reached the landing and saw that the stairs made a one-eighty-degree turn and continued to the second floor. There was light at the top of the second landing, a narrow bar of pale sunlight coming through the first of the slit windows. On this landing there was no light, only a hallway that ran about fifteen feet, ending in blackness.
the echelon vendetta | 79
He felt along the edge of the wall and found an old light switch. He twisted it and a dim glow appeared at the far end of the hall, coming from a light fixture set into the wall by the door to what Dalton assumed was Appartamento Tre. The floorboards creaked as he came down the hall, and the scent of Toscano cigarillos grew stronger. For reasons he could neither explain nor overcome, the skin on his belly and across his back tightened as he got to the door.
Standing in front of the heavy nail-studded barrier, he listened for a while. Although the door was thick and well set into a stone jamb, some sort of sound was coming through the planks. He put an ear up against the wood. It smelled of old paint and turpentine and cedar. What was coming through the thick planks was a low droning. No, a low muttering sound, rhythmic and oddly musical, but not quite music.
It was a sound that suggested speech, a kind of language, in that it had intonations and pauses, callings and responses, almost like a prayer or a chant.
But it was neither a voice nor an instrument; it was a sound unlike anything Dalton had ever heard. He stepped back, breaking contact with the door, put a hand up on the wood, and felt the beat of the sound like a muffled drum.
Maggots, the old lady said.
The man had maggots in his head.
He made a fist of his hand and pounded on the door four times, hard enough to shake dust out of the frame around the door. It silted down like fine sand and drifted in the glow of the pale light on the wall. Nothing. He pounded again, harder, leaving his fist on the door at the end of the last stroke. While he was standing there he remembered what Brancati had told him, about other guests in the Strega hostel and the strange moaning they had heard coming from Naumann’s room. Was this the same sound? Dalton gave the latch a wrenching turn. The door was locked tight.
80 | david stone
He pounded on the door again, his anger rising up. “Open the door! It’s the police. Open up the door!”
Nothing.
He put his ear against the door and the sound came vibrating through the wooden planks. He jerked his head away, feeling suddenly dizzy and slightly nauseous, as if the floor had begun to rise up under his feet.
“Excuse me. Can I help you?”
He wheeled around, his balance a little off, and steadied himself on the wall. A woman was standing at the far end of the hallway, surrounded by a pale glow, her face in darkness but a shining aura of light in her hair.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m—”
“Are you the police? I heard you calling.”
Dalton gathered himself together and came down the narrow hallway toward the woman, pasting a cardboard smile on his face.
“Not exactly. I’m with the American consulate.”
“I heard you say you were police.”
There was intelligence in her voice, and suspicion. Her accent was aristocratic Roman, her diction precise and careful.
“Yes. I did say that. I’m in a semiofficial position. I guess saying ‘police’ helps with the language barrier. I’m more of an investigator.”
He reached the end of the hall and the woman backed away into the light flowing up the stairwell from the street door he had left open. She was tall, almost as tall as he, with long black hair in a severe cut, prominent cheekbones, and full scarlet lips. She was wearing a pale green cashmere top under a matching long-sleeved cardigan. Short black leather skirt; fine long, well-turned legs; and expensive Italian shoes, the stiletto type, in no way intended for walking.
She was full-figured (the word “luscious” came to him) and she smelled of
the echelon vendetta | 79
He felt along the edge of the wall and found an old light switch. He twisted it and a dim glow appeared at the far end of the hall, coming from a light fixture set into the wall by the door to what Dalton assumed was Appartamento Tre. The floorboards creaked as he came down the hall, and the scent of Toscano cigarillos grew stronger. For reasons he could neither explain nor overcome, the skin on his belly and across his back tightened as he got to the door.
Standing in front of the heavy nail-studded barrier, he listened for a while. Although the door was thick and well set into a stone jamb, some sort of sound was coming through the planks. He put an ear up against the wood. It smelled of old paint and turpentine and cedar. What was coming through the thick planks was a low droning. No, a low muttering sound, rhythmic and oddly musical, but not quite music.
It was a sound that suggested speech, a kind of language, in that it had intonations and pauses, callings and responses, almost like a prayer or a chant.
But it was neither a voice nor an instrument; it was a sound unlike anything Dalton had ever heard. He stepped back, breaking contact with the door, put a hand up on the wood, and felt the beat of the sound like a muffled drum.
Maggots, the old lady said.
The man had maggots in his head.
He made a fist of his hand and pounded on the door four times, hard enough to shake dust out of the frame around the door. It silted down like fine sand and drifted in the glow of the pale light on the wall. Nothing. He pounded again, harder, leaving his fist on the door at the end of the last stroke. While he was standing there he remembered what Brancati had told him, about other guests in the Strega hostel and the strange moaning they had heard coming from Naumann’s room. Was this the same sound? Dalton gave the latch a wrenching turn. The door was locked tight.
80 | david stone
He pounded on the door again, his anger rising up. “Open the door! It’s the police. Open up the door!”
Nothing.
He put his ear against the door and the sound came vibrating through the wooden planks. He jerked his head away, feeling suddenly dizzy and slightly nauseous, as if the floor had begun to rise up under his feet.
“Excuse me. Can I help you?”
He wheeled around, his balance a little off, and steadied himself on the wall. A woman was standing at the far end of the hallway, surrounded by a pale glow, her face in darkness but a shining aura of light in her hair.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m—”
“Are you the police? I heard you calling.”
Dalton gathered himself together and came down the narrow hallway toward the woman, pasting a cardboard smile on his face.
“Not exactly. I’m with the American consulate.”
“I heard you say you were police.”
There was intelligence in her voice, and suspicion. Her accent was aristocratic Roman, her diction precise and careful.
“Yes. I did say that. I’m in a semiofficial position. I guess saying ‘police’ helps with the language barrier. I’m more of an investigator.”
He reached the end of the hall and the woman backed away into the light flowing up the stairwell from the street door he had left open. She was tall, almost as tall as he, with long black hair in a severe cut, prominent cheekbones, and full scarlet lips. She was wearing a pale green cashmere top under a matching long-sleeved cardigan. Short black leather skirt; fine long, well-turned legs; and expensive Italian shoes, the stiletto type, in no way intended for walking.
She was full-figured (the word “luscious” came to him) and she smelled of
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