Vintage Love (120 page)

The train journey was uneventful but Della was impatient in her desire to find this Pasquale Borgo who could well clear up the mystery. He might even have gone into hiding with the Madonna still in his possession.

After a relatively short train journey they descended from the railway car and engaged a kind of donkey cart telling the old driver where they wished to be taken. The driver of the cart recognized the name of Carlo Turriti and promised he could drive them to his house.

They sat in the rear of the cart with their legs trailing in the dust. It was a new experience and Della found herself laughing in spite of the tension. Stray animals and giant geese noisily got out of their way as the cart jogged along.

They reached an area of scattered tiny huts and the driver brought the cart to a halt. With his whip he pointed, “Turriti’s house is the second one over there.”

Henry told him to wait and they walked along the earth road to the hut. An old woman sat on a flimsy chair by the door of the hut, sleeping in the sun.

Della approached her and said,
“Signora!”
loudly enough to wake the old woman with a start.

“Sì?”
the wrinkled face looked up at her.

“Pasquale Borgo,” she said loudly.

The woman looked at her blankly and shook her head as if to indicate she did not understand.

Henry wondered, “Is there anyone inside?”

She peered in the open doorway. “No one.”

“There must be someone else around,” he said with a frown.

He’d barely said this when a heavy-set old man came walking slowly with a cow on a rope. He had a fierce, black mustache and a weather-beaten face. He wore the shabby work clothes and corduroy hat of a peasant.

Henry went to meet him. “Are you Carlo Turriti?”

The man scowled at him as he held onto the rope by which he was leading the cow. “Who wishes to know?”

“We are friends,” Della said. “We mean no harm.”

The man sutdied them dubiously. “Are you from Barsini?”

“No,” Henry said.

“What do you want with Carlo Turriti?”

“Just some information,” she said. “We will pay you for it.”

This produced new interest in the mustached man. He said, “How much?”

Henry repeated his performance of taking out several bills and holding them in his hand. “These and maybe more.”

The man said, “I am Carlo Turriti.”

“Good!” Della exclaimed excitedly. “We are looking for your cousin Pasquale Borgo who came here from Rome to stay with you.”

Henry added, “And we know you have him here since you mentioned Count Barsini. Borgo was employed by Barsini.”

“He is here,” the man said.

“Where?”

“Give me the money, I will get him,” the man told them in his stolid way.

Henry gave him the money. The mustached man took it without expressing any thanks or showing any emotion. He lead the cow to the rear of the hut and tied it. Then he leisurely strolled back again and headed for one of the other huts.

Della exclaimed impatiently, “He is surely taking his time!”

“He does not have our problems,” Henry reminded her.

The man vanished into one of the huts and was gone for what seemed a long time to her, but which could only have been a matter of a few minutes. Then he came out again followed by another stout, mustached man about his own age.

Della saw them approaching and said, “That can’t be Borgo! He is thin with a small beard.”

Henry looked grim. “It may be some kind of game they’re trying on us. We’ll see what they say.”

Carlo Turriti gave them a scornful look and went over to talk in a low voice to the old woman by the door of his hut. The other man, who looked much like him except his face was florid and not weather-beaten, came hesitantly toward them.

He halted before them. “Who are you?”

“Friends,” she said. “We’re looking for Pasquale Borgo.”

The mustached man said, “I am Pasquale Borgo.”

“But you can’t be!” she protested. “He is thin and has a wispy beard!”

The stout man scowled at her. “You are from the police?”

“No,” Henry said sharply. “We mean Pasquale Borgo no harm. We simply want some information from him.”

Beady eyes appraised them. “You are from Count Barsini?”

“We know him,” Della said.

The stout man said, “You are looking for my brother.”

“What?” she said, startled.

“He is one of Barsini’s people,” the stout man said with disgust. “I have nothing to do with such decadent types.”

“But you say you are Pasquale Borgo,” Henry reminded him. “And Pasquale Borgo has been employed by Barsini!”

“You are talking about my brother,” the stout man said with a touch of anger.

“We do not understand,” Della told him.

“It began when we were boys,” the stout man complained. “Whenever my brother did a wrong, or stole something, he told people he was me. It began to be that Pasquale Borgo was the one everybody wanted punished! But it was not me, it was my brother, Antonio.”

“You’re saying he has habitually taken on your name?” Della said.

“To save himself from his villainy,” the fat man went on, his anger increasing as he spoke more loudly. “Now the police are looking for Pasquale Borgo but it is not Pasquale they want, but my brother Antonio. All through life he has done this to me! Even to signing his rotten paintings in my name!”

Della listened to the furious man and could not doubt him. She said weakly, “So you are not the man we’re looking for!”

The mustached man cried, “No! You are looking for that rogue, Antonio! He has brought shame on our name since the day he was born! He went off on some errand to England for Barsini and left the police searching for me!”

Darkness arrived while Della and Henry were still on the train back to Rome. With the darkness came a heavy rainstorm. The stormy evening well matched their turbulent emotions. Della had been sure they were on their way to discovering something worthwhile only to have all her hopes collapse when they found Pasquale Borgo.

Seated side by side in an otherwise empty compartment, they discussed the weird events of the day. Della said, “The only single thing we were able to confirm is that the pseudo-Pasquale did leave for England on an errand for Barsini.”

“We knew that before,” the young lawyer protested.

“We had their word for it only, now we have this other information,” she pointed out.

“Are we any better off?”

“Very little,” she said wryly.

“What next?”

She gave him a weary glance. “Let us sleep on it. There’s so little time left. We can’t afford to wind up at another dead end.”

Henry stared out the train window at the darkness and the rain. “It wasn’t bad enough; it had to turn like this!”

“I’m so tired,” Della said. “The big question still is: What happened to the messenger?”

“From the time he supposedly accepted the Madonna from your sister,” Henry speculated.

The train rocked a little and she braced herself against the motion, a troubled expression on her lovely face. She said, “I think Borgo must have absconded with the money. He had every reason to.”

“Barsini seemed to believe Borgo didn’t have the nerve to go out on his own,” the young lawyer recalled.

“Perhaps he had been a coward in the past,” she said. “But this was his big chance. The police were after him in any case. He could not return to Rome. And in his keeping was the Madonna worth a fortune.”

Henry admitted, “I doubt if many men could resist the temptation of taking the Madonna for themselves.”

“Greed always blinds people,” Della said, reviving a little as she tried to reconstruct the crime. “Borgo may have thought he’d be safe enough if he remained out of sight and held on to the Madonna.”

“He had planned to hide himself in Paris after taking the Madonna to you in London.”

Della nodded. “So perhaps he headed straight for Paris and is still hiding there.”

“With the Madonna waiting until it is safe to surface,” Henry agreed.

She groaned. “In the meantime we have these wretched madmen harrassing us to give them the treasure. It’s strange they do not see this as we do. That the man to find is Borgo!”

Henry said, “You forget that they see Borgo with different eyes than we. They know him better. And they think he would not dare double-cross them.”

The rain was literally pouring down when they left the train at the station in Rome. Della thought she had never felt more miserable or depressed. She had come to the ancient city full of hope, happy to have at last located her lost twin sister and expecting that she would enjoy a wonderful new experience in having Irma return with her to London.

None of this had turned out as she’d expected. Her meeting with the long-lost Irma had been shadowed by the theft of the Madonna. And through Irma falling under the spell of the evil Count Barsini, it was inevitable that she be drawn into the maze of evil. Worst of all she had found herself the target of the thieves!

Henry came back to her with a cloak on to protect him from the rain and an open umbrella held in his hand. He said, “I’ve been lucky enough to find us a closed carriage. Hurry before someone else tries to take it!”

She stepped close to him and with the umbrella giving them both a small amount of protection, they hurried across the wet cobblestones to where the carriage was waiting.

When they reached the palace the mood was still somber there, as might have been expected. Both Aunt Isobel and old Prince Sanzio were keeping to their rooms. Guido was still tense and far from his usual obliging self. However, they did persuade him to prepare them a cold supper. Della had eaten so little during the tense day she now gorged herself.

The heavy rain went on. Because they were both exhausted they went to bed soon after their late meal. Della found sleep difficult and lay awake pressed close to Henry long after the young lawyer’s even breathing let her know that he had fallen into a deep slumber. She wracked her brain to think of some clue which she might have missed and which could solve the mystery of the missing Madonna. No matter how far her thoughts wandered they al-days came back to Borgo, the messenger who had vanished.

She was thinking of him somewhere in Paris when she fell asleep at last. She opened her eyes with a start sometime later because she heard footsteps by her bed. She looked up into the shadows and found herself staring into the evil face of Count Barsini!

Henry roused at almost the same instant and said, “What is this?

But he said no more for the dark man who had hounded her in London stepped up and struck her bed partner on the head with the butt of his revolver. Henry gave a gasp and fell back beside her, unconscious.

Barsini whispered, “Make one sound and both you and your gentleman friend die!”

Irma appeared beside the evil Count and in a low voice, told her, “There will be no violence if you come along quietly with us! Please don’t refuse!” Her sister appeared in an unhappy frame of mine.

Della knew she had little choice but to obey them. Henry had already suffered a dangerous blow to the head. And they would kill her in a moment, just as they had done away with Raphael. The only thing saving her was their hope she would break down and reveal where the Madonna was. The nightmare had come to a full-scale climax!

“Let him be,” Barsini said, glancing at Henry who still lay unconscious, his naked torso and arms revealed over the coverlets. Della had also neglected to put on her night-clothes after a short but ardent session of lovemaking when they’d first gone to bed.

Now she was forced to rise nude and stand before the menacing trio. Irma came back with a robe and helped her into it. Then each of the men took her by an arm and led her out of the bedroom. They went along the hallway to Irma’s room, where the candle in the glass container before the plaster Madonna still burned.

Her captors paid no attention to this but under the direction of Irma went through the secret door into the passage beyond. They were led by Irma with a lighted candle in her hand. The silent procession went down the stone steps and through the confusion of dark corridors to emerge into the garden.

At this point Barsini lifted Della and carried her in his arms. She knew it was useless to struggle or try to cry for help but remained a limp burden for him as he hurried through the rain to the street and a waiting carriage.

They were all drenched by the time they reached the carriage but none of them seemed to care. As the carriage rolled through the dark, wet streets she stared across at Barsini and Irma, who sat opposite her. The dark man was at her side, his revolver pointed at her.

She asked Barsini, “Why? Are you going to treat me the same as you did Raphael?”

Barsini’s oval, black-bearded face showed a leering smile. “It might be an excellent idea. You’ve given us far too much trouble!”

Della said, “You don’t seem to understand yet. I know nothing about the Madonna! I have never seen it!”

The evil Barsini said, “Why have you been visiting the Vatican so often? And why did you go to Hadrian’s Villa today? Is it hidden there?”

“No,” she said. “But the real Pasquale Borgo is there. You have been doing business with his brother and you haven’t known that Antonio Borgo was using a false name!”

Barsini said, “We know you have the information. This time we get it or you die and we’ll find the Madonna anyway.”

“I doubt it,” she said grimly. “Borgo tricked you just as you tricked Brizzi!”

Barsini became enraged. “Shut up!” he cried. And he gave her a cruel slap across the mouth which left her upper lip bleeding.

Irma tugged at the Count’s arm and pleaded, “You told me there would be no more violence after Raphael. You must go easier with her!”

Barsini shoved her roughly away from him. “I shall be the judge of what shall be done!”

His savage anger left Della in no doubt that this was likely to be the end for her. Even the brow-beaten Irma was clearly concerned. That her sister was showing some concern for her welfare was the one hopeful aspect of the terrifying situation.