The Etruscan Net (21 page)

Arturo

There was a high stool lying on its side underneath the body. Arturo stood it up again, clambering on to it, and raised the body with one arm. Then he reached up with his free hand and unknotted the rope from the hook.

He climbed down, and laid the old man’s body tenderly on the stone shelf which ran along one side of the room. As an after-thought, he took the clean white handkerchief out of the Professor’s top pocket, and spread it over the distorted face.

Then he stood for a moment, thinking. His eyes flickered over the safe door, hanging forlornly from one hinge, and over the empty shelves behind. The sight seemed to determine his next move for him.

He walked back to the boiler-room, his actions still slow, but purposeful. From the rack inside the door he selected a steel bar, eighteen inches long, flattened and slightly curved at one end. It was used for opening the dampers at the bottom of the boiler.

From the end of the basement passage shallow concrete steps led up to a landing. On one side, a door opened out on to what was known as the small courtyard. Here, under a lean-to, stood a jumble of garden equipment, the bicycles of the kitchen boys, and, at the far end, the van in which Arturo did the household shopping.

The inner side of this landing gave on to a second flight of stairs, which led directly up to the top storey of the house, where the domestic staff had their rooms.

It was up these stairs that Arturo had, for the last two days, been carrying meals to the two strangers in the room at the end of the corridor.

As Arturo climbed the stairs, he was thinking about them. He had no doubt that both of them carried guns. He thought, however, that in an emergency, they would rely on their knives.

He knew enough about Sicilians to be certain that two of them, armed with knives, and knowing how to use them, would be too much for him. At the first warning of danger they would separate, and would come in from opposite sides. He might kill one. The other would most certainly kill him.

The door of the room had always been locked when he had brought them their food, and would be locked now. If they were still there. He stooped to listen. There were sounds of movement from inside the room. Something was being dragged across the floor, and one of the men was speaking.

Arturo considered the position. No doubt he could break down the door with a single kick, but this would give the men just those seconds of advantage which he could not afford. The safest plan would be to wait until they opened the door to come out. There had to be weighed against this the chance that, at any moment now, the alarm might be raised, and surprise lost. He decided on a straightforward course. He knocked on the door.

All movement inside the room ceased. Then a voice, which he recognized as belonging to the stout man, said, ‘Who is there?’

‘Arturo.’

‘Well?’

‘We have trouble in the house.’

‘Trouble?’ The voice sounded much closer. The stout man had moved to the door. ‘What sort of trouble?’

‘It is the Police. They are asking for my master. He cannot be found. Also–’ Arturo purposely dropped his voice ‘–they seem to have some knowledge of you. I thought–’ As he dragged the sentence out, he heard the click of the lock being turned, and the door was opened.

Arturo threw his weight against it, and jumped into the room.

The swing of the door going in had knocked the stout man off balance, but not off his feet. Arturo ignored him. Gripping the steel bar, he made straight for the thin man, who had been kneeling beside an old leather suitcase, strapping it shut.

The thin man flung himself sideways, steadied himself with one hand on the floor, and with the other, went for his knife. These reactions to the unexpected attack were smooth, automatic, and dispassionate. They were also a fraction of a second too late. Arturo did not risk a downward swipe, which might have missed the moving head. He swung the steel bar sidewise, in a chopping sweep, which landed just above the shoulder, at a point where the angle of the jaw ran into the neck. The force of the blow was such that it broke jaw and spine simultaneously.

If the stout man had been on balance when Arturo started his bull-like rush, he would have had his knife in the big man’s back by now. As it was, when Arturo whirled round, he was already coming for him, knife held left-handed and low.

Arturo knew that to hesitate would be fatal. Despite his great strength, the odds against him were too high for deliberate manoeuvring. He simply threw himself at his opponent, using his own big body as a missile, twisting sideways at the last moment.

The knife went into the upper part of his right arm, but the twist jerked it out of his opponent’s hand.

Then his hands closed round the stout man’s throat. The strength was ebbing from his right arm, but one of those great hands was sufficient for the job. As the stout man’s knees buckled, he fell on top of him, never for a moment releasing his grip.

Minutes later Arturo got to his feet. The blood had been running in a steady stream from his arm and out at the wrist. A lot of it had dripped on to the stout man, who lay with his distorted face almost touching the feet of his long companion.

Arturo took no further notice of them. He had first to attend to his own hurt. He opened one of the two suitcases that stood, ready packed, beside the bed, and dragged out a silk shirt. He tore this into three strips, using his teeth, folded one of the strips into a pad, and bound the other two lightly round it, staunching the flow of blood. He would have liked to fashion a sling, but there was work for which both arms would be needed.

He went to the door, and listened. Then he padded down the stairs to the courtyard door and opened it cautiously. The thunder was still rolling round the hills, and the rain was coming down steadily. The only windows overlooking the court were closed and shuttered.

He went out, got into the van, and backed it up to the door. The next bit was going to be dangerous, but there was no way of avoiding it. He had to make three trips. On the first two he carried a body, slung easily over his left shoulder. On the third he carried two suitcases in his right hand, and under his left arm, a heavy wooden tea-chest, corded and nailed. There had been no need to force it open. He knew very well what was in it.

The tea-chest went into the back of the van, on top of the bodies. Still he had not finished. He walked back to the lean-to, blessing the rain which was soaking him to the skin, the rain which was keeping all other members of the household indoors, the rain which was washing away all traces from the stones of the courtyard. From the back of the lean-to he selected two black twenty-litre petrol drums, and carried them to the van. They were wedged in place beside the tea-chest, between the thin man’s legs.

Arturo drove out of the court, down the long drive, and on to the high-road.

The side flaps of the driver’s cab were misty talc. The wind-screen was running with rain, with a single clear patch under the wiper. Arturo was happy. If anyone else on the road noticed the van, they would certainly not be able to identify the driver.

His course took him steadily uphill.

Short of the Borgo San Lorenzo turning he left the main road, for the secondary road leading to Pratolino. A little further on he turned left again and was now on a minor road, hardly more than a farm track, which led up, in a series of zigzags, over the shoulder of the mountain, served two farmhouses, and then descended again to rejoin the secondary road.

The going, difficult in ordinary weather, now demanded all Arturo’s skill and attention. About a kilometre further on, with the track still rising, he came to a point where he could go no further. The torrential rain of the last few hours had swollen a mountain stream, which had overflowed the path washing the outer half of it away.

Here he stopped. On the right the ground ran down sharply, almost precipitously, to a tangle of rocks in the stream-bed, covered now with white frothing flood water. Anything sliding over the edge might tumble into the river-bed, or might crash into, and be held up by, one of the trees or rocks in the path of its descent.

Arturo dismounted. The next moves had to be made with great care.

First, he took out the petrol drums, which had already leaked a little in the racketing of the journey, unscrewed the caps, and emptied them, slowly and methodically, into the back of the van, covering the bodies, the suitcases, the tea-chest; soaking the seats, forming puddles on the floor. He replaced the empty cans in the back of the van, but without their tops.

Next, he moved round to the driver’s seat, and restarted the engine. Then he dismounted, and crouching by the open door on the uphill side held down the clutch with one hand and put the car into first gear. Still keeping the clutch depressed, he opened the hand throttle until the engine was racing, then released the clutch.

The van lurched forward on to the broken section of the path, then, its wheels spinning, slid to the right, hesitated for a moment, and toppled off the path, turning right over twice, cracking into a large rock, which held it for an instant, then toppling over this, and coming to rest just above the stream-bed.

Arturo picked his way carefully down after it, moving from rock to rock so as to leave no trace.

When he got there he found that the bodies and the suitcases were still in the van. The tea-chest had been thrown out, had hit a rock, and disintegrated. Its contents were scattered over the hill-side. A circlet of gold had lodged in a bush, a scattering of ornaments gleamed from the weeds and grass. Both of the alabaster chests had fragmented and spilled their treasures broadcast. The goddess had been decapitated, and lay in the stream. The head, by some freak, had lodged on a rock above the water and gazed inscrutably at her destroyer.

Arturo felt in his pocket for matches. Great care would be needed here. He knew something of the properties of petrol when thoroughly aroused.

Shielding the flame from the wind, which had risen as the rain eased off, he lit a long spill of paper, waved it until it was well alight, pushed it into the back of the van and jumped clear. He stumbled on a rock, and was on his knees when the van went up in an explosion of white fire.

He climbed back to the path, glancing, as he did so, at his watch. It was six o’clock. It seemed unbelievable that so much could have happened in a single hour. He was ten kilometres from home. The wound in his forearm had started to bleed again, and was throbbing unpleasantly. He had hurt his knee when he fell. And he was soaked to the skin with rainwater and sweat. But he was content.

At six o’clock Mercurio arrived back at the Villa. The rain had almost stopped, and the clouds were shredding away under a strong wind. The earth was refreshed. A few birds were creeping out to shake their draggled feathers and tune tentative notes.

Mercurio went straight up to his room, had a shower, and put on a complete outfit of new clothes. It was a measure of the urgency he felt that he spent barely a minute on his hair. Then he marched down to find the Professor.

He drew blank in the study, and all other likely places, and rang for Arturo. Arturo could not be found. One of the houseboys thought that he might have gone out. He said that he had heard the van start up and drive off.

Mercurio was annoyed. The new-found and altogether agreeable feeling of self-confidence, of mastery of the situation, which had been growing as he talked to the Professor, and had reached full flood in his interview with Annunziata and Tina, was now demanding action. If there was to be a palace revolution, all the plans for it
must
be ready by the time Danilo Fern got back from Switzerland.

It was well after seven when his impatience drove him down to inspect the one place he had so far overlooked.

The telephone purred in Tenente Lupo’s office. He swore quietly to himself as he lifted the receiver from its rest. It was a quarter past seven. He had been planning supper, a quiet evening, and early bed. Now what?

He listened to the excited voice at the other end, said, ‘Speak more slowly, please,’ and, ‘Yes, of course I will come,’ and rang off.

He thought for a moment, then went out into the passage, opened the door opposite, and looked in. Colonel Doria was still at his desk, studying a long typewritten report, making tiny notes in the margin. He looked up.

‘Something has happened,’ said the Tenente. ‘It might be of significance. I do not know.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I have had a message from the Villa Rasenna. The body of Professor Bronzini has been found.’

‘Found? Murdered?’

‘I am not sure. Mercurio – he is the adopted son – discovered the body. He was not very clear. The shock–’

‘The shock must have been severe,’ agreed Colonel Doria, ‘You are going up?’

‘Yes.’

‘I will come with you.’

‘I do not wish to distress you unduly,’ said Tenente Lupo. ‘But you will see that the present situation is not very satisfactory.’

‘I have told you all I know,’ said Mercurio. Shock had given place to something harder, something more calculated. Lupo was sufficiently experienced in interrogation to recognize this. He also appreciated the need for care. He was dealing with important people, and the situation was explosive. He said, ‘You have told me that you left here before four o’clock, to visit the Zecchis–’

‘Which you can confirm.’

‘I have no reason to doubt your word,’ said Lupo.

As Colonel Doria, who was sitting quietly in the corner, well knew, an officer had already gone down to the Zecchi house. ‘You got back here at six o’clock, as your servants have confirmed. Death, we are told, took place some time after four. There can be no question of suspicion attaching to you. I say this bluntly, to make it plain that you have no possible motive for not answering our questions.’

‘I have answered them.’

‘You have answered a great many, very patiently,’ said Lupo with a smile. ‘But there is one point on which I am not yet clear. Had your father – your adopted father, I should perhaps say – any reason for taking his own life?’