Death al Dente (16 page)

“Can you see who he’s talking to?” Francesca asked.

“No. We’ll have to get closer.”

“We can’t—he’ll see us.” While I said it, I was studying the huts. “But if you drive ahead, we’ll be able to stop where the other hut blocks his view. We’ll be able to keep an eye on him but he won’t be able to see the car.”

She drove and stopped. “Let’s leave the car here,” she suggested. “If we walk along this track, we’ll be closer, and from that angle we might be able to see who he’s talking to.”

I wondered if Desmond Lansdown had known what an adventurous assistant he was handing me. Still, it made sense from an investigative point of view and we walked about thirty yards. The rice plants were higher here and we only had to crouch slightly to be out of sight. The man was still talking and moving his hands, then he went inside.

We stood there, seemingly alone in the universe. The unbelievably green plants surrounded us, reaching to the horizon in every direction. Insects buzzed around us. The air was hot now that it was early afternoon, and it was very humid.

“We should get closer still,” murmured Francesca.

“I suppose we could wade,” I said but my tone must have been dubious because she did not respond. The soil between the rows of rice plants was soft and yielding. Pulling a foot out of it made a sucking sound as if the earth were reluctant to let us go.

“What’s that?” demanded Francesca.

I listened. “I don’t hear anything,” I said, but then I did. It was a hum, louder than the insects. It increased to a steady drone then got louder still. “Look!” cried Francesca, pointing.

A speck was visible in the sky. Then it was a big dot and moving so fast that it solidified into two horizontal lines and in seconds it was identifiable as a plane. It was not high, which was why it looked to be moving so fast. It rapidly became a shape, a biplane with a strangely tall fuselage.

It was heading straight for us.

The nose dipped and we stared as if hypnotized, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I had the uncomfortable feeling of deja vu but could not place it, and the aircraft thundering at us filled the sky.

A spray of white fumes spurted out from the bottom of the strange aircraft and then they enveloped us as the plane roared overhead. We both fell to the ground, coughing and gasping, trying to roll away from the choking canopy of gas.

We must have lost track of time, trying to scramble out of the fumes because here it came again. The spray was settling slowly and as we strained to get our heads into clear air, we had a terrifying view of the aerial demon streaking towards us. Then another asphyxiating cloud swept over us and the water did not matter as we both went splashing calf-deep in our attempts to find a place to breathe.

“Where’s the car?” Francesca gasped. In the panic and confusion, we did not know which way to look. Unwillingly, we looked upward. The plane was banking tightly, turning for another run at us quickly before we could decide where to hide. Francesca flung her arms around me in fear and I held her tight. There was no escape. The biplane grew bigger and bigger as it dipped and came at us.

A peculiar yammering sound replaced the roar of the engine, an irregular stuttering, then the engine stopped altogether. One wing drooped limply, like that of a wounded bird. One terrifying moment it seemed as though it was going to hit us then it veered away and hit the water with an almighty splash.

I pulled Francesca to where the fumes seemed to be thinner. We staggered out of the suffocating white clouds. They were settling now, and though still spluttering we seemed to be unharmed. Francesca certainly was. “Let’s have a look at the pilot,” were her first words.

We stumbled to the plane. It looked smaller now that it was grounded and helpless. The deep fuselage was due to a tank that was built into the underside and contained the chemicals.

“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.

T
HE 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.”