by Peter King
“They always explode in the movies,” I warned her, but her experience in the make-believe world of films made her contemptuous of such a risk.
She tried to pull the door open but it had jammed, perhaps with the impact. The aircraft was nose-down at about a thirty-degree angle out of the rice paddy. There was the soft hiss of a dying hydraulic system then all was quiet. We grabbed the door handle together and heaved. It was still stuck. “Once more,” I said. We pulled mightily and it flew open.
We looked in the cockpit. It was empty.
Francesca and I stared at each other. She tried to climb inside but there was no step. I had her put her foot in my clasped hands and I heaved her up. I stretched as high as I could to see. Not only was there no pilot, but there was no control column and no rudder bar. Only three instruments adorned the small panel and they had no indicator needles—they were strictly recorders. We both reached the same conclusion as we said in unison, “It’s robot controlled!”
Francesca slid out of the cockpit with an agile push and a twist. “So that’s what the man was doing in the hut,” I said.
“You think so?”
“Look!” I pointed to the hut. A large antenna poked out of the roof.
“You know what I think?” Francesca asked and didn’t wait for an answer. “I think we were set up. I think that man wanted you to see him. He wanted us to follow him out here where we would be—what do you call them—sitting ducks.”
“He must still be in there,” I said. “But wait a minute— where’s that vehicle he was driving?”
The deep bellow of a powerful engine came in answer, shattering the silence of the rice fields. The menacing bulk of the big yellow vehicle was racing at us and we turned to run. It changed direction to head us off.
We stopped and Francesca seized my hand. We were cut off from her car and the yellow monster loomed larger.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE PLANE!” I SHOUTED. “Come on!”
I pulled at Francesca’s hand and we struggled across the rice fields, tripping over the rows of plants, squelching through the ankle-deep water. The howl of the yellow vehicle grew louder. I pulled harder. “Come on! We’ve got to get to the plane!”
The bellowing six-wheeler was almost touching us. It pushed a mass of warm air over us then came water splashing in great gouts, but we scrambled to the plane, flung ourselves against it, and our pursuer raced by, swerving away at the last second. We could see now the ease with which it negotiated the water and the rice plant rows. Its wheels were sprung independently, and it swayed and rolled but stayed on course.
Wet and gasping, we slid around to the other side of the plane so as to put it between us and our enemy. We could hear a groaning, screeching sound and Francesca and I exchanged puzzled glances. We slithered along the airplane’s fuselage so as to be able to see what was causing the sound.
The mechanism on the front of the vehicle was unfolding. We could hear metallic crunching as it slotted into position. Two steel arms, articulated and hinged so they could reach in any direction, reached out as if feeling for us. On the ends of the arms were giant claws with metal fingers which flexed as if relishing the idea of crushing us in their grasp. The motor roared, then the machine rolled towards us, picking up speed.
We were nearly knocked to the ground as the impact slammed the airplane back. For a moment, it seemed about to tilt over and fall on us but it settled into the swampy ground in a different position, tail higher now. Gears screamed as if in anger at our resistance, then the groping metal arms reached out and gripped the fuselage of the robot plane, lifting it into the air.
The intent of the driver was obvious. Unable to reach us when we were using the plane as cover, he was going to lift it and drop it on us. We could not have held on to the plane if we had wanted—there were no projections to grab, no handholds. I could see Francesca’s eyes opening wide in terror as our protective shield rose before our eyes.
One wing, already partly severed, snapped and fell near us, hitting the mud with a soggy thud and flinging up a great brown wave. It must have blocked the driver’s view momentarily. We dodged aside and we had our closest view yet of the driver’s compartment. All we could see was a dim outline of a figure, any details hidden by the dark tinted glass all around to screen out the Italian sun. The arms swiveled as if human and rammed the remains of the plane down on us.
The breaking of the one wing was our savior for we had already moved to avoid it and now we just had time to move again. Another wave of muddy water hit us, leaving us drenched and defenseless. The yellow monster was moving on us again, still holding the aircraft in its claws.
As it did so, white clouds of gas started to spurt out, sweeping around the vehicle. In seconds, it was enveloping it.
“The chemical tank has burst!” I gasped in relief and Francesca hung on to my arm.
We stood, helpless and exposed, but the spray was spreading around the front of the yellow six-wheeler. I did not know if it was penetrating the cab, but it was certainly obscuring the driver’s vision. “Let’s go!” I shouted. We hesitated for a moment. In all the excitement, we had become disoriented and neither of us knew where the car was. Francesca had the presence of mind to look for the two huts and then she pointed. “The car’s there!”
We ran.
It started at the first touch. Francesca spun the wheels, flinging up large puffs of dust, then we were racing along the road. I looked back. A billowing screen of white vapor hid the front of the yellow vehicle.
“Shall we find Signor Dorigo and tell him his hospitality needs improvement?” Francesca called out as she rammed the pedal to the floor.
“Yes!” I shouted back. “But not now. Keep driving.”
“My hotel will refuse to let me in looking like this,” I complained.
“Let’s go to my apartment. We can get cleaned up there.” Her apartment was like many in the larger towns in Northern Italy. It was in an old building that looked grim and forbidding outside. Entrance was through large wrought-iron gates but then the entire complexion changed. The inner courtyard was dense with flowers and shrubs, a riot of early summer colors. The stairways were narrow and dark and the elevator tiny and creaky, but Francesca’s apartment was a delight. High ceilings and old furniture were blended with an occasional modern piece. The floor was Tuscan tile, rusty red, with worn but serviceable Persian carpets. Tall windows let in beams of yellow sunlight and one gave a view of the busy street below.
She insisted I shower first and handed me a blue bathrobe. “I’ll clean up your clothes as soon as I come out,” she said. When she did emerge, she was wearing a white version of the same robe. Her lustrous black hair was piled high and her face was scrubbed fresh and clean. She had put on the merest touch of makeup and her smile was warm as she came towards me.
She stood close. I could sense the heat of her body from the shower. “Do you think those dirty clothes of yours would wait for a while?” she asked softly.
I put my hands on her waist and drew her closer. Then we were kissing, gently at first, then with mounting passion. I kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, then her neck. She pulled a half step away from me and I was about to ask her what was wrong when her robe fell open. I eased it off her shoulders. It slipped to the floor.
The heat of her body was not entirely due to the shower, I realized. …
“An exciting day.” Francesca said languorously as, much later, we sprawled on a large settee, still in one blue and one white robe although we had exchanged.
“The most exciting I have had in a long time,” I told her. “This morning was very exciting too.”
Her lips quivered but she kept a straight face. “I had for gotten about that, yes, do you think Carlo will believe us?”
“I wonder. I haven’t been the victim of such imaginative attempts at murder for some time.”
“I suppose I should tell him.”
She disengaged herself and left me to sprawl alone.
I could hear her on the phone in the next room. Her rapid-fire Italian was like a musical machine gun. She paused occasionally when Cataldo was evidently asking her questions. Finally, she came back and sat beside me.
“He has started a hunt for the driver of the vehicle. He wants us to go in, sign a statement, and show you a photograph.”
“A photograph? Is that what he said?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I thought he would be showing me a lot of them and expect me to pick out the one.”
“That’s right,” she said thoughtfully.
“When does he want to see us?”
“He wasn’t precise.”
“If he needs to know timing, won’t it seem odd that two or three hours elapsed before you called to report?”
“I shall be vague on times.”
“Vague! You? Never!”
She raised her chin haughtily and showed me that lovely profile. “I can be anything I want.”
“And what do you want to be right now?”
“I want to be late going to the Questura,” she said, moving closer and turning those big, almond-shaped eyes to me.
Captain Cataldo did not ask for specific timing of our adventures. As he conducted the interview with his usual efficiency, I presumed it was out of discretion rather than any neglect of duty. He must have seen that he had a reason to be discreet, for Francesca had a glow of satisfaction about her like an aura. If she had been a cat, she would have been purring. Her light gray pantsuit might have come straight from an Armani runway and her black hair was more lustrous than ever.
We went through the statements he had prepared and signed them. A solitary photograph lay on his desk facedown and I was consumed with curiosity. At last, he turned it over and held it out to me.
“That’s the man,” I said promptly. The dark Sicilian features in the broad face, wide-nosed and bushy-browed, left me in no doubt.
“You said you were not able to see him in the vehicle,” said Cataldo.
“I saw him clearly in the car in front of this building when I met Brother Angelo. I saw him in the cafeteria at the Dorigo Farms. I saw him when we followed him outside.”
“I didn’t see him in the car, of course but I saw him all the other times,” Francesca chipped in. “That is definitely the man who tried to kill us.”
Cataldo handed us prepared forms in which we confirmed his identity. We signed them and Cataldo clipped the photo graph to them.
“Do you know who he is?” Francesca wanted to know.
“Yes,” he said and pushed a button. A uniformed woman came in and took the forms and the photograph.
“Thank you for coming in,” Cataldo said. Francesca waited for him to answer her question. When he stood up in a movement of dismissal, she said impatiently, “Come on, Carlo, who is he?”
“I’ll know more when I see you again,” he said impassively. Then a flicker passed across his face. “I hope the next time, you will not have such a colorful report to make.”
“We’ll take a bus back,” said Francesca, as we left the Questura. “Have you taken a bus since you’ve been here? They’re fun.”
I told her I hadn’t and thought once more how delightful were her switches of mood and how she liked the simple things as well as the sophisticated ones.
The bus was crowded and we had to stand, jammed against each other. “Let’s go to a nightclub tonight,” she shouted in my ear. “We need to break the monotony!”
She had that pseudowicked glitter in her eyes so I asked blandly, “Are night clubs open this early in the evening?’
We all swayed with the bus as it wove through the traffic and she pressed against me.
“No, but they will be in a few hours.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE STROBOSCOPIC PURPLE SIGN outside said “Fica” and I asked Francesca what it meant. She just giggled and we went inside past a uniform that welcomed her by name.
The throb of music set up reverberations in every nerve in my body and Francesca hugged my arm. “This may be more dangerous than the rice fields!” she warned.
The outfit she wore looked dangerous enough. A dazzling cobalt-blue blouse was almost see-through, and the tightest and briefest of black miniskirts had the look of wet leather. Her black pumps had the highest of heels and sheer black stockings showed her shapely legs.
Flashing lights sent exploring beams into the dark recesses of the cavernous place while managing not to reveal anything. Faces gleamed pale for milliseconds and reflections bounced off mirrors and bottles, but the interior remained dim and mysterious. Ethereal effects came when the haze of cigarette smoke drifted into the flickering lights. Neon strips on the walls glowed in luminescent colors.
“I think we’re safe here,” I said. “Nobody will see us.” I had to repeat the statement as the first one was lost in the throbbing beat.
“You’ll soon become used to it,” she said soothingly.
A waiter materialized out of the gloom. He had the advantage of being dressed all in black and only the whites of his eyes gave him away. He showed us to a table, although we had to navigate the final landing operation by fumbling until we our hands encountered chair backs. Francesca ordered a vodka martini and I asked for a scotch and soda.
Francesca was right. My vision did adjust and I could see now that the place was nearly full. Some couples were dancing to the insistent beat, shadowy figures were table-hopping, and in fact, one hopped to our table. He gave Francesca a peck on each cheek, put his drink down on the table, and pulled a chair close. She introduced me. His name was Aldo and he was with a scandal magazine, she told me. He was dismayed. “No, sweetie, we are a sociopolitical journal.”
She put on her hauteur. “The only time you’ve ever been political was when you wrote that piece on the under secretary for trade who was caught in a brothel with three Asian women.”
“We also mentioned his defense,” Aldo protested. “Remember he said he was concluding a commercial deal with Japan?” he asked with a sly grin.
“Commercius interruptus.” Francesca giggled. “Wasn’t that what you called it?”
“It all sells magazines.” Aldo shrugged modestly.
“So whose names are selling the next issue?” demanded Francesca with that marvellous talent she had for merging boldness with naiveté.
“Promise to buy a copy?”
“No,” she said, “but I’ll read it in the hairdresser’s.”
“Anything connected with Pellegrini’s murder gets coverage,” offered Aldo.
“Photographs!” Francesca said scornfully. “The grieving widow … scenes in his cheese factory … his handsome son who is at school in Switzerland … what do they tell? Nothing.”
“Well,” drawled Aldo, “everybody connected in any way will get their fair share of attention in the next couple of weeks. We don’t have much else in the way of juicy scandal—excuse me, sociopolitical comment—just now. Have to fill space.”
“Everybody?” queried Francesca keenly. “Everybody who?”
Aldo drank again and said, “No point in looking around from this table. Can’t see a thing, but I’ll tell you this … a lot of the characters concerned come in here.”
Francesca leaned forward eagerly. “Who, for instance?”
“Clara Rinaldo, for one.”
The wife of Pellegrini’s lawyer! “Who with?” Francesca wanted to know.
“I can’t say, but I doubt they are discussing cooking methods.”
“Chefs?” gasped Francesca.
“My lips are sealed.” Aldo grinned. “Read the paper.”
“I will, but tell me now.”
“Okay,” said Aldo, “I’ll tell you about Giacomo Ferrero. He’s losing one of his three stars.”
“That’s not what I meant. Anyway, it’s not news,” Francesca said disparagingly. “I heard that last week. What we want to know is, who is taking it away from him?”
“Oh, the committee I suppose—”
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br /> “Committee my asino—oh, pardon me,” she said, turning in my direction.
“That’s all right, I was absent at that week’s Italian lesson.”
She smiled and turned back to the journalist. “Aldo, don’t be obtuse! You know perfectly well decisions aren’t made by committees. They might be in some countries but not Italy. Now, come on, who was it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?” she demanded.
“I never speak ill of the dead.”
“Aldo, you always speak ill of the dead. They are the only ones who can’t defend themselves.” Then the import of his answer caused her eyes to widen—at least, as far as I could see in the near darkness. “You mean Silvio Pellegrini?”
Aldo grinned and sipped at the drink in his hand. He said nothing. Francesca looked at me. Her big luminous eyes shone as if to say “How about that?”
“Are you reporting that story?” I asked him.
“Not unless some aspect much more lurid emerges,” he said, still grinning.
“Aldo, you know something more lurid!” Francesca hurled the accusation at him like a spear.
He put on a straight face. “Now what makes you think—”
“Don’t try to fool me, I know you!”
He leaned forward. “And you can know me better if you play your cards right.”
She ignored that. “Tell us. What is it?”
“You’re not a stringer for Foro di Vista, are you?”
“That’s another scandal magazine,” Francesca said for my benefit. “No, I promise you won’t see it anywhere else—well, not through us anyway.”
Aldo took another drink, perhaps trying to decide. Then he emptied his glass and motioned to our left. “Take a look inside the last booth.” He slapped his glass on the table, gave us a catlike grin, and disappeared into the void.
I was peering in the direction he had indicated and Francesca said, “There’s a row of curtained booths along that wall. For couples that want privacy.”