Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “Yes,” said Marozzo.

  His head jerked back. His eyes were half closed, and suddenly he shouted to the full of his lungs: “Marignello! Help! Hel—”

  The point of Tizzo’s dagger could have stifled the first word of that cry, but he could not strike it into a defenseless throat. His whole heart yearned to kill the traitor, and still he could not use the edge of the dagger. Instead, he jerked it about and struck with the pommel once, twice, and again into the midst of that still beautiful face.

  A smashed red ruin took the place of a face. Marozzo slid through the arms of Tizzo like a figure of sand and lay helpless on the floor.

  “Tizzo, they are coming!” panted the girl.

  “They are,” he admitted. “But I can’t leave. There’s still a chance. I must get from Marignello the keys that he holds — Beatrice, for the last time — will you run for your life?”

  A tumult of many footfalls came hurrying, and Tizzo barred the inner door against that influx.

  “Signore Marozzo? Your highness?” Marignello was calling out anxiously as he came.

  And then a light and silver sound of laughter chimed in the room, making Tizzo jerk his head suddenly about. It was the Lady Beatrice, with her head tilted back, now crying out: “Your highness — Signore Marozzo — how can I help laughing—”

  The inner door was shaken.

  “Your highness — did you call to me?”

  “Yes, for wine,” said Lady Beatrice. “I’ll unbar the door for you, Marignello—”

  She looked fixedly at Tizzo and walked up to the door. He, understanding suddenly, dragged the fallen body of Marozzo aside and placed himself where the door would cover him as it swung open.

  There he waited. A crack of light struck in on him as he stood there while the door swung wide under the hands of the girl.

  “ONLY you, Marignello,” she said, still laughing. “There is a secret, here, and you are the only man his highness will admit to it. Step in!”

  “A secret? I thought I heard a yell for help—” began Marignello, as he stepped through the door.

  The girl shut and barred it instantly behind him.

  “But where is Signore Marozzo—” began Marignello. It was only then that he saw the gleam of the poised ax in the hand of Tizzo. He made no effort to leap back. There was not a man in Perugia who did not know the singular and deadly magic which Tizzo could work with that weapon.

  “Tie his hands,” said Tizzo softly, to the girl.

  It was done instantly.

  “Is there a rear door out of the house?” whispered Tizzo to the stricken Marignello.

  The eyes of the man dropped to the still figure of Marozzo on the floor.

  “You still have a chance for life,” promised Tizzo, “but only if you lend us your help.”

  “May I live? Oh, God, is it possible that you give me my life?” breathed Marignello. “There is, my lord.

  There is a door at the back of the house.”

  “Then tell all those fellows of yours to leave the place by that door — to return here tomorrow at the same time. Sing out in a hearty voice. You hear me?”

  Marignello nodded. His eyes blinked. Twice he moistened his lips and took deep breaths, before he called out in a ringing tone: “It’s finished for tonight. Paolo — Guido — all of you out the back way; I have to confer here with his highness.”

  “This is all too damned strange,” said a heavy, growling voice beyond the door.

  Marignello looked down again at the limp figure, the blood-dripping face of Marozzo, and shuddered.

  “Orders from his highness,” he said. “We’ve found wonders in the boy — and tomorrow night, my lads! At the same hour. We’ll have the trap and we’ll have the Tizzo to catch in it, and double pay for all.”

  There was still a little murmuring, but presently the footfalls began to withdraw. The knees of Marignello were bending under his weight, and the cold burden of fear.

  “Be brave, Marignello,” said Tizzo. “I have made a promise. Fill your part of the bargain, and you shall live, I swear.”

  “God and your highness forgive me for treachery!” groaned Marignello. “But they offered me a fortune, a treasure of gold! They hate you so, and they fear you so, that they would buy your death with your own weight in gold. Yes, they would make a statue of you all in precious metals and set jewels in the head of it for eyes. They would give that away to make sure of your death!”

  “I understand,” said Tizzo.

  The girl had gone to the street door and was listening, but the crashing of the rain muffled all other sounds outside the house. Small gusts of wind worked down the chimney and knocked puffs of smoke out into the room.

  “But you have, somewhere in the house, keys that fit doors in the prison cellars of della Penna,” said Tizzo. “You were not lying when you told me that you were a trusted man?”

  “I was not, signore. No, no, I am a trusted man — and God forgive me for once betraying my trust! There are three sets of the keys, one in the hands of his highness, Jeronimo della Penna, and the head jailer keeps one — he never leaves the house; and I have a smaller set.”

  “What will your smaller set open? The outer door of the cellars?”

  “Yes, signore.”

  “Marignello, you will still be a treasure to me! — Where are those keys?”

  “They are at the key-maker’s.”

  “Ha?”

  “His Highness, Jeronimo della Penna, ordered me to have my set copied.”

  TIZZO groaned, but the girl, turning from the door, said: “He lies, Tizzo.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Three sets of keys to one dungeon — that is more than enough. If Jeronimo used all the wits he possesses, he would never have so many. Besides, would he trust such keys into common hands? Into the hands of a keymaker, who might make ten sets as easily as one?”

  “True!” exclaimed Tizzo. He turned sharply on Marignello, who cowered as though he expected death to strike him that instant.

  “You have lied, Marignello?” he demanded.

  “Ah, my lord, consider! For these years I never have broken my trust to my master! How can I break it now?”

  “You were bribed by Henry of Melrose.”

  “No, signore. I took his money, but then I carried the letter to my master. He read it through and told me to deliver it — and keep the bribe. You see, I tried to be honest.”

  “I think you have,” said Tizzo, with a queer turning of his heart. “As well as you could, you’ve tried. You’ve tried to betray me and trap me — but I suppose that money can buy outright a conscience like yours. But now, Marignello, make up your mind. Will you give me the keys or will you not? Will you give them to me, or will you die here?”

  “They are in that closed cupboard at the corner of the room,” sighed Marignello.

  Beatrice was instantly at the place, and when she had pulled the door open she drew out from one of the inner shelves a bunch of keys which were dark with rust in places but polished with use in others.

  “Are these the ones, Marignello?” she asked.

  “They are,” said Marignello, sinking his head. “And I am a ruined man forever!”

  “You have made a fortune out of your treachery,” said Tizzo. “Why not leave Perugia, then, and spend your money in another place?”

  “Because wine in other cities has no taste, and bread in another place will not fill the belly. Except in Perugia there is no good air for breathing; in other places, the men are fools and the women are foul,” said Marignello, mournfully.

  A deep sigh from Marozzo, at this moment, called attention back to him, and Beatrice stooped above his body.

  “Now for the keys,” said Tizzo. “One by one — slowly — here, I draw a diagram on the floor as you name me the rooms and the passages, one by one. Now, begin!”

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE DUNGEON.

  THEY LEFT MAROZZO and Marignello lashed hand and foot, co
nverted into two lifeless hulks which were rendered silent with strong gags. The cloak and the hat of Marignello were taken by Tizzo. That of Marozzo would shelter Beatrice from the rain.

  And now, with the ax under the folds of the cloak, Tizzo stood beside the girl in the street. The eaves above them shut away most of the rain, which rushed down just past their faces.

  “You see that where I am going now, no one can go with me,” said Tizzo. “I have to be as secret as a cat, as casual as a pack-mule. If I tried to take you with me, I would be lost at once.”

  “I know it,” said Beatrice. “But if you go, Tizzo, I shall never see you again!”

  “The keys give me a good chance. The clothes of Marignello may help me more than everything else.”

  “Suppose that you even get to the Englishman and then find that already he has been torn and ruined by torture so that he can’t follow you?”

  Tizzo groaned.

  “I must not find him that way!” he said.

  Then he added: “You can go to one of three houses — that of Lady Atlanta, or to my foster father, Luigi Falcone, or to the place of Antonio Bardi. Which one will you choose?”

  “Lady Atlanta.”

  “Farewell, Beatrice.”

  “Tizzo, say something now for me to remember through the years when I think of you going into the rat-trap.” He laughed a little. Soft-footed thunder ran down the farther sky. Lightning slid along a crack of brightness.

  “You’ll remember that I drank too much wine, loved dice and fighting. Remember, too, that I loved my friends and one exquisite lady — one that could be more troublesome than smoke in the eyes, more delightful than a warm fire in December.”

  He could see that her eyes were closed as she leaned back against the wall.

  “Now go before I begin to weep,” she said.

  He turned and hurried up the street.

  HE had with him the ax muffled under the cloak, the broad, I strong dagger of Marignello, and a file made of the most perfect steel, three cornered, ready to eat through other metal like fire through wood. Also, he had keys and a plan of the cellars of della Penna. These items were all advantages. Against him he had the hands of a strongly occupied house where one word of alarm would bring a score of well-armed men.

  Was that why he was singing under his breath when he looked up at the gloomy façade of the house of della Penna?

  He passed the main entrance, with its lanterns lighted, the horses waiting saddled in the street; for now that Jeronimo della Penna was the chief lord of Perugia, he had to have horses in readiness night and day.

  Around the corner he came on a small portal which was sunk into the wall, a little round-topped doorway. Into the lock of this he fitted the largest of his keys, and felt the wards moving instantly, silently under the pressure.

  That success was to him prophetic of victory all the way through. It seemed a sufficient proof that Marignello had not lied. He pushed the door open, and found himself in a little semicircular guard-room where a man in breastplate and morion was rising and picking up an unsheathed sword. He gave one glance at the weapon and at the little gray pointed beard of the guard. Then he walked by, making his step longer, heavier, more lumbering to match the gait of Marignello.

  “Well, Marignello,” said the guard, “this is before your time, isn’t it?”

  Tizzo went silently on.

  Behind him he heard a muttering voice say: “Surly, voiceless, low-hearted dog!”

  But Tizzo, turning a bend of the corridor, left the thought of the guard behind him. He had passed through the second stage of success and now he could swear that all would go well. A great premonition of victory accompanied him.

  The stairs, exactly as Marignello had charted them, opened to the right of the hall. In a niche in the wall were placed three or four small lanterns, and one of these he took with him to light his way. The dull illumination showed him the descending stages as the stairway passed over laid stone and then was cut into the living rock. A singular odor filled the air. Gray slime covered the damp corners.

  Down for two stories he passed into the bowels of the earth before he came to another hall somewhat narrower than the ones above it.

  The third door on the right was his destination. When he came to it he waited for an instant, his ear pressed to the iron-bound door, his heart beating wildly. It would be worth everything to shine his lantern into the blue eyes of the Englishman and see his face change when he recognized his friend. All danger was worth while in the light of that moment of recognition.

  He tried the prescribed key. It worked, but not so easily, the rusted lock groaning a little under the weight of his effort. At last the door sagged inwards; he took a sudden, long step inside and pressed the door shut behind him. Then he raised the lantern high.

  What he saw was emptiness. There was not a soul in the cell. A flat bit of moldering straw in a corner might have served as a bed at one time. That was the only sign.

  HE looked up despairingly at the glimmer of sweat on the ceiling of the rock. He saw the innumerable chisel strokes with which the tomb had been carved in the rock. He would need a patience as great as that if he were to find the Englishman in another part of this underground world which generations had enlarged, patiently, to provide store rooms and prisons for the lordly family which lived in the upper regions of light and air.

  He sat down, like a prisoner himself, on the pallet of straw, and tried to remember. As he had charted the plan of the underground rooms at the direction of Marignello, so now he re-drew the plan in his mind, bit by bit, carefully. This flight of chambers, all small, ran from side to side of the cellar. Above were slightly larger rooms. In the lowest level of all there was only the torture chamber, fittingly placed at the foot of the entire structure so that the frightful sounds from it might not rise to the upper levels, poisoning the souls of all who heard.

  Had Marignello simply lied — speaking truth until he came to the last and most important step of all? Did the scoundrel really have in him one strong devotion — to his trust in the house of della Penna?

  If so, it was a miracle; for one evil corrupts the entire soul.

  With the lantern, Tizzo examined the heavy iron bracket and ring which were fastened at the foot of one side of the wall, opposite the door. The ring was completely covered with rust, but when he examined the inside of it, he found that the rust powdered and flaked away. He stared at the floor. There was already a very thin deposit of the same iron dust on the floor, enough to stain the tips of his fingers red.

  No, Marignello had not lied entirely. Into that ring, very recently, fetters had been locked and by their chafing had loosened the rust.

  Perhaps Henry of Melrose already was dead. Perhaps his body had been taken from the cell and buried. If not to a grave, to what place would he be removed?

  Yes, living, they might take him to another room — the torture chamber underneath!

  Tizzo was up, instantly, and in the corridor outside. Something gray and dim streaked across his feet. He heard the incredibly light scampering of a rat, saw the gleam of the long, naked tail, heard a faint squeak that made his flesh crawl.

  There was no air for breathing. Fear like a vampire sucked the life from him. He would have given a year of life for the sake of ten deep breaths of the outer night.

  He had done enough, he kept telling himself. He had made the venture, found failure, and now it was time for him to think of his own safety.

  But while his mind was rehearsing these silent words, his feet were bearing him steadily down the corridor, and then down the last windings of the stairs. Only in the center were they worn a little by traffic. Green-gray slime grew on the wet of the steps to either side.

  At the bottom of the steps there was no corridor, only a brief anteroom, so to speak, and then a very powerful door, crossed and recrossed with such iron bars that it could have endured the battering of a ram designed to tear down a wall.

  The key for this door
had not been named by Marignello, but there were only three that could possibly fit the yawning mouth of the lock. It was the third of these that, actually, turned the bolt and slid it with a slight rumbling noise. The hinges of the door did not creak, however. For whatever of the poor man who, in this prison, had a span sawed off his right arm every day until the arm was gone to the shoulder before he was willing to confess where he had buried his treasure.

  But the eyes of Tizzo fled from these horrors, and the light of his lantern now showed him, stretched on a heap of straw that was gray with time, a fine figure of a man who now lifted his head and allowed Tizzo to see the resolute face and the intensely blue eyes of Henry, Baron of Melrose.

  CHAPTER VII.

  TORTURE.

  TIZZO, WITH THE door of the torture chamber closed, standing then above the Englishman, found the face of his friend in a sea of wavering light, because the lantern was being held in an uncertain hand.

  Melrose, making a great effort, raised himself to a sitting posture. He was chained at the wrists, at the ankles, with a connecting chain which ran from the hands to the feet and thence to a great ring which was attached to a bolt that sank into the stone wall.

  “Ah, Tizzo,” said Melrose, “have you changed sides, made peace with your enemies, and made yourself snug in Perugia again?”

  “I am here in Perugia again, my lord,” said Tizzo. “But only to take you away with me.”

  The baron closed his eyes and nodded his head with a strange smile.

  “Ah, is that it?” he said. “Here in Perugia? And to take me away?” Tizzo threw back the cloak. He leaned the great woodsman’s ax against the wall and showed the file.

  “This is the way to cut the Gordian knot.” he said. hellish purposes, this room was used and opened at not too infrequent intervals.

  Gradually, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  WHAT he saw was such a quantity of gear hanging from the ceiling, such a litter dripping down the walls, such complicated machines standing on the floor, that it looked like the interior of some important manufacturer’s shop — some place, say, where iron is formed to make singular weapons or tools of trade. But those machines were not designed for the working of wood or of iron; they were framed to work torment into the human flesh, and the ingenuity of a thousand devils could not have done more.