bled.
Richard! I had left Richard alone with a murderer.
Somehow Floriano had gotten out to follow me. But first had he turned and vented his rage on the unconscious man? No, surely not; surely all his energies had been bent on contriving his escape, on his pursuit of me. Yet sickeningly I remembered old Mattia Rossi’s gray hair blood-matted on the gray stones, his queerly caved-in head. Fool that I had been never to think that Floriano himself might have smashed that head!
The bicycle had fooled me; old Mattia’s own cycle, probably, on which the murderer had been leaving, not arriving, when I had run out and stopped him. Until he had learned that I was alone, he had been afraid, having seen that open door. Having known that his crime was known.
Floriano had killed Mattia Rossi; Floriano had come to our door last night. I had understood him then, when I could not see his face.... It all made sense now. Floriano had said he had been in Volterra yesterday, when the prisoner had escaped. Of course he had! He was the escaped prisoner. Our unseen passenger, young and lithe enough to curl up in our car trunk. And, however his knowledge had been gained, he knew the villa very well indeed; he had even known where to find Roger Carstairs’s diary. Because he had seen it hidden? Or because he had hidden it himself? He must have been very young when Roger died, but even children can kill.
But his tan—how could a prisoner in the Mastio get that tan? I was confused again, but not about one thing: I knew that he was evil....
The moon was shining into my eyes. I opened them, and saw that I was lying in a cart, upon a bed of hay. The driver’s bulk loomed black above me, behind his oxen’s horns. Beside it loomed another figure, taller, shapelier.
I must have moved, for he heard me and turned, white teeth flashing in that smile that now I would always hate. “You are better, carissima?”
No use pretending to be still unconscious. No use asking what he had done to Richard. To show concern for another man might be risky, an affront to his vanity. There are women who admire men who beat them; I had better pretend to be that kind. How do such women act?
I giggled nervously and sat up. “I’ll feel a lot better when I’ve had a bath and some coffee. I must look awful.” I giggled again and rubbed my jaw. “You hit hard, Floriano.”
“You asked for it, carissima.” He chuckled, evidently proud (as Dr. Pulcinelli had been long ago, in another world) of knowing American slang.
I made no answer; I didn’t know how far to go. To overplay my act, this captivated doglike meekness—bitchy in more senses than one—might be as risky as to underplay it. His pride would prefer to think me won, but he would be watchful. Though he certainly had no reason to think me intelligent; with what disgusting ease I had swallowed all his lies!
He said nothing more, either. But the driver grinned, his own teeth flashing. He must think our quarrel over. How wrong every one of those Italian words that I had used had been! “Aita...mio marito.” People everywhere hate to get mixed up in arguments between husband and wife. Everybody in that village must be feeling sorry for Floriano, married to a crazy foreigner. I had never had a chance.
Richard, Richard, why did I leave you? I was trying—trying so hard—and all I did was to desert you! Leave you alone with our enemy.
For a while I simply lay there and suffered, too sick to think. The cart creaked on.
Then the driver said something in Italian, and Floriano laughed. I sat up again. The villa rose before us, huge and dark against the moon. Soon I would know!
But if Richard were still alive, God keep him unconscious! The awakening that I had longed for would be the death of him now. Floriano could not afford to leave either of us alive then. By flinging myself into his arms there in the courtyard, I had merely postponed my death. Because I was young and a woman, he would wait. And that
Richard! I had left Richard alone with a murderer.
Somehow Floriano had gotten out to follow me. But first had he turned and vented his rage on the unconscious man? No, surely not; surely all his energies had been bent on contriving his escape, on his pursuit of me. Yet sickeningly I remembered old Mattia Rossi’s gray hair blood-matted on the gray stones, his queerly caved-in head. Fool that I had been never to think that Floriano himself might have smashed that head!
The bicycle had fooled me; old Mattia’s own cycle, probably, on which the murderer had been leaving, not arriving, when I had run out and stopped him. Until he had learned that I was alone, he had been afraid, having seen that open door. Having known that his crime was known.
Floriano had killed Mattia Rossi; Floriano had come to our door last night. I had understood him then, when I could not see his face.... It all made sense now. Floriano had said he had been in Volterra yesterday, when the prisoner had escaped. Of course he had! He was the escaped prisoner. Our unseen passenger, young and lithe enough to curl up in our car trunk. And, however his knowledge had been gained, he knew the villa very well indeed; he had even known where to find Roger Carstairs’s diary. Because he had seen it hidden? Or because he had hidden it himself? He must have been very young when Roger died, but even children can kill.
But his tan—how could a prisoner in the Mastio get that tan? I was confused again, but not about one thing: I knew that he was evil....
The moon was shining into my eyes. I opened them, and saw that I was lying in a cart, upon a bed of hay. The driver’s bulk loomed black above me, behind his oxen’s horns. Beside it loomed another figure, taller, shapelier.
I must have moved, for he heard me and turned, white teeth flashing in that smile that now I would always hate. “You are better, carissima?”
No use pretending to be still unconscious. No use asking what he had done to Richard. To show concern for another man might be risky, an affront to his vanity. There are women who admire men who beat them; I had better pretend to be that kind. How do such women act?
I giggled nervously and sat up. “I’ll feel a lot better when I’ve had a bath and some coffee. I must look awful.” I giggled again and rubbed my jaw. “You hit hard, Floriano.”
“You asked for it, carissima.” He chuckled, evidently proud (as Dr. Pulcinelli had been long ago, in another world) of knowing American slang.
I made no answer; I didn’t know how far to go. To overplay my act, this captivated doglike meekness—bitchy in more senses than one—might be as risky as to underplay it. His pride would prefer to think me won, but he would be watchful. Though he certainly had no reason to think me intelligent; with what disgusting ease I had swallowed all his lies!
He said nothing more, either. But the driver grinned, his own teeth flashing. He must think our quarrel over. How wrong every one of those Italian words that I had used had been! “Aita...mio marito.” People everywhere hate to get mixed up in arguments between husband and wife. Everybody in that village must be feeling sorry for Floriano, married to a crazy foreigner. I had never had a chance.
Richard, Richard, why did I leave you? I was trying—trying so hard—and all I did was to desert you! Leave you alone with our enemy.
For a while I simply lay there and suffered, too sick to think. The cart creaked on.
Then the driver said something in Italian, and Floriano laughed. I sat up again. The villa rose before us, huge and dark against the moon. Soon I would know!
But if Richard were still alive, God keep him unconscious! The awakening that I had longed for would be the death of him now. Floriano could not afford to leave either of us alive then. By flinging myself into his arms there in the courtyard, I had merely postponed my death. Because I was young and a woman, he would wait. And that
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