Street Of The Five Moons Part 4

"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. Symthe. "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 t.i.tle of Symthe's for a minute. Actually, I didn't believe in his name either. At least it gave him an ident.i.ty, 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 marvelous, 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 quant.i.ty 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 ma.s.ses 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. Ma.s.ses of blond 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 toward 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 displayed by his open shirt was as neatly modeled 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 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 toward his chair, stopped and looked blankly at his father. Then he turned toward 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 idiota, it is too dirty. Go and wash!"

Luigi had obediently advanced toward 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 absentminded? 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 c.u.mmerbund. It was strained to the utmost.

The dowager was helped out of her chair by one of the footmen. She limped toward 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.

"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 antic.i.p.ate 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 stared 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."

III.

Michelangelo's "Pieta" is behind gla.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 cla.s.sically 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 ent.i.tled 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) c.o.ke I had bought from a vendor, and admiring the sweeping curves of the great colonnades.

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.

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 a.n.a.lysis 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 house guest. I had taken precautions, of course. But until the gang knew I had taken them, they wouldn't do me any good. So I hied 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 sc.r.a.ping 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 and 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 sungla.s.ses, 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 color TV (they had just been introduced into Italy) and a telephone and brocade curtains that swished into place at the touch of a b.u.t.ton. 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 a.s.sessment. It looked as if Helena was on her way out. A sensible woman would have seen this and modified her behavior 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 fussbudget. I promised I would telephone him every day. You know how these Germans are."

Smythe, d.a.m.n 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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I suppose you've got some doc.u.ment 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 molded-jello salad.

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

"That's probably just as well," said Smythe. "All right, Vicky.... I may call you Vicky, mayn't I?"

"No," I said.