Vintage Love (109 page)

Raphael said, “We had better be on our guard. I don’t want it to be a repeat of those other times. In every instance you walked into a trap.”

She made a brave effort to appear nonchalant. “It has to be different, this time.”

“I wonder,” he said bleakly.

They reached the Appian Way where it pierced the city walls and came to a church. There were visitors in the area and a number of vehicles waiting. Raphael told the driver to wait while he and Della descended from the carriage and made their way toward the church.

He explained, “The entrance to this part of the catacombs is through the church.”

“It seems rather familiar,” she said.

He looked about grimly. “Do you see any sign of your fat friend?”

“No,” she said. “Should we wait out here?”

“It’s hard to tell,” Raphael said. “Perhaps we’d better go on into the chapel.”

They stepped inside out of the sunlight and the entire atmosphere changed. The visitors spoke in hushed voices and the light was murky.

Just as Della came to a halt within the chapel she felt a tug at her left sleeve. Turning, she was confronted by the remarkable sight of the stout Father Anthony visibly trembling.

“I thought you would never get here,” he gasped.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

“I have been followed,” he said, looking around him guiltily.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I dare not stay here talking to you,” he went on nervously. “I will let you go down below and then I will follow you. They mustn’t see us together.”

Della could see he was badly frightened. “Whatever you say.”

“Go on,” he insisted. “I will be down there very shortly.”

Raphael asked her, “What was he whispering about?”

“He thinks he’s being followed.”

The young Prince turned around. “Where has he gone?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He was here beside me a moment ago.”

“He’s an eccentric!” Raphael said angrily. “I don’t think we should bother. Let us get away from here.”

“No. We’ve come this far. I at least want to have a look at the catacombs.”

“I doubt if you’ll see him again,” Raphael warned her.

“We’ll give him a chance,” she said.

Raphael guided her down the stairs. Below, it was almost deserted. Few of the visitors chose to go far into the catacombs, their bad reputation probably scaring off all but the most adventurous. She studied the many recesses in the walls of the catacomb in which the dead were placed in twos or threes, sealed in by tablets bearing inscriptions or paintings.

She asked, “How far do they extend?”

“The best guess is about three hundred miles. So it is all too easy to lose one’s way,” he said.

They came to empty recesses and she asked, “Why are some of the recesses empty?”

“Cartloads of bones have been taken from here and buried in cemeteries above,” he said. “Many of them in the Pantheon.”

They came to a halt in the candlelit main corridor and she looked behind them to see if there was any sign of Father Anthony. The corridor was empty.

She said, “Perhaps we ought to part for a little. He may not dare come talk to me while you’re around.”

“That’s a dangerous idea.”

“Surely not all that dangerous,” she said. “Let us stroll back. I’ll stay ahead and you walk a dozen yards or so behind me.”

“I don’t think it will make any difference,” he said.

“Let us at least try it,” she told him. “I don’t want our venture to come to nothing.”

“The chances are it will,” he warned her. But he gave in to her suggestion and dropped a distance behind her.

She walked on, confident that she was not alone, and a cry for help would bring him quickly to her. Because the catacomb wound about they were not always in sight of each other. She kept watching ahead to see if Father Anthony might turn up.

Suddenly she halted and a strange sensation came over her. She was passing recessed burial places and the painting on it was one which she had not seen before. She studied the crude sketch of the three crosses set against the horizon. And she knew that somehow she had lost her way.

For the past several minutes she had been walking in a side corridor. Not only was she lost but she must have lost contact with Raphael.

She called out, “Raphael! Where are you?”

Her words came back as a taunting echo and there was no reply from the young Prince. She began retracing her steps as quickly as she could, not at all sure that she was even heading in the right direction. An occasional candle burned in a wall holder to indicate that at least she was in a portion of the catacombs which were meant to be explored.

But this was small comfort because it might take hours to find her way out of the maze of corridors. She might even find herself lost in the darkness of the unused sections. Fear streaked coldly down her spine.

She felt her throat tighten with fright and again she halted to call out, “Raphael!”

Again there was no reply and so she now began to half-walk, half-run, her breathing coming faster as she fought her terror and tried to escape the eerie place. She rounded a corner hoping to see some familiar sign, but it all seemed strange to her.

She leaned against the rough wall for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Was it possible she was still heading in the wrong direction? Going farther and farther into the dark recesses of the underground place, she tried to think it all out. To be logical!

Once again she called out, “Raphael! Please! Answer me!”

There was a short pause and then the wonder of a reply. From a distance came Raphael’s voice, crying, “Where are you?”

“Here!” she said. “I’ll wait!”

Distantly again, he shouted in reply, “Keep calling out and don’t move! Stay right where you are!”

“I will,” she cried. And then every few seconds she called out to him.

Gradually his replies came nearer and then suddenly he came into view. He ran toward her, his face a white mask.

Taking her in his arms, he said, “I was certain I’d lost you!”

She sobbed. “I know!”

He said, “Now let us get out of here!”

“How?” she asked, pressing close to him and staring at the gloomy passage ahead.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But now that we’re together we’ll find some way out!”

Now they were moving cautiously along a fairly straight section of catacomb. Della halted and pointed to an inscription in a recess on their right. “I recognize that!” she cried. “We are on the right track!”

Raphael looked a little less grim. “We’d better stay on it this time.”

“We will,” she said. “I don’t think we are too far from the steps leading to the chapel.”

“And no sign of your Father Anthony!”

“Something may have happened to him.”

“After all the trouble he’s caused us I certainly hope so,” he said.

They came to a turning and at once she caught Raphael by the arm and pointed. “Look! Father Anthony! He’s sitting on that little ledge of rock ahead on the left!”

“So he is,” the young Prince said. “Well, I’ll let you go speak to him.”

“All right,” she said and ran ahead.

Father Anthony was sitting with his hands folded in his lap and his head bent forward slightly. She hurried up to him and said, “Father Anthony! We lost our way!”

He made no reply and so she reached out to tap his shoulder. Her touch sent him falling forward and he lay sprawled out on the catacomb floor. She screamed and stepped back.

“What’s going on here?” Raphael asked, running up to her.

She gasped, “I just touched him and he fell! I think he’s dead.”

“Dead!” Raphael echoed, and he knelt by the fallen priest. Then he glanced up and said, “Look!”

She saw that he was holding the ends of a stout cord. “What’s that?”

“The murder weapon,” Raphael said grimly as he stood up. “He was garotted! Strangled from behind by someone slipping that cord over his head and tightening it until he was dead! The ideal weapon for down here! Silent and swift!”

She groaned. “Poor little man!”

“He was playing a dangerous game,” he said in a taut voice. “Come along!”

She let him lead her the rest of the way to the chapel steps and then through the fairly crowded chapel out into the open. There she turned to him and asked, “Shouldn’t we tell someone?”

Raphael’s dark, slightly curly hair, was blowing in the strong breeze that had come up. His handsome face was a study in weariness. He said, “We can’t afford to get mixed up in this!”

“You mean because of Irma.”

“Yes.”

“But what will happen?” she worried.

“Someone will find him and report it to the police,” he said. “Let it be their problem from then on.”

“I think I’m going to be ill,” she said, leaning against him.

“You’ll feel better once you’re in the carriage,” he said.

“I hope so,” she replied faintly.

As it turned out she did. The fresh air was helpful and she sat back with her eyes closed. Raphael sat in silence beside her as the carriage took them back to the palace.

At last Della opened her eyes and told him, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Placing you in danger for nothing!”

“You were in the same danger.”

“It was my idea,” she said.

He nodded. “Well, now you know one thing. You won’t be hearing from Father Anthony again.”

“I had come to like him a little in spite of his being so evil,” she said.

“You might have liked him less had he used that thumbscrew on you.”

She shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”

“Consider yourself lucky he’s dead.”

“I still see him stretched out there! That awful look on his face.”

“Strangulation is not the most pleasant of deaths,” the young Prince said in a return to his cynical good humor.

She glanced at him wryly. “At least that explodes one of my theories.”

“Which one?”

“That Father Anthony was a disguised Brizzi.”

“It was likely Brizzi who killed him.”

“You think so?”

“They were working closely. Then Father Anthony must have worked with Brother Louis to double-cross our superthief.”

“And so he settled with them both,” she said grimly.

“It would seem so,” Raphael agreed. “Brizzi has the reputation of being a coldblooded killer as well as a thief of great ability.”

“Now what?” she asked.

“New contest for the Madonna, I suppose. Between Brizzi and Barsini.”

“Don’t forget Gregorio,” she cautioned him.

He gave her a wary look. “Gregorio may be a giant in size but he is small in influence. He is merely a hired man for Barsini.”

“Rather wealthy to be a hired hand,” she said.

“Gregorio, like Barsini, isn’t in the game for money. It is the thrill he is seeking. That is typical of the Satanists. Of Irma as well, since she joined them.”

“Which brings us back to the question, is she being held by Barsini or is she merely hiding out with him?”

“That I would not venture to guess,” Raphael told her.

“I wish we knew,” she said thoughtfully.

They reached the palace and avoided direct questioning by either Count Sanzio or Della’s aunt. Raphael decided to go home but before he did, she reminded him they had a date for late that evening.

The young Prince looked at her aghast. “You’re not still planning to go to the opera?”

“Of course,” she said. “I want to see Gregorio and ask him some questions.”

“Can you honestly think he’ll answer?”

She said, “I’ll have you there to encourage him. You might bring some sort of pistol if you have one.”

He stared at her incredulously. “You’re inciting me to violence.”

“Would you call it that? I’d say it was an attempt at self-protection.”

“Haven’t you seen enough effects of violence for one day?”

“What happened this morning makes me all the more determined to bring that murderous crew to justice,” she said.

Raphael hesitated. “Perhaps we should turn things over to the police. This is beginning to get beyond us.”

“I will if you like.”

“You know Gregorio is violent. And he raped you that night at the villa!”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” she said grimly. “I mean to settle that debt.”

“And I suppose you’ll threaten to go after him on your own if I don’t agree to help you?”

“Yes, I think I may.”

“I’ll return for dinner,” he said with a resigned sigh. “And then on to the opera and maybe death!”

A day which had begun in a strange, melodramatic way was destined to continue in that mold. Della was still suffering from her experience in the catacombs. The murder of Father Anthony gave everything a new twist. She had hoped to learn something about the Madonna from the stout prelate. Now he had been silenced forever. The big problem was what to do next.

It was her belief that Gregorio could tell them whether Irma was a prisoner of Barsini. She had not seen her twin since that night when they’d both attended Barsini’s Satanist orgy. So she had every reason to think that Irma was still being held there. Not that she could ever expect Barsini to admit it.

The whole business seemed to revolve around the belief that the Madonna which had passed through so many hands must have reached her in London. Thus far the only person she felt she’d really convinced otherwise was the old cardinal and his underling, the serious Father Walker. But this did her little good with all the various villains greedy for the Madonna continuing to think she either had it or knew where it was hidden.

She finally went downstairs and discovered the elderly Prince Sanzio in his wheelchair in the drawing room. He was gazing into the remnants of the last log fire. As he stared at the ashes his wrinkled face betrayed his grim state of mind.

“You look ill!” Della told him.

He glanced at her and his thin hands clenched the arms of the chair. He said, “I do not think we should wait any longer. It is time to bring in the police.”

“They have threatened Irma’s life if we do,” was her reminder.

“That is all that has held me back,” he complained. “This is madness! None of us knows anything about this stolen Madonna!”