Street of the Five Moons

his hair. ‘Wasn’t that the suggestion – to silence me permanently?’

He sighed and turned his head slightly, so that my hand was against his cheek.

‘Perhaps I had better tell you exactly what happened.’

‘That would be nice,’ I said, trying to free my hand.

‘Don’t do that, it hurts my head . . . That’s better. You see, when Pietro told me he had received orders to deal with you, I remonstrated. No, don’t thank me; my motives were purely selfish. I signed up for a spot of larceny, not for murder. I had, and have, no intention of being caught in the act, but if something should go wrong, there is quite a difference between ten years with time off for good behaviour, and the gallows.’

‘Do they hang people in Italy?’ I asked.

‘I have no idea. I carefully refrained from looking it up. But I’ve no desire to spend the years of my youth in prison, here or in jolly old England. Don’t interrupt, it’s difficult enough for me to think coherently with my head aching as it is . . . Where was I?’

‘You remonstrated.’

‘Oh, yes. Well, Pietro agreed with my reasoning, but he is in abject terror of his boss. That’s what he calls him, by the way. The Boss. Curious, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe The Boss is American. Or English.’

‘Don’t start getting ideas. I am not the master criminal. So, after an inconclusive argument, I went banging out of the library, leaving Pietro gibbering. I went into the gardens. I wanted to walk, think what I ought to do. He must have telephoned the big cheese as soon as I left, and received further instructions. I hadn’t been outside for more than a quarter of an hour before Bruno and one of his friends caught up with me.’

‘I see. Well, it’s all terribly interesting, but, I’m afraid, not very helpful. Er . . . was any specific method of extermination mentioned? I mean, it makes a difference whether they are going to flood the cellar and drown me, or pump in poisonous gas, or put something in the food, or – ’

‘Good Lord, you have a lurid imagination,’ Smythe said, grimacing. ‘I don’t really see that it matters, since there is nothing we can do to prevent any method from being carried out, including the ones you have mentioned.’

‘Do you have any idea what part of the cellar we are in?’

‘No.’ John closed his eyes.

‘You aren’t being much help.’

‘I’m thinking.’

‘No, you aren’t. You’re getting ready to go to sleep. Not on me, if you please.’

‘I am thinking.’

‘Prove it.’

‘Have you explored this unwholesome den?’

‘Yes. There are two other rooms, more or less like this one, but even less comfortable. No visible door or window. Stone walls, stone floors, except in the third room, which has a dirt floor.’

‘You seem to have done a very thorough job,’ John said agreeably. ‘No point in my going over the same ground.’

‘I doubt if you would see anything I missed,’ I said. ‘What I want you to do is stand up and start exercising. Get yourself limbered up.’

‘Why, for God’s sake?’

‘So you will be in condition to jump Bruno the next time he comes in.’

That roused him. He opened his eyes as far as they would go without actually popping out of his head.

‘That is the most idiotic suggestion I’ve ever heard.’

‘It’s our only hope of getting out of here. You can hit him with the tray.’

‘Why don’t you hit him with the tray?’

I would hate to tell you how long this sort of thing went on. That man will debate with the devil when he comes to carry him away. (If he hasn’t sold his soul, it is only because Old Nick isn’t ready to meet his price.) Eventually I got John on his feet, not because he was convinced by my arguments, but because my shouting in his ear made him uncomfortable. The exercise did him good. After a few artistic stumbles and staggers he gave up trying to convince me that he was wounded unto death, and he regained his normal strength quite quickly. He even went so far as to investigate the other two rooms. He had to agree that there was no more practical method of escape than the one I had proposed.

It was not really all that practical, for we had no weapon. The tray and utensils were of silver, and although the tray was heavy enough to raise a bump on a normal skull, it was large and unwieldy. Besides, as John was quick to point out, Bruno’s skull was a good deal thicker than normal.

‘I might only irritate the fellow,’ he said. ‘And I would hate to do that.’

‘What’s wrong with your fists?’ I inquired.

‘I might break a bone in my hand. Would you ask Rubinstein to hit a villain?’

‘No. He’s ninety years old.’

‘That is irrelevant.’

‘Besides, he plays better than you.’

‘In another sixty years or so, assuming I live that long, I expect to improve.’

Ah, well. As John said, it passed the time. We had nothing else to do. But we had not prepared ourselves for action of any kind, and the now-familiar rattle at the door caught us off guard. I jumped up and gestured frantically.

‘Get behind the door!’

‘I’m not ready,’ said John, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘I’m still giddy. By morning I’ll be in better shape. Let’s wait till the next time.

‘There may not be a next time. How long do you think – oh, damn!’

By then it was too late. The door was swinging open.

When I saw Bruno, I had a dizzying sensation of deja vu. Once again he was carrying a limp body. The contours of this one were quite different from John’s; I recognized the plump haunches and Gucci shoes.

Bruno didn’t heave this body carelessly on the floor. He started into the room and then stopped and looked warily from me to John. There was nothing alarming about John’s appearance, he was flattened up against the wall like a timid damsel expecting to be assaulted. Bruno jerked his head to the side.

‘Come here,’ he grunted. ‘No, not you, signorina, you stay where you are. You, Smythe. Take him.’

John advanced slowly. Bruno snarled.

‘Avanti, avanti! Come, little coward, I will not hurt you. Take the master. Be careful. Do not drop him.’

John received Pietro’s limp form with all the ardour of a man embracing a large sack of fertilizer. His knees buckled as the weight dropped into his embrace, but Bruno’s growl encouraged him to keep his feet.

‘I said, do not drop him! Put him down, cretino; why are you standing there like a fool? Put him on the blankets – gently, gently. Do not hurt him.’

With an eloquent glance at me, John obeyed.

‘Bene,’ said Bruno. ‘Take care of him. If he comes to harm . . .’

‘Don’t you worry, Bruno, old chap. I’ll tend him as if he were my own.’

Bruno grunted and withdrew. John put his ear to Pietro’s chest, flipped up his eyelid, took his pulse. Then he sat back on his heels.

‘Drugged.’

‘Is he going to be all right?’

‘Oh, yes. Just look at him.’

Pietro looked like a sleeping baby, or a small pink piglet with a moustache. His lips were curved in a sweet smile. John loosened his silk cravat, tucked a blanket over him, and got to his feet.

‘Nothing we can do for him. He’ll have to sleep it off.’

‘Do you suppose he objected to The Boss’s plans for us?’

‘Possibly. A lot of good it did him.’

‘John, he must know who The Boss is. We’ve got to wake him up and talk to him.’

‘No chance. He’ll be out for hours. Besides, what makes you suppose he would tell us? He’s in no danger. The