Street of the Five Moons (18 page)

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

When I saw Bruno, I had a dizzying sensation of déjà 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 ardor 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 mustache. 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 Boss probably tossed him in here to cool off. He tends to become hysterical in a crisis, but when he wakes up and looks at the situation sensibly, he will realize that he has to go along with whatever The Boss decides to do.”

John leaned up against the wall, his hands in his pockets, but he no longer appeared lazy and helpless. Even his voice had changed. It was quick and crisp, with no trace of irritating drawl.

“Look at it this way,” he went on, in the same incisive voice. “Pietro can’t risk going to the police. He’s in this scheme up to his fat little neck. He can’t run away and establish a new identity; he’d have to give up everything he possesses, and somehow I can’t see him making a successful career as an honest tradesman. He’s not vicious, but he is weak. He had been drinking heavily tonight, and I expect he lost his nerve and started talking wildly. But tomorrow… He’ll simply turn his back, Vicky. We will be handed over to another arm of the organization, and Pietro will never know what happened to us. He won’t ask.”

“Well, you are a cheery soul,” I said glumly. “I think I preferred you in your giddy mood.”

“So did I,” said John, with a sigh. “You have no idea how I dislike coming to grips with cruel reality. But when my precious skin is at stake… I think we had better make our move immediately. They may decide to deal with us while Pietro is unconscious — present him with a
fait accompli
. That would relieve his miserable little conscience. Yes, I think that’s quite probable.”

“Move?” I gaped at him. This new personality had me baffled. “What move?”

John was bending over Pietro, removing the blanket, arranging the lax body into a twisted position.

“You saw how concerned Bruno was about his master. Unless I miss my guess, he’s hanging about somewhere outside. I’m going to bang on the door and scream. When he comes in, you start flipping Pietro around. Make it appear as if he’s having a convulsion.”

He looked up, saw my stupefied expression, and said irritably, “Come on, girl, get with it. Something along these lines.” And he began to shake Pietro’s arms and legs, the way you might pretend to animate a large stuffed doll. It did look convincing. If you didn’t know what he was doing, you would think he was trying to restrain the thrashing limbs of a man in an epileptic seizure.

Pietro’s round head rolled back and forth, but his fixed smile never altered.

“Make sure your body hides his head,” John added, with a disgusted look at poor Pietro. “I can’t do anything about his silly face.”

He stood up, dusting the knees of his trousers, and I took his place.

“I thought you were too weak to tackle Bruno,” I said, practicing. The game had a bizarre fascination. Pietro was so nice and plump and roly-poly.

“I am. But at least this gives me a fighting chance, while he is off guard and thinking of other things. Don’t be afraid to pitch in, darling, if you see me getting the worst of it.”

He didn’t give me time to reply, but went at once to the door and started kicking and pounding.

“Help, help!” he bellowed. “
Aiuto! Avanti
! Catastrophe, murder, sudden death. The master is dying. The count is dead. Help, help, help….”

Bruno must have been right outside the door. Bolts and chains jangled in an agitated fashion. I started shaking Pietro, keeping a wary eye on the door. So far the scheme seemed to be working.

It almost failed in its inception, however. Bruno was so upset he threw himself against the door, and John let out a yell of pain as the heavy panels smashed him against the wall.

After that, things got confused. I slid out of Bruno’s way as he came rushing toward me like a mother buffalo protecting her calf. He flung himself down on his knees and reached for Pietro. I stood up and clasped my hands together. If John was out of action, it was up to me. I planned to hit Bruno on the back of the neck, the way detectives do on TV, but I wasn’t awfully optimistic about what would happen. The back of his neck looked like a chunk of granite.

Then John came staggering out from behind the door. His hand hid the lower part of his face and his eyes were swimming with tears. I don’t know whether Bruno heard him, or whether he realized that his master was no worse off than before; something alerted him, at any rate, and he looked up at me with a scowl darkening his ugly face. Still on his knees, he reached out for me. I skipped back. Rumbling like an earthquake, Bruno began the monumental task of heaving himself to his feet. He was halfway up, still off balance, when John lowered his head and ran straight at him.

I have never seen — or heard — anything like it. Every bit of breath in Bruno’s lungs went out of them, in a single explosive sound like a singing teakettle under full steam. His arms flew out, his head jerked forward. He hit the wall and slid down to a sitting position. His eyes were still half open.

John straightened up and rubbed his head. His other hand covered his nose.

“I think I fractured my skull,” he said in a muffled voice.

“At least your precious hands are intact,” I said callously. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Tie him up,” John said, indicating Bruno.

I looked dubiously at Bruno. I would just as soon have approached a semiconscious grizzly bear.

“Cover me,” I said.

“What with?” John took the tip of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and wriggled it gently. “I guess it isn’t broken. It just feels like it. Come on, don’t stand around arguing, we’ve got to get moving.”

We tied Bruno up with strips of blanket, using his own knife to cut the fabric, and gagged him with another sizable scrap. He was beginning to stir and mutter by the time we finished. Pietro had not so much as wriggled. He must have been having lovely dreams, though. His smile had become positively seraphic.

In addition to the knife, we found another useful item in Bruno’s pockets — a box of matches. It was the only light we had, once we had closed the cell door. The corridor was black as pitch. I lighted one of the matches while John restored the bars and chains to their position.

“Which way?” I whispered.

“Don’t know. Try right.”

His hand groped out. If he was reaching for my hand, he missed by a mile. I slapped his fingers.

“Naughty, naughty,” I said softly.

“Pure accident.” His voice was equally soft, but he sounded as jaunty as I felt.

Success had gone to our heads, but the euphoria didn’t last long. We stumbled along the dark passageway, hands clasped, our free hands trailing along the wall on either side, dragging our feet for fear of stumbling. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a gaping hole in the floor, or a mantrap; it was that kind of a place. I suggested lighting another match, but John vetoed the idea. We only had a few of them, and we might find ourselves in a situation where we would have greater need of them.

Finally we came to a dead end. There was a door at the end of the passageway, but it was locked. There was nothing to do but retrace our steps and try the other direction. We went faster now, not only because we knew the way, but because we were both conscious of the passage of time. Even if Bruno managed to free himself, his shouts wouldn’t be heard upstairs, but John’s theory had impressed me as being only too plausible. There was no reason why the gang should wait until morning to dispose of us. They might come at any moment.

We got back to the cell — I felt the door as we passed — and went on more slowly. Despite my care I tripped over a chair — the one where Bruno had been sitting, I suppose. No reason why he shouldn’t be comfortable.

This end of the passageway opened into another corridor. Here for the first time I saw a glimmer of light. We moved in that direction and discovered that it came from a barred window high in the wall. My eyes were adjusted to total darkness, so this radiance seemed almost brilliant, though it was only moonlight diffused by three-foot-thick walls and a screen of shrubs. We were in a room lined with shelves holding a miscellaneous assortment of objects, a storeroom, obviously. A dark opening on the other side of the room marked the exit. A flight of stairs led up to a door. John pushed it ajar and peered through the crack.

“Another storeroom,” he said, after a moment. “All clear.”

This room, on a slightly higher level, had several windows, and rows and rows of bins.

“Wine cellar,” I whispered. “I know where we are now. I didn’t realize this door was here. I never reached the part of the cellars where we were.”

“Never mind the travelogue, just lead the way,” John muttered.

It was easier said than done. The room was like a maze, with one row of bins looking just like the next. We had traversed one row without finding the door, and had started on the next, when John’s hand clenched painfully over mine.

I heard the sound almost as soon as he did. They weren’t bothering to move quietly. Why should they? One of them was whistling. There was at least one other man, from the Sound of the footsteps. A few seconds ticked past, while we stood frozen. Then we saw a light, broken into grotesque shadows by the surrounding wine racks, but growing steadily brighter.

John dropped to the floor, dragging me with him. They passed not five feet from us. If they had looked to one side, they would have seen us. There were two of them. I recognized two of the men I had seen working near the garage. The light from the electric torch was so bright I hid my eyes.

Oh, well, I may as well be honest. I hid my eyes in the style of an ostrich, hoping they wouldn’t see me if I couldn’t see them. I have never felt more exposed and helpless.

But they went by without breaking stride, and turned into the next aisle. The light receded along with the sound of their footsteps.

John yanked me to my feet. He didn’t need to tell me to hurry. We had about a minute and a half before the alarm would be raised.

I was ready to run, I didn’t care where to. As soon as we got out of the wine cellar, John pulled me to a stop.

“Wait, let’s not go riding off in all directions. Give me some idea of our options from here.”

“The main stairs are that way,” I said, pointing. “They come up in the service wing, near the butler’s pantry.”

“That’s the way our friends came, most probably. They will be returning that way. There must be some other exit. Preferably out into the great out-of-doors.”

I tried to remember. It was hard; my heart was making so much noise I couldn’t hear myself think.

“Wait. Yes, there is another door. This way.”

You never realize that time is subjective until you are in a spot like the one we were in. At every second I expected to hear howls and shouts and the sounds of pursuit, but actually we had covered quite a bit of ground before my ears caught the echo of thundering footsteps. They were muffled by distance and by the walls we had put between ourselves and our pursuers, but I heard them. I was listening for them.

I went even faster after that. It was a wonder we didn’t brain ourselves against a wall, but there was some light, from windows, since we were now on the upper level of the cellars. It is even more of a wonder that I remembered the way. However, I have an excellent sense of direction, and one’s senses work amazingly well when the alternative to failure is imminent execution. We ended up right where I hoped we would, at the bottom of a flight of rough stone stairs that ended in a heavy door.

We had to risk lighting a match or we would never have gotten that door open. The old lock wasn’t very formidable, but it was reinforced by the usual bars, bolts, and chains. When we had disengaged the extra impediments, the door still refused to budge.

I could have picked the lock if I had had time, steady hands, and the necessary tools. I had none of the above. So I lighted another match and looked around; and sure enough, there was the key hanging on a nail. My grandmother always did that with her keys. It was an unexpectedly homey touch.