"Definitely missing and presumed dead," said Farrell from his crouched position on the floor in the rear. "Can you lose them, Rossiter?"
"In Palermo, yes, but until we played poker you called me Kate. Once, anyway."
"That was before you beat the heck out of me, winning two out of three games. Duchess, can you see who's in the car behind us?"
"Only the silhouettes of two men," she replied, "but must we lose them? Actually I don't see why we should lose them, I'm developing a very keen interest in knowing who they are .., or which," she added. "It's very tiresome having all these cars behind us at different times: green cars, gray cars, black cars, blue cars . . . I'd like to see who's in them."
"For heaven's sake, Duchess, what are you suggesting?"
"They need sorting out," she told him. "For identity purposes. We seem of interest to so many!"
"Wasn't meeting those two apaches, as you called them, enough for you?"
She said impatiently, "They drove a green car, now it's a black car, and the two men silhouetted in the front seat don't at all have the shape of the apaches."
Kate said over her shoulder, "She could have a point there, you know, it really would be useful to see what they look like. Easier to lose them, too, if we stop where there are lots of people. On foot, I mean. Mingle in a crowd."
"Gunmen love crowds," pointed out Farrell sourly. "That, for instance, is how Aristotle shot people—mingling."
"You're being very negative," said Mrs. Pollifax. "To me it simply feels time to acquaint ourselves with who it is that wants to shoot you."
Farrell said testily, "Are you suggesting losing them or mingling?"
"Whatever it takes to see what they look like."
"The cathedral's a possibility," said Kate. "No one would dare any rough stuff in a cathedral and there are always tour guides and tourists there. We could join them, and once our two surveillants are tangled up in the crowd we can make a dash back to the car."
"I thought I was to stay hidden and not be seen," pointed out Farrell reproachfully. "And what if it's the Mafia behind all this? There's still a Mafia here, isn't there?"
"You mean the onorata societa, which is what Sicilians call them? Lately they've only been killing each other," said Kate. "I don't think you'd still be alive if it was them."
"Thanks so much," grumbled Farrell. "Of course it's only my life that's involved here, a meager thing at best, but it's mine. However, I suppose I'm outvoted?"
Kate said, "I vote yes with Mrs. Pollifax but I'll bring the gun in my purse."
"Madness," muttered Farrell.
Mrs. Pollifax was inclined to agree with him; after all, it was he who was in danger and it was not at all pleasant to use him as bait. On the other hand it was now obvious that these people had traced them to the Villa Franca and she didn't think that Farrell had considered yet how vulnerable this made both them and the villa; they would have to leave the villa, of course, but still without any knowledge of who wanted him killed. She thought the events that had taken place since she'd met Farrell in Erice had been persistent enough to prove that someone with real power and money was orchestrating these attempts to curb Farrell. It was difficult to link them with any signature of Julius Caesar; if Aristotle was in Sicily and responsible for this violence then it needed a bold move to learn who was protecting him; they needed faces, license plate numbers and names, and this meant risk.
"The cathedral's ahead," said Kate, pointing.
She had been right about its being a populated area. A tour bus was discharging a bus full of passengers; the narrow street down which they drove was lined with shops selling ceramics, mosaics and souvenirs, as well as tourists gazing in their windows. On the right, a wide staircase led down into a huge square rimmed with baroque buildings of yellow stone, one of which bore a dome. Beside the steps, marking the entrance into the square, stood an ornate fountain.
Kate pointed to a parking space farther down the street beyond the fountain. "I assume our surveillants don't know me, so I'll drive on and park in that space, but you hop out and join that group of tourists—quickly now—and I'll catch up with you."
She stopped the car, Mrs. Pollifax jumped out and opened the back door; Farrell reared up from his position on the floor, stepped out, and the two of them tried not to look conspicuous as they descended the staircase to enter the cathedral piazza.
It was a lively scene: two colorful Sicilian donkey carts stood waiting for customers, a third was being driven away carrying a pair of exuberant and waving tourists. Tables had been set up here and there to sell leather handbags, books and maps; a costumed photographer hovered over a camera on a tripod waiting for prey; and at a distance a man in uniform was shepherding a group of tourists into the dome-topped cathedral. Stopping at the base of the staircase Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell joined the small crowd waiting uncertainly for their guide to empty his tour bus. It proved a long wait because it was necessary for the guide to help a woman on crutches down the stairs, and as he joined them at last, Kate arrived on the top step, glanced around, saw them and slowly walked down to join them.
"You don't seem in a hurry, " growled Farrell.
"I'm giving them time," she explained brightly. "They parked several cars ahead of me and had the dickens of a time backing into the space. I didn't recognize either of them, by the way. One of them is wearing a hot-looking tweed jacket, the other has a bright green shirt."
"New talent," said Farrell gloomily.
She gave him an exasperated glance. "Shall we go? The entrance is over there and I see a new tour group starting out just inside the door."
"We begin the mingling now?" quipped Farrell.
"Loosen up," Kate said. "If it'll give you a sense of perspective this cathedral was completed seven centuries ago, about 1185, and even then it was built over an earlier church, a mosque."
"If that's to promote humility," Farrell told her, "it's only a reminder of how many kings got bumped off in those days . . , assassinated, if you're familiar with the word?"
"Sssh," hissed Kate as the guard began to speak.
". . , upon entering you will see that the interior is cross-shaped, with a nave and two aisles. Now if you will follow me, please, and proceed—yes, that's right—down this aisle, which contains the Tombs of the Kings . . . " The guide paused for his constituents to surround him, and Mrs. Pollifax reflected how guides all over the world seemed to speak in the same mellifluous and somewhat pompous manner.
He nodded at them now, pleased at their orderly assembly. "Ah yes," he began, "you will see here, lining this wall, the admirably executed sarcophagi of porphyry, surmounted by canopies . . . Here reposes the emperor Frederick II, who died in 1250, and to the right lies his father Henry VI, who died in 1197. Behind, to the left, is the tomb of King Roger, whose death occurred in 1154, and on the right, in the sarcophagus adorned with an eagle, rests his daughter Constance,
wife of Henry VI. On the left—in that niche—lies the son of Frederick III of Aragon, and . . ."
Mrs. Pollifax sighed, rather overpowered by so many dates and kings, and finding nothing at all romantic about lists. Shifting her position she accidentally stepped on the foot of the woman beside her who recoiled, bumping into the man in front of her, who turned and gave Mrs. Pollifax's neighbor a scathing glance. Mrs. Pollifax found herself pushed forward while the two confronted each other, and then pushed aside to the front as the crowd adjusted itself to this minor disturbance.
"In 1781," the guide was complacently telling them, "the sarcophagi were transferred here from a chapel contiguous to the choir, and opened. The remains of Roger, Henry VI and Constance were greatly decomposed, while those of Frederick II were in good preservation. The corpse of the emperor . . ."
Mrs. Pollifax sighed, and removed her gaze from the guide to find herself looking directly into the eyes of a man who was staring at her with an astonishment that approached horror. He stood off to her right, at the edge of the group, and she kne
w those eyes: they had met hers with equal astonishment in a different country, and only seconds before he'd lifted a gun to kill her.
He really was here. In Sicily.
She thought, I'd forgotten how small he is . . , and then, he's as shocked to see me as I am to see him, and now there are two of us he'll have to kill.
She became aware that Farrell was touching her elbow. "Duchess?" he said in a low voice.
"Yes," she said, feeling a little sick, and turned to blindly push her way out of the crowd.
Kate stood on the periphery of the group, looking for them anxiously. Seeing Farrell she said, "You found her? Thank God —let's go!"
Even as they hurried toward die door Mrs. Pollifax found herself distrusting such instant recognition as she recalled the neatly trimmed mustache, the broader waist and the English tweeds he wore. Only the ejes, she thought, the eyes . . , and said aloud, "He should have worn dark glasses, he was a fool not to wear dark glasses, I could see his eyes."
"Who?" demanded Farrell.
"Aristotle."
He stopped to stare at her. "You saw him, too? You recognized him?"
"Don't stop," cried Kate, and as they reached die doorway, "RUN!"
Mrs. Pollifax ran. The open square lay before her and it looked a long way to the steps. Another tour group was arriving and Mrs. Pollifax kept her eyes on them, picturing herself safely among them and pacing herself by their growing nearness. She was not far from diem when something very small and metallic whished past her ear, slicing the air to hit the pavement in front of her and to send up a cloud of dust, and splinters of concrete. That was a bullet, she thought in surprise, and a moment later reached the steps.
Farrell, catching up with her, gasped, "Damn it, he nearly hit you, Duchess. That was a bullet, are you all right?"
She did not trouble to answer, it was difficult enough to catch her breath. She saw that Kate had outpaced them both and was already at the door of the car and unlocking it. Mrs. Pollifax fell into the front seat, heard Farrell slam die door behind him, Kate backed up and headed out into the street.
Regaining her voice Mrs. Pollifax said, "Prison has certainly undermined Aristotle's marksmanship, he missed me."
"Barely," said Farrell, and tossed a spent bullet into her lap. "A little souvenir for you, I stopped and picked it up."
"That was reckless of you," she told him.
"What bullet?" demanded Kate, making a fast turn up a side street. "Will someone please tell me what's been happening? They shot at you, Farrell?"
"No, at the Duchess," he said grimly. "I was running at least fifteen feet off to the side of her, so it could only have been aimed at her. They're not following us, are they?"
"No," said Kate. "They'd not even left the cathedral square when we zoomed away."
"You saw Aristotle, Duchess, and I take it he saw7 you, too."
She nodded. "It was his staring at me that caught my eye."
"How- did he look, seeing you?"
"As if he'd seen a ghost. Horrified."
"So now you're on his hit list, too," he said bitterly. "At which point he must have decided you were an easier target than I was."
"But he missed," she said, frowning. "That's difficult to understand."
Kate, glancing at her in the rearview mirror, said, "Farrell, whether you've noticed it or not, Mrs. Pollifax looks very shaken-up. Enough talk of guns and Aristotle!"
Farrell gave Mrs. Pollifax a searching look. "Some brandy, maybe? We could stop somewhere—"
"I've a better idea," interrupted Kate. "I suggest a stop at Segesta on the way to Raphael's villa, it's my favorite place and if we take the inland route 113 we'd pass it anyway. It's lovely and peaceful: the ruins of a city with its streets grown over with grass, and an ancient theater and a view for miles around . . , just sky and wind!"
"Very poetic," murmured Farrell, "but you understand that finding Raphael's house, not to mention locating a surveillance point, is going to take time?"
"Understood," said Kate, "but I can't think of a more perfect antidote for Mrs. Pollifax to heal the shock of meeting Aristotle, and hearing a bullet whizz past her, and much kinder than brandy."
How very thoughtful of her, reflected Mrs. Pollifax, acknowledging that she felt unnerved, not so much by the bullet that Farrell had tossed into her lap but at the shock of actually seeing Aristotle again. "It sounds lovely," she said.
"Good—let's go," Farrell told her. "Time we saw something more of this island anyway, and, Duchess—sorry I wasn't more aware, I was busy gloating over Aristotle's missing you."
"Which I still find surprising."
"Well, they don't encourage practice shooting in prisons," he reminded her.
The highway was now a familiar one, and Mrs. Pollifax tried not to remember that on their return from Erice along this same route they had been closely followed and then forcibly stopped by the two apaches. Abruptly, as if she too was thinking of this, Kate said, "We turn here to bypass Partinico and go inland to Segesta. Incidentally, Partinico is where Danilo Dolci has done so much for the people, fighting the government and the mafiosos to build schools and cooperatives and a dam. A saint, believe me, and Franca's inspiration, of course. Up in the hills near here lived Sicily's famous bandit, Salvatore Giuliano. Folk hero or terrorist, take your pick."
"Still alive?"
"Oh no, murdered, no one's certain by whom. In 1950, I think."
They drove over low hills, under a tunnel and then through a town called Alcamo, and as the road descended, past pines and olive trees, Kate pointed. "Look, you can see in the distance the ruins at the top of Monte Bárbaro."
"Missed it," said Farrell.
"Clumsy," teased Kate.
They parked the car near the top of the mountain and began their walk up a gradually rising path to the theater ruins. They walked with a meadow at one side, bright with daisies, scarlet poppies, and here and there banks of brilliant yellow and purple flowers. A faint breeze stirred the grass and the tops of olive trees; pointing across the meadows Kate said, "You can see the temple itself down there, quite marvelously preserved but never completed. The theater's up here, though, and the ruins of the town, and this I love best."
They paused at the Greek ruins of the theater, open to the sky, its rough-hewn stones set in tiers facing an empty stage, its backdrop the meadows and valleys below.
"Uncovered by archaeologists," said Kate. "You'd never know it was buried for centuries, would you? Now it looks as if at any moment people could arrive to watch a drama: one of Aeschylus', perhaps—he died in Sicily, you know."
Strolling on to the top of the hill they reached what was once the acropolis; a single line of columns stood boldly upright with nothing behind it but the blue sky, and all around, as if felled and scattered by a giant hand, lay the huge square-cut stones that had once been its walls.
"How wild and lonely," breathed Mrs. Pollifax. "And there was once a town?"
"Around here," Kate told her, and guided them over and between the great blocks of stone.
"Streets!" exclaimed Farrell, looking down a wide and grassy expanse lined with wildflowers and the ruins of walls. "Those really were streets, can you imagine what it was once like?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Pollifax contentedly. "People walked and lived and gossiped here, one can feel this. How long ago, Kate?"
"b.c. 409, roughly, at least that's when the archaeologists believe the theater was built."
Mrs. Pollifax looked out across peaceful meadows at the great sweep of checkered fields below, the curving roads white in the sunlight and the distant mountains hazy on the horizon. She drew a deep breath and said, "Thank you, Kate .., a perfect prescription for startled nerves. I've quite recovered from what happened at the cathedral, and I think your island lovely." She added quietly, "And I think we'd better go now."
They made their way back to the car along a narrow path cut through the wildflowers, and returned to a less civilized world to hunt for Raphael's
house, where Farrell had been shot.
FARRELL HAD PROMISED THEM A HILL, AND THERE was a hill: it slanted steeply upward to a point that overlooked the grounds on which Raphael's villa stood, and here it ended in a thirty-foot perpendicular drop down into his driveway. Two bushes had survived the hill's erosion and clung to the edge of this small precipice; from behind these, Farrell said, they could take turns observing what took place below.
"If anything takes place," said Kate wearily, dropping her knapsack to the earth.
It was already near dusk; they had pursued a network of wrong turns before finding the hill that Farrell remembered from his night visit,
and then it had taken an even longer time to discover a way to reach it from the rear, after which they had left the car and walked nearly a mile, much of it uphill. The sun that had flushed Mrs. Pollifax's cheeks on their long hike was sinking now toward the grove of lemon trees beyond Raphael's villa; there was a fragrance of herbs in the air and a hint of chill. Farrell had at once positioned himself behind the denser shrub with binoculars, but Mrs. Pollifax was delighted to sit well below him and relax; it had been a strenuous afternoon, after all, and she had already examined what lay below and was satisfied. She had learned that if their view was limited they definitely had privacy; from the hill they looked down on the roof and one side of the house that held a door and three vine-covered windows. The driveway below them swept around to the front of the house, where a pair of sculptured stone lions could be glimpsed, presumably marking the front entrance. As for leaving the hill to approach Raphael's villa, once it was dark, her glance had moved to the right to find that the hill circled the rear of the grounds, gradually losing altitude until it was no more than a good jump down to a flower garden behind the house. She was content to wait.
"Have an orange," Kate said, producing several from her knapsack. "It's another hour until dark."
"Thank you," she said, and to Farrell, "Considering the events of this afternoon, isn't it time to contact Car stair s now and tell him Aristotle's here? After all, both of us have seen and identified him; what more can anyone ask?"
Mrs. Polllifax and the Second Thief Page 9