Street of the Five Moons (23 page)

When I reached the bridge I propped myself against the parapet, turned my back on St. Peter’s, and tried to think what I ought to do. No, that isn’t accurate. I knew what I ought to do. I ought to go to the telegraph-telephone office and place a call to Munich. Schmidt would believe my wild story; he would believe anything I told him, bless his heart. If the Munich police contacted their counterparts in Rome, I would be received as a young woman of some professional standing, instead of having to talk my way through fourteen layers of bureaucratic disbelief. Yes, that was the sensible thing to do. So why didn’t I do it?

I didn’t recognize John at first. He was wearing a hideous print sport shirt and pants that bagged around his ankles, and his nose was buried in a guidebook. The guidebook was in German, and John was the very picture of an earnest student — thick glasses, a blank, solemn expression — except for his hat. It was a straw hat, the kind Sicilian farmers put on their mules, with holes cut in the crown for the ears. He stood next to me, peering near-sightedly at the guidebook.

“If that is your idea of inconspicuous attire,” I began.

“Let us eschew sarcasm for the rest of the day, shall we?” John shifted his shoulders uneasily. “I’m suffering from premonitions.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I don’t know why I’m so edgy. I have a delicate, sensitive nature, and this sort of thing is not good for me.”

“Let’s go eat.”

“All right.” He closed the book and squinted at me through his glasses. “
Fräulein, du bist sehr schön. Hast du auch Freundschaft für eine arme Studenten
?”

I took the arm he extended.

“I don’t know which is more deplorable, your German or your technique.”

“I do better in English.”

“I’ve noticed that.”

Trastevere is a favorite tourist area. There are a lot of charming little trattorias and restaurants, most of them overpriced and crowded. I get hungry when I’m nervous, and I was very nervous, so I ate
tagliatelli alla bolognese
, and
cotoletta alla milanese
, and something
alla romana
, and a few other odds and ends, while John sat there poking at his food with his fork.

“You had better eat,” I said, through a mouthful of
insalata verde
. “Keep your strength up. Do you feel all right?”

“No, I do not. Spare me the motherly concern, will you?”

We had had to wait for a table. By the time we finished eating, it was late enough to go to John’s apartment. It was on one of those quaint little side streets in Trastevere, with a fountain on the corner and a wall shrine just above. The garish statue of the Madonna had flowers at her feet. The entrance to the apartment was marked by an iron grille that opened into a courtyard. There weren’t many people on the street. It was siesta time, and the shops were closed.

The courtyard was empty except for a fat black cat sleeping in a patch of sunlight. On the left of the gateway a door stood open; from it came the sound of gargantuan snores. John put his fingers to his lips and we tiptoed past. The cat opened one eye, looked at us with the ineffable contempt only cats can express with one eye, and closed it again.

There was a stairway on each of the four sides of the court, leading up to the apartments. It sounds more pretentious than it was. Everything about the place, except the cat, was weedy and shabby. The staircase smelled of garlic. We went up on tiptoe, meeting no one. On the top floor John produced his key and opened the door.

I was so on edge I half expected Bruno to come bounding out at us. But the apartment was empty. It had the dusty, unoccupied smell of a place that had been uninhabited for many days. Yet my nostrils seemed to catch another, more elusive scent, though it was almost buried under the aroma of garlic from the hall. John noticed it too. His nostrils quivered. Then he shrugged.

“My things are in the bedroom,” he said softly. “Wait here.”

He closed the door. It had an automatic spring lock that snapped into place. As John crossed the room I looked the place over. A cubicle at the end of the living room had a tiny refrigerator and a two burner stove. Apparently that was all there was to the place — living room and bedroom and, presumably, a bathroom.

John opened the bedroom door.

He stopped in midstride as if he had run into a wall of hard, invisible glass. I ran to him. He lifted one arm to keep me out. His muscles were as rigid as steel. I couldn’t get past him, but I could see; and after the first glance I had no desire to proceed any farther.

The room had a single window and two doors, probably those of bathroom and closet. It was a small room. The bed almost filled it.

She was lying on the bed. She wore a pale-blue negligee of thin silk, all wrinkled and crushed under her, as if she had struggled. Her body was beautiful — a little too plump, but exquisitely curved. I recognized the curves, and the silky pale hair that fanned out across the pillow; but I would never have recognized her face.

Eleven

I TURNED ASIDE AND LEANED AGAINST THE doorframe, my hands over my eyes. Through the roaring in my ears I heard John’s footsteps, then a series of rustling, rubbing noises, unpleasantly suggestive. Finally he spoke, in a voice I never would have recognized as his.

“It’s all right. I’ve covered her.”

I looked out of the corner of one eye. The thing on the bed was anonymous now — a long, low mound of white cotton sheeting. But it would be a long time before I could forget that hideous, bloated face. John was standing by the bed. His features were under control, but a tiny muscle in his cheek quivered like a beating pulse.

“Why?” I whispered. “Why would anybody want to kill her?”

“I don’t know. She was so harmless. Stupid and vain and silly, but utterly harmless…. And so proud of her pretty face.”

There was a note in his voice as he said that, a look on his face…. It reminded me of the way he had looked earlier that day when I had asked him whether anyone knew about his apartment.

“She knew,” I said. “That’s how the gang found out. You brought her here. You and she were—”

“For God’s sake, do you think I’m that stupid? She was Pietro’s mistress, and utterly without guile. I wouldn’t risk telling her, or bringing her here.”

“But you and she—”

“That makes no difference,” John said. “Except, possibly, to me.”

“You’ve got to get out of here,” I exclaimed. “They put her here so that you would be blamed for her death.”

“That was a mistake,” John said, in the same quiet voice.

“I can give you an alibi.”

He shook his head.

“She’s been dead at least twelve hours, possibly longer. They will claim I killed her last evening, before they locked me in the cellar.”

I understood then why he looked so sick. It could not have been easy for him to handle the cold flesh he had once caressed.

“I’m sorry,” I said haltingly. “I rather liked her.”

The faintest ghost of his old smile touched the corners of his pale mouth.

“So did I…. This changes the situation, Vicky. I’m too confused to think clearly, but I don’t believe I can walk away from this.”

“You must. I can’t seem to think either…. When do you suppose they brought her here? John, you must have told her about this place. How else would they know about it?”

He started to speak. Then his jaw dropped, and the most extraordinary expression transformed his face.

Knowing what I know now, I’m not sure he would have told me the truth about the revelation that had just struck him, but I am sure that things would have worked out much more neatly for us if he had had time to think it over. But at that moment someone started knocking at the door of the apartment.

This final shock, on top of all the others, was almost too much for my bewildered brain. I can’t say I was surprised — only infuriated that I had not anticipated this. If the gang wanted to incriminate John, what better way to ensure that he would be caught than by making an anonymous phone call to the police? They had laid a neat little ambush, and now we were trapped.

John slammed the bedroom door shut and — after a moment’s hesitation — shoved the bed up against it.

“There’s no way out,” I gasped. “Maybe we should give ourselves up. John, I’ll tell them—”

“Shut up.” He crossed the room in a single bound and flung up the window.

The wall went straight down, three stories, to a narrow alley paved with stone.

“I am not a human fly,” I said. The pounding at the outer door was now decidedly peremptory.

“Up,” John said. He had his head and shoulder out of the window. I looked out.

This building wasn’t one of your palatial high-ceilinged old mansions. The eaves of the roof were less than six feet above the windowsill. It still didn’t strike me as such a great idea, and I was about to say so when John grabbed me around the waist.

“I hope you aren’t afraid of heights,” he said, and helped me out the window.

I am not afraid of heights. As I stood there, my fingers curved over the eaves, and John’s arms clasping my thighs, I heard the outer door give with a crash. The pounding recommenced, on the bedroom door.

“Get to a phone,” John snapped. “Call Schmidt. Tell him everything.”

I started to say something, but before I could speak he transferred his grip to my knees and heaved me up. I saw his face go dead white as his arms took my full weight. Then my elbows were over the edge of the roof. From then on it was a piece of cake. John’s hands on the soles of my shoes gave one last push that took me onto the flat roof.

He had time to close the window and move away from it before the bedroom door gave way. When I peered down, I saw the window was closed, and I heard the sounds from inside the room. He put up quite a fight.

He could never have climbed onto the roof. I kept telling myself that as I scuttled across the steaming, tarred surface. Without his pushing me from below I couldn’t have made it myself, and he only had one good arm. I also kept telling myself that he was safe now, in the hands of the police, and that as soon as I could reach Schmidt he would be all right. At least he wouldn’t be charged with murder. I wondered if the Italian police used the third degree on suspects.

I knew he hadn’t killed Helena. I couldn’t think of a reason why anyone would want to kill her. Pietro wasn’t the type to fly into a jealous passion, even if he had discovered she was unfaithful to him; he would just curse and shrug and dump her. There was, of course, the possibility that she had stumbled on some information that made her dangerous to the gang. But what? She wasn’t awfully bright, poor girl, and I doubted that she could have learned more than John and I knew. The gang had imprisoned us when they decided we were dangerous. Perhaps they had meant to kill us. But why kill her? A handful of diamonds would have shut her mouth quite effectively — and they needn’t have been real diamonds. One of Luigi’s pretty copies would have fooled her nicely. No, there was no need to commit murder — unless the streak of hidden violence I had already sensed beneath the seeming harmlessness of the original plot had finally surfaced.

These ideas were swimming around in my mind, not quite as coherently as I have expressed them, as I went loping across the roofs of Trastevere like Zorro or the Scarlet Pimpernel or somebody of that ilk. Those fictitious heroes weren’t as foolhardy as they appeared; they always had a stooge down below, with a wagon filled with hay or with a snorting white stallion, so that they could drop dramatically onto the animal’s back and go riding off into the sunset shouting “Vengeance,” or “I will return.”

I stopped and took a look around. Nobody had climbed the wall after me. Either John had convinced the policemen that he was alone, or they had concluded I had made my getaway. I felt horribly conspicuous up there, though. The apartment building was of moderate height; some of the neighboring structures were higher, some were lower, and there were balconies and windows all around. I sat down in the shade of the parapet that ran around the roof and tried to catch my breath.

I wasn’t going to have any problem getting down from the roof. The old buildings of Trastevere don’t boast modern luxuries like fire escapes, but they have other features that would make cat burglary a cinch. There are no yards or gardens in that crowded quarter, so the people use the roofs for out-of-doors living. Some of them were prettily arranged, with furniture and awnings and potted palm trees. Obviously there was access to the roofs from the lower floors. All I had to do was select a building at a safe distance from the one where I was sitting, and descend.

I was about to rise and go on my way when I heard noises from the street below. A car stopped with a faint squeak of tires and someone called out. I stood up and peeked over the parapet.

The car was big enough to fill the street from side to side. It was parked in front of John’s apartment building, and as I watched I saw three men emerge from the courtyard. All I could see from up there were the tops of their heads and odd, foreshortened views of shoulders, but it wasn’t hard to identify John. He had lost his hat, and his head flopped forward as the other two pulled him along between them. They looked like big men, but that may have been because John wasn’t standing up straight. His feet dragged helplessly along the pavement as they threw him into the car. They got in after him and drove off.

I will not repeat the thoughts that passed through my mind. They were irrelevant and immaterial and sloppily sentimental.

I climbed up onto the roof of the adjoining building, pushed through a pretty little hedge of evergreens, and found myself face to face with a well-rounded Italian matron who was enjoying the sunshine. She let out a squeal when she saw me and clutched her towel to her bosom.

“
Buon giorno
,” I said politely. “
Dovè l’uscita, per favore
?”

She just sat there with her mouth open, so I had to find the exit myself. The stairs went straight on down — and so did I, as fast as I could, expecting to hear shrieks from the roof. But she didn’t yell. I guess she decided I was harmless, if eccentric.