“You think he is as great a threat as Barsini?”
“Almost,” she said. “He is more clever and just as ruthless. The only reason he saved my life was that he expected me to lead him to the Madonna. He still does.”
“I’ll settle the bill,” Henry said.
It took a little while to locate the waiter and look after the bill. All the while she kept watching, positive that the man with the wispy beard was still spying on them. When they left the restaurant they dodged through several alleys to another street before hailing a carriage.
Only when they were in the carriage did she feel safe. Henry ordered the driver to take them to the Castle Sant’Angelo and they sat back to relax a little.
They reached the Tiber and were back in the area of the Vatican once again. After a little while the young lawyer asked the driver to halt the carriage and they left it to stroll toward the famous castle.
“I have been told this is a romantic spot,” Henry said with a smile as they strolled arm in arm.
“It is!” she exclaimed, entranced by the scene which met her eyes as they crossed the bridge to the round, torchlit castle. The yellow glow of the torches gave the tower the appearance of being constructed of bricks of gold. Statues of angels by Bernini guarded the approach to the famous citadel.
They remained on the bridge for almost a half-hour before returning to the carriage and starting back to the palace. The change of scene had somewhat eased her tension. But the vision of the thin, bearded man spying on them in the restaurant continued to bother her.
The next morning she and Henry left for the lawyer’s office as soon as they finished breakfast. Della’s nerves were on edge as they were shown into the office of the senior partner, a Signor Palumbo. He was stout, wore rimless glasses and had a friendly smile. When they were seated he picked up some papers from his desk and began to talk to them.
“I have found out some facts about this Pasquale Borgo,” he said. “He has been a kind of artist. But his work is considered third-rate.”
Della volunteered, “I think he was hired by Count Barsini to ornament many of the walls of his villa with erotica.”
The lawyer showed surprise. “I was about to tell you that. You know something about Borgo?”
“Only a little,” she said. “Please go on.”
The stout man studied a paper in his hand and said, “Borgo has lately been in the employ of Count Barsini. He is rumored to be a staunch member of Barsini’s Satanist group.”
“That is correct,” she said.
“He is a middle-aged man, thin with a wisp of beard,” the lawyer continued. “I have his address here. It is in a slum area.”
Henry said, “We’ll need that to try and locate him.”
“One thing,” the lawyer warned them. “I cannot promise you that this Borgo will be easy to find. The police are looking for him and haven’t located him.”
Della said, “I heard he was wanted by the police. What is the charge?”
“A grave one,” the lawyer said. “He is accused of the rape of a very young girl. Well below the age of consent. It is typical of this Satanist lot; their orgies don’t satisfy them, they have to prey on innocents as well.”
Henry said, “Not a pleasant-sounding character.”
“He is anything but that,” Signor Palumbo agreed. “He is degraded and dishonest. But he has no criminal record. This rape seems to have been his first serious offense.”
Henry said, “Well take the address and see what we can find out.”
They thanked the lawyer and left. A carriage took them to a district of narrow streets, somewhat like the slum area where Della had gone in search of Brother Louis. That seemed so long ago. Yet it had only been a matter of weeks.
At last they reached a grim-looking building of four stories. Pasquale Borgo was supposed to have a flat with a studio on the upper floor. They made their way up the rickety stairs to the top landing and knocked on the battered wooden door. There was no response. As they stood there debating what to do, Della glanced down the stairs and saw the hunched figure of an old man staring up at them from the landing below.
She called down, “Do you know Pasquale Borgo?”
“Sì, signorina,” the old man said in a wheezy voice.
“Could you help us find him?” Henry asked.
The old man chuckled. “He is not here!”
“We know that,” Della said. “But it is urgent that we locate him.”
“You are from the police?” the old man suggested.
“No,” Henry said, starting down the stairs to join the oldster. “This is a purely personal matter.”
Della followed him down. “Yes,” she told the bent old man wearing a shabby black suit and a worn velvet hat.
“I am a sick man, unable to work,” the old man whined.
“We will pay you well for any information,” Della said at once.
The old man’s wrinkled face took on a greedy look. “Let me see the money?”
Henry took several notes from his pocket and held them out to the old fellow. “All yours if you can help us find Borgo.”
“He has left Rome,” the old man said. “His brother lived with him and he went first. Then about two weeks ago this Pasquale suddenly packed his things and ran off to the country.”
“Where?” Della asked.
The old man licked his thin, dry lips and seemed reluctant to say anything further. “It could be dangerous for me. Borgo has friends who are evil.”
Henry took out two more bills and held the lot in front of the old fellow. He said, “You’ve told us this much; you may as well tell us all you know. I can’t pay you unless you do.”
The old man gazed hungrily at the money. Then he gave them nervous looks. “You’ll not say where the information came from?”
“Depend on us,” Della said.
The ancient swallowed hard. “He is living with a cousin just outside of Hadrian’s Villa. It is about twenty-six miles from here.”
Henry said sternly, “You are telling us the truth? No sending us on some futile chase.”
“I would not lie to the generous signor,” the man said in a wheedling tone.
“What is the name of this cousin he is staying with?” Della asked.
“Carlo Turriti,” the old man said and reached out an emaciated hand for the money.
Henry let him have the bills with a warning, “If this information turns out to be wrong we’ll be back. And I’ll have the police on you for swindling us!”
“No, signor!” the old man whined. “I am honest! Ask anyone in the area! I have told you the truth!”
Della said, “Thank you,” and then turning to Henry she suggested, “We’d better find out about the train service to Hadrian’s Villa.”
They left the old man on the landing and went back to the street. They had to get to their waiting carriage and drive to the railway depot before they could learn the timetable of trains leaving for the small town. It turned out there were several and they took one which would get them there by late afternoon.
The train journey was uneventful but Della was impatient in her desire to find this Pasquale Borgo who could well clear up the mystery. He might even have gone into hiding with the Madonna still in his possession.
After a relatively short train journey they descended from the railway car and engaged a kind of donkey cart telling the old driver where they wished to be taken. The driver of the cart recognized the name of Carlo Turriti and promised he could drive them to his house.
They sat in the rear of the cart with their legs trailing in the dust. It was a new experience and Della found herself laughing in spite of the tension. Stray animals and giant geese noisily got out of their way as the cart jogged along.
They reached an area of scattered tiny huts and the driver brought the cart to a halt. With his whip he pointed, “Turriti’s house is the second one over there.”
Henry told him to wait and they walked along th
e earth road to the hut. An old woman sat on a flimsy chair by the door of the hut, sleeping in the sun.
Della approached her and said, “Signora!” loudly enough to wake the old woman with a start.
“Sì?” the wrinkled face looked up at her.
“Pasquale Borgo,” she said loudly.
The woman looked at her blankly and shook her head as if to indicate she did not understand.
Henry wondered, “Is there anyone inside?”
She peered in the open doorway. “No one.”
“There must be someone else around,” he said with a frown.
He’d barely said this when a heavy-set old man came walking slowly with a cow on a rope. He had a fierce, black mustache and a weather-beaten face. He wore the shabby work clothes and corduroy hat of a peasant.
Henry went to meet him. “Are you Carlo Turriti?”
The man scowled at him as he held onto the rope by which he was leading the cow. “Who wishes to know?”
“We are friends,” Della said. “We mean no harm.”
The man sutdied them dubiously. “Are you from Barsini?”
“No,” Henry said.
“What do you want with Carlo Turriti?”
“Just some information,” she said. “We will pay you for it.”
This produced new interest in the mustached man. He said, “How much?”
Henry repeated his performance of taking out several bills and holding them in his hand. “These and maybe more.”
The man said, “I am Carlo Turriti.”
“Good!” Della exclaimed excitedly. “We are looking for your cousin Pasquale Borgo who came here from Rome to stay with you.”
Henry added, “And we know you have him here since you mentioned Count Barsini. Borgo was employed by Barsini.”
“He is here,” the man said.
“Where?”
“Give me the money, I will get him,” the man told them in his stolid way.
Henry gave him the money. The mustached man took it without expressing any thanks or showing any emotion. He lead the cow to the rear of the hut and tied it. Then he leisurely strolled back again and headed for one of the other huts.
Della exclaimed impatiently, “He is surely taking his time!”
“He does not have our problems,” Henry reminded her.
The man vanished into one of the huts and was gone for what seemed a long time to her, but which could only have been a matter of a few minutes. Then he came out again followed by another stout, mustached man about his own age.
Della saw them approaching and said, “That can’t be Borgo! He is thin with a small beard.”
Henry looked grim. “It may be some kind of game they’re trying on us. We’ll see what they say.”
Carlo Turriti gave them a scornful look and went over to talk in a low voice to the old woman by the door of his hut. The other man, who looked much like him except his face was florid and not weather-beaten, came hesitantly toward them.
He halted before them. “Who are you?”
“Friends,” she said. “We’re looking for Pasquale Borgo.”
The mustached man said, “I am Pasquale Borgo.”
“But you can’t be!” she protested. “He is thin and has a wispy beard!”
The stout man scowled at her. “You are from the police?”
“No,” Henry said sharply. “We mean Pasquale Borgo no harm. We simply want some information from him.”
Beady eyes appraised them. “You are from Count Barsini?”
“We know him,” Della said.
The stout man said, “You are looking for my brother.”
“What?” she said, startled.
“He is one of Barsini’s people,” the stout man said with disgust. “I have nothing to do with such decadent types.”
“But you say you are Pasquale Borgo,” Henry reminded him. “And Pasquale Borgo has been employed by Barsini!”
“You are talking about my brother,” the stout man said with a touch of anger.
“We do not understand,” Della told him.
“It began when we were boys,” the stout man complained. “Whenever my brother did a wrong, or stole something, he told people he was me. It began to be that Pasquale Borgo was the one everybody wanted punished! But it was not me, it was my brother, Antonio.”
“You’re saying he has habitually taken on your name?” Della said.
“To save himself from his villainy,” the fat man went on, his anger increasing as he spoke more loudly. “Now the police are looking for Pasquale Borgo but it is not Pasquale they want, but my brother Antonio. All through life he has done this to me! Even to signing his rotten paintings in my name!”
Della listened to the furious man and could not doubt him. She said weakly, “So you are not the man we’re looking for!”
The mustached man cried, “No! You are looking for that rogue, Antonio! He has brought shame on our name since the day he was born! He went off on some errand to England for Barsini and left the police searching for me!”
Chapter Twenty
Darkness arrived while Della and Henry were still on the train back to Rome. With the darkness came a heavy rainstorm. The stormy evening well matched their turbulent emotions. Della had been sure they were on their way to discovering something worthwhile only to have all her hopes collapse when they found Pasquale Borgo.
Seated side by side in an otherwise empty compartment, they discussed the weird events of the day. Della said, “The only single thing we were able to confirm is that the pseudo-Pasquale did leave for England on an errand for Barsini.”
“We knew that before,” the young lawyer protested.
“We had their word for it only, now we have this other information,” she pointed out.
“Are we any better off?”
“Very little,” she said wryly.
“What next?”
She gave him a weary glance. “Let us sleep on it. There’s so little time left. We can’t afford to wind up at another dead end.”
Henry stared out the train window at the darkness and the rain. “It wasn’t bad enough; it had to turn like this!”
“I’m so tired,” Della said. “The big question still is: What happened to the messenger?”
“From the time he supposedly accepted the Madonna from your sister,” Henry speculated.
The train rocked a little and she braced herself against the motion, a troubled expression on her lovely face. She said, “I think Borgo must have absconded with the money. He had every reason to.”
“Barsini seemed to believe Borgo didn’t have the nerve to go out on his own,” the young lawyer recalled.
“Perhaps he had been a coward in the past,” she said. “But this was his big chance. The police were after him in any case. He could not return to Rome. And in his keeping was the Madonna worth a fortune.”
Henry admitted, “I doubt if many men could resist the temptation of taking the Madonna for themselves.”
“Greed always blinds people,” Della said, reviving a little as she tried to reconstruct the crime. “Borgo may have thought he’d be safe enough if he remained out of sight and held on to the Madonna.”
“He had planned to hide himself in Paris after taking the Madonna to you in London.”
Della nodded. “So perhaps he headed straight for Paris and is still hiding there.”
“With the Madonna waiting until it is safe to surface,” Henry agreed.
She groaned. “In the meantime we have these wretched madmen harrassing us to give them the treasure. It’s strange they do not see this as we do. That the man to find is Borgo!”
Henry said, “You forget that they see Borgo with different eyes than we. They know him better. And they think he would not dare double-cross them.”
The rain was literally pouring down when they left the train at the station in Rome. Della thought she had never felt more miserable or depressed. She had come to the ancient city full of hope, happy to have at l
ast located her lost twin sister and expecting that she would enjoy a wonderful new experience in having Irma return with her to London.
None of this had turned out as she’d expected. Her meeting with the long-lost Irma had been shadowed by the theft of the Madonna. And through Irma falling under the spell of the evil Count Barsini, it was inevitable that she be drawn into the maze of evil. Worst of all she had found herself the target of the thieves!
Henry came back to her with a cloak on to protect him from the rain and an open umbrella held in his hand. He said, “I’ve been lucky enough to find us a closed carriage. Hurry before someone else tries to take it!”
She stepped close to him and with the umbrella giving them both a small amount of protection, they hurried across the wet cobblestones to where the carriage was waiting.
When they reached the palace the mood was still somber there, as might have been expected. Both Aunt Isobel and old Prince Sanzio were keeping to their rooms. Guido was still tense and far from his usual obliging self. However, they did persuade him to prepare them a cold supper. Della had eaten so little during the tense day she now gorged herself.
The heavy rain went on. Because they were both exhausted they went to bed soon after their late meal. Della found sleep difficult and lay awake pressed close to Henry long after the young lawyer’s even breathing let her know that he had fallen into a deep slumber. She wracked her brain to think of some clue which she might have missed and which could solve the mystery of the missing Madonna. No matter how far her thoughts wandered they al-days came back to Borgo, the messenger who had vanished.
She was thinking of him somewhere in Paris when she fell asleep at last. She opened her eyes with a start sometime later because she heard footsteps by her bed. She looked up into the shadows and found herself staring into the evil face of Count Barsini!
Henry roused at almost the same instant and said, “What is this?
But he said no more for the dark man who had hounded her in London stepped up and struck her bed partner on the head with the butt of his revolver. Henry gave a gasp and fell back beside her, unconscious.
Vintage Love Page 96