get worried. Pietro’s social position would disarm suspicion, and even if they suspected something, they would be unable to prove it unless they could find me. My daily telephone calls had been a bluff, nothing more; and the gang had called my bluff.
Pietro must be a member of the gang after all. That workshop could not have been equipped without his being aware of it. I wondered how deeply involved Luigi was. Some famous forgers have claimed they were used by unscrupulous people; they had no idea their pretty little replicas were being sold as genuine art objects! Well – it was possible, if implausible; people can be pretty naive. Luigi might be innocent, but his father was guilty as hell. As a detective, I was batting about .200. I hadn’t figured Pietro for the mastermind.
I was lying there staring up at the stained ceiling and trying to decide whether the biggest patch of mould looked like a map of South America or George Washington’s profile, when someone came to the door.
They had that place locked up like Fort Knox. Chains rattled, bolts squeaked, bars slid back, rusty keys turned in rusty locks. I lay still. There was nothing else I could do. I might have hidden behind the door and tried to hit the newcomer over the head, if
The door opened inward. That wasn’t much help, since point
I was not reassured to recognize Bruno. However, the fact that he was carrying a tray cheered me somewhat. The cups and silver covers on the tray looked outre in that dank underground hole, but they obviously contained food, and if they were going to feed me, they couldn’t intend to kill me right away.
Bruno stood in the doorway eyeing me suspiciously through squinted eyes, and I lay still, watching him through my lashes. Finally he put the tray on the floor, shoved it into the cell with his foot, and closed the door. I waited till the jangle of bolts and chains had stopped, and then got to my feet.
My appetite was not too good, but I took the covers off the plates to see what they were giving me. The food had undoubtedly come from Pietro’s dinner menu; there was a veal Marsala with mushrooms, a dish of pasta, salad, bread, and even a carafe of red wine. I was reminded of the old tradition of feeding the condemned man a hearty meal just before the hanging.
However, I told myself I ought to keep my strength up and began to nibble on the salad. Then my appetite revived and I started on the veal. I had eaten most of the food before it occurred to me that it might have been drugged or poisoned. When it did occur to me, I shrugged mentally. There was no need for them to drug me, they could walk in and knock me out cold anytime they wanted to. Conscious or unconscious, I was no match for Bruno.
The food revived me, and I set out on another tour of my prison. It would have been a waste of time if I had had anything better to do, which I didn’t. I found a pile of rotting wood, the remains of shelves, perhaps, and a couple of pieces of metal so rusted they broke in my hands. There was nothing that could possibly be used as a weapon, even supposing I got up enough nerve to try and ambush Bruno.
I thought about digging myself out, like the Count of Monte Cristo. How long had it taken him and his buddy, the old abbe, to get out of the Chateau d’If? Years. And if I remembered the story correctly, the tunnel hadn’t worked anyway. The floor of the third room was of dirt, to be sure, but the only implement I had to dig with was the spoon that had been on the tray. Figure a teaspoonful of dirt every two seconds, one hundred teaspoons to a cup, four cups to a peck, five billion pecks of dirt between me and the open air . . . I went back to the pile of blankets and lay down.
I should have been plotting and scheming and thinking up ways to escape. Instead I fell asleep. I don’t know how long I slept, but I woke with a start when the chorus of chains and bolts began again. This time I was able to rise before the door opened.
It was good old Bruno again. He had brought me another present. It hung over his left shoulder, feet dangling. When Bruno saw me on my feet, he put his hand in his pocket and took out a long, shiny knife.
‘Stand still,’ he muttered. ‘Do not move.’
‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.
He gave his shoulder a casual twitch. Smythe’s body slid to the floor and lay still. His head happened to land on the edge of the pile of blankets, which probably saved him from a concussion, since the floor was of stone, and quite hard. I say ‘happened’ because I don’t think Bruno really cared where or how he landed. Bruno didn’t need the knife; he would have looked quite at home in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Murderers without any deadly implement except his hands.
He went out and closed the door. I stood pressed against the wall, staring at Smythe’s recumbent body.
I hope I will not be accused of being paranoid if I admit I suspected a trick. What trick, I didn’t know, but Smythe was not precisely the most straightforward individual I had ever met.
He was unconscious, though. Limp as a stuffed snake. He had fallen on his back, and his upturned face was an ugly shade of grey. The blood trickling down his cheek was still flowing, so I surmised that he had been hit on the head not long before.
I sat down next to him and took a closer look. It wouldn’t have surprised me to smell ketchup. But the blood came from an actual wound. It wasn’t very deep, although the area surrounding it was beginning to swell and would soon be a nice rich purple colour. If Smythe was up to something, he had gone to considerable lengths to ensure authenticity.
He was out for quite a while. I was beginning to get worried – the damned cellar was gruesome enough without having a corpse for company – when his eyelids popped open. He looked at me, then closed his eyes. An expression of acute agony contorted his face.
‘Where does it hurt?’ I cooed. ‘Tell Vicky and she’ll kiss it and make it better.’
As I had surmised, the expression of pain was not caused by physical discomfort. Without opening his eyes, Smythe let out a string of expletives remarkable for their originality and vigour.
‘Serves you right,’ I said. ‘People who poke their noses into other people’s business deserve – ’
‘Shut up,’ Smythe said.
I shut up. He really did look bad. After a moment, overcome by an uncharacteristic and, in his case, undeserved streak of kindness, I poured some wine into a glass and held it to his lips.
‘Try this,’ I said. ‘A modest little wine, but I think you’ll be amused at its presumption.
Smythe looked at me over the rim of the glass, and a faint spark warmed his blue eyes.
‘Thurber,’ he said. ‘Thanks . . . I needed that.’
He sat up slowly and took the glass from my hand. I leaned back and crossed my legs.
‘Have you dined?’ I asked courteously. ‘There’s some veal left, and quite a bit of bread.’
‘Thank you, I have dined. At least . . .’ Smythe twirled the empty wineglass in his fingers and frowned. ‘Yes, that’s right; it’s coming back to me. You weren’t at dinner.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I was here.’
‘The principessa asked about you,’ Smythe went on slowly. ‘Pietro said you had gone to Rome for the evening – you had a date.’
‘I had a date, all right. With Bruno.’
‘In Luigi’s studio? Pietro told me, later. He put on a good act at dinner, but as soon as it was over he called me into the study and told me what had happened. He was quite upset. You forced his hand, you know. He had to act at once, to prevent you from telling anyone about the workshop; but he is a rotten criminal. He hates violence.’
‘You aren’t trying to tell me it was Pietro who hit me and put me here?’
‘No, no, he wouldn’t sully his hands with that sort of thing,’ Smythe said contemptuously. ‘But you must have suspected that you have been watched whenever you left the villa. Bruno was the man in charge of you today. He had sense enough to snatch you as soon as you came out of the studio.’
‘And after ordering Bruno to lock me up in this den, Pietro contributed nice soft blankets and veal Marsala. He’s a little inconsistent, isn’t he?’
‘Not really. If it were up to Pietro, you wouldn’t have a thing to worry about.’
Silence fell – a pregnant, unpleasant silence.
‘You mean Pietro is not the one who is going to decide what happens to me?’ I suggested.
‘You’ve got it.’
