Street of the Five Moons

rational thinking. As I sat there with the cool breeze from the river fanning my hot face, I knew there was something I hadn’t taken into account – some fact, observed but not yet consciously catalogued, that was responsible for my present state of uneasy tension.

I put my head down into my hands, pressed my knuckles into my skull, and tried to think.

Bright against the black background of my closed eyes, in full living colour, came Helena’s face, black and swollen, framed by the swirling masses of her silvery hair.

I opened my eyes in a hurry. The sun was halfway down the sky, its mellow rays gilding the golden domes and spires of Rome. The shadows were lovely soft colours, not grey, but shades of blue and lavender and mauve.

Go back to Helena’s death, I told myself. Never mind why she was killed; just take the fact itself and go on from there.

Once she was dead, some smart guy – The Boss, perhaps – got the idea of killing two birds with one stone. It is very difficult to pass off death by strangulation as an accident. By putting Helena’s body in John’s apartment they provided the police with a murderer, and discredited anything John might say about them.

John was their big problem. Not me; I couldn’t prove anything. Give them a few hours in which to dismantle the workshop and hide any other incriminating evidence, and I would have a very hard time nailing them. The kidnapping, the hours of imprisonment in the cellars, the homicidal chase across the gardens – all my word against theirs. By this time the little room under Luigi’s studio might be full of extra canvases, or bales of hay. Thanks to the lists John had given me, I knew the names of the collectors he had sold things to, and eventually I would be able to track down the fake jewels. But the gang didn’t know I had that information. They couldn’t be greatly worried about me.

John was a horse of a different colour. He knew names and details, and he would talk, to clear himself of a murder charge . . .

Alarm bells began ringing in my brain. Something didn’t make sense. A murder charge might discredit John’s testimony, but the police were bound to check up on the things he told them, and that wouldn’t be too good for the gang. They could count on his silence if he was not provoked; he couldn’t accuse them of fraud without incriminating himself. But murder. . .

They knew where his apartment was located. (Another alarm bell jangled; I ignored it, that was a side issue, and I was nose down on another trail, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t arrive at the conclusion I was already anticipating.) They had taken Helena’s body to the apartment, and then . . . No. No, of course they wouldn’t call the police. They could call later, if the concierge didn’t discover the body, but not right away. Because there was a good chance that John would return to the apartment before he left the country. He had to have that passport. And when he returned . . .

Then I remembered. I knew what it was that had been nagging at my subconscious, the unnoticed fact that had started those alarm bells ringing. It was such a little thing – just a small metal insignia on the hood of a car. I don’t care much about cars, and my attention had been focused on more important details in that scene, as John was heaved into the waiting vehicle, but the emblem had registered, all the same. The car had been a Mercedes. Romans are great believers in making a bella figura, but I doubted they would go so far as to buy a Mercedes for their policemen to drive around in.

I started up off that bench as if I had been stabbed, then forced myself to sit down again. I had already committed one catastrophic error of logic. From now on I had to consider all the angles.

John had never been under any illusions as to who our pursuers were, I realized that now. I was developing a deplorable tendency to think of him as surrounded by a rosy halo of heroism, but helping me to get away hadn’t been noble, it had just been common sense. Together we could never have made it. He was counting on me to come to his rescue. Why he thought he could count on it I couldn’t imagine – but of course he was right. Only I didn’t know how to go about it.

John had told me to call Schmidt. With my boss to back me up I could convince the Roman authorities of my bona fides much more quickly, but even assuming I could enlist police assistance, where was I supposed to look for John? They wouldn’t take him to the palace or the villa. Maybe they would just kill him immediately.

Again I forced my brain away from a series of nasty technicolour images – all the possible methods of mayhem and torture John might be experiencing at this moment – and tried to think positively. They wouldn’t kill him, not if he got a chance to talk first. John had a few heroic qualities – more than he liked to admit – but he also had a very devious mind. I knew the way that mind worked, and I could make a good guess as to the type of story he would tell. Incriminating documents, photographs, statements – all in my hot little hands. Yes, he would tell them that, damn his eyes, with no qualms about endangering me. As he would have said, he wasn’t that noble.

I wondered why they hadn’t chased after me, onto the roof. They must have known I was with John. Hell, they must have seen us go in together. Several answers suggested themselves. For one thing, they wouldn’t be anxious to be seen galloping around the roofs of Rome. They had made quite a bit of noise breaking into the apartment, and it behooved them to get out in a hurry before someone called the real police.

I had it figured out now, clever me. I almost wished I hadn’t. John was in the hands of Pietro and his friends, who were probably calling the police now, if they hadn’t already done so, to inform them that there was a dead woman in an apartment just off the Viale Trastevere – an apartment rented by a blond Englishman. When Helena was identified, Pietro would be prepared with a convincing story. Alas, the murderous foreigner was his missing secretary, who had seduced and then murdered his mistress. The police would look for John – and they would find him. But not alive.

I couldn’t sit still any longer. I started across the bridge, weaving in and out of the traffic at top speed. No local police station for me; I was going straight to the centre, on the Piazza San Vitale. It was a long walk, but I didn’t have money for a taxi.

I was about halfway across the bridge when another idea hit me. It was such a brilliant idea I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before. I kept on walking, and as I went I fumbled around in the bottom of my purse. I always have odds and ends at the bottoms of my purses, even when I have owned the purse for only a few hours. I almost cheered when my fingers found a crumpled, limp scrap of paper. It was a battered hundred-lira note, which had somehow escaped my notice when the bloodsucking tobacconist was relieving me of my worldly wealth. I had just enough money for one local phone call.

I bought a gettone from the clerk behind the counter of the first cafe I came to, and dashed to the phone. There was no telephone book, of course, but the operator gave me the number. I identified myself, and was put through to the secretary.

The principessa wasn’t in her office. With a little pressure I got her home address from the secretary. I don’t know what I would have done if she had lived out in one of the suburbs. I didn’t even have bus fare. Fortunately her house was on the Gianicolo, not far away.

I could call Schmidt on her telephone. And even if she didn’t believe my story, she could vouch for me to the police. I wondered why it had taken me so long to remember that I had a prominent reference, right here in Rome.

Europeans like privacy. They don’t put up cute little picket fences, they build walls. The principessa’s house was a fairly modest modern structure, but the walls were very high. The gate stood invitingly open, however, and I walked along the graveled path between beds of flowers up to the front door.

Before I could search for a bell or a knocker, the door was opened by the principessa herself.

The rays of the declining sun cut straight across the garden, so that she stood pilloried against the darkness of the hall as if by a searchlight. She was wearing a long silky robe of brilliant scarlet. It was belted tightly at the waist and clung to her hips and breasts like plastic wrap. The light was not flattering to her face. I saw sagging muscles and wrinkles I had not noticed before.

‘Oh,’ I said, startled. ‘Did – I guess your secretary must have told you I was commg.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry to bother you. I wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been an emergency.’

‘That is quite all right. Do come in.’

She stepped back, with a welcoming gesture. The hall inside was dusky, all the shades drawn against the heat of the day. Suddenly I was so tired my knees buckled. I caught at the door frame.

‘Poor child,’ she said warmly. ‘Something has happened. Come in and tell me about it.’