give me some idea of our options from here.’

‘The main stairs are that way,’ I said, pointing. ‘They come up in the service wing, near the butler’s pantry.’

‘That’s the way our friends came, most probably. They will be returning that way. There must be some other exit. Preferably out into the great out-of-doors.’

I tried to remember. It was hard; my heart was making so much noise I couldn’t hear myself think.

‘Wait. Yes, there is another door. This way.’

You never realize that time is subjective until you are in a spot like the one we were in. At every second I expected to hear howls and shouts and the sounds of pursuit, but actually we had covered quite a bit of ground before my ears caught the echo of thundering footsteps. They were muffled by distance and by the walls we had put between ourselves and our pursuers, but I heard them. I was listening for them.

I went even faster after that. It was a wonder we didn’t brain ourselves against a wall, but there was some light, from windows, since we were now on the upper level of the cellars. It is even more of a wonder that I remembered the way. However, I have an excellent sense of direction, and one’s senses work amazingly well when the alternative to failure is imminent execution. We ended up right where I hoped we would, at the bottom of a flight of rough stone stairs that ended in a heavy door.

We had to risk lighting a match or we would never have gotten that door open. The old lock wasn’t very formidable, but it was reinforced by the usual bars, bolts, and chains. When we had disengaged the extra impediments, the door still refused to budge.

I could have picked the lock if I had had time, steady hands, and the necessary tools. I had none of the above. So I lighted another match and looked around; and sure enough, there was the key hanging on a nail. My grandmother always did that with her keys. It was an unexpectedly homey touch.

The door creaked hideously, but fortunately there was nobody around to hear. It opened onto a weedy patch of ground enclosed by plastered walls. There was a gate in the wall directly opposite.

John closed the door behind us.

‘Not that it matters,’ he muttered. ‘They will know we came this way if they see the chains unfastened. Where are we?’

‘Damned if I know.’

The courtyard was about ten feet by fifteen. John walked out into the middle of it, put his hands on his hips, threw his head back, and contemplated the heavens. The moonlight silvered his hair and cast dramatic shadows across his body; he looked like one of the younger, more ineffectual saints addressing the Almighty. I stayed in the shelter of the house. I felt safer there.

‘Well?’ I said, after a while.

‘Sssh.’ He came back to me. ‘We’re behind the villa – ’

‘I could have told you that.’

‘It faces west,’ John went on imperturbably. ‘We want the road to Rome, which is that way.’ He pointed.

‘That may be what we want, but what we need is to put some distance between us and the villa. There can’t be many ways out of those cellars, and it won’t take long to check them. Bruno could come bursting through that door any second. Let’s get out of here.’

‘You have a point. Excelsior!’

The gate led into another courtyard. Every acre of ground seemed to be walled, and I began to get an acute sense of claustrophobia. Finally, however, we came upon a familiar building – the garage.

‘Hey,’ I said, catching John’s arm. ‘What about – ’

He wasn’t actually reading my mind; we were both thinking the obvious things at the same time.

‘No use, I don’t have the keys to any of the cars. Antonio sleeps upstairs; by the time I could get one of them started he’d hear me. Besides, if we steal a car, all they have to do is call the local constable in Tivoli and tell him – ’

‘One reason is enough,’ I snapped. ‘Avanti, then.’

Another gate and another courtyard brought us to the shelter of a stone wall, where we collapsed to catch our breath.

‘The gardens begin here,’ I said softly. ‘Plenty of cover in all that fancy landscaping. We should be all right now.’

Squatting on all fours like a nervous rabbit, John suddenly stiffened and lifted his head.

‘Look.’

Atop the hill the villa loomed up against the stars. It should have been a dark and shapely silhouette. But as we watched, lights sprang up in window after window, like a fireworks display. I was still staring in dismay at this lovely but ominous spectacle when a light went on right next to me, as if one of the trees had sprouted light bulbs instead of leaves. I transferred my horrified glance to John. I could even see the drops of sweat on his forehead, and the dark pupils of his dilated eyes. The pupils started to shrink.

‘We should be all right now,’ John repeated bitterly. ‘Damn it! Some bright soul has turned on the garden illumination.’