Elizabeth Peters - Street of the Five Moons

‘How did you know?’ I began. Again his lips brushed mine. This time they did not linger.

‘I said, shut up. I shan’t answer questions. Will you do as I say, or shall I raise the view halloo for Giorgio?’

I didn’t think he would actually carry out the threat, but I was not about to take chances. There was a hint of ruthlessness in that suave voice, even when it whispered.

‘Okay,’ I said meekly.

‘Good. I am going to untie you, but you must leave the blindfold on. You owe me that for saving your life, or at least your . . . can one say “virtue,” these days? I doubt it. And “virginity,” surely – ’

‘Oh, stop it,’ I hissed irritably. ‘I agree. I suppose you are going to tell me to drop this case and leave well enough alone.’

‘Precisely. You don’t know anything vital, that’s obvious, or you wouldn’t have done anything so idiotic as come round to the shop. I don’t intend that you shall learn anything from tonight’s adventure. If you know what is good for you, you will go home, like a nice little doctor of philosophy, and stop meddling in matters that don’t concern you. Now come along, and for God’s sake, keep quiet.’

During the last speech – he was a long-winded devil – he had cut the ropes on my ankles and wrists, and rubbed the former till the numbness had worn off.

While he spoke I had been devoting my operative senses to learning all I could about the place where we were standing. It wasn’t too difficult to figure out where we were. The sense of enclosure and the smell of dust, plus the feel of draperies brushing me when I moved . . . We were behind some heavy curtains, velvet or plush, in the same room where I had been held prisoner. I understood why Giorgio and Antonio had not seen us, and why it was imperative for me to be utterly still while they were in the room.

There were several witty, debonair comments I might have made, but to tell the truth I wasn’t feeling particularly debonair. This was not the first time I had been in danger. In fact, I had been in worse spots. I had not become blasé about it, though. I don’t think I ever will. I was willing to do anything to get out of – wherever I was – alive. Afterwards . . . well, I would cross that bridge when I got to it.

So I let him put his arm around my shoulders in order to guide me, and I minced along in meek silence. It was surprising how much I was able to deduce about my surroundings even without my sight. The floor, for instance. It was smooth and slightly slippery – highly polished wood, probably. When the surface changed to carpeting, my feet knew the difference right away. I could even tell that the material wasn’t the thick synthetic wall-to-wall stuff that is so popular back home. This floor covering was thinner, and once I tripped over what must have been fringe. Oriental rugs?

At any rate, before we had gone far, I was sure I was not in a cheap apartment or tenement. The smells of wax and polish, the general feeling of echoing spaciousness, suggested a large house – something rather grand, actually. We walked on marble for a while; at least it was hard and cool underfoot. And we walked for a long time, indoors. The place seemed as big as a museum.

My companion didn’t speak. The arm around my shoulders was stiff with taut muscle; his fingers curved over my upper arm with a tension that was more effective than any verbal warning. Once I heard voices off in the distance; another time he stopped and pulled me into a small, closed-in space until footsteps passed and faded.

As the flight proceeded I recovered some of my courage, and my curiosity revived. What sort of place was this? Could it be a museum after all?

I got the chance I was waiting for when we reached the top of a flight of stairs. I didn’t know they were stairs at first, not until he picked me up and began to descend them. I suppose it was easier for him to carry me than guide each step I took, but I had a feeling he rather enjoyed it. I put my arms around his neck and rubbed my face against his shoulder.

He laughed – if you could call it that – just a puff of air into my left ear. I tickled the back of his neck. It was all pretty corny. But he loved it – he can deny it all he wants to, but he did. When we reached the bottom of the stairs he didn’t put me down but continued to carry me along a marble-floored corridor lined with long mirrors. I knew the mirrors were there because I saw them. I had managed to shift the blindfold just enough to see out from under it with one eye.

The corridor went on for a long way. From time to time the mirrors were interspersed with oil paintings in long, heavy frames. I had never had that precise view of great paintings before; all I could see were feet, the hems of flowing robes, and the grass and rocks of painted backgrounds.

That gallery was long. Before we reached the end of it my gallant rescuer was pretty well out of breath. To do him justice, it wasn’t only exertion that made him gasp; my hands and mouth were free, and I was using them nicely. In the process I got the blindfold back in place. I had seen all I needed to see.

We passed through a swinging door – I heard the sound as it swung back into place – and into a narrower corridor that smelled faintly of cooking. Then he put me down. My arms were still around his neck and my blind face was lifted, trustingly . . . The position was ideal for what he had in mind. His fist landed neatly on the point of my upturned chin.

I woke up in the taxi, with my head on his shoulder. At first I didn’t know it was a taxi; all I could see were lights flashing by, like long streamers of fire.

‘Wake up, darling,’ said a voice. ‘Arise, fair moon, and dim the envious sun . . . That’s the girl.’

I turned my head and saw the face I had expected to see grinning down at me. The end of his nose was about half an inch from mine, and as my senses came back to me and I remembered what had happened, I was so angry I snapped at him, like a mad dog. He just laughed and kissed me. I didn’t struggle. It would have been undignified.

When he had finished, he held me out at arms’ length and looked at me critically.

‘Not too bad. A young lady who has been out on the town must expect to show some signs of wear and tear. I can’t tell you how I’ve enjoyed this.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t try, if I were you . . . Where are we?’

‘Almost at your hotel. Can you walk, do you think?’

I flexed my legs. He shifted position hastily, and I smiled – or rather, I bared my teeth.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t kick you. Although it would give me immense satisfaction to do so. Yes, I can walk. Demoralizing as your embraces are, they are not totally incapacitating.’

‘What a vocabulary,’ the Englishman said admiringly. ‘Brains and beauty . . . All right, love, you should do well enough tonight, but I advise you to get out of Rome first thing tomorrow morning.’

The taxi stopped. He had the door open and was out before I could think of a suitable retort. Reaching into the car, he pulled me out onto the sidewalk.

We were dead smack in front of the hotel, one of those high-class establishments which looks like, and perhaps was, a Renaissance palace. The doormen have more gold on their uniforms than any other doormen in Rome. One of them – the same man who had seen me come in at 3 a.m. the night before – was a few feet away, staring.

I had been drugged, tied up for who knows how many hours, and then punched on the jaw. I knew what I looked like – not a poor, defenceless, abused heroine – just another drunk.

‘ Buona notte, carissima, ’ caroled my blonde bête noire in dulcet tones. ‘ Grazie – per tutto . . . ’ He put out his arms.