Street Of The Five Moons Part 5

"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 pa.s.s 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. n.o.body else got a word in.

I already knew that Tivoli, not far from Rome, was a favorite location for the country villas of Roman n.o.bles. 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, drafty 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 Dio, what a nuisance this woman is!"

He stormed up the stairs, leaving us standing there. I looked at Smythe. He was smiling. 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 naively 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 stopped-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, phosph.o.r.escent 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 horrified 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 pretending. 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; specters of that type never come inside a building."

"e vero?" Helena asked hopefully.

"a.s.solutamente," 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 pa.s.sed 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 sungla.s.ses.

"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.

She hadn't much to add to her original description. She had only seen the apparition once - one night in April, the last time they had visited the villa. She had had a fight with Pietro and had gone for a walk, in order to calm herself, as she put it. The vision had sent her screaming back to Pietro's willing arms, and at her insistence they had returned to Rome the following day. She had not wanted to come back to the villa.

"But he no longer cares for my feelings," she whined. "He forced me to come. I think he does not believe me, about the phantom. I swear to you-"

"Oh, I believe you. But I'm surprised at Pietro. Isn't there a family tradition about the ghost? Many old families have such stories."

"He says not. But he lies, perhaps; he is a great liar, Pietro. Now tell me what to do to be safe. And," she added firmly, "do not tell me to leave this place. If I go, I will lose him. And that I cannot afford to do just yet."

I thought she meant "afford" in the most literal sense. Well, that was her business, and I do mean business. It didn't concern me. On the whole, I preferred to have her stick around; she would distract Pietro, and I didn't want him following me everywhere I went. I dipped into my childhood memories of horror movies.

"You ought to have a crucifix," I said.

"But I have them - many of them." She plucked at a chain that hung around her neck and drew out a cross. It was a handsome thing, made of platinum set with diamonds.

"Ah, but has it been blessed by the Pope?" I inquired seriously.

"No...." Helena took off her sungla.s.ses, frowning. "But I have some that were."

"Wear one of them, then, all the time. You should be perfectly safe then."

"That is all?" She sounded disappointed.

"You weren't wearing it when you saw the ghost, were you?" I a.s.sumed she hadn't been wearing it, or much else; the quarrel had occurred late at night. "Oh, well. To be perfectly sure, what you should do is hang some garlic at every window and door. And over the fireplace, if there is one. Iron is good, too. Something made of iron over each opening - door, windows-"

"What else?" She sat up, hands on her knees, eyes bright.

"Well," I said, getting into my stride, "holy water. Can you get some?"

"S, s. I sprinkle it on me, eh? That is good. And perhaps garlic too, on a chain with the crucifix?"

I was about to agree when I realized that Pietro might balk at embracing the lady if she were reeking of garlic. I didn't want to break up that romance; it would keep him out of my hair.

"No," I said firmly. "The crucifix and the garlic don't go together. They cancel each other, capisce capisce?"

"Ah, s s. It is sensible."

"That should do it. Stay in at night, of course. Ghosts do not walk by day. And," I added cunningly, "you are perfectly safe when you are with Pietro. He is the lord of the manor. It is his ghost; it won't bother him."

"S, s; how clever you are, Vicky!" She beamed at me. Like most simple souls, she was easily convinced. She hoisted herself to her feet. "I will dress now. It is time for lunch."

I had suspected it might be. Somewhere in the depths of the villa someone was banging on a gong, and had been doing so for some time.

I ran a comb through my hair and followed the sound of the gong, which had a.s.sumed a slightly hysterical resonance. The closer I got, the more outrageous the noise became; I had my hands over my ears when I came upon it - a mammoth structure as big as the one that is banged in old Arthur Rank movies. Pietro was swatting it with a huge mallet. His tie was up under his left ear and his face was bright red with anger and exertion. When he saw me he dropped the mallet. The gong shivered and echoed and died, and I took my fingers out of my ears.

"It is too maddening," Pietro exclaimed. "The boy is always late; never is he on time; and now Helena too. And Sir John, where is he? They all conspire to keep me from my lunch. I suffer from a rare disease of the stomach, my doctor tells me I must eat at regular hours."

"I was late too," I said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know about your rare disease."

Pietro straightened his tie, mopped his face, smoothed his hair, and smirked at me.

"But for you it is different. You are a guest. I should have given you more time. Come, we will go in. We will not wait for them."

We didn't have to wait long for Helena and Smythe. She gave me a big grin as she entered; her crucifix, of gold and pearls, was prominently displayed. Smythe followed her in and took a seat next to me.

The meal was a pattern of the others I was to eat in that house. The boy never appeared at all, nor did the dowager. Pietro explained that his mother often dined in her rooms. That was almost all he said. Smythe didn't contribute much either. He seemed preoccupied. As soon as we had devoured the vast quant.i.ties of food, Pietro went staggering out to take a nap. Helena followed him, and I caught Smythe's arm as he pa.s.sed me on his way to the door.

"Don't you think it's time we had a talk?" I asked.

I forget whether I've mentioned that he was just about my height - an inch or so taller, maybe, but the heels on my sandals made up the difference. We were eyeball to eyeball as we stood there, but by some alchemy he managed to give the impression that he was looking down at me - down the full length of his nose.

"I suspect it will be wasted effort on my part," he drawled. "But I'm willing to give it another try. Let's stroll in the gardens, shall we?"

"How romantic," I said.

It might have been, if someone other than Smythe had been my escort. The cool tinkle of the fountains followed us through shady walks and avenues lined with flowering shrubs. When I tried to talk, Smythe shushed me.

"May as well find a quiet spot," he said.

We rounded a corner, and I jumped six feet off the ground. Straight ahead was a giant monster's head carved of stone. It was so big that the open mouth was taller than I am. Its snarling expression and horned, serpent-entwined head would have been startling even in miniature.

"I suppose that's your idea of a joke," I said, getting my breath back.

"Sorry. I forgot the d.a.m.ned thing was there. It's not a bad place for a private chat, actually. Come on in."

He walked through the mouth, stooping slightly to avoid the stone fangs that fringed it.

I followed him. The stone of which the atrocity was carved was a rough, dark substance, pumicelike in texture, but much harder. Lichen and moss had grown over the surface like peeling skin. It was a singularly unappealing piece of work.

The hollow head had been fitted up as a summer house. Light came in through the eyes and mouth and nose slits, but it was still pretty dark. Smythe sat down on a bamboo chair and waved me toward another.

"Are there any more little charmers like this around?" I asked.

"Several. The ninth count got the idea from a friend - Prince Vicino Orsini - back in the sixteenth century."

"I've read about the Orsini estate," I said. "Bomarzo - isn't that the name of it?"

"I don't remember. It's about fifty miles north of Rome. Quite a tourist attraction, I understand."

"Never mind the guidebook excerpts," I said. "I want-"

"My dear girl, you introduced the subject."

"Consider it finished, then."

"Did you really leave a letter with your solicitor?"

"I left a letter, but not with my solicitor. I don't have a solicitor. I admit that the evidence I've collected so far isn't conclusive. If it were, I'd go to the police. But I'm sure you will agree that my demise or disappearance would confirm my suspicions in a particularly inconvenient fashion."

"Inconvenient for us, certainly. We don't want publicity."

"Then what do you intend doing about it?"

"About what?" His left eyebrow lifted.

"Why, this - the plot - the...."

He leaned back in his chair, his hands folded on his flat stomach, and smiled at me.

"Really, Victoria, you're being unreasonable. I don't see why I should do anything. It's up to you to take action, I should think. What are you you going to do?" going to do?"

"Find out all about the plot," I said. "Then go to the police and have you all put in jail."

"How very unkind of you. I do think you are jumping to conclusions. What makes you suppose this is a police matter?"

I got a grip on myself. His nonchalant, oblique style of conversation was affecting mine; we were talking around the subject and not saying anything.

"You seem to know all about me," I said. "I suppose you checked up on me after I gave you my name. You know where I work; you also know that your man in Munich-"