Street of the Five Moons (9 page)

Money is a great thing. When the Count Caravaggio’s car was announced, the staff of the hotel ran around like little beetles. I marched to the door escorted by two bellboys and the doorman, feeling like the queen; everybody was bowing and scraping and smiling obsequiously. The car was incredible — about a block and a half long, painted silver. I do not jest. The chauffeur and the hotel staff dealt with my two scruffy suitcases and I climbed into what is, I believe, referred to as the tonneau.

There was room back there for a small dance band, but the only occupants were Pietro and his secretary and Helena. From Pietro’s expression — and Italians have the most expressive faces of any nationality — I deduced that he had tried to get rid of Helena, but had failed, and therefore had permitted “Sir John” to ride along. I got to sit next to Sir John. Everybody except Helena kissed my hand.

Pietro was resplendent in a linen suit and silk cravat. Helena wore silk slacks and a T-shirt with the insignia of a Roman yacht club. She was not wearing a bra. Her exuberant hair, and a pair of big sunglasses, covered most of her face, but the part that was visible did not look happy.

I have never seen anything like that car. It had a bar and a color TV (they had just been introduced into Italy) and a telephone and brocade curtains that swished into place at the touch of a button. I kept expecting a topless dancer to pop out of the upholstery. By the time Pietro had finished displaying its marvels, we were out in the suburbs.

“I hope we did not keep you waiting,” he said. “It was Helena’s fault. She is very slow.”

Helena glared at him and he glared back. I had to agree with Smythe’s assessment. It looked as if Helena was on her way out. A sensible woman would have seen this and modified her behavior accordingly, but Helena didn’t have much sense.

“That’s all right,” I said cheerfully. “As long as we arrive by five o’clock. I have to make a phone call then.”

As I had hoped, this announcement created a stir. Pietro stared. Smythe, beside me, shifted position slightly.

“Telephone call,” he repeated. “Dare I hope…”

“It’s my Uncle Karl,” I said. “Such an old fussbudget. I promised I would telephone him every day. You know how these Germans are.”

Smythe, damn him, began to chuckle. Pietro looked surprised.

“You have a German uncle? I thought you were American.”

“He’s only an adopted uncle,” I explained. “Good old Uncle Karl Schmidt. He gets absolutely hysterical if he doesn’t hear from me every single day. I don’t know what he would do if he didn’t hear from me. I’ll pay for the calls, of course.”

“That is not important,” said Pietro. He looked very thoughtful.

“Oh, I think it is,” I said. “I feel the rich are apt to be imposed on, don’t you? Just because you have a lot of money doesn’t mean you are obliged to pay for my telephone calls.”

“Mmph,” said Pietro.

Smythe was still shaking with amusement.

“I suppose you’ve got some document or other in the hands of your solicitors, to be opened in case you are not heard from,” he said.

“I mailed it off last night.”

Smythe let out a whoop of laughter. Pietro glowered at him. Helena shifted position, wobbling like a molded-jello salad.

“You make no sense,” she said. “I do not understand.”

“That’s probably just as well,” said Smythe. “All right, Vicky…. I may call you Vicky, mayn’t I?”

“No,” I said.

“And you must call me John. You have made your point, my dear Vicky, so let’s forget business for a while. Enjoy the scenery. We will not pass this way again, as some poet has expressed it.”

Pietro’s face had been an absolute blank during this exchange. Either he was an excellent actor, or he really had no idea what we were talking about. At least I was sure about Smythe. That man’s effrontery was unbelievable.

According to legend, the founders of Tivoli were Catallus of Arcadia, who fled from his country with Evander during the war between Eteocles and Polyneices, and his son Tibertus. Sounds like a soap opera, doesn’t it? All those names. Smythe told me this, and more, as the big car rolled smoothly along the road. He absolutely babbled. Nobody else got a word in.

I already knew that Tivoli, not far from Rome, was a favorite location for the country villas of Roman nobles. The ancient Romans went there to escape the heat of the city; the most famous of their country estates was the one built by the emperor Hadrian, the ruins of whose palace complex still stand. The Villa d’Este is the best known of the Renaissance villas. The villa and its magnificent gardens are the property of the Italian government now, but the Villa Caravaggio is still inhabited. It is like the Villa d’Este, but on a smaller scale. That means it is only as big as a medium-sized hotel. The villa itself has the usual painted and gilded reception rooms and large, drafty bedchambers, three floors of them, built around an arcaded courtyard. But the glory of the place is its gardens. There are fountains all over the place — fountains with groups of monumental statuary, fountains set in fake grottoes, fountains flowing over rocks and down stairs, fountains that suddenly explode out of nowhere and drench the unwary pedestrian. There were long avenues of cypresses and hedges higher than my head, walled gardens and covered arcades. I got a bird’s eye survey as we drove through the grounds.

When we approached the villa, Helena, seated across from me, started squirming uneasily. I couldn’t see much of her face, and it was not, at best, the most expressive of human countenances, but I realized that she was in the grip of some strong emotion — not a pleasant emotion. There were beads of sweat on her upper lip, although the air conditioning had produced a near-Arctic temperature inside the car.

The car stopped. The chauffeur leaped out and opened the door. Pietro was the first one out. He extended his hand to help me, and Smythe followed. Helena didn’t move.

“Hurry,” Pietro snapped. “Luncheon will be served shortly. The food will be cold.”

Helena pushed herself back into the corner of the seat. She shook her head violently. Bleached hair filled the interior of the car.

“Very well, then,” Pietro said angrily. “Antonio will drive you back to Rome. I told you not to come.”

Helena let out a low moaning sound and shook her head again.

“Sit in the car, then,” Pietro shouted. “Sit and melt. Sit all day, all night.
Dio
, what a nuisance this woman is!”

He stormed up the stairs, leaving us standing there. I looked at Smythe. He was smiling. He was always smiling, curse him. He winked at me and then bent to look into the car.

“Come along, Helena, don’t be foolish.”

I realized then what was wrong with the girl. She was absolutely terrified. Her lower lip was trembling, and so was the hand she hesitantly extended. Smythe took hold of her and yanked her out of the car, handling her ample poundage with ease. He was a lot stronger than he looked. Even after he had set her on her feet she clung to his hand.

“You will protect me?” she whispered, staring up at him. “You will not let it hurt me?”

“Of course not,” Smythe said. “Now hurry, do. You know how angry his Excellency gets when he is kept from his food.”

Helena tottered along, clinging to his arm. She was not my type, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her; I would have pitied anyone who was in such a blue funk of fear.

“What are you so afraid of?” I asked.

“That’s a good question,” Smythe agreed. “Perhaps I ought to know what I have naïvely promised to protect you from. My talents, though enormous, are limited; anything along the lines of King Kong or the Loch Ness monster—”

“It is a monster,” Helena muttered. “A phantom. The ghost of the Caravaggios.”

“A ghost,” I said. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“No, it is not funny,” Helena said. “It is terrible! All in black, hooded like a monk, but the face…. The face is…”

She made a gurgling sound, like a stopped-up sink. It was a very effective performance. I could feel my flesh creep, even in the warm noontide.

“The face,” I said impatiently. “What about it? No, let me guess. A melting, dissolving, phosphorescent horror…”

“A rotting, mummified, withered, brown, noseless horror,” Smythe contributed.

“A skull!” Helena shrieked. I heard a thud behind us, and turned. The chauffeur, following with the baggage, had dropped a suitcase. He was staring at Helena with horrified eyes.

“Oh, a skull,” Smythe said, yawning. “That’s a bit old hat, don’t you think? I liked my rotting mummy better.”

“You laugh? It will laugh with you — a great soundless laugh, like a scream of horror. I saw its teeth, two rows of blackened teeth…. It walks the gardens by night, but who knows whether it will not soon enter the house? I have seen it once, a face of silver bone shining in the moonlight, laughing….”

She wasn’t pretending. The plump arm that brushed mine was icy cold.

Of course that didn’t mean that the phantom was real. It only meant that somebody had scared poor old Helena out of her socks. If something walked the grounds of the villa by night, disguised from casual strollers, there must be a reason for concealment.

Smythe seemed to be as surprised and impressed by the story as I was. I had to remind myself that the man was an accomplished actor, and as untrustworthy as a polecat.

“It sounds perfectly dreadful,” he said sympathetically. “But I shouldn’t worry, Helena; specters of that type never come inside a building.”

“
É vero
?” Helena asked hopefully.

“
Assolutamente
,” Smythe said firmly. “I know something about ghosts. My ancestral home is absolutely littered with the creatures. Frightful nuisances; rattling chains all night, spotting up the floor with bloodstains that can’t be removed…. Furthermore, you’re in luck, Helena, old thing. I’ll wager you didn’t know that Doctor Bliss here is a real expert on spooks. You tell her all about it and she’ll tell you how to deal with it. Right, Vicky?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, glowering at him. That might have been a hit in the dark, but I didn’t think so.

“There, you see?” Smythe patted Helena on one of the more rounded portions of her anatomy. She revived enough to wriggle and giggle at him.

The villa was a beautiful place, magnificently furnished with antiques, but I was too preoccupied to appreciate its wonders. I passed through the great hall with scarcely a glance and followed one of the maids up the stairs to my room. Smythe left us on the second floor, with a murmured apology, but Helena stuck to me like a burr. My room was a grandiose chamber, like the throne room of a doge’s palace, with a balcony overlooking the gardens and the “Fountain of the Baboons.” Helena threw herself down on the bed and peered at me through her sunglasses.

“Do you really know all about ghosts?” she demanded.

“Oh, sure,” I said.

“Then you must tell me what to do, to be safe.”

“First you had better tell me what you saw,” I said, sitting down beside her.

She hadn’t much to add to her original description. She had only seen the apparition once — one night in April, the last time they had visited the villa. She had had a fight with Pietro and had gone for a walk, in order to calm herself, as she put it. The vision had sent her screaming back to Pietro’s willing arms, and at her insistence they had returned to Rome the following day. She had not wanted to come back to the villa.

“But he no longer cares for my feelings,” she whined. “He forced me to come. I think he does not believe me, about the phantom. I swear to you—”

“Oh, I believe you. But I’m surprised at Pietro. Isn’t there a family tradition about the ghost? Many old families have such stories.”

“He says not. But he lies, perhaps; he is a great liar, Pietro. Now tell me what to do to be safe. And,” she added firmly, “do not tell me to leave this place. If I go, I will lose him. And that I cannot afford to do just yet.”

I thought she meant “afford” in the most literal sense. Well, that was her business, and I do mean business. It didn’t concern me. On the whole, I preferred to have her stick around; she would distract Pietro, and I didn’t want him following me everywhere I went. I dipped into my childhood memories of horror movies.

“You ought to have a crucifix,” I said.

“But I have them — many of them.” She plucked at a chain that hung around her neck and drew out a cross. It was a handsome thing, made of platinum set with diamonds.

“Ah, but has it been blessed by the Pope?” I inquired seriously.

“No….” Helena took off her sunglasses, frowning. “But I have some that were.”

“Wear one of them, then, all the time. You should be perfectly safe then.”

“That is all?” She sounded disappointed.

“You weren’t wearing it when you saw the ghost, were you?” I assumed she hadn’t been wearing it, or much else; the quarrel had occurred late at night. “Oh, well. To be perfectly sure, what you should do is hang some garlic at every window and door. And over the fireplace, if there is one. Iron is good, too. Something made of iron over each opening — door, windows—”

“What else?” She sat up, hands on her knees, eyes bright.

“Well,” I said, getting into my stride, “holy water. Can you get some?”

“
Sì, sì
. I sprinkle it on me, eh? That is good. And perhaps garlic too, on a chain with the crucifix?”

I was about to agree when I realized that Pietro might balk at embracing the lady if she were reeking of garlic. I didn’t want to break up that romance; it would keep him out of my hair.

“No,” I said firmly. “The crucifix and the garlic don’t go together. They cancel each other,
capisce
?”

“Ah,
sì
. It is sensible.”

“That should do it. Stay in at night, of course. Ghosts do not walk by day. And,” I added cunningly, “you are perfectly safe when you are with Pietro. He is the lord of the manor. It is his ghost; it won’t bother him.”

“
Sì, sì
; how clever you are, Vicky!” She beamed at me. Like most simple souls, she was easily convinced. She hoisted herself to her feet. “I will dress now. It is time for lunch.”