Street of the five moons.., p.22
Street of the Five Moons vbm-2,
p.22
The room exploded into chaos. I hit the floor, Bruno hit John, the principessa streaked towards the front door, and Luigi fumbled wildly for his gun, which he had dropped. I got to it before he did, but I needn’t have worried. The boy slumped over in a sobbing heap before I plucked the weapon from under his fingers.
I pointed the gun at Bruno, who had John in a bear hug.
‘Let him go,’ I gasped.
‘Don’t shoot,’ said Bruno and John in chorus.
The front door banged and an outraged miniature fury came stalking into the room. Pietro must have been changing when my call came. He was still in his dressing gown, a gorgeous heavy green silk affair; and I knew then why even the fatter, funnier-looking Caesars had been able to command an empire.
‘Bruno,’ he thundered. ‘Drop him!’
So Bruno did. John hit the floor like a sack of wet cement. It had not been one of his better days. He was unconscious when I crawled over to him and lifted his head onto my lap.
‘Where are those smelling salts?’ I asked.
Thanks to his kindly disposition, and a five-thousand-lira bribe, the little man at the door of the terminal let me go out onto the field to make sure the crate was loaded properly. There was no mistaking which one it was; it was the biggest box on the truck, and as it passed me I heard a low grumbling sound coming from it. The vet had given Caesar a massive dose of tranquilizers, to prepare him for the flight, but even in a semiconscious state Caesar had his doubts about the whole thing.
Standing beside me, one hand in his jacket pocket, and the other arm supported by a black silk sling, John looked dubiously at the crate.
‘What the hell are you going to do with that monster?’
‘Take long walks,’ I said dreamily. ‘Late at night. Through the slums of Munich. I can hardly wait.’
‘I’m glad you warned me. I shall try to limit my nocturnal activities to other cities.’
‘I don’t suppose you would consider getting a job. An honest job.’
‘What, go straight? Me, the local successor to Raffles and the Saint and all those other debonair, gallant British adventurers?’ John started to smile and then thought better of it; his lower lip was still a peculiar shape. ‘Anyhow, I can’t very well quit now, with the police of at least three countries after me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Oh, that’s quite all right. I’d hate to have your little conscience harassing you because you had failed in your duty. Are you at peace with yourself, my child?’
‘Luigi is under treatment, so that’s all right,’ I said, refusing to be baited. ‘My poor little conscience will be at rest once restitution is made to those stupid millionaires. But Pietro is going to weasel out of it, you watch. He’ll say – ’
‘That he sold his jewels through an intermediary, in good faith, and had copies made because he was embarrassed to admit to the world that he had been forced to sell his family treasures. He had no idea his emissary would cheat his customers! He was quite candid about it,’ John said. ‘I was the intermediary, and I am therefore the logical scapegoat. I’d be in for it anyway, so why not take all the blame?’
‘I suppose he sweetened his candour with a considerable bribe,’ I said.
‘Oh, quite. You must admit he has behaved rather well.’
‘I guess I can’t blame him for anything except being dishonest. Bianca was the one who wanted to have us put down.’
‘Oh, didn’t she explain that? She never intended any such thing. Pietro misunderstood her.’
‘So she says. I can’t think too fondly of dear Bianca. She helped us with Luigi, but only because he threatened her. I feel sorry for Pietro, though. He’s awfully upset about Luigi. And with reason.’
‘I think the boy will be all right,’ John said gently.
‘I wish I thought so. But everything possible will be done. Pietro really loves the kid. Too bad he didn’t realize it until the damage was done.’
‘Didn’t he offer you a little present?’ John asked.
‘Yes, he did. The most gorgeous necklace – emeralds and opals. Of course I couldn’t take it.’
‘Why not?’
‘It wouldn’t have been ethical. Besides,’ I added, with a rueful laugh, ‘I’d never be sure whether it was real or fake.’
‘It was such a beautiful swindle,’ John murmured wistfully.
‘And the only one who is going to suffer for it is you. Damn it, John, I really am sorry. I know you don’t believe me, or understand, but – ’
‘I understand. I don’t agree, but I understand. I had the same trouble myself, years ago. Only constant practise can overcome the disability. The day I forged my first check I really felt quite uncomfortable for a few hours. The second time – ’
‘Can’t you ever stop joking?’
‘No, why should I? Laughter is one of the two things that make life worthwhile. Aren’t you going to ask me what the other one is?’
‘That was totally meaningless,’ I said haughtily, lowering my eyes before his meaningful regard. ‘Merely an interlude. It would never have happened if you hadn’t taken unfair advantage last night – flaunting your cuts and bruises and pretending to be helpless. That, and the fact that I was curious about . . .’
‘About what? Don’t be so mysterious.’
‘Never mind,’ I said, with my most mysterious smile. There was no sense in telling him what Bianca had said – or that I was inclined to agree with her evaluation. The man’s ego was swollen to monumental proportions already.
‘It was just one of those things,’ I repeated. ‘One of those crazy things . . .’
‘Not for me, it wasn’t. Never before in my life . . . Well, perhaps one other time, but she was Spanish, and you know how these Latin – ’
‘Ships that pass in the night,’ I said loudly. ‘Never to meet again . . .’
‘Oh, we’ll meet again,’ John said coolly. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘How? One red rose, once a year?’
John forgot himself and started to laugh. ‘Caught you,’ he said, dabbing tenderly at his lower lip. ‘I knew it; I knew that under that tough exterior you were a secret romantic. The Prisoner of Zenda, for God’s sake.’
‘No, Rupert of Hentzau. And I’m not a romantic, I’m a compulsive reader. Mother has shelves of books like that -Graustark, The Scarlet Pimpernel . . . I read everything in the house, including old Sears, Roebuck catalogues.’
‘You protest too much.’
The loudspeaker overhead burst into a babble of Italian, in which I caught the word ‘Monaco.’ That’s Italian for Munich.
‘My flight,’ I said. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Time for one last passionate embrace,’ said John, and put his arm around me.
I braced myself; even with one arm he could literally sweep a lady off her feet, as I had good reason to know. But instead of pulling me close to him he just stood there looking into my eyes. His face was unmasked and vulnerable – and dangerously appealing. It was an unbelievably effective performance; my insides started to go soft, like melting jelly. I had to remind myself that with John it was hard to tell what was real from . . . a forgery.
He brushed my lips gently with his, and stood back.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said again, and walked away.
‘One red rose?’ I called. He turned.
‘Nothing so jejune. I won’t tell you what the message will be. You’ll know.’
That was six months ago; but he was right. When the message came, I knew who it was from.
It arrived yesterday. There was no note, nothing in writing. Only a little box containing Marie Antoinette’s engagement ring. Six rose-cut diamonds encircling a ten-carat sapphire.
It’s in the Louvre. I think.
I have some leave time coming. Schmidt agreed I didn’t have to count the Rome trip. Getting kidnapped, hit on the jaw, and threatened by a mixed-up kid with a gun is not anybody’s idea of a vacation – not even Schmidt’s. I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. They say if you stand on the Champs Élysées, sooner or later you will meet everyone you’ve ever known.
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Document creation date: 17.12.2012
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Document authors :
Elizabeth Peters
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Elizabeth Peters, Street of the Five Moons vbm-2
