Read Online Street of the Five Moons by Elizabeth Peters - Free Book Online Page B

Obviously she was not gainfully employed because she needed the money.
    “Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “I warn you, Pietro can be rather… But I feel sure you can cope.”
    I thanked her for the third time. She was smiling quite broadly as I left; in a lady less elegant, I might have been tempted to call it a grin.

II

    The minute I met the count I knew why she had given me that funny, cat-and-canary smile.
    I had never met a man who wore a corset before. It was so obvious, not only from the rigidity of his tummy, but from his slightly apoplectic expression and the stiff way he walked.
    He was beautifully dressed. Roman tailors are superb, and he patronized the best. His suit was of dazzling white linen with a cummerbund of scarlet silk. He had a red carnation in his buttonhole. His hair had been brushed across his head and lacquered into place, but it didn’t quite cover the bald spot. I wondered why he didn’t buy a toupee. Maybe he hadn’t quite faced the extent of the disaster; people don’t see what they don’t want to see. His face was as round as his uncorseted stomach would have been, and if I hadn’t been prejudiced I would have thought it a pleasant face. His little black mustache was an obvious imitation of Clark Gable’s. He had a habit of stroking it with one finger while he talked — when his hands weren’t otherwise occupied.
    He was gorgeously turned out, but his hands were the pièce de résistance — soft and white and plump, the nails polished to a mirror surface. I had a good opportunity to judge, because they were all over me from the minute I walked into his library.
    I had taken a taxi, for fear of being late, but the count was in no hurry to get to his food. He kept pressing sherry on me. Poor man, I suppose he thought I’d get drunk. I let him pat me and stroke my arm for a while. Then I decided he had had enough fun for the day, so I pushed my chair back and stood up.
    “Your home is magnificent, Count,” I cooed. “This is the first time I have ever seen an Italian palace — one that is still lived in, I mean, not a museum.”
    “Ah, this.” With one eloquent gesture the count waved away marble floor, gold-and-crystal chandeliers, rosewood paneling set with malachite and lapis lazuli, thousands of rare leather-bound volumes…. “The place is falling apart. It is no longer possible to live with any elegance, thanks to the oppressive, reactionary, revolutionary government. I keep my finest treasures in my country house at Tivoli. There I have managed to keep up a decent style of living. My best collections are there. You must see them. You are a scholar — though I cannot believe so beautiful a woman can be also a scholar….”
    He heaved himself up off the couch, his face turning an alarming shade of purple as he made the effort, and trailed after me.
    “You like books?” he inquired. “See this — one of my favorites. It has plates done especially for one of my ancestors by Raphael himself.”
    He managed to get both arms around me as he reached for the book. My eyes literally popped when I looked at the first drawing. 1 had always thought of Raphael as specializing in madonnas.
    “It’s amazing,” I said honestly, and then closed the book, in some alarm, as the count began wheezing. “Maybe you shouldn’t look at these pictures, Count, if they get you so—”
    “You must call me Pietro,” he interrupted, catching at my shoulder. 1 let him hold on; I thought he needed the support.
    Well, this went on for quite a while. We finished the sherry and the book — some of the plates were really extraordinary — and by then we were old friends. He was a harmless old guy, all he wanted to do was touch. I kept moving, not because he worried me, but because I thought evasion amused him. At the end of the conversation he invited me to be his house guest.
    “Not here,” he said, waving a disparaging hand at the oriental rugs, the ormolu desk, the Donatello