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  ‘He will make the arrangements,’ he wheezed, waving a pudgy hand in Smythe’s general direction. ‘Tell him when you will be ready, dear lady; the car will be there. I anticipate that moment. You will doubtless wish to return to the hotel now to pack. Sir John will have the car brought round.’

  Helena came up out of her chair as if she had been stung.

  ‘Car?’ she repeated, in a voice as shrill and toneless as an old phonograph record. ‘Tomorrow? What is this, Pietro?’

  Pietro was already halfway to the door.

  ‘Later, my treasure, later. I must retire now. You will excuse me – my old war wound – ’

  He went scuttling out. Helena turned furious eyes on me.

  ‘What is this? The car, tomorrow – ’

  Smythe came around the table and stood beside me.

  ‘Car, tomorrow,’ he agreed. ‘The lady is joining us at Tivoli. Ah’ – as she started to speak – ‘don’t lose your temper, Helena. Think it over. It won’t do you any good to make scenes, his Excellency hates them. In fact, I think he is getting weary of your scenes.

  ‘Ah, you think so?’ Helena had no gift of repartee. ‘You think so, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Have another piece of cake, my dear, and calm yourself. You will excuse us? I felt sure you would . . .’

  To my amusement, Helena took his advice, sinking back into her chair and beckoning to one of the servants. John Smythe took my arm and led me out.

  ‘Don’t bother ordering the car for me,’ I said. ‘I need a walk. I feel like a stuffed cabbage.’

  ‘You’ll soon lose your girlish figure if you visit the count,’ Smythe said. ‘And that isn’t all you might lose . . . Don’t you ever listen to advice?’

  ‘Not from people named Smythe,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you think up a better name than that?’

  ‘Why bother? Most people aren’t as critical as you. Stop trying to change the subject. If you hurry, you can catch the evening express to Munich.’

  I started across the hall, putting my feet down hard.

  ‘I will be ready tomorrow morning,’ I said. ‘Nine o’clock?’

  ‘Pietro doesn’t get up till noon. Did you hear what – ’

  ‘I heard. I’ll be ready at nine; tell Pietro that. I don’t think,’ I added thoughtfully, ‘that he would appreciate your attempts to interfere with his private arrangements.’

  ‘If that were all you had in mind, I wouldn’t interfere,’ said this deplorable man. ‘Helena is about due to be retired; the position will be open.’

  I saw no reason to dignify this suggestion with a reply. As I approached the front door, the butler slid out of an alcove and opened it for me. I turned and waved gaily at Smythe. He was standing with his arms folded, and if looks could kill . . .

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Arrivederla, Sir John.’

  Michaelangelo’s ‘Pietà’ is behind glass now, ever since that maniac tried to hack it up a few years ago. There are no words to describe it, although a lot of people have tried. As I stood looking up at it I wondered, as I have so often, what flaw of the flesh or the soul impels vandals to want to destroy beautiful things. Even religious sanctions couldn’t save works of art; the followers of one god use ‘faith’ as an excuse for mutilating the images of another. The two strains run through the human race, from the earliest time: dark and bright, foul and fair – the destroyers and the creators. Sometimes I get the feeling that the former type is winning.

  I had walked across to St Peter’s from the Aventine, and a darned long walk it was, too. I needed it, not only for the physical exercise. I had some thinking to do, and I think best when I’m moving. Besides – not to be morbid about it – I thought I might not have a chance to do much more sightseeing in Rome.

  I wasn’t worried about being followed.

  Why should they follow me when I was about to walk into the lions’ den like a good little Christian? I did not doubt that the palazzo was the lions’ den, but I wasn’t at all sure who the lions were. Pietro couldn’t be the mastermind. He just couldn’t be. It was possible that there were things going on in the palace that he didn’t know about; it was a huge pile, a city block square, three or four stories high; there was room enough there to train a guerrilla army without his noticing.

  Nor could I believe that Smythe was the head crook. A crook he was, undoubtedly, but not the boss. Of the other inhabitants of the palazzo only one seemed to me to be a likely possibility – the dowager. Helena was classically stupid, the boy was too young. On the face of it, it might seem silly to suspect a bent old woman, but the mastermind needn’t be actively engaged; all he (she) had to do was plot. And I suspected there was an active mind behind the contessa’s wrinkled face.

  However, there might be other people in the family whom I had not yet met. Or Pietro might be a subordinate conspirator under the direction of a smarter crook who lived elsewhere. Certainly someone in the palace was involved in the plot. It was the only lead I had, and I had been presented with a unique opportunity to follow it.

  I managed to put the whole business out of my mind when I reached the basilica, feeling I was entitled to a few hours off duty. I had bought a guidebook from one of the shops along the Via della Conciliazione, and I wandered around the vast body of the church reading and looking like any other tourist. My mind kept wandering, though. The monument to the exiled Stuart kings reminded me of Smythe. The little statue of St Peter, whose bronze foot has been worn smooth by the kisses of generations of pilgrims, recalled his less saintly namesake. The porphyry disk on the paving near the main altar marked the spot in the old basilica where Charlemagne had received the imperial crown, and I thought of the sapphire talisman that had started me on my quest.

  It was a pleasant interlude, though. I sat for a long time on the rim of one of the fountains in the piazza, drinking a warm (and outrageously expensive) Coke I had bought from a vendor, and admiring the sweeping curves of the great colonades.

  After I had gotten back to the hotel I wrote a long letter and made a telephone call. I gave the letter to the concierge when I went down to dinner. He swore he would see to its dispatch personally. He looked like a nice, honest man, but I figured a ten-thousand-lira tip wouldn’t hurt. It was a legitimate business deduction, after all.

  Chapter Five

  PIETRO’S CAR WAS A ROLLS, naturally. I was sitting in the lobby when it arrived. I had been there for almost two hours. I had become bored with my room, and, to tell the truth, I had also become a little nervous. It had occurred to me that my complacent analysis of the situation might not be completely accurate. The invitation might have been a bluff, to get me off guard so I wouldn’t be expecting violence. If the gang wanted to put me out of the way, it would be safer for them to do it in the anonymity of a large hotel rather than wait till I was Pietro’s houseguest. I had taken precautions, of course. But until the gang knew I had taken them, they wouldn’t do me any good. So I hurried myself and my suitcases down to the lobby and sat there reading my guidebook and watching the guests come and go.

  Money is a great thing. When the Count Caravaggio’s car was announced, the staff of the hotel ran around like little beetles. I marched to the door escorted by two bellboys and the doorman, feeling like the queen; everybody was bowing and scraping and smiling obsequiously. The car was incredible – about a block and a half long, painted silver. I do not jest. The chauffeur and the hotel staff dealt with my two scruffy suitcases and I climbed into what is, I believe, referred to as the tonneau.

  There was room back there for a small dance band, but the only occupants were Pietro and his secretary and Helena. From Pietro’s expression – and Italians have the most expressive faces of any nationality – I deduced that he had tried to get rid of Helena, but had failed, and therefore had permitted ‘Sir John’ to ride along. I got to sit next to Sir John. Everybody except Helena kissed my hand.

  Pietro was resplendent in a linen suit and silk cravat. Helena wore silk slacks a
nd a T-shirt with the insignia of a Roman yacht club. She was not wearing a bra. Her exuberant hair, and a pair of big sunglasses, covered most of her face, but the part that was visible did not look happy.

  I have never seen anything like that car. It had a bar and a colour TV and a telephone and brocade curtains that swished into place at the touch of a button. I kept expecting a topless dancer to pop out of the upholstery. By the time Pietro had finished displaying its marvels, we were out in the suburbs.

  ‘I hope we did not keep you waiting,’ he said. ‘It was Helena’s fault. She is very slow.’

  Helena glared at him and he glared back. I had to agree with Smythe’s assessment. It looked as if Helena was on her way out. A sensible woman would have seen this and modified her behaviour accordingly, but Helena didn’t have much sense.

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said cheerfully. ‘As long as we arrive by five o’clock. I have to make a phone call then.’

  As I had hoped, this announcement created a stir. Pietro stared. Smythe, beside me, shifted position slightly.

  ‘Telephone call,’ he repeated. ‘Dare I hope . . .’

  ‘It’s my Uncle Karl,’ I said. ‘Such an old fusspot. I promised I would telephone him every day. You know how these Germans are.’

  Smythe, damn him, began to chuckle. Pietro looked surprised.

  ‘You have a German uncle? I thought you were American.’

  ‘He’s only an adopted uncle,’ I explained. ‘Good old Uncle Karl Schmidt. He gets absolutely hysterical if he doesn’t hear from me every single day. I don’t know what he would do if he didn’t hear from me. I’ll pay for the calls, of course.’

  ‘That is not important,’ said Pietro. He looked very thoughtful.

  ‘Oh, I think it is,’ I said. ‘I feel the rich are apt to be imposed on, don’t you? Just because you have a lot of money doesn’t mean you are obliged to pay for my telephone calls.’

  ‘Mmph,’ said Pietro.

  Smythe was still shaking with amusement.

  ‘I suppose you’ve got some document or other in the hands of your solicitors, to be opened in case you are not heard from,’ he said.

  ‘I mailed it off last night.’

  Smythe let out a whoop of laughter. Pietro glowered at him. Helena shifted position, wobbling like a plate of jelly.

  ‘You make no sense,’ she said. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘That’s probably just as well,’ said Smythe. ‘All right, Vicky . . . I can call you Vicky, can’t I?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘And you must call me John. You have made your point, my dear Vicky, so let’s forget business for a while. Enjoy the scenery. We will not pass this way again, as some poet has expressed it.’

  Pietro’s face had been an absolute blank during this exchange. Either he was an excellent actor, or he really had no idea what we were talking about. At least I was sure about Smythe. That man’s effrontery was unbelievable.

  According to legend, the founders of Tivoli were Catallus of Arcadia, who fled from his country with Evander during the war between Eteocles and Polyneices, and his son Tibertus. Sounds like a soap opera, doesn’t it? All those names. Smythe told me this, and more, as the big car rolled smoothly along the road. He absolutely babbled. Nobody else got a word in.

  I already knew that Tivoli, not far from Rome, was a favourite location for the country villas of Roman nobles. The ancient Romans went there to escape the heat of the city; the most famous of their country estates was the one built by the emperor Hadrian, the ruins of whose palace complex still stand. The Villa d’Este is the best known of the Renaissance villas. The villa and its magnificent gardens are the property of the Italian government now, but the Villa Caravaggio is still inhabited. It is like the Villa d’Este, but on a smaller scale. That means it is only as big as a medium-sized hotel. The villa itself has the usual painted and gilded reception rooms and large, draughty bedchambers, three floors of them, built around an arcaded courtyard. But the glory of the place is its gardens. There are fountains all over the place – fountains with groups of monumental statuary, fountains set in fake grottoes, fountains flowing over rocks and down stairs, fountains that suddenly explode out of nowhere and drench the unwary pedestrian. There were long avenues of cypresses and hedges higher than my head, walled gardens and covered arcades. I got a bird’s eye survey as we drove through the grounds.

  When we approached the villa, Helena, seated across from me, started squirming uneasily. I couldn’t see much of her face, and it was not, at best, the most expressive of human countenances, but I realized that she was in the grip of some strong emotion – not a pleasant emotion. There were beads of sweat on her upper lip, although the air conditioning had produced a near-Arctic temperature inside the car.

  The car stopped. The chauffeur leaped out and opened the door. Pietro was the first one out. He extended his hand to help me, and Smythe followed. Helena didn’t move.

  ‘Hurry,’ Pietro snapped. ‘Luncheon will be served shortly. The food will be cold.’

  Helena pushed herself back into the corner of the seat. She shook her head violently. Bleached hair filled the interior of the car.

  ‘Very well, then,’ Pietro said angrily. ‘Antonio will drive you back to Rome. I told you not to come.’

  Helena let out a low moaning sound and shook her head again.

  ‘Sit in the car, then,’ Pietro shouted. ‘Sit and melt. Sit all day, all night. Dio, what a nuisance this woman is!’

  He stormed up the stairs, leaving us standing there. I looked at Smythe. He was smilmg. He was always smiling, curse him. He winked at me and then bent to look into the car.

  ‘Come along, Helena, don’t be foolish.’ I realized then what was wrong with the girl. She was absolutely terrified. Her lower lip was trembling, and so was the hand she hesitantly extended. Smythe took hold of her and yanked her out of the car, handling her ample poundage with ease. He was a lot stronger than he looked. Even after he had set her on her feet she clung to his hand.

  ‘You will protect me?’ she whispered, staring up at him. ‘You will not let it hurt me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Smythe said. ‘Now hurry, do. You know how angry his Excellency gets when he is kept from his food.’

  Helena tottered along, clinging to his arm. She was not my type, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her; I would have pitied anyone who was in such a blue funk of fear.

  ‘What are you so afraid of?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s a good question,’ Smythe agreed. ‘Perhaps I ought to know what I have naïvely promised to protect you from. My talents, though enormous, are limited; anything along the lines of King Kong or the Loch Ness monster – ’

  ‘It is a monster,’ Helena muttered. ‘A phantom. The ghost of the Caravaggios.’

  ‘A ghost,’ I said. ‘Ha, ha. Very funny.’

  ‘No, it is not funny,’ Helena said. ‘It is terrible! All in black, hooded like a monk, but the face . . . The face is . . .’

  She made a gurgling sound, like a blocked-up sink. It was a very effective performance. I could feel my flesh creep, even in the warm noontide.

  ‘The face,’ I said impatiently. ‘What about it? No, let me guess. A melting, dissolving, phosphorescent horror . . .’

  ‘A rotting, mummified, withered, brown, noseless horror,’ Smythe contributed.

  ‘A skull!’ Helena shrieked. I heard a thud behind us, and turned. The chauffeur, following with the baggage, had dropped a suitcase. He was staring at Helena with horrifled eyes.

  ‘Oh, a skull,’ Smythe said, yawning. ‘That’s a bit old hat, don’t you think? I liked my rotting mummy better.’

  ‘You laugh? It will laugh with you – a great soundless laugh like a scream of horror. I saw its teeth, two rows of blackened teeth . . . It walks the gardens by night, but who knows whether it will not soon enter the house? I have seen it once, a face of silver bone shining in the moonlight, laughing . . .’

  She wasn’t prete
nding. The plump arm that brushed mine was icy cold.

  Of course that didn’t mean that the phantom was real. It only meant that somebody had scared poor old Helena out of her socks. If something walked the grounds of the villa by night, disguised from casual strollers, there must be a reason for concealment.

  Smythe seemed to be as surprised and impressed by the story as I was. I had to remind myself that the man was an accomplished actor, and as untrustworthy as a polecat.

  ‘It sounds perfectly dreadful,’ he said sympathetically. ‘But I shouldn’t worry, Helena; spectres of that type never come inside a building.’

  ‘È vero?’ Helena asked hopefully.

  ‘Assolutamente,’ Smythe said firmly. ‘I know something about ghosts. My ancestral home is absolutely littered with the creatures. Frightful nuisances; rattling chains all night, spotting up the floor with bloodstains that can’t be removed . . . Furthermore, you’re in luck, Helena, old thing. I’ll wager you didn’t know that Doctor Bliss here is a real expert on spooks. You tell her all about it and she’ll tell you how to deal with it. Right, Vicky?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, glowering at him. That might have been a hit in the dark, but I didn’t think so.

  ‘There, you see?’ Smythe patted Helena on one of the more rounded portions of her anatomy. She revived enough to wriggle and giggle at him.

  The villa was a beautiful place, magnificently furnished with antiques, but I was too preoccupied to appreciate its wonders. I passed through the great hall with scarcely a glance and followed one of the maids up the stairs to my room. Smythe left us on the second floor, with a murmured apology, but Helena stuck to me like a burr. My room was a grandiose chamber, like the throne room of a doge’s palace, with a balcony overlooking the gardens and the ‘Fountain of the Baboons.’ Helena threw herself down on the bed and peered at me through her sunglasses.

  ‘Do you really know all about ghosts?’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh, sure,’ I said.

  ‘Then you must tell me what to do, to be safe.’

  ‘First you had better tell me what you saw,’ I said, sitting down beside her.