Street of the Five Moons (19 page)

The door creaked hideously, but fortunately there was nobody around to hear. It opened onto a weedy patch of ground enclosed by plastered walls. There was a gate in the wall directly opposite.

John closed the door behind us.

“Not that it matters,” he muttered. “They will know we came this way if they see the chains unfastened. Where are we?”

“Damned if I know.”

The courtyard was about ten feet by fifteen. John walked out into the middle of it, put his hands on his hips, threw his head back, and contemplated the heavens. The moonlight silvered his hair and cast dramatic shadows across his body; he looked like one of the younger, more ineffectual saints addressing the Almighty. I stayed in the shelter of the house. I felt safer there.

“Well?” I said, after a while.

“Sssh.” He came back to me. “We’re behind the villa—”

“I could have told you that.”

“It faces west,” John went on imperturbably. “We want the road to Rome, which is that way.” He pointed.

“That may be what we want, but what we need is to put some distance between us and the villa. There can’t be many ways out of those cellars, and it won’t take long to check them. Bruno could come bursting through that door any second. Let’s get out of here.”

“You have a point. Excelsior!”

The gate led into another courtyard. Every acre of ground seemed to be walled, and I began to get an acute sense of claustrophobia. Finally, however, we came upon a familiar building — the garage.

“Hey,” I said, catching John’s arm. “What about—”

He wasn’t actually reading my mind; we were both thinking the obvious things at the same time.

“No use. I don’t have the keys to any of the cars. Antonio sleeps upstairs; by the time I could get one of them started he’d hear me. Besides, if we steal a car, all they have to do is call the local constable in Tivoli and tell him—”

“One reason is enough,” I snapped. “
Avanti
, then.”

Another gate and another courtyard brought us to the shelter of a stone wall, where we collapsed to catch our breath.

“The gardens begin here,” I said softly. “Plenty of cover in all that fancy landscaping. We should be all right now.”

Squatting on all fours like a nervous rabbit, John suddenly stiffened and lifted his head.

“Look.”

Atop the hill the villa loomed up against the stars. It should have been a dark and shapely silhouette. But as we watched, lights sprang up in window after window, like a fireworks display. I was still staring in dismay at this lovely but ominous spectacle when a light went on right next to me, as if one of the trees had sprouted light bulbs instead of leaves. I transferred my horrified glance to John. I could even see the drops of sweat on his forehead, and the dark pupils of his dilated eyes. The pupils started to shrink.

“We should be all right now,” John repeated bitterly. “Damn it! Some bright soul has turned on the garden illumination.”

Nine

PIETRO HAD BOASTED THAT THE NIGHT lights of the garden made them as bright as day. He hadn’t exaggerated by much. There were patches of shadow, but the lights made our job of getting out of the gardens about a thousand percent harder.

A cute little dangling lantern was practically on top of us. We moved away from it into the concealment of a giant rhododendron, and sat there musing aloud.

“How many of them are there?” I asked. “The bad guys, I mean.”

“I know what you mean. Not many of the servants are in on the plot, but that doesn’t matter. They will all be looking for us, you can bank on that. The Boss will have concocted some plausible story to explain why we must be apprehended. And,” he added, “don’t get your hopes up. Some of them will be armed. We won’t know which ones until they shoot at us. What’s the quickest way out of here? I haven’t explored the grounds as thoroughly as you have.”

I closed my eyes and tried to remember. I think better with my eyes closed. The plan of the gardens was fairly clear in my mind.

“The quickest way isn’t the safest,” I said, after a while. “But if we cross the English garden and pass the Fountain of the Turtles, we’ll be in the rose garden. After that it isn’t far to the wall….”

My voice trailed off in dismay as I remembered that wall. It was twelve feet high, with barbed wire on top.

“We’ll worry about the wall when we come to it,” John said. “The way my adrenaline is pumping, I could probably get over it in a standing jump.”

I really hated to leave that rhododendron. It had gorgeous purple flowers and lots of nice thick foliage. We went scuttling along behind the wall, which ended in an open, trellised summerhouse. We skirted this and struck out across the grounds. I was thankful it was spring, when the grass was lush and soft, and there were no fallen leaves underfoot to crackle.

The English garden was enclosed by a high hedge of boxwood. This particular plant gets very thick and high when it is old. It is sometimes used for mazes because it is so difficult to break through. Keeping in its shadow, we found a place where the hedge was a little thinner, and peered through.

The garden was one of Pietro’s favorites. He had not stinted on the lights. One look and I knew it would be impossible to cut directly across. It would be like walking onto a lighted stage.

We didn’t cross the English garden. We circumnavigated it, crawling on our stomachs next to the roots of the boxwood. I do not recommend that means of locomotion. But we saw no one, and when we reached the entrance to the long avenue, I thought we had it made. Tall, pointed cypresses lined the way like living pillars. There was plenty of shade under the trees, and the low lights lining the path did not reach far into the shadows. The avenue sloped down, following the contours of the hillside. We made good time. We were almost at the end of it, near the rose garden, when I heard a sound that startled me so much I tripped over a petunia. It was a dog barking.

“Bloodhounds!” I gasped.

“Don’t be an idiot.” John had stopped to listen. “It’s worse than bloodhounds. It’s Caesar.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes. He’s the only dog on the premises. You would have to be an animal lover, wouldn’t you? Hurry.”

We plunged down the hillside, abandoning caution in the need for haste. Caesar could mean big trouble for us. Bloodhounds would follow a trail out of a sense of duty, but good old Caesar would be anxious to find his buddy who had fed him the pâté and the smoked oysters, and rolled around on the grass with him. Dogs have long memories for things like that, bless their hearts. They also have excellent senses of smell.

When we reached the bottom of the avenue, I veered left, toward the rose garden. John’s hand closed on my arm and yanked me around.

“What the hell,” I began.

“Forget the rose garden, we need water. Running water… Get that damn dog off the trail…” He was panting, and I didn’t blame him.

There was plenty of water. However, the fountains were magnificently illuminated. We splashed recklessly through one of the largest of them, tripping over nymphs and water gods. John slipped on the wet stone and clutched at one of the nymphs to keep his balance. The affectionate tableau was so funny I started to laugh. A spray of water hit me in the mouth, and the laugh turned to a gargle, which won me a hateful look from John as he untangled himself from the outstretched marble arms. He was too out of breath to comment, which was probably just as well.

We climbed over the parapet of the fountain and rushed on. I had completely lost my sense of direction, but John seemed to know where he was going, so I followed him, spurred on by the sound of joyful barking somewhere in the distance. But when I saw what he had in mind, I stopped dead.

One of the showpieces of the Villa d’Este is the Avenue of a Hundred Fountains. Each “fountain” is a simple jet of water, but en masse they look impressive, lined up as they are in a long basin. Not to be outdone, Pietro’s ancestor had constructed an avenue of
two
hundred fountains. From where we stood at the bottom of the slope, looking up, the fine spray seemed to mount straight up into the sky. John took a long running jump, landed flat, and made swimming motions.

I don’t know what was the matter with me. Hysteria, perhaps. I laughed so hard I had to hang on to a carved dolphin to keep from falling.

John pulled himself to his feet, clutched another dolphin — the fountain was lined with them, all the way up — and glared at me.

“The salmon do it,” I gurgled. “Upstream. To spawn.”

He was streaming with water, from his soaked hair to the bottoms of his pants. He flung out his arm, his forefinger extended.

“Swim, damn it!” he shouted, and started to climb.

The rush of falling water almost drowned out his voice, but I got the idea. I climbed into the basin.

We didn’t swim. It would have been impossible, the fountain was only three or four feet deep and about six wide, and the water poured down like a flood. It would have been hard enough to climb without the current dragging at our feet, but we did it, thanks to the dolphins. The two hundred fountains of water poured from their mouths, and there was one of them every three or four feet, so we were able to pull ourselves along by means of them. I wish I had a movie of that performance. Even then I was occasionally convulsed with laughter at the sight of John’s drenched figure doggedly dragging itself forward just ahead of me.

We got about halfway up without being seen. I had gotten into my stride by then — step, slip, grab the next dolphin, step, slip, grab — and was fully prepared to keep on doing the same thing till we reached the top. We were still some distance away from that goal when John took a giant step up onto the head of one of the dolphins, caught the top of the wall, and pulled himself up. Squatting there like a dank frog, he extended a hand toward me.

“I was just beginning to enjoy myself,” I said mildly, as he yanked me up beside him. “Where now?”

He shoved me off the wall.

I landed in a clump of azaleas. If you think azaleas aren’t prickly, try falling into one. Before I could start swearing, he landed next to me and slapped his hand over my mouth.

Then I heard Caesar. He was hot on the trail, too close for comfort. The first fountain hadn’t confused him at all. We could only hope that he would lose our scent at the bottom of the Two Hundred Fountains complex, and that, if the men who guided him were smart enough to realize we had taken to the water, they would try casting about at the top of the slope.

In the meantime, it behooved us to make tracks. We did so, back down the hill we had climbed with such effort. It was not until we had gone some distance, and Caesar’s excited barks had taken on a frantic note, that I realized where we were going. Our best route now was through the garden of the monsters. To avoid it would double the distance to the outer wall and would necessitate passing through some of the most open areas of the grounds.

In the smoky green and purple lights the monster garden was straight out of Lovecraft. The great hollow head was lighted from within by a powerful red lamp; its slitted eyes glowed like those of a demon out of hell, and the fangs looked as if they had been dipped in blood. John took my hand. His was wet, but it felt warm and hard and comforting. I don’t think he was trying to comfort me, though. He was just as scared as I was. I heard his teeth chattering. We were soaking wet, but it was a nice warm night.

Some of the smaller monsters weren’t illumined, and I would have fallen over a baby dragon if John hadn’t been holding on to me. The adult dragon, which had come so close to running me down, was ahead of us, looking unpleasantly lifelike in a rippling lavender searchlight. Then I heard a sound behind us, near the great guardian head.

A flashlight beam sprayed out. Its white light seemed sane and normal compared to the ghastly tints of the other lights, but I could have done without it. Simultaneously, without discussing it aloud, we both dropped to the ground. Then something really unpleasant happened. From the opposite end of the garden, near the exit, another flashlight appeared.

I invoked my Maker in a one-word whisper, and was promptly shushed by John. My whisper could not have been heard; someone spoke at that precise moment. His voice was soft, but I could hear him quite clearly. He was that close.

“Alberto
qui
.”

The other man identified himself.

“Bassano. Have you seen them?”

“No. I have just come from the back gates.”

Bassano let out a string of lurid curses.

“Get back there, fool. The gates must be guarded.”

“What about this garden?”

“I’ll have a look around. Quickly, now.”

I crouched there trying to compress myself into a smaller piece of air as the flashlight moved in closer. The second man had left…. And so had John. He had let go of my hand when we fell flat; he must have slipped away during the conversation between the two men.

I had just enough time to think bitter thoughts about him when the stone dragon began to move. I jumped a good three inches. So did Bassano; I saw the flashlight beam shoot skyward before he got it under control. He swore again — sheer bravado, his voice was tremulous. I understood his feelings. The moving statues had looked ghastly enough in broad daylight. Bathed in a lurid glow, with shadows slipping over their stony hides like muscles twitching, they were like creatures out of a feverish nightmare.

They were all moving, now, the rusty mechanisms grating and groaning. I was debating which way to go when I saw John hugging the massive flank of the dragon, which was swinging on a curving course in my general direction. As it rolled out of the glow of the purple searchlight, its rear end was deeply shadowed. I wouldn’t have seen John if he hadn’t beckoned urgently.

Bassano and his flashlight were no longer visible. I think he ran. So did we, as soon as the dragon’s ponderous path took it near the rear gate. There was only one more garden, and then came a flight of stairs, with an artificial waterfall flowing down them, before we reached the lower terrace and the wall. But we had to hurry. As soon as Bassano got his wits back, he would know who had started the monsters moving.

I thought of mentioning this to John, but decided I had better save my breath for more important matters, such as running away. He was splashing merrily down the middle of the stairway, through the waterfall, like Gene Kelly in “Singing in the Rain.” He was built like a dancer, slim and wiry, but at that moment his excellent physique was only too visible in the amber lights that flooded the fountain. He had abandoned secrecy for speed, which made sense; if our pursuers didn’t know exactly where we were, they knew where we had just been.

John was well ahead of me when we got to the bottom of the stairs and raced across the terrace. The wall loomed up ahead, the tangle of barbed wire on top looking like delicate black lace against the moonlit sky. There were trees to right and left, but not directly ahead. John decided to go right. He made a quick turn. His wet shoes slipped on the flagstones, his feet went out from under him, and he fell forward with a splat like a large flounder being landed. At the same moment I heard voices raised in excited comment at the top of the stairs.

I skidded to a stop beside John and hauled him to his feet.

“The heroine is the one who is supposed to fall over her clumsy feet,” I said sweetly.

I’m sure he would have had a snappy answer if the fall had not knocked the wind out of him. He hung on to me for a few moments, whooping for breath. Then he headed for the nearest tree and started climbing, without waiting to see whether I was following.

They were flowering trees of some kind, in full blossom, and the scent was sweet as perfume. Velvety petals brushed my face and arms as I climbed.

John was above me, agile as a monkey. I had to admire his well-developed sense of self-preservation, which was uncluttered by any taint of old-fashioned chivalry. He was heavier than I was, though, and he was stuck, about six feet from the top of the wall. The branches were getting too fragile to support him.

“Get out of the way,” I hissed. “I’m lighter; maybe I can—”

He didn’t say anything, but I stopped talking, because the voices and the flashlights were coming down the stairs. When they reached the bottom, they would fan out to right and left, and if they had the elementary intelligence to shine their lights up into the trees, we were sitting ducks — stuck, like ripe fruit in the skinny branches.

A fragrant cascade of satiny petals showered down on my upturned face. John seemed to be having a slight fit up there. Then I realized he was struggling out of his jacket — no mean task, wet as it was. He stood upright, swaying perilously, and threw first the jacket and then himself onto the top of the wall.

I climbed up to the limb he had vacated and caught his hand. He let out a smothered yelp.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. I didn’t bother to lower my voice. The boys in the background were making considerable noise.