Street of the Five Moons (22 page)

“And Pietro is one of the people who are allowing their collections to be copied?”

“Right.”

“But why? The man is rich as Croesus. Villas and palaces stuffed with antiques, fancy cars, servants…. Why should he participate in a crummy deal like this?”

“Vicky, Vicky! It is clear that you, like my parents, come from the poor but honest class. I suppose you don’t buy things unless you can pay for them.”

“I
can’t
buy things unless I can pay for them,” I said, remembering my ivory loden cloak with the silver buttons and the swollen price tab.

“That’s because you are one of the deserving poor. The Conte Caravaggio — who is one of the undeserving rich — can walk into a shop and walk out with a new Rolls, and the vulgar subject of money is never mentioned. Eventually he has to put a bit on account, but you’d be surprised how long this economic ruin can be juggled before it collapses. Pietro has already sold many of his treasures; half those paintings at the palace are copies. You didn’t examine them because you were concentrating on jewelry. The property is mortgaged to the hilt and the servants haven’t been paid for years. He needs money, darling, and so do many other people in his position. If he weren’t of noble blood he’d stop buying Beluga caviar and handmade leather shoes, and declare bankruptcy; but the Caravaggio honor won’t allow him to be an honest pauper.”

“Very eloquent,” I said. “Very convincing…. You don’t have a high opinion of my intelligence, do you?”

“My dear girl, what do you mean?”

“My dear boy, the scheme you have outlined isn’t larceny — except for the initial transaction. I suppose you thought I’d concentrate on that and overlook the fact that there is no law to prevent a man like Pietro from selling his possessions if he wants to. And no law to keep him from having copies made for himself.”

“It was worth a try,” John said coolly.

“So what is the plot? No, don’t tell me, it’s quite obvious, really. Pietro doesn’t sell his jewels, he sells the copies. Not once, but several times! He and the others who are cooperating in this scheme never appear — that’s your job, to peddle the merchandise. The collectors who buy from you think they are buying stolen property, so they don’t compare notes or publicize their purchases. Luigi’s copies will pass any test they can devise. And if they see references in the press to the original jewels — the Gräfin von Hochstein at the opera wearing the Hochstein emeralds — they think she is wearing the fakes! That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Essentially, yes. That’s it.”

“It’s incredible,” I muttered.

“‘Brilliant’ is the word I would choose,” John said complacently. He sat up and moved in close to me, but he didn’t touch me. Well, Vicki, what do you say? Wasn’t I right when I claimed no one has been hurt? Most of these jewels will end up in museums eventually, like the Hope diamond and other famous gems. The museums will get the copies — quite adequate for their purpose, which is to display objects of unusual beauty or historic interest. Luigi’s copies are as good as the originals, which are, after all, only chunks of raw material. Honestly, only a stuffy pedant could claim that this is an immoral trade.”

“You can’t get at me that way,” I said severely. “I am too old to wince at unkind names. I may be a stuffy pedant, but there are flaws in your argument. For one thing, I don’t like the idea of stealing from museums.”

“But we don’t actually steal from the museums,” John said. “The Charlemagne piece was only a sample. Museums are too dangerous. They have quite up-to-date security systems, and my crowd is an amateur lot; nothing like the people who robbed Topkapi. We don’t
rob
anyone; and we only steal from people who can well afford it. They are just as dishonest as we are, or they wouldn’t accept what they believe to be stolen property.”

“No,” I said stubbornly. “I still don’t buy it.”

“Why not?”

I felt my cheeks getting warm. My generation is sometimes accused of having no verbal inhibitions, and God knows I use words in ordinary conversation that would have sent Granny Andersen running for the soap, so she could wash my mouth out. But here I was, all embarrassed, blushing, at the prospect of explaining my moral standards.

“It’s a question of — of integrity,” I stuttered. “Honesty. Everybody lies these days, from politicians and statesmen to the people who repair my car and my radio. Everybody has a specious excuse for chiseling the other guy. It’s got to stop somewhere. I know the arguments, I’ve heard them. ‘If these people weren’t basically dishonest, we wouldn’t be able to cheat them; and besides, the ignorant cruds don’t deserve to own beautiful things, they can’t even tell the difference between the real and the fake.’ The critics have been rooked too, plenty of times, but that is beside the point. The point is that if you have a skill, or a talent, or a body of knowledge, you are obliged to use it honestly. Obliged to yourself! There is no difference between a man who robs a little old lady who is living on social security and a swindler who cheats a nasty, greedy oil millionaire. He is still a crook. And I’m sick and tired of crooks.”

My cheeks were flaming by the time I finished. I expected him to laugh — or put his arms around me. Men always think they can overcome a woman’s scruples by fondling her.

Instead he sat quite still, his head bowed.

“If you feel that way,” he said, “then I couldn’t talk you out of it even if I wanted to. Shall we go to the police?”

“No,” I said, with a gusty sigh. “I’m going to break this racket wide open, Moriarty. But I’ll give you twenty-four hours to get lost. I owe you.”

He looked up, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Don’t think I won’t take you up on it. I’m not as honorable as you are.”

“But you’ll have to help me. I may need a statement from you.”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ve got documentary evidence.”

“What?”

“I am not quite as naïve as I appear,” said John, trying, without conspicuous success, to look naïve. “I have learned to take precautions. The things I have aren’t conclusive, mind you; but I have a list of names and copies of Luigi’s drawings. You may need them if Pietro destroys his files and dismantles the workshop.”

“They would help, certainly. I’m well aware of the fact that it is going to take some time to get the ponderous machinery of the law moving. It’s a wild tale, this one.”

“All right, it’s a deal. Suppose I get my papers. They are in a bank on the Corso, along with some cash I had the good sense to stash away. The problem is going to be a passport.”

“Good Lord, yes. You can’t get out of the country without one.”

“Oh, I can get out of the country, all right. But I can’t get back into England unless I take risks that far outweigh the risks involved in retrieving the thing.”

“Why do you want to go back to England? I would have thought you would head for the Sahara, or a South Sea island.”

“No, that’s stupid. The best place to lose oneself is among one’s own kind. A foreigner stands out like the Eiffel Tower in another country. I’ve got friends at home.”

“Your future movements are a matter of indifference to me,” I said. “How do you propose to get your passport? I suppose it is back at the villa.”

“Never mind where it is. I’ll deal with it.”

“If I were in your shoes,” I said ominously, “I would prefer someone to know where I was at all times.”

“In case I don’t come out?” He grinned feebly. “What would you do, rush in with your six-guns blazing?”

“I would call the cops.”

“Hmm.” John considered this. “Yes, I can visualize situations in which I might find that prospect consoling. All right. I have a little pied-à-terre here in Rome….”

“With half a dozen extra passports? No, never mind, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know about your criminal activities.”

“Much better for you if you don’t.” He dropped his head into his hands. “Damn, my brain seems to be petrified. I could do with a few hours’ sleep, after our wild night.”

“That might not be such a bad idea.” The nape of his neck looked thin and defenseless, like a young boy’s. I wondered cynically if he was aware of the effect it had on women.

“It might not be a good idea either. We ought to move out of here.” He didn’t move, though; he just sat there, all hunched over, exuding stoic control and suppressed pain. “They must know the only way we could get out of the area was by car. The buses don’t run that late. There isn’t much through traffic in the wee small hours….”

“So it might occur to Pietro to inquire about us in Tivoli,” I finished the train of thought. “Yes, you’re right. But we’ve got several hours. Our drivers won’t get back to Tivoli till midmorning. What about your pied-à-terre? You didn’t tell anyone where it is, I hope?”

John looked up at me. There was the funniest expression on his face for a moment. Then he shook his head.

“We needn’t hurry, then,” I said. “You lie down and sleep for a while. Give me some money.”

“What for?” He looked at me suspiciously.

“I’m going to the
farmacia
, if I can find one that’s open. And to a grocery store. A little bread, a little wine…. And a little penicillin.”

They sell all sorts of drugs in Italy that you would need a prescription for back in the States. I told the clerk my boyfriend had fallen off his bike and hurt himself. He was very sympathetic.

I half expected John would be gone when I returned, but he was flat on his back, sleeping heavily. My first aid woke him with a vengeance. The bullet wound looked nasty in the bright light of day. He played the tight-lipped hero, stifling his groans, until I finished the bandaging and took out the hypodermic needle.

“Oh, no,” he said energetically. “Where the hell did you get that?”

“They sell them over the counter,” I explained, squinting professionally at the tip of the needle. “Roll over.”

“Not on your life.”

“I didn’t think you were so modest.”

“Modest, hell. If you think I’m going to let an amateur jab that thing into my defenseless backside—”

“Look, you’ve probably got enough germs in your bloodstream to kill a whole village. You don’t want to get sick while you’re on the run, do you?”

John stuck out his lower lip and pressed his body firmly into the mattress.

“Come on, don’t be such a baby. I know how to do it. The clerk at the
farmacia
showed me. It’s easy.” I could see that my rational arguments weren’t having any effect, so I tried threats. “If you don’t, I am going straight out of here to the police.”

If I do say so, I made quite a neat job of it. But he carried on more about the needle than he had about being shot.

“There, now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” I said soothingly.

“I think I would prefer gangrene.”

“Don’t be silly. There are some pills, too. You’re supposed to take one every four hours.”

With a martyred groan, John hoisted himself up off the bed.

“It’s late. We had better get moving.”

We went to the bank first. I waited outside till John came out with a thick manila envelope.

“You got the papers?”

“Yes. Here you are. And I got some money.”

“Give me some.”

“The age-old feminine cry,” John said disagreeably. “What do you need money for?”

“Clothes. I had three propositions while I was standing here. This skirt is too tight.”

“Too tight for what? All right, perhaps that’s a good idea. The honest householder whose clothesline we robbed may have reported his loss. Get something inconspicuous, please. And a hat. All that blond hair is horribly noticeable.”

“What about yours?” We retreated into a corner behind one of the marble pillars of the bank. John peeled off some bills from a roll the size of a loaf of bread, and handed them to me.

“I’ll buy a hat too. Or perhaps a cassock. How do you think I would look as a Franciscan friar?”

“Unconvincing.”

John glanced at his wristwatch. It must have been a good one, because it had survived water, shock, and other destructive activities.

“I’ll meet you in an hour by the Ponte Milvio, this side of the river. Then we’ll go have a spot of lunch.”

“Good idea,” I said gratefully.

“I am not thinking of your appetite, my dear. Haven’t you put on a few pounds since I met you? I told you Pietro’s cuisine would be disastrous for your figure…. My little place is in Trastevere, and there is a very inquisitive
portiere
on duty. He takes a nap after lunch, like all good Italians, so we can probably sneak in without being seen if we wait until then.”

Under most circumstances I would have hooted with laughter at the idea of taking only an hour to buy a whole new outfit. That morning I did it in fifteen minutes — a green cotton skirt, a white blouse, a scarf to tie over my hair, and a shoulder purse large enough to hold John’s papers. The salesgirl gave me a paper bag for my old clothes, and I dropped them into the first trash can, reminding myself that I owed a family in Tivoli a couple of new outfits as soon as I got the rest of my affairs straightened out.

I walked along the river toward the Ponte Milvio. The view was dazzling. I wondered how it could look so bright and picture-postcard pretty when I was so nervous. I was beginning to hate the dome of St. Peter’s, hung up there in the sky like a swollen blimp. Upriver, the faded brownish-red cylinder of the Castel San Angelo no longer looked quaint and medieval; it reminded me of its original function — a tomb.

Now that I had time to think, away from the distracting influence of John’s silver tongue, the stupidity of what I was doing overwhelmed me. I should have gone straight to the police. At least I would feel safe in a nice dirty cell. However, I was not looking forward to talking to the cops. They would think I was nuts. I was accusing one of Rome’s most respected citizens of grand larceny; and although the papers John had given me were evidence of a sort, they would not appear convincing until the rest of the story I had to tell was accepted. And to explain how I had obtained possession of them, I would have to admit that I had let one of the gang make his escape. The more I thought about it, the more depressed I got.