Street of the Five Moons vbm-2 Page 6

  ‘What real evidence have you, after all? A dead man – but dead of natural causes, you said – with a copy of one of your museum pieces. Have you any proof that criminal acts were intended? Forgive me, but it seems to me that you and Professor Schmidt have a postulated a plot on very slim evidence.’

  ‘That might have been true two days ago,’ I said. ‘But what about the antique shop on the Via delle Cinque Lune?’

  ‘A sketch, however detailed, is not evidence, my dear. I am glad, by the way, that I do not have to take official notice of your activities. I know the shop, Vicky. Signor Fergamo, the owner, is a most respected man.’

  ‘He might not know that the shop is being used for criminal purposes,’ I argued. ‘That damn – I mean, that English manager – ’

  ‘I don’t know him.’ Her delicate brows drew together as she pondered. ‘He must be new. The former manager of the establishment was Fergamo’s son-in-law. Even so . . .’

  She paused politely, waiting for me to answer.

  She had me over a barrel. The single piece of conclusive, damning evidence I had was the story of my kidnapping, and that was the one thing I had omitted from my narrative. I’m not sure why I hadn’t told her about that; I guess I felt it sounded so demented that it would cast an air of incredibility over an already unbelievable story. After all, she was a member of the old Roman nobility, and so was the man I suspected of being part of the gang. Would she believe an accusation against Count Caravaggio? She was more likely to conclude that I was some kind of escaped lunatic.

  All this went through my head in a flash of thought. I couldn’t see any way out of the dilemma.

  ‘You’re sure you haven’t lost any jewels?’ I asked feebly.

  Her eyes twinkled, but she managed to keep a straight face.

  ‘I will check. Does that please you?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all. It was gracious of you to warn me. As you say, it does no harm to take precautions. But while I am looking over our collection, is there any way in which I can make your holiday in Rome more enjoyable? Introductions, suggestions?’

  That gave me an opening.

  ‘There are some private collections I’d like to see,’ I said innocently. ‘I had intended to telephone, but it would certainly make things easier if you could vouch for me.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure. Which collections?’

  ‘Count Caravaggio’s.’

  ‘Caravaggio?’ Her eyebrows soared. ‘My dear, is that wise?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  She studied me thoughtfully, her chin in her cupped hand, her eyes shining.

  ‘Very well,’ she said, after a moment. ‘You may find him amusing. I will telephone immediately.’

  Like every object in the room, even the utilitarian telephone was a work of art – a gilded mother-of-pearl set that might have stood on the desk of a French President. She got through right away, but it took the count’s butler some time to locate him. While she waited, Bianca put a cigarette in a long jade holder. She looked like a cross between the Dragon Lady and an ad for expensive, custom-made cigarettes.

  Finally the count came on the wire. She addressed him by his first name.

  ‘Pietro? . . . I am well, thank you, and you? . . . Excellent. I have a treat for you, my dear; a charming young lady from America who is a distinguished art scholar. She wishes to view your collection . . . Yes, yes, indeed she is . . . One moment, I will ask.’

  Her hand over the mouthpiece, she smiled at me.

  ‘Have you lunched yet, Vicky? Pietro would like you to join him if you have no other engagement. In half an hour’s time.’

  Knowing what I know now, I probably should have declined that invitation. Even knowing what I knew then, I should have taken time to think it over. Being me – impetuous and not always too bright – I was delighted, and said so. The principessa returned to the telephone.

  ‘She accepts with pleasure, Pietro. Bene; in half an hour, then. Yes, my dear, we must dine one day soon . . . Goodbye.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ I said, as she replaced the instrument. ‘I guess I won’t have time to go back to the hotel first.’

  ‘I think not. Please make use of my private quarters if you wish to freshen up. My secretary will show you.’

  I thanked her again, and rose. She leaned back in her leather executive’s chair, her hand toying idly with a magnificent diamond brooch. Like her rings, it glittered expensively. Obviously she was not gainfully employed because she needed the money.

  ‘Don’t thank me yet,’ she said. ‘I warn you, Pietro can be rather . . . But I feel sure you can cope.’

  I thanked her for the third time. She was smiling quite broadly as I left; in a lady less elegant, I might have been tempted to call it a grin.

  The minute I met the count I knew why she had given me that funny, cat-and-canary smile.

  I had never met a man who wore a corset before. It was so obvious, not only from the rigidity of his tummy, but from his slightly apoplectic expression and the stiff way he walked.

  He was beautifully dressed. Roman tailors are superb, and he patronized the best. His suit was of dazzling white linen with a cummerbund of scarlet silk. He had a red carnation in his buttonhole. His hair had been brushed across his head and lacquered into place, but it didn’t quite cover the bald spot. I wondered why he didn’t buy a toupee. Maybe he hadn’t quite faced the extent of the disaster; people don’t see what they don’t want to see. His face was as round as his uncorseted stomach would have been, and if I hadn’t been prejudiced I would have thought it a pleasant face. His little black moustache was an obvious imitation of Clark Gable’s. He had a habit of stroking it with one finger while he talked – when his hands weren’t otherwise occupied.

  He was gorgeously turned out, but his hands were the pièce de résistance – soft and white and plump, the nails polished to a mirror surface. I had a good opportunity to judge, because they were all over me from the minute I walked into his library.

  I had taken a taxi, for fear of being late, but the count was in no hurry to get to his food. He kept pressing sherry on me. Poor man, I suppose he thought I’d get drunk. I let him pat me and stroke my arm for a while. Then I decided he had had enough fun for the day, so I pushed my chair back and stood up.

  ‘Your home is magnificent, Count,’ I cooed. ‘This is the first time I have ever seen an Italian palace – one that is still lived in, I mean, not a museum.’

  ‘Ah, this.’ With one eloquent gesture the count waved away marble floor, gold-and-crystal chandeliers, rosewood panelling set with malachite and lapis lazuli, thousands of rare leather-bound volumes . . . ‘The place is falling apart. It is no longer possible to live with any elegance, thanks to the oppressive, reactionary, revolutionary government. I keep my finest treasures in my country house at Tivoli. There I have managed to keep up a decent style of living. My best collections are there. You must see them. You are a scholar – though I cannot believe so beautiful a woman can be also a scholar . . .’

  He heaved himself up off the couch, his face turning an alarming shade of purple as he made the effort, and trailed after me.

  ‘You like books?’ he inquired. ‘See this – one of my favourites. It has plates done especially for one of my ancestors by Raphael himself.’

  He managed to get both arms around me as he reached for the book. My eyes literally popped when I looked at the first drawing. I had always thought of Raphael as specializing in madonnas.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ I said honestly, and then closed the book, in some alarm, as the count began wheezing. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t look at these pictures, Count, if they get you so – ’

  ‘You must call me Pietro,’ he interrupted, catching at my shoulder. I let him hold on; I thought he needed the support.

  Well, this went on for quite a while. We finished the sherry and the book – some of the plates were really extraordinary – and by then we were old frien
ds. He was a harmless old guy, all he wanted to do was touch. I kept moving, not because he worried me, but because I thought evasion amused him. At the end of the conversation he invited me to be his houseguest.

  ‘Not here,’ he said, waving a disparaging hand at the oriental rugs, the ormolu desk, the Donatello statues . . . ‘It is unbearable here when the weather is hot. Tomorrow I move to my house at Tivoli. You will join me there. You will appreciate my collections, since you are an expert, although I cannot believe a woman so beautiful, so voluptuous . . .’

  At that interesting moment the butler opened the door and announced lunch. Pietro’s fat pink face lengthened.

  ‘We must go, I suppose. Helena will be angry if I do not come at once.’

  ‘Helena?’ I took the arm he offered me. He squeezed my hand against his side. ‘Is she your wife?’

  ‘No, no, my mistress. A very unpleasant woman. A beautiful face and body, you understand – though not so beautiful as yours – ’

  ‘I guess you should know,’ I said resignedly.

  ‘But very jealous,’ said Pietro. ‘Very rude. Do not let her intimidate you, Vicky, I beg.’

  ‘I won’t. But if you find her so obnoxious, why don’t you get rid of her?’

  ‘It is not so easy, that,’ said Pietro sadly. ‘Wait till you meet her.’

  Believe it or not, I had almost forgotten my motive for looking up Count Caravaggio. He was such a silly little man. It was almost impossible to picture him as a master criminal. We were crossing the huge hall, with its original Greek statues set in shell-shaped niches, when I was brought back to reality with a rude thump. A door opened, and a familiar form emerged.

  ‘You,’ I gasped, like a good Gothic heroine.

  The Englishman raised one eyebrow. Not both, just one. I hate people who can do that.

  ‘I fear you have the advantage of me,’ he said, in an offensive public-school drawl. ‘Your Excellency?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I introduce you,’ said Pietro, without enthusiasm. ‘It is my secretary, Miss Bliss. Sir John Smythe.’

  ‘Sir?’ I said. ‘Smith?’

  ‘With a y, and e on the end,’ said John Smythe suavely. ‘An obscure title, but an old one, and not without honour.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ I replied uncouthly. ‘What about those stories about your ancestor and Pocahontas?’

  ‘A cadet branch of the family,’ said the Englishman, without cracking a smile.

  Pietro, who had not understood any of this, interrupted in a petulant voice.

  ‘We are late for lunch. It is well we meet you, John; you must make arrangements for tomorrow. Miss Bliss – she is Doctor Bliss, in fact, a learned lady – she will accompany us to Tivoli. You will have one of the cars pick her up at her hotel. The car I will travel in, you understand?’

  ‘I do understand, your Excellency,’ said Mr Smythe. ‘Believe me, I understand.’

  ‘Come, then, we are late for lunch,’ said Pietro. Towing me with him, he trotted across the hall, with Mr Smythe trailing behind.

  I didn’t believe in that title of Smythe’s for a minute. Actually, I didn’t believe in his name either. At least it gave him an identity, a name at which I could direct all the epithets I had been thinking up.

  My first lunch at the Palazzo Caravaggio was an experience I won’t soon forget. I don’t know which was more memorable, the food, the furnishings, or the people. Pietro did not stint himself. He was a gourmet as well as a gourmand; the food was marvellous, from the pasta in a delicate cream sauce to the towering meringue laced with rum, and he ate most of it. The quality of the food told me something interesting about the man, something that was confirmed by the contents of the long, formal dining room. He had superb taste. Every piece of furniture was an antique, lovingly tended. The plates were eighteenth-century Chinese, the tablecloth was one of those heavy damask things that take three days to iron. I could go on, but that gives you a rough idea. Pietro was a much more interesting character than he appeared to be at first. He might be a fat, self-indulgent little lecher, but he was also a fat, self-indulgent, cultivated little lecher.

  I can’t say his taste in women was complimentary to me, however. In this area he seemed to prefer quantity to quality.

  Helena was already at the table when we entered the dining room. I could have identified her without Pietro’s preliminary statement. I mean, I never saw a woman who looked more like a mistress. If she continued to stow away spaghetti at that rate, in another year she would no longer be voluptuous, she would be fat. But she was still young – not more than twenty – and her ripe, quivering masses of flesh had the gloss of fine ivory. A good deal of it (the flesh) was displayed by her strapless, practically topless, green satin dress. Masses of blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, in the careless style made popular by an American television actress. She had a pursed little mouth and big brown eyes as expressionless as rocks. She took one look at me, and the rocks started to melt, like lava.

  Another woman was seated at the foot of the table. Pietro led me towards her and introduced his mother, the dowager countess. Unlike her son, she was painfully thin. Her face was a map of fine wrinkles, surmounted by beautifully coiffured white hair. She bowed her head graciously when Pietro presented me as a learned lady who had come to study his collections. She looked very fragile and sweet in her black dress trimmed with cobwebby lace, but I suspected it would not do to underestimate her. The dark eyes that peered out of her sunken sockets were as bright and cynical as a mockingbird’s.

  Pietro led me back to the head of the table and indicated the chair on his right. Helena was already seated at his left. She barely acknowledged Pietro’s gabbled introduction, and after a pained, expressive look at me he seated himself, while one of the dozen footmen who were standing around pulled out my chair.

  The Englishman seated himself. There was still one vacant place. Pietro glared at it.

  ‘Late again. Where is the wretched boy? We will not wait. The food will be cold.’

  The first course was a cold soup that resembled Vichyssoise, made with cream and leeks and other ingredients I couldn’t identify. Pietro had finished his bowl before the door was opened by a servant and the missing person appeared.

  He was absolutely beautiful. I have to use that word, though there was nothing feminine about his features. The tanned chest was displayed by his open shirt was as neatly modelled as that of Verrocchio’s young David. He was beautiful as young creatures are before their features harden. Thick dark hair tumbled over his high forehead. His costume was casual: slacks, a rumpled shirt open to the navel, espadrilles on his feet.

  Pietro let out a roar.

  ‘So there you are! What do you mean by being late? Pay your respects to your grandmother. And do you not see that we have a guest? Per Dio, you are a sight! Could you not at least wash your hands before appearing?’

  I was amused – which shows you I am not as smart as I think I am. But Pietro sounded like so many of the exasperated parents of teenagers whom I had known in America and in Germany. The boy was obviously his son. Only a father could be so annoyed.

  The boy, who had been wandering slowly towards his chair, stopped and looked blankly at his father. Then he turned towards the dowager and bowed.

  ‘Grandmother, excuse me. I have been working. I lost track of the time.’

  ‘That is all right, my darling,’ said the old lady fondly.

  ‘It is not all right,’ snarled Pietro. ‘Vicky, this ill-bred young boor is, for my sins, my only son. Luigi, greet the distinguished lady doctor Miss Bliss, a scholar of art history. No, do not offer your hand, idiota, it is too dirty. Go and wash!’

  Luigi had obediently advanced towards me, his hand extended. It resembled a sculpture by someone like Dali – perfectly shaped, with long, spatulate fingers; but it was blue and pink and green and red.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, smiling. ‘You are a painter.’

  ‘He is a bad painter,’ said Pietro. ‘He dabbles in oils
. He makes messes.’

  The boy gave his father a look of naked loathing. I really couldn’t blame him.

  ‘I’d like to see your work someday,’ I said tactfully.

  ‘You will hate it,’ Pietro said. ‘Go, Luigi, and wash yourself.’

  ‘Never mind, never mind,’ snapped his grandmother. ‘You make too much of a small thing, my son. Sit down, Luigi. Eat. You are too thin. Eat, dear boy.’

  Pietro shut up. With a triumphant look at his father, Luigi took his seat.

  ‘She spoils him,’ Pietro muttered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘How can I maintain discipline when she contradicts everything I say?’

  I had no intention of getting involved in a family argument. So I just smiled and ate my soup.

  The conversation did not scintillate. The dowager addressed a few courteous remarks to me, but she spoke mostly to Luigi, urging him to eat more, asking how he had slept, and so on. He was faultlessly sweet to her, and I decided that Pietro was too hard on the boy. He had lovely manners. So what if he was untidy and absent-minded? There are worse faults.

  Pietro was too busy gobbling to talk much, though he and Smythe exchanged a few words on business matters – all Greek to me. Helena didn’t say a word. She was seated directly across from me, and her unblinking stare would have gotten on my nerves if I hadn’t been so fascinated by the way she was eating. Her hair kept getting in the spaghetti. I kept expecting her to fork up a strand of it, but she never did.

  There was plenty of wine with the meal, and by the time the servants removed the last plates I was, to say the least, replete. Pietro was in far worse condition. When he stood up, I feared for the cummerbund. It was strained to the utmost.

  The dowager was helped out of her chair by one of the footmen. She limped towards the door, leaning heavily on a handsome ivory-headed stick, pausing only long enough to thank me for coming and to apologize for the infirmity that made it necessary for her to retire.

  Pietro tried to bow to his mother. He managed to incline his head a couple of inches, but he didn’t bend well. The look he turned on me was fond, but glazed.