The red-robed Cardinal touched a jeweled finger to the graying fringe of hair under his crimson cap. He studied her through slitted ancient gray eyes. “You are speaking of Father Walker.”
“Yes,” she said. “I can only think that it was an accident.”
The Cardinal’s eyes didn’t leave her. “It was no accident.” His tone had become cold.
She faltered. “I don’t understand.”
“I will explain in due time,” he said. Bruno eyed her, moved to one side and growled again. “It is all right, Bruno,” the old man placated him.
“May I ask what this means?” she said, trying not to show her fear. “Are you really a cardinal or is this all some game?”
“Forgive me for having you stand,” the old man apologized. “I am truly a cardinal of the Church and Father Walker is a priest. He sent you to me at my bidding.”
“Why?”
The Cardinal smiled thinly and with one hand caressed Bruno’s huge head. “You must be as intelligent as you are lovely. Surely you don’t need to ask me that?”
She stared at him. “Do you mean you are like those thieves? That you actually think I have the jeweled Madonna.”
The Cardinal looked grimly amused. “I am the one from whom the Madonna was stolen. I am in charge of the archives here. I have been for seventeen years and this is the first time such a sordid theft has taken place.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I cannot help you.”
The Cardinal sighed. “We have no lack of treasures here, I promise you. Some are of precious stones and gold. Others are more rare. Items which I cherish as an archivist. Would you believe that under my lock and key are such items as Henry the Eighth’s application for divorce with its mass of seals, a letter from the nephew of Genghis Khan politely declining to become a Christian, the last letter written by Mary, Queen of Scots, and an impatient demand for payment written by Michelangelo.”
“Why do you tell me all this?” she asked.
“To give you some idea of the magnitude of the collection for which I’m responsible, my child,” the Cardinal said. “The jeweled Madonna of St. Cecilia is worth a fortune. It was stolen from under my nose and I shall never forgive myself for my failure to protect it.”
Della said, “It is presumed that the stolen Madonna was sent to me. I never received it.”
The Cardinal studied her in silence for a moment and then, addressing the mastiff, said, “She seems like a truthful girl.” In reply, Bruno made a growl resembling a long rumbling.
She said, “I am telling you the truth.”
“If I believe you, I shall be the only one involved who does,” the Cardinal told her.
“I vow that I’m being truthful!”
“Since you declare it so strongly I hope you are,” the old man in red robe and cap said. “But the thieves all still think you have the treasure.”
“I know. They have kidnapped my sister and threaten to kill her if I do not return the Madonna.”
“They will also kill you,” the Cardinal said in his casual way. “Have you any idea of the caliber of men you are facing?”
“Not really. I know they are thieves and desperate.”
“Let me tell you,” the thin old man said. “The Madonna was stolen by an animal named Brizzi with the help of one of my trusted aides, Father Louis.”
She said, “You know that he is dead?”
The Cardinal nodded. “Murdered by Brizzi who no longer needed him. I pray for Brother Louis’s soul. There was much good in him but he was weak.”
“I have never met Brizzi,” she said. “I have been told he is a superthief.”
“You are not apt to recognize him when you do meet him,” the old Cardinal said. “He is a chameleon! A master of disguise! One day he is an old man, another he is a young one. He has a dozen different identities.”
“What about Count Barsini?”
“Ah!” the Cardinal said. “Our Satanist! A truly evil person. You have met him.”
“To my sorrow,” she said.
“It is a rather complicated story,” the old Cardinal said as he fondled Bruno’s head. The big dog had now closed his eyes and seemed to be sleeping. “It began with the theft by Brizzi and Brother Louis. Then an accomplice of Barsini, whose name I do not know, managed to steal the Madonna from Brizzi while he was with one of Barsini’s Satanist courtesans. Barsini met your sister, Irma, through Prince Raphael.”
“That is true,” she agreed.
“Raphael, who is not a bad fellow but rather foolish, introduced Barsini to your sister just at the time she’d discovered her true identity. For some perverse reason Barsini decided to get the Madonna out of Rome by sending it to you by messenger. The idea being to ask you to keep it until Barsini and your sister came to London.”
“But I never received it.”
“In that case the messenger must have been murdered and the Madonna fell into other hands.”
“Who was the messenger?”
“I have not been able to trace the Madonna past its reaching Barsini’s hands,” the Cardinal said.
Della said, “Prince Raphael is going to see Count Barsini again and try and get more information from him.”
“He has scant hope of that,” the Cardinal said drily. “In the meanwhile this pack of mad dogs will close in on you and tear you to bits as they seek this fabulous treasure of the Church. I ask you, if you have it, turn it over to the Church, then you will no longer be the target for them.”
“I can’t,” she said, near tears. “I don’t have it!”
“In the days of the Inquisition I would have had you tortured,” the man in the red robe said. “That was their way then but this is 1890. I cannot threaten you. I can only pray for your safety.”
“I have been truthful,” she said. “There is one other man who may know something about where the Madonna is. He has talked with Brizzi. His name is Father Anthony!”
The Cardinal looked grim. “A renegade! Long ago defrocked! He is no priest of the Church any longer. He is an underworld figure who uses his priestly garb as a façade. He has been a henchman to Brizzi and to Barsini. Do not trust him!”
“I have until this moment,” she said, shocked.
“I think he is Barsini’s man now,” the Cardinal said. “But he is one of the greedy animals seeking to find the Madonna and dispose of it for his own profit.”
She said, “I will avoid him. He promised to send me a message. I was to meet him. I’ve been trying desperately to get the Madonna back so that I may save my sister’s life.”
“I do not know who is holding her,” the Cardinal said. “It could be either Brizzi or Barsini.”
“I realize that.”
The Cardinal stared at her. Then he said. “I doubted from the first that you had the Madonna. I believe your story. You are free to go.”
Relieved, she asked, “How do I find my way out?”
He smiled. “The same way you came in. You will find that Father Walker has left the iron door open to the corridor.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“If the Madonna does come into your hands do not be afraid to bring it to me,” the Cardinal said. “I will ask no questions and I will try and protect you.”
“I do want to see it restored where it belongs,” she said.
The old man nodded and waved a thin hand as a signal she was dismissed. The dog Bruno rose to its feet again and growled after her as she hastily retreated to the door and out. She reached the short hall and found that, just as the Cardinal had promised, the iron door was open. She stepped out into the wide marble corridor, joining the other visitors. She looked for some sign of Father Walker but he was nowhere to be seen.
She could not believe what had happened to her. A few minutes ago she had stood in the presence of a Prince of the Church. He had talked with her amiably enough under the circumstances. And convinced of her innocence in the theft, he had let her go free.
Darkness had fallen. She made her way out to the gate and the street where she expected her carriage would still be waiting. She was anxious to get back to the palace and contact Prince Raphael and tell him about her weird experience. There was no doubt that somebody had forged the letter from him. Perhaps the old Cardinal had arranged it as a means of questionong her.
She reached the spot where she had left the carriage and to her amazement it was gone! Vanished! She stood there unable to believe the evidence of her eyes. With the coming of night the street was not so busy and she found herself standing there alone. What could have happened to the coachman that he decided to leave in this fashion? She had given him explicit instructions to wait.
Standing there bewildered, she was further startled to see a stout figure hurriedly coming up to her. It was Father Anthony!
He beamed at her. “My dear girl, what luck that I should meet you this way!”
“I suspect you’ve followed me,” she accused him.
The fat priest looked hurt. “You are right. I did follow you but only for your good.”
“My good?” she echoed. “I’ve just heard about you. You are no longer a priest. The Church turned you out!”
“Once a priest always a priest,” Father Anthony told her. “I don’t know what wicked lies you have been fed inside. I assure you I’m the same kindly Father Anthony who has tried to help you!”
Alarmed by the turn of events, she told him, “You can help me best by getting me a carriage. My own seems to have disappeared.”
“You will not need a carriage,” the fat priest said with a deceptively warm smile.
She stared at him. “Did I hear right?”
“I dismissed your carriage,” Father Anthony said. “I took the liberty of advising your driver that you would be visiting me. I sent him back to the palace with the promise I would take care of getting you home.”
She stared at him wide-eyed. “How dare you do such a thing?”
“One dares when one must,” the fat priest said. “I have a cellar flat nearby and I would like to play host to you!”
“No!” she said, preparing to run in the opposite direction.
But her awareness of danger had come too late. Already the dark, swarthy-faced man familiar to her from London had come up to seize her arm. Father Anthony seized the other one and between them they propelled her across the street where it was more deserted.
“Let me go!” she cried, struggling vainly to escape from them.
The dark man hissed, “I have a knife at your ribs. One loud shout from you and I plunge it in!”
She looked and saw that he was telling the truth. In his free hand was a knife, its sharp tip poised against her.
Father Anthony was breathing heavily from the effort of struggling with her and dragging her along. He gasped, “Just a few yards more and we shall be at my modest abode.”
This proved to be right. They descended a stone stairway into an alley that let to the side entrance of an adjacent building. Father Anthony went ahead and unlocked the door, then the darkman shoved her inside roughly and stood guard. In the meanwhile Father Anthony lit some candles.
Turning to her, he said, “Do please sit down and be comfortable!”
She stood defiantly. “I demand that you let me go!”
“All in good time,” he said. And he told the dark man, “Best that you take up guard outside.” Without saying a word the dark man went out and closed the door after him.
“Are you hungry?” the fat priest asked her as soon as they were alone.
“No. I want to be set free!”
“Not yet,” the fat man said.
“What do you want of me?”
He leaned forward. “What did they ask you?”
“What business is it of yours?” she demanded. “You bring me here against my will and expect me to answer questions. Who told you to do this, Brizzi or Barsini?”
Father Anthony looked hurt. “They have turned you against me. And I’m probably the only one who can help you.”
“You are a liar and an imposter!” she shot back.
The fat man looked grim. “I have no wish to be unpleasant, Miss Standish. What did you tell the cardinal?”
“What could I tell him?”
“Where the Madonna is!”
“I don’t know! I keep telling you that!”
Father Anthony looked sad. “I do not wish to harm you, Miss Standish. Be sensible. Settle it here and now. Tell me where the Madonna is and both you and your sister will be free and safe.”
“I cannot tell you,” she said. “I have never seen the Madonna.”
The fat priest looked sad. “It seems you are determined to be stubborn!”
“And you to be stupid!”
He said, “Well, there are other, more conventional means of getting information. You must forgive the poverty and bareness of my quarters. I’m sure you understand that I have taken the vow of the priesthood.”
“You are no longer recognized by the Church,” she reminded him. “At least that is one thing the cardinal told me.
A vicious smile came to the fat, oval face. He said, “I happen to be a collector of Church relics. I’ll show you one of them.” He vanished into the back of the apartment and then appeared again with a metal object mounted on a wood base. “Do you know what this is?”
She stared at the rather complicated contrivance. “No!”
“It is an ancient thumbscrew, Miss Standish. Used by churchmen and others in the old days for reviving the memories of their enemies. It is still most practical. Works very well. The purpose being to crush and twist the thumb completely out of shape.”
She watched him display the torture weapon with true relish and began to wonder if he were mad. She turned her head away. “I don’t want to see it!”
“Nor I to use it on you,’“ the fat man said amiably. “Such delicate hands too! But if you refuse to tell me about the Madonna, you leave me no choice, do you?”
“You’re mad!” she declared, backing away from him.
He followed her, holding up the torture device. “I have only to call my friend back in and have him tie you in a chair. Then we can apply this little device to your thumbs.”
“I trusted you and you deceived me,” she protested, backed into a corner of the basement room. “But from the first I told you I knew nothing about the missing Madonna.”
He smiled madly. “Of course you were lying then and you are lying now. Most impractical of you, I fear.”
She stared at him in stunned amazement. “You cannot believe I do not have it?”
“That is quite correct,” he agreed in a friendly manner.