Vintage Love (119 page)

“I want to see Father Walker at the Vatican Museum.”

“And so you’re both running off to leave me alone with that mad old Prince and that wretched little Guido. He is insane also. All morning he’s been puttering about in the back garden. A fine time to plant flowers when all this is happening!”

Della said, “He probably went out to try and keep busy and not think about it.”

“As for that Irma, I know she is dead, I have seen her ghost many times,” Aunt Isobel said defiantly.

Della kissed the irate old woman good-bye and made no attempt to calm her further. As she was on her way out Aunt Isobel called after her, “I refuse to be murdered! I’m not going to leave this bed until we leave for England.”

“Yes, Aunt Isobel,” Della said patiently and went on out.

• • •

In the carriage taking them to the Vatican, Henry asked, “What did your aunt have to say?”

“A little of everything,” she sighed. “She’s terribly afraid.”

“I can understand that,” he said.

She gave him a knowing look. “And from what she said I guess she’s aware that we are sleeping together.”

Henry crimsoned. “I don’t care! I’m not leaving you in there alone.”

She gave him a wan smile. “I wasn’t complaining, just letting you know in case she says something to you.”

When they reached the Vatican she went straight to the museum where Father Walker was employed. She found the same elderly brother at the reception desk.

She told the old man, “I have come again to speak with Father Walker.”

The gray-haired brother smiled at her in friendly fashion. “Ah, yes, the English lady.”

“Miss Standish,” she said.

The brother nodded. “I forgot the name, forgive me, I’m an old man.”

“It is all right,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” the old man said. “You will not be able to see Father Walker today.”

“Oh?” She was disappointed.

“He is not here,” the elderly brother explained.

“Is he in Rome?” she asked.

The brother nodded. “Yes. In fact he is confined to his room. I understand he suffered a slight accident and will need a little time to recover.”

She felt the familiar fear rising up in her. “What sort of accident?”

“I really have no idea,” the elderly brother apologized. “But be sure he will be at his post again as soon as he is well enough.”

She stood there frustrated. Then she asked, “There is no chance of visiting him at his room?”

“I fear not,” the brother apologized. “That would not be permitted.”

“I see,” she said. “If you should see him or know anyone who will be visiting him, tell him Miss Standish called and she wishes him a speedy recovery.”

The brother bowed politely. “I shall most surely do that,” he said.

They went outside again and Henry asked, “What did you make of that?”

“I’m frightened,” Della said candidly.

“You think something may have happened to him? I mean some violence.”

“I’m afraid so,” she worried. “The Church can be most discreet.”

“You mean there might be more to it than that old brother was willing to reveal?”

“Yes.”

Henry stared off across the square. “You could be right.”

“I’m sure of it,” she said. “After all, he has been working at finding the Madonna. Taking the same chances as we.”

Henry eyed her with concern. “You think he may have gotten himself murdered?”

“I pray not,” she said. “Raphael was one thing, losing a man like Father Walker would be another.”

“I know what you mean.”

Her eyes were filled with tears. “He saved my life more than once.”

Henry took her by the arm. “Let us stroll in one of the gardens a little.”

“All right,” she said. “Gardens seem to be a universal answer to stress. Aunt Isobel said that Guido went out to putter around in the back garden after he read about Raphael in the newspaper. She thought it mad of him.”

“On the contrary,” Henry said. “I think it a wise thing to do.”

They sat on a bench in a deserted garden with a lovely fountain protected by a wall of tall, dark green trees. There were times when neither of them said anything for a long interval. Della felt they had reached a point close to mental and physical exhaustion.

Suddenly she turned to him and said, “Let us have dinner somewhere by ourselves. I can’t face going back to the palace.”

“If you wish,” Henry said.

“Prince Sanzio and Aunt Isobel are both bound to be taking dinner in their rooms. We won’t be missed!”

‘Then there’s no reason why we shouldn’t find a good restaurant and enjoy the evening.”

She sighed. “Too many memories of dinners with Raphael. And the Prince mourning as if my sister were already dead.”

“I agree, it is depressing,” Henry said.

“Perhaps after we hear from the lawyers tomorrow we can make some headway,” she said, searching for something to be optimistic about.

They left the Vatican gardens and went back to the commercial section of the old city. They had. drinks at a hotel frequented mostly by tourists and then moved on to the magnificent Restaurant Palazzi. It was a huge place much like the older, more sedate London eating places of renown. Many of the patrons were in evening dress so the headwaiter placed them in a suitably remote table where they would not be much noticed.

They were on a balcony above the main restaurant and almost immediately below them a string orchestra played pleasant dinner music on a small stage. They had arrived at eight, early by Roman standards, and by the time they were finishing an excellent meal of roast lamb at ten, the place had become crowded.

The music and the excitement of the place made her feel a little less depressed. Henry, aware of her unhappy frame of mind, worked hard to keep the conversation pleasant. She was grateful for this and felt guilty that she wasn’t a better dinner partner.

The orchestra began a favorite waltz and she smiled at Henry across the table and said, “Let us dance! I adore that music!”

They went down below and, feeling slightly self-conscious among the more elegantly clad dancers, thoroughly enjoyed a long waltz. Della found herself wishing that life might always be like this, a pattern of measured beauty in which one could submerge oneself.

The dance ended and they went back up the narrow flight of stairs to the balcony. They were barely seated at their table when Della happened to glance across at the opposite balcony and saw a familiar face which at once made her uneasy.

Turning to Henry, she said, “Across from us in the balcony and standing in the background there is a man!”

He glanced across the room and then said, “You mean the thin fellow with the wispy gray beard?”

“Yes!” she said. “That’s the man I believe to be Brizzi!”

“The one who stole the Madonna in the first place?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “He rescued me from Barsini’s henchman. He thinks I’ll lead him to the Madonna.”

“Apparently he’s been following us today,” Henry decided.

“He must have seen us at the Vatican Museum,” she said. “And the fact he was there makes me worry all the more about Father Walker.”

“What do we do?”

“Get out of here as quickly as we can and try and lose him!”

Henry glanced across at the other balcony again. “He seems to have gone.”

Still agitated, Della said, “He likely saw that we were staring at him and has moved somewhere else. But I’d be willing to wager he is still watching us.”

“You think he is as great a threat as Barsini?”

“Almost,” she said. “He is more clever and just as ruthless. The only reason he saved my life was that he expected me to lead him to the Madonna. He still does.”

“I’ll settle the bill,” Henry said.

It took a little while to locate the waiter and look after the bill. All the while she kept watching, positive that the man with the wispy beard was still spying on them. When they left the restaurant they dodged through several alleys to another street before hailing a carriage.

Only when they were in the carriage did she feel safe. Henry ordered the driver to take them to the Castle Sant’Angelo and they sat back to relax a little.

They reached the Tiber and were back in the area of the Vatican once again. After a little while the young lawyer asked the driver to halt the carriage and they left it to stroll toward the famous castle.

“I have been told this is a romantic spot,” Henry said with a smile as they strolled arm in arm.

“It is!” she exclaimed, entranced by the scene which met her eyes as they crossed the bridge to the round, torchlit castle. The yellow glow of the torches gave the tower the appearance of being constructed of bricks of gold. Statues of angels by Bernini guarded the approach to the famous citadel.

They remained on the bridge for almost a half-hour before returning to the carriage and starting back to the palace. The change of scene had somewhat eased her tension. But the vision of the thin, bearded man spying on them in the restaurant continued to bother her.

The next morning she and Henry left for the lawyer’s office as soon as they finished breakfast. Della’s nerves were on edge as they were shown into the office of the senior partner, a Signor Palumbo. He was stout, wore rimless glasses and had a friendly smile. When they were seated he picked up some papers from his desk and began to talk to them.

“I have found out some facts about this Pasquale Borgo,” he said. “He has been a kind of artist. But his work is considered third-rate.”

Della volunteered, “I think he was hired by Count Barsini to ornament many of the walls of his villa with erotica.”

The lawyer showed surprise. “I was about to tell you that. You know something about Borgo?”

“Only a little,” she said. “Please go on.”

The stout man studied a paper in his hand and said, “Borgo has lately been in the employ of Count Barsini. He is rumored to be a staunch member of Barsini’s Satanist group.”

“That is correct,” she said.

“He is a middle-aged man, thin with a wisp of beard,” the lawyer continued. “I have his address here. It is in a slum area.”

Henry said, “We’ll need that to try and locate him.”

“One thing,” the lawyer warned them. “I cannot promise you that this Borgo will be easy to find. The police are looking for him and haven’t located him.”

Della said, “I heard he was wanted by the police. What is the charge?”

“A grave one,” the lawyer said. “He is accused of the rape of a very young girl. Well below the age of consent. It is typical of this Satanist lot; their orgies don’t satisfy them, they have to prey on innocents as well.”

Henry said, “Not a pleasant-sounding character.”

“He is anything but that,” Signor Palumbo agreed. “He is degraded and dishonest. But he has no criminal record. This rape seems to have been his first serious offense.”

Henry said, “Well take the address and see what we can find out.”

They thanked the lawyer and left. A carriage took them to a district of narrow streets, somewhat like the slum area where Della had gone in search of Brother Louis. That seemed so long ago. Yet it had only been a matter of weeks.

At last they reached a grim-looking building of four stories. Pasquale Borgo was supposed to have a flat with a studio on the upper floor. They made their way up the rickety stairs to the top landing and knocked on the battered wooden door. There was no response. As they stood there debating what to do, Della glanced down the stairs and saw the hunched figure of an old man staring up at them from the landing below.

She called down, “Do you know Pasquale Borgo?”

“Sì, signorina,”
the old man said in a wheezy voice.

“Could you help us find him?” Henry asked.

The old man chuckled. “He is not here!”

“We know that,” Della said. “But it is urgent that we locate him.”

“You are from the police?” the old man suggested.

“No,” Henry said, starting down the stairs to join the oldster. “This is a purely personal matter.”

Della followed him down. “Yes,” she told the bent old man wearing a shabby black suit and a worn velvet hat.

“I am a sick man, unable to work,” the old man whined.

“We will pay you well for any information,” Della said at once.

The old man’s wrinkled face took on a greedy look. “Let me see the money?”

Henry took several notes from his pocket and held them out to the old fellow. “All yours if you can help us find Borgo.”

“He has left Rome,” the old man said. “His brother lived with him and he went first. Then about two weeks ago this Pasquale suddenly packed his things and ran off to the country.”

“Where?” Della asked.

The old man licked his thin, dry lips and seemed reluctant to say anything further. “It could be dangerous for me. Borgo has friends who are evil.”

Henry took out two more bills and held the lot in front of the old fellow. He said, “You’ve told us this much; you may as well tell us all you know. I can’t pay you unless you do.”

The old man gazed hungrily at the money. Then he gave them nervous looks. “You’ll not say where the information came from?”

“Depend on us,” Della said.

The ancient swallowed hard. “He is living with a cousin just outside of Hadrian’s Villa. It is about twenty-six miles from here.”

Henry said sternly, “You are telling us the truth? No sending us on some futile chase.”

“I would not lie to the generous
signor,”
the man said in a wheedling tone.

“What is the name of this cousin he is staying with?” Della asked.

“Carlo Turriti,” the old man said and reached out an emaciated hand for the money.

Henry let him have the bills with a warning, “If this information turns out to be wrong we’ll be back. And I’ll have the police on you for swindling us!”

“No,
signor!
” the old man whined. “I am honest! Ask anyone in the area! I have told you the truth!”

Della said, “Thank you,” and then turning to Henry she suggested, “We’d better find out about the train service to Hadrian’s Villa.”

They left the old man on the landing and went back to the street. They had to get to their waiting carriage and drive to the railway depot before they could learn the timetable of trains leaving for the small town. It turned out there were several and they took one which would get them there by late afternoon.