She Walks in Darkness (5 page)

Richard is long and lean, his gray eyes are frank and friendly in his brown, pleasant face, everything about him is dear and exactly right because it is Richard, but I never have thought him beautiful. I never had thought “beautiful” a word people used of manly men. But there was nothing womanish about this young Italian; he was glowingly, vibrantly masculine, all man. I stared at him in sheer delighted wonder; such splendid life made terror and death seem unreal, far away.

Yet I said, “Be careful. There’s a murderer in the house. He may be watching us.”

He looked startled. “Nothing quite so bad as that, I hope, signorina.”

I tried to speak calmly, clearly. “There was an accident yesterday. My husband was hurt; he’s inside too, unconscious. But later I found old Mattia Rossi—the caretaker here—dead in the cellar. That wasn’t an accident; it was murder.”

“Old Mattia dead?” He looked startled again, even dismayed. “That is bad. But nobody would have murdered him. Nobody on Earth could wish him dead. That too must have been accident—those cellar stairs are steep—”

“It wasn’t an accident! If you’d seen him—seen the way his face was hurt—” I stopped shuddering. “But I can’t show you; the body disappeared.”

“So?” His smile was back, gently mocking. “He cannot be dead then, signora. Doubtless he was not so badly hurt after all, and has gone for help. Once again, as so often, the telephone does not work, I take it? Or you and your injured husband would not still be here.”

“No! He was dead—he couldn’t have been alive!” My voice broke; I knew that he thought I was sounding exactly like a hysterical woman.

“Then how did he rise and go away, signora? He who is not your Christian Christ?” The mocking smile was as gentle as ever, with that special type of gentleness that you cannot quite tell from tenderness.

There was no use arguing; I saw that. I didn’t know much about foreigners yet. For all his charm and obvious culture, he might be the type of man who has a very low opinion of women’s intelligence. God knows
we still have enough of that kind in the United States, though they are seldom so charming and gallant about it.

I said quietly, “He couldn’t have gotten far. If you had seen his head, you’d know that. It wasn’t just blood—his skull was damaged. I would have sworn he was dead. If you’re his friend, you ought to be worried about him.”

For a moment he was silent. My head still was not working very well, but I began to think of the things he had said. They made a kind of pattern.

“You do know him, don’t you? And you were coming here. To see him?”

“I know Mattia well. I am of Volterra; Prince Mino used to send him with messages to my family when I was small. But it is your husband I was coming to see, signora—if, as I would judge, he is the American signor who for this summer is replacing Professor Harris. I write and speak English well, and of archaeology I know a little. I hoped to do typing and other work for him, as I have done them for Professor Harris.”

I said, “Yes. My husband is Richard Keyes.”

“And fortunate in his beautiful lady.” He bowed. “I rejoice to meet you, Signora Keyes. I am Floriano Silveri. Perhaps you have heard the professor or Signora Harris speak of me.”

I hadn’t, and I was rather surprised that Mrs. Harris hadn’t spoken of him. It would have been natural to laugh and tell me about such a beautiful young man, perhaps to warn me against spending too much time with him while Richard was at work. Richard too should have been interested in this possible helper, but perhaps he had thought he could not afford him. He and Professor Harris had talked together a good deal, but I had taken no part in their discussions of their work.

But none of that mattered now. I said, “My husband must have a doctor. He’s been unconscious for hours. And even if you’re right about Mattia Rossi, he must need help now too. Please—please—get back to Volterra as fast as you can!”

For a moment he said nothing, obviously thinking. Then: “First I must understand the situation a little better, signora; I will be questioned. Let me see your husband. I know a little of wounds—I might be able to give some help before I go. And this accident of his—how was it?”

I could have screamed. I wanted him to go—go. To know that help was on the way. But what he said sounded reasonable. Again, there was no use arguing.

On our way upstairs, I told him about the accident, and he looked rather surprised and made what sounded like quite sincere compliments on my courage. I was startled. After all those hours of harrowing fear, the idea of any connection between courage and myself seemed laughable.

He helped me to lift and turn Richard as I had not been able to do alone. Quickly, deftly, he examined that
grim head wound that it had frightened me to touch. Once or twice the sight made me flinch. He was not brutal, but he was certainly too sure of himself to be squeamish. He said finally, “Concussion—I think that you are right, signora. None of the great bones are broken, certainly, but his unconsciousness is deep. He feels nothing. To that I can swear.”

“But we can’t be sure his skull isn’t fractured. Please go for a doctor now. At once. And for the police.”

He hesitated. “Should I not first go down into the cellars, signora? If old Mattia has crawled away into them hurt, perhaps delirious, he may, as you yourself have said, need help. Most badly.”

I was terrified. “No, no—don’t go down there! You might meet the murderer.”

“Must we go into all that again, signora?” He was gently reproving.

Somehow I managed to pull myself together, to achieve some dignity. Or what I hoped was dignity. “I’m sorry. Mattia doesn’t need help—not any more. He’s dead. I never doubted that, but when I saw you thought I was only a hysterical woman, I thought it might be easier to humor you. But I can’t let you go down there and face death yourself without warning you.”

For a moment he seemed surprised, then, oddly, pleased. He took my hand and kissed it. “For your care of me, I thank you, signora. It is long since a beautiful woman has been concerned for me. But I have no fear.”

“But my husband—it could mean his life as well as yours. And you could be hours searching in those cellars, if nothing else happened. Please, please go!” My voice shook.

I told him then of what had happened in the night. Of that stealthy, persistent trying of the door, and of how there had been no knocking, no voice. I expected him to laugh and tell me I had been dreaming, but instead he looked grave at last.

“Old Mattia would have both knocked and spoken. Someone else is here. Or was. And you cannot stay alone with that person, signora. I cannot leave you.”

“You must. There’s nothing else to do. I’ll bolt the door—I’ll be all right. And we can’t be sure about Richard; waiting might kill him—”

His brows knitted. Again, he seemed to be thinking. Then he said, still gravely,
“Bene,
signora. I go. I will wait only to hear you bolt that door behind me. Let nothing make you open it until you hear my voice again. I will make my bicycle fly as a bird flies.”

Now that he was actually going, I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and beg him to stay. I didn’t; I smiled and gave him my hand. He went and kissed it again, courtly as any old Carenni. I shot the bolt behind him, listened to his running footsteps—he certainly was taking me seriously enough now—and knew a brief, horrible sense of loss. But when I went back to the bed and dropped down beside Richard, all I felt was a heavenly relief. At last I could let it go. Soon we would be back in Volterra, maybe even in Florence, with people all around us. Doctors would be examining Richard; they would say that he was going to be all right. Everything would be all right, thanks to our deliverer, to this beautiful young stranger—

I must have dozed, or half-dozed. A knock roused me, soft, but not stealthy. But it nearly made my heart jump out of my body. The sun was still shining. Surely the stranger had not been gone long enough to get help?

Was this—?

The knock came again, less softly this time. Someone—something—pushed against the door. A big, heavy body silently used its strength against that heavy wood. I sat up, shrank back an inch, and felt the warmth of Richard’s unconscious body against mine. It was warm now; so was mine. But if whoever was out there should get in—

Again the massive panels shook; the hinges groaned. There was no knocking now.

The door is strong. Oh God, let it hold! Why did he have to come back now? When help would have come so soon?

Then the voice came. It said softly, “Signora, are you there?”

I could not believe my ears. I said, “Who are you?” “Floriano Silveri. He who was with you but now.”

Floriano! Somehow the name did not bring the warmth of him through the door. I moistened my lips, said, “I can’t be sure of your voice. If it is you, why have you come back so soon?” A sudden thought had come to me, a ghastly and, surely, a foolish thought. I did not trust him as I had when I could see his face.

He said, “My bicycle is gone, signora. It is not in the courtyard, it is not anywhere.”

So that was it. Everything was not over, the jaws of the trap were not to be so easily opened. But at least there were two of us in that trap now: myself and Floriano. My silly fear was over. That gorgeous tan of Floriano’s, like a bronze statue’s—no prisoner ever could have had that! Besides, how easily he could have harmed us before, when there had been no door between. I got up and opened that door for him. For Floriano.

He stepped inside quickly, looked over his shoulder once, down the silent corridor, then slammed the door and bolted it. His smile flashed at me, brilliant, beautiful as ever.

“Most profoundly do I apologize, signora! In my shock when I could not find my bike, I forgot what I myself had told you: Not to open the door until you heard my voice.”

“Your bike’s gone?” I had been seeing and hearing only him, but now memory came like a blow. “It will take you a lot longer, walking, won’t it? I’m sorry.”

He said very quietly, his dark eyes holding mine, “Signora, do you not understand? I cannot leave you now.”

A minute ago I had thought that, but now I was
fully awake. “But if your bicycle’s gone, he’s gone! The killer!” The thought was like a sunrise.

He said soberly, “Not necessarily. We know only that he has made sure that I cannot leave.”

“But you can! You can walk—”

“Signora, unless I met a car, which is not likely, you would be alone for many hours.”

I shivered, then remembered that Richard was hurt. “You must go.”

“Signora, I repeat that I cannot leave you alone. With, perhaps, a murderer.”

“If you don’t go, I must.”

He said gently, “No, signora. You might be followed.”

The thing I had thought of that morning, the thing that had made me feel faint then, and did again now. For a little while I did not realize that he was still talking: “...So even if the roads did not mislead you, and there were no evil behind you, you would be lost in the dark. Your husband himself would not want you to take such a mad, foolish risk.”

“I know he wouldn’t, but somebody’s got to.”

“Why? If he, that evil one, is yet here, he is watching for me to leave. When I stay beside you—a strong man—he will see that his trick has failed and go.”

I swallowed. “But he’ll be here when night falls. What if he comes up again?”

“He will not. We will have the lights on.”

“We can’t. The electricity’s off.”

Again he smiled. “The hall below is dark even at midday, signora, and when I left you I thought it wise to turn on the lights. The switch is at the head of the stairs. So also is the master switch. When one brought no light, I turned on the other.”

It had been so easy—so simple—and how glad I would have been of those lights last night! Yet I had never even seen those switches. I had been a hysterical fool.

“So he will know he cannot take us by surprise, signora. Though indeed he could hardly tamper with so heavy a door without giving me much warning.”

“What if he is armed?”

His white teeth flashed. “You say that old Mattia’s skull was smashed. That would be the work of a club. Me, I am not an old man; I can get out of the way of a club.”

His eyes danced. Their exuberant masculinity challenged me.
You know well that I am not old.
He meant the two of us to be alone together all night except for the unconscious Richard. Well, I mustn’t think like my grandmother, but Richard—

I said again, quietly, “My husband needs a doctor. One of us must go.”

He said as quietly, “Signora, if ill came to me on that road—and in the dark any man can be taken by surprise—you and your husband would indeed be lost.”

He was right; he could be followed too. I hadn’t thought of that. My skin crawled. Death stalking so much life!

He laid his hand over mine. His touch, his voice, were so warm, so reassuring that they were like arms around me. “Signora, the skull of your husband is sound. I swear it.”

For a blessed moment I believed him; then my mind worked again. “You’re not a doctor. You can’t know—”

“I know something of wounds. Set your mind at rest, signora.” His smile was brilliant, masterful now; in that quiet room it seemed to flash like electricity. “Also you have no other choice, for I will neither leave you nor let you go.”