Vintage Love (122 page)
“I know,” she said and she lapsed into silence. “I hate to leave with the Madonna still missing,” she finally said.
“We shouldn’t worry about that.”
“We have been involved,” she said. “I won’t be able to get it out of my mind.”
“The next thing you’ll probably hear is that Pasquale Borgo has sold a number of fine gems to various wealthy collectors.”
“I’m sure that we shall,” Della said sadly. “I’m sorry for the Cardinal and for Father Walker.”
“You don’t even know if Father Walker is alive,” her fiancé reminded her.
“I know,” she said. “I must find out about him before I leave.”
The rain had not let up and they dodged from the police vehicle into the house. The captain had loaned her a heavy police cloak which was both warm and gave her good cover. Guido opened the door to them, his wizened face wearing a look of consternation.
“What has happened?” he wanted to know. “Will the police be back?”
“No,” she said. “I do not think there will be a need.”
Guido eyed her strangely. “You mean the kidnappers have been caught?”
“They are all dead,” she said. “And so, I’m afraid, is Irma.”
The little man flinched at hearing the news. Della was certain she saw tears glisten in his eyes. “That is too bad, I was fond of her! The Prince is waiting for you in the drawing room.”
He ushered them in and then vanished. Prince Sanzio looked more frail and old than ever. Glancing up at them, he said at once, “I know the news is bad!”
“I’m afraid it is,” Della said, kneeling by him and taking one of his thin old hands in hers as she told him.
Della was helped by Henry standing by, and she was thankful that Aunt Isobel had elected not to leave her room. It made her difficult task that little bit easier. Tears came to her eyes and there was a tremor in her voice as she recited the loss of a sister.
When she finished the old Prince stared ahead of him in silence for a long while. Then he said, “So I have lost her. But one way or another I was bound to lose her soon. I’m only sorry that her young life was cut off in its beauty.”
Della said, “She would have been a wonderful person had it not been for Barsini!”
“And that Raphael, a weakling and a coward!” The old Prince was angry. “I’m thankful they’re both dead!”
“Rome will be a better city without Barsini. The police claim they have been watching him, hoping to get enough evidence to convict him for holding those Satanist orgies. Now that he is gone I doubt that the Satanists will go on,” Della said.
The old man smiled at her sadly. “At least in you I have a living memory of my lost daughter.”
She said, “I shall always keep in touch with you and perhaps you may decide to come and live with me in London.”
The man in the wheelchair shook his head. “Too late for that. I’m an old man who will soon die. I could not leave Rome. And I shall have Guido. He understands me.”
“Yes. You are fortunate in that,” she said.
The old Prince gave Henry a friendly look. “You are most fortunate, young man, to get a wife with this girl’s character and beauty.”
“I know that, sir,” Henry said warmly.
Prince Sanzio sighed. “You will be going back to England at once. I accept that. And I will not beg you to remain. I understand.”
She stood up and, going over to Henry, said, “Both Henry and I feel it a tragedy that so many people should die as a result of their greed for the Madonna. I wish it could be found and restored to the Church.”
“I would not worry about it, my dear,” the old Prince said. “Perhaps it will never be found. It would seem that way!”
“Not so, Prince,” a voice said. And they all turned for a remarkable sight. Madame Guioni garishly dressed in a blue hat with veil and a crimson gown, came into the room with a gun in her hand and an angry-looking Guido marching sullenly before her. The midget glared at them with a look of hatred.
Della recovered first to ask, “Madame Guioni, what does this mean?”
The woman smiled, “You will soon know, my dear. Meanwhile, Mr. Clarkson, will you kindly remove the gun the Prince is hiding under the blanket which covers his legs!” She pointed the revolver to encourage Henry to act.
The old Prince uttered an oath in Italian as Henry lifted the blanket and took an evil-looking revolver from his lap.
In her high-pitched voice Madame Guioni ordered Henry, “Pass the weapon to me, butt first.”
Henry obeyed and asked, “What does this mean?”
Della joined in, asking, “Why are you covering us all with that gun?”
Madame Guioni ordered the midget, “I will feel safer if you stand over by the Prince’s chair. You make me uneasy.”
Guido gave the old Prince a meaningful look and then went over to stand beside him. A strange expression had come over the face of Prince Sanzio—an odd alertness.
Madame Guioni addressed herself to Della while keeping all of them carefully covered with the weapon that looked so incongruous in her well-manicured right hand. She said, “You no doubt wonder why I’m here. Let me introduce myself, my name is Brizzi!” And with obvious pain the left arm raised and in a swift movement stripped off the hat and wig to reveal the face of the wispy-bearded man Della had seen earlier.
“You are Brizzi!” she gasped. “You were nearly killed tonight!”
“I have many disguises and many lives to match,” Brizzi said, a smile on the painted face. He made a macabre spectacle, with the man’s head and the female clothing. “You want to know about the Madonna, I’m sure. And what happened to Borgo, the messenger. I have just heard the truth from this tiny gentleman standing before me!”
The old Prince snarled at Guido, “Little fool!”
“He would have killed me!” Guido pleaded with his master.
“He’ll kill us anyway!” Prince Sanzio warned the midget.
Brizzi smiled and went on, “The night your sister talked this plot over with Raphael, the servant Guido overheard them. He told his master of the scheme to send the Madonna to England and they concoted a plan.”
“Lies!” the old Prince said. “Rubbish!”
“Wait.” Brizzi waved the gun at him menacingly. “You were prepared the night Borgo came to get the Madonna from your daughter. It had been delivered to her by Raphael, acting as Barsini’s agent. They kept it moving about on purpose. Borgo took the package and Irma saw him to the door and went upstairs.”
The old Prince said, “I demand you halt this nonsense!”
“Be patient a little longer,” Brizzi said with good humor. “After your daughter retired expecting Borgo to step into the carriage, your man Guido invited Borgo to have a drink with him before he started out. Borgo was an alcoholic and never refused a drink. But he did not expect the drink he took with this little man in the kitchen to be both drugged and poisoned. Borgo collapsed after a few minutes and Guido had the Madonna. He also had to find a way to dispose of the body.”
Trembling and white-faced, Guido leaned against the wheelchair. “I am going to be ill!” he said weakly.
“I doubt it,” Brizzi told him. “Your little stomach was strong enough to murder. And your little body strong enough to drag your victim out into the back garden. There you already had a trench dug and ready. You placed the body in it and hastily covered it and you’ve been working at finishing the job ever since.”
Della said, “What about the Madonna?”
“What, indeed?” Brizzi said. “I have come for it. At long last it will be restored to me. All this time Prince Sanzio has had it in the jewel case it came in, in the concealed drawer under his chair. He has literally been sitting on it. Now I will ask the little man to reach in there and produce it!”
Guido and the old Prince exchanged a grim look. Then slowly the midget knelt and reached in under the chair and produced a black, velvet-covered box about ten inches square. The sight of it awed everyone in the room including Brizzi. They stared at it in silence, this treasure which had brought death to so many.
And it was not to end. For in the instant of silence the midget produced a pistol that had been hidden in with the box and fired it at Brizzi, catching him directly in the chest. Brizzi staggered and then lifted his revolver and shot the midget through the head; a second shot hit the old Prince in the area of the heart and he fell forward out of his chair. The weapon fell from Brizzi’s hand and he also slumped to the floor.
Della stood horrified at the carnage around her in the elegant setting of the drawing room. Aunt Isobel appeared in the doorway and let out a hysterical cry and collapsed. Henry went from the old Prince, to Guido and on to Brizzi.
Kneeling by Brizzi, he told Della, “He is the only one still alive and I doubt if he’ll last long.”
Della ran to the side of the superthief and as she knelt by him, he opened his eyes and the ugly hawk face took on the shadow of a smile. In a husky whisper, he said, “Now it is yours!”
“Not mine,” she said. “I shall return it where it belongs.”
The dying man’s whisper grew fainter so that he barely formed the words, “The Church!”
Della left him to help revive her Aunt Isobel. Then Henry summoned the police. Only when all this was done and the police were dealing with the three dead bodies, did they open the box to look upon the beauty of the Madonna of St. Cecilia.
Della gazed at the blazing glory of the gold Madonna with its rich decorations of ruby, white, yellow and purple stones. It was a work of genius! Something for the ages! A creation too precious to attempt to appraise and too attractive to man’s greed to be anywhere but in a museum.
Father Walker expressed much the same opinion the following day when the police captain, Della and Henry visited him at the Vatican Museum to return the Madonna to him.
“Beauty beyond the ordinary too often brings tragedy,” the young priest said. “I think we shall place this Madonna in storage for a time. Until the notoriety associated with it is forgotten.”
Della said, “I’m glad we are able to return it.”
“The Cardinal will be pleased,” he said.
She said, “You were ill last time we came. We were unable to see you.”
He smiled ruefully. “A slight stab wound from which I recovered. I was attempting to spy on the Satanists and they almost finished me.”
“But you are all right now?” she said with concern.
Father Walker said, “Yes. In spite of my appearance I’m fairly rugged.”
She hesitated, awkwardly aware that the police captain was listeneing to all they said with polite interest. Then she said, “I’m afraid this may be our last meeting, Father. We are all returning to London in a day or two.”
The young priest offered his hand to Henry. “You are a lucky man, Mr. Clarkson. I’m sure your marriage will be a happy one.”
“Thank you,” Henry said warmly as he shook hand.
Father Walker then turned to study her through his rather heavy glasses. “It has not been too pleasant a visit for you, Miss Standish. I trust you will not let it spoil Rome for you. Come again when you can enjoy it.”
“I will,” she said, her throat tight with emotion. “I’ll not forget Rome nor will I forget you, Father.”
“Nor I you,” he said. “We all must know love of one sort or another if we are to survive. Mine is for the Church and for all people. You and this young man know love in each other! You were obviously meant to be lovers. I wish you well.”
Della nodded, her eyes blurred with tears. She went to Henry and took his hand in hers. She managed a last smile for the young priest, who remained there watching them. Then they walked toward the museum entrance with the police captain following at a polite distance.
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 1979 by W. E. Dan Ross
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7289-5
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7289-0
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7290-9
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7290-6
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
Clarissa Ross
