PIETRO’S CAR WAS A ROLLS, naturally. I was sitting in the lobby when it arrived. I had been there for almost two hours. I had become bored with my room, and, to tell the truth, I had also become a little nervous. It had occurred to me that my complacent analysis of the situation might not be completely accurate. The invitation might have been a bluff, to get me off guard so I wouldn’t be expecting violence. If the gang wanted to put me out of the way, it would be safer for them to do it in the anonymity of a large hotel rather than wait till I was Pietro’s houseguest. I had taken precautions, of course. But until the gang knew I had taken them, they wouldn’t do me any good. So I hurried myself and my suitcases down to the lobby and sat there reading my guidebook and watching the guests come and go.
Money is a great thing. When the Count Caravaggio’s car was announced, the staff of the hotel ran around like little beetles. I marched to the door escorted by two bellboys and the doorman, feeling like the queen; everybody was bowing and scraping and smiling obsequiously. The car was incredible – about a block and a half long, painted silver. I do not jest. The chauffeur and the hotel staff dealt with my two scruffy suitcases and I climbed into what is, I believe, referred to as the tonneau.
There was room back there for a small dance band, but the only occupants were Pietro and his secretary and Helena. From Pietro’s expression – and Italians have the most expressive faces of any nationality – I deduced that he had tried to get rid of Helena, but had failed, and therefore had permitted ‘Sir John’ to ride along. I got to sit next to Sir John. Everybody except Helena kissed my hand.
Pietro was resplendent in a linen suit and silk cravat. Helena wore silk slacks and a T-shirt with the insignia of a Roman yacht club. She was not wearing a bra. Her exuberant hair, and a pair of big sunglasses, covered most of her face, but the part that was visible did not look happy.
I have never seen anything like that car. It had a bar and a colour TV and a telephone and brocade curtains that swished into place at the touch of a button. I kept expecting a topless dancer to pop out of the upholstery. By the time Pietro had finished displaying its marvels, we were out in the suburbs.
‘I hope we did not keep you waiting,’ he said. ‘It was Helena’s fault. She is very slow.’
Helena glared at him and he glared back. I had to agree with Smythe’s assessment. It looked as if Helena was on her way out. A sensible woman would have seen this and modified her behaviour accordingly, but Helena didn’t have much sense.
‘That’s all right,’ I said cheerfully. ‘As long as we arrive by five o’clock. I have to make a phone call then.’
As I had hoped, this announcement created a stir. Pietro stared. Smythe, beside me, shifted position slightly.
‘Telephone call,’ he repeated. ‘Dare I hope . . .’
‘It’s my Uncle Karl,’ I said. ‘Such an old fusspot. I promised I would telephone him every day. You know how these Germans are.’
Smythe, damn him, began to chuckle. Pietro looked surprised.
‘You have a German uncle? I thought you were American.’
‘He’s only an adopted uncle,’ I explained. ‘Good old Uncle Karl Schmidt. He gets absolutely hysterical if he doesn’t hear from me every single day. I don’t know what he would do if he didn’t hear from me. I’ll pay for the calls, of course.’
‘That is not important,’ said Pietro. He looked very thoughtful.
‘Oh, I think it is,’ I said. ‘I feel the rich are apt to be imposed on, don’t you? Just because you have a lot of money doesn’t mean you are obliged to pay for my telephone calls.’
‘Mmph,’ said Pietro.
Smythe was still shaking with amusement.
‘I suppose you’ve got some document or other in the hands of your solicitors, to be opened in case you are not heard from,’ he said.
‘I mailed it off last night.’
Smythe let out a whoop of laughter. Pietro glowered at him. Helena shifted position, wobbling like a plate of jelly.
‘You make no sense,’ she said. ‘I do not understand.’
‘That’s probably just as well,’ said Smythe. ‘All right, Vicky . . . I can call you Vicky, can’t I?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘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 pass 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. Nobody else got a word in.
I already knew that Tivoli, not far from Rome, was a favourite location for the country villas of Roman nobles. 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, draughty 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.
He stormed up the stairs, leaving us standing there. I looked at Smythe. He was smilmg. 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.’
