Vintage Love (101 page)

“What can I do for you?” he asked, studying her.

“I have come about Irma,” she said.

“What about her?”

“She is missing.”

“Missing?” He showed surprise.

“Yes. She has not returned home since her being here at your Satanist meeting the other night.”

“Please,” the tall, bald man said. “Do not refer to it as a Satanist gathering; I fear people have an unfortunate resentment of such things.”

“Well they may have,” she haid grimly. “After what I saw!”

“You would do best,” the Count said, stroking his beard, “to forget all you saw. The gathering never took place.”

“Is that your story?”

“It has to be to protect my followers and myself,” was his reply.

“I see,” she said grimly. “All I want is to know what happened to Irma.”

He shrugged. “Why ask me?”

“She was here the last time I saw her,” Della said. “Playing the role of your high priestess and sexual partner on the altar.”

His smile was leering. “Would you like to play the same role some evening soon?”

“I would not!” she said sharply.

“Too bad!”

“Where is Irma?”

He strolled over and stood behind his desk, scrutinizing her closely. “I told you. She went away with another guest.”

“With whom and where?” she demanded.

“I would rather not tell you that,” he said loftily.

Della said, “You will either talk to me or the police!”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. He said, “If I tell you his name do you promise not to bother me any further?”

“I did not enjoy coming here,” she said. “I’ll not do it again if I can avoid it.”

Barsini said, “The man’s name is Gregorio. You will find him about five blocks distant, the Via Angeli, number five.”

“You are sure that is where she went?”

“Yes.”

“You have not seen her since?”

“She is not here,” he said scornfully. “That should be self-evident.”

She moved to the door alone, then turned and said, “If this Gregorio is not able or willing to help me find my sister I will be back.”

The Count spread his hands. “It will do you no good.”

“We shall see,” she said.

She left the villa and returned to the carriage and gave the driver the address. Within ten minutes the carriage halted before a white villa only a little less elegant than the one she’d just come from.

She was about to knock on the door when a bronzed face peered at her over the edge of a balcony. She was shocked, for the face belonged to the giant who had raped her at Barsini’s Satanist gathering.

Staring up, she gasped, “You!”

“The Signorina Standish,” the giant said, leaning over further. She saw that he was wearing nothing from the waist up. A towel was tied about his midriff.

She recovered a little to ask, “Was my sister here?”

“Irma?” the giant said with a smile.

“Yes.”

“She was here the night we all were at Barsini’s,” he said. “She came here with me later. I told her about you and me.”

Della found herself blushing furiously. “I don’t want to discuss that!”

“That is a pity!” the young giant mocked her as he sat on the balcony railing smiling down at her.

“Where is Irma now?”

“I have no idea,” he said.

“But she came here with you!”

“She left before dawn,” Gregorio said. “I could not send her home by carriage as my coachman has been ill. Brother Louis came by for a drink and he agreed to escort her home.”

Della said, “The same one who was on duty as guard the other night.”

He shrugged. “I know no other Brother Louis.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“At dawn he should have been returning home. But he promised to find your sister a carriage and get her home.”

“And that was the last you saw of her?”

“It was,” Gregorio smiled. “And I’m lonesome for company. Why do you not come up and visit for a while?” He rose as if he were coming down to open the door to her.

“No,” she said quickly. “I’m looking for Irma. Where does this Brother Louis live?”

“He is not a romantic,” Gregorio warned her. “He will never make you a lover.”

“Please be serious,” she begged him. “If you have his address give it to me!”

Gregorio smiled down at her, plainly enjoying her misery. He said, “Brother Louis is a renegade.”

“I know that.”

“He is fearful of his life,” Gregorio went on. “So he has buried himself in a room up from the Aventine Hill. It is mostly a poorer-class district. He feels safe there. He has a room on the Via della Reginella, a house on the corner. I think it is number five.”

She did not stop to thank him but heard his laughter as she hurried back to the carriage and gave the driver the address Gregorio had just offered her.

The driver showed concern. “You do not wish to go there, Signorina. You must have made a mistake.”

“No,” she said. “I’m aware it is not a good section of the city but I’m trying to find someone.”

“If you have a companion it would be better,” the coachman worried.

“You will be with me,” she said.

“I cannot accompany you into that maze of narrow streets,” he warned her. “Too narrow for a carriage.”

“At least you will not be far distant.”

“I do not like it,” he said.

“Please do as I say,” she begged him. “My sister’s life could depend on it.”

So he argued no more as they drove on. They left the rich section to travel through a commercial area of the great city and then on to the poor district where Brother Louis had his room.

The streets were mean and filled with elderly men and stout women, often in volatile arguments. Little children darted in front of the carriage and ran along beside it begging. Della was fearful that they might be run down but they had an agility born of experience which saved them from harm.

The driver pulled the carriage to the curb of a squalid street and said, “This is as far as I can go.”

“The street I’m looking for is ahead,” she said. “I will continue on foot.”

He helped her down to the cobblestoned street and gazed up at the tall tenements surrounding them. Clothes hung on lines above their heads and neighbors held shouted conversations with each other from their windows.

He said, “There are decent people here and, as in all slums, the other kind. You are taking a chance.”

“I know,” she said, defiant in her brown dress, and wide-brimmed straw hat. She clung to the tiny white parasol which was the only thing she had which resembled a weapon.

“Don’t let the children bully you,” he warned. “And don’t try to give one of them money or they’ll swarm on you and tear you apart.”

“I’ll remember,” she said, glancing grimly ahead. “Ill try not to be long.”

She went through an arched passage leading into the narrower streets. The houses almost met above the street, making it so gloomy, even in full daylight, that it was frightening.

She moved on until she came to a corner marked Via della Reginella. A bent old woman shuffled by, dressed all in black, a black shawl over her head. She carried a market basket and was mumbling to herself.

Della halted her and asked, “Where is number five?”

The old woman’s wrinkled, toothless face showed no expression. She pointed a gnarled finger to an open door leading to dark stairs. “There!”

“Do you know a Brother Louis?” she asked.

“The drunken one?” the old crone cackled.

“It could be,” she said.

“The attic, at the head of the stairway,” the old woman mumbled. “He is evil! There is a curse on him!” And at once she moved on.

Della was heartened. She had not hoped to locate the house and the exact location of Brother Louis’s room so easily. She went to the open doorway and stepped into the darkness. The stairs were worn and the combined smells of cabbage, garlic and many less pleasant things made the air unfit to breathe. But she braved the stench and started up the stairs.

Reaching the first flight, she was aware of a monstrous quarrel between a man and woman going on behind one of the doors. Screams and angry imprecations were hurled back and forth. She closed her ears to them and climbed the second flight of rickety stairs.

She seriously doubted that the chic and fastidious Irma had come to this place. But she had been in the company of Brother Louis if the story offered by Gregorio were true, and he might know where she’d gone.

At the second landing a door opened and a sluttish-looking young woman breast-feeding a baby came to stare at her. The woman’s glance was one of hatred and resentment, making Della feel dreadfully uncomfortable. The woman shut the door as Della moved on toward the attic stairway.

The attic stairs were the most worn and narrow of the lot. When she reached the landing she saw that there was a door facing her. It was painted gray but the paint was peeling and there was a split in one of the wooden panels. Someone had roughly drawn a crude head of Satan on the other panel. The drawing had been done in ink and there was evidence of a faint attempt to scrub it off, but it remained triumphantly there nonetheless. A minor work of art suggesting the character of the room’s occupant.

Della knocked on the door. There was no reply. She waited a minute and then decided to try opening it. She turned the handle gently and to her surprise it was not locked. She slowly opened it to be hit by the stench of stale cigar smoke and whiskey. And stretched out on a cot in a corner of the shabby room was Brother Louis.

Guessing that he was drunk, she cautiously made her way the several steps over to him. He was wearing his black cassock and his face was as pale as ever with his watery blue eyes staring into infinity. He made no move as she neared him.

Her heart was pounding rapidly, not from the exertion of climbing the many stairs but from sheer fright. Finding herself in this shabby room atop the drab tenement with its strange denizens was a new experience for her. And she had no idea how she was going to cope with the inebriated Brother Louis.

Then something caught her eye which made her halt and stare at the floor. On the rough board floor by the cot lay a jeweled comb which she recalled having seen in Irma’s hair the night of her disappearance! She knelt and picked up the comb and then reached out and touched the shoulder of the man on the cot.

“Brother Louis!” she cried tensely.

As the words escaped her lips Brother Louis’ body fell toward her so that it was on its face at the very edge of the cot and she saw the knife protruding from between the shoulder blades!

She felt she must collapse. And then she knew that she must fight her feeling of faintness and nausea. The comb clutched in her hand, she stumbled toward the doorway and then on down the rickety stairs, almost missing a step.

At the foot of the attic stairs she halted, clutching the railing, her head reeling. Then she made herself go down the steps past the landing where the couple were still quarreling and into the comparatively fresh air of the street. She leaned weakly against the door frame.

As she recovered a little she carefully placed the jeweled comb inside her pocketbook. Then, still stunned, she set off along the dark, narrow street, on her way back to the carriage. She reached the archway leading out of the maze of streets almost to bump into the figure of a stout priest.

Before she could apologize the priest doffed his hat and said, “My dear Miss Standish!”

She gazed at him stupidly and then recognized it was jolly Father Anthony. She said, “Father Anthony! What are you doing here!”

“I’m on the track of that renegade Brother Louis,” he said. “I hope to find out about the theft of the jeweled Madonna from him. He is supposed to have helped Brizzi in the theft!”

“Too late!” she said weakly.

The priest regarded her with surprise. “What do you mean?”

“He’s dead!”

“Dead!” Father Anthony sounded incredulous.

“I was in his room just now. He was murdered! Stabbed!”

Father Anthony took a large white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his broad brow. “This is shocking news!” he gasped.

“I thought I would faint.”

“My poor child.” The fat priest was all sympathy. He stuffed the handkerchief back in his cassock, placed his hat on his head and took her by the arm to give her some support. “Is that your carriage waiting back there?”

“Yes,” she murmured, leaning close to him for support.

“No point in my going there if he is dead,” the fat priest said as they walked on. “It is a grim game with the stakes high! Brother Louis has paid with his life for his greed and turning his back on the Church!”

“My sister is missing! They’ve taken her!” Della said despairingly.

“The thieves?”

“Yes. That Brizzi or Count Barsini or whoever is at the head of all this. The last person I know her to have been with was Brother Louis.”

“They must have killed him and kidnapped her,” the fat priest suggested.

“Perhaps. I found her comb on the floor by his bed.”

“Then you know she was with him.”

“Yes.”

“This is a dreadful setback,” Father Anthony said. “I hoped to talk to the man and have him repent. Then he might have informed me where the Madonna had been taken. Now I’m at a dead end.”

They were nearing the carriage. She asked him, “Should we tell the police?”

“About the murder?”

“Yes. It doesn’t seem right to not report it.”

Father Anthony frowned. “Better not to get mixed up in it. Especially if your sister is being held by that gang.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted. “They have promised to kill her if we notify the police of her kidnapping.”

“You see?” the fat priest said. “You must not say or do anything about finding him.”

“What will happen?”

“One of the neighbors will discover his body soon enough,” Father Anthony said. “These fellows always have some cronies or hangers-on.”

At the carriage, she said, “Do you want to share the carriage with me? I’ll take you wherever you like.”

“No,” he said. “I think it might be safer for both of us if we are not seen together in the open.”

“Oh?”