Roman Count Down

by David P. Wagner

  Two unblinking eyes looked straight at Rick.

  The intruder was sitting in the chair nearest the open window on the right side. He must have come across the rooftops, climbed in, and was deciding what to do next. Rick interrupted his thought, and now the two exchanged stares without speaking. Finally Rick broke the impasse.

  “If you were looking for valuables, you came to the wrong apartment. As you can see it’s almost deserted.” Still the intruder remained silent and didn’t move…perhaps deciding if he could make a leap for the open window and escape. Rick continued, his voice calm. “Or were you looking for something else? Maybe a place to sleep? Or perhaps something to eat.”

  The last word elicited a reaction, and it was the one Rick expected.

  “Meow.”

  “Is that all you have to say for yourself? You break into my apartment and you can’t even apologize? Wait a minute; have you been in here before? You look like you think you own the place.” He walked to the chair and stroked the cat under the chin where a collar hung loosely from the neck. While continuing to scratch with his right hand, Rick turned the collar and read what was on the metal disc hanging from it: Fellini, and below it a phone number. “Classy name.”

  Fellini didn’t appear to hear, being completely immersed in the scratching session. Rick pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number. It rang three times before a woman answered.

  “Who is this?” Annoyance dripped from the words, spoken with a Roman accent.

  Rick chuckled. “You don’t know me, but Fellini has broken into my apartment and is holding me hostage.” Not entirely untrue; when Rick had stopped the neck-scratching the cat had pawed him until he resumed it.

  “I don’t need any practical jokes today, thank you very much. Who is this?”

  “This is Riccardo. Fellini came through my window, and—”

  “He does that.” The words were clipped and impatient, making it impossible to guess the age of the speaker. “Just push him back out and he’ll find his way home. You must be new in the quartiere or you’d know that.”

  “Excuse me for being new. And thank you for the warm welcome to the neighborhood.”

  The sarcasm was wasted. “Look, I’m busy with customers. Fellini can take care of himself. Good afternoon.” She hung up.

  “Your mistress is one tough cookie,” said Rick to the cat in English. Accustomed to being addressed in Italian, Fellini tilted his head at Rick, stared for a few moments, and decided it was time for a bath. Rick took his bags into the bedroom and made the bed. When he returned the cat was gone.

  The institute where Girolamo Syms-Mulford occupied an office was located in a house at the edge of the Aventine, the southernmost of the city’s famous hills and the most tranquil. It overlooked the Circus Maximus, recognizable by its oval shape but now just an immense open field of dirt and occasional patches of grass. For the World Cup, and other big events, the city government set up a huge screen at one end, for the entertainment of the masses. It was not as good as chariot races, but given the municipal budget it was the best they could do to keep alive the Roman tradition of bread and circuses. The institute’s building had once been a luxurious residence, and like so many such buildings around Rome, it had been turned into offices. Tall trees, classic Roman pines, surrounded the structure and gave it an aura of stability. Rick estimated that it had been built in the nineteen twenties, though the imposing fence and a guard house were much more recent. At the moment no one was guarding, and he pushed the buzzer at the gate, which immediately clicked open. Not very tight security. The path meandered around the trees to the front door, which was ajar. He pushed it open and found himself in what had been an elegant residential hallway, but now was bare except for a table that held pamphlets of the institute.

  “Can I help you?”

  The voice was from an open door to one side. Rick walked to it and saw a woman sitting at a desk in a room that must have been a vestibule when a family had resided there. With the desk, her chair, and a small bookcase, it was cramped. Rick stood at the doorway. “Signor Syms-Mulford? I have an appointment.”

  “Halfway up the stairs, first door on the left.”

  Rick thanked her, started up a circular stairway, and came to a small landing. The door, slightly open, was on the left, just as she had said. Rick knocked.

  “Come in,” said a stately voice speaking English.

  Rick pushed open the door as a gentleman—most certainly a gentleman—rose from behind a large, wooden desk. His ample frame was covered by a tweed suit seeing its last use of the season before the arrival of warmer weather. The head of hair was the most impressive feature of Syms-Mulford. Thick, full, and white, it sent the signal that, come what may, it would be there for the duration. The man came around the desk and shook Rick’s hand with a firm grip.

  “Mister Montoya, I trust. The commissioner told me that you speak English, so I didn’t see the need to use Italian.” He glanced down at Rick’s boots. “I do trust you’ll understand the Queen’s English.”

  “If not, you can translate it into Italian.”

  “Quite, quite. Do sit down. Coffee?” He motioned Rick toward one of two leather chairs.

  The office was not spacious, but considerably larger than that of the woman downstairs. It had an excellent view of the Circus Maximus, such as it was, but more impressively of the south side of the Palatine Hill, the most exclusive address in the city two millennia ago. Bookshelves lined the other walls but Rick couldn’t read the titles. Probably all history; wasn’t that what the man studied? He turned down the offer of coffee.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Syms-Mumlford.”

  The man took on a serious look as he settled into the other chair, and Rick expected a question. “It is my duty to help the authorities. But I am puzzled by your presence. Obviously, an American, but one, I trust, who is fluent in Italian.”

  “I am fluent, yes. The police call on me in certain situations.” Rick moved his hand in the air.

  A conspiratorial smile spread across Syms-Mulford’s mouth. “Ah, I see. Hush, hush, and all that. I had a dear friend at Her Majesty’s embassy here who was often involved in delicate situations. At least that’s the way he described his work.”

  “I do translations.”

  Syms-Mulford smiled conspiratorially. “Of course you do. Well, I certainly won’t press you about what you are engaged in.”

  “Thank you, Sir. But what is important right now is getting to the bottom of Count Zimbardi’s death.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  “You had know the count for a long time?”

  “Indeed, I had. I lived in Florence as a child until I was sent off to school in England. The Italians thought it barbaric that I would be dispatched to another country at so young an age, but the Syms-Mulfords had been doing it for generations. Umberto and I found ourselves at the same school, and immediately discovered that we were both half Italian and had grown up in Italy. We became thick as thieves, the two of us, speaking Italian when we needed to keep secrets.” He grunted. “Got into trouble with that trick on several occasions, I dare say. We kept in touch after the university, and when I moved to Rome the friendship was fortified.”

  Rick moved his eyes across the shelves and back to his host. “You are a historian?”

  “I suppose that is one way to describe my work. I am a student of Vatican history, but specifically the eleventh to the fifteenth centuries, from Gregory the Seventh to the arrival of Martin Luther on the scene. If you know anything about the period, Mister Montoya, you know that it was one which gave us some of the more colorful popes, if I may characterize them in that manner.”

  Rick remembered something. “Perhaps you can tell me who Anacleto was.”

  A puzzled look on Syms-Mulford’s face changed quickly to a smile. “Ah, Anacleto, of course. The name of the
street where Umberto was doing his…research. I suppose you’ve been to it?”

  Rick deflected the question with his own. “I was curious as to the origin of the name. A pope?”

  “No, at least not in the Annuario Pontificio, which is the official Vatican position. Anacleto was an anti-pope, one of dozens throughout church history, but his anti-papacy was especially messy, even by the standards of the time. It began when Honorius the Second died, and a group of mostly younger cardinals immediately got together and elected Gregorio Papareschi as his successor. Papareschi took the papal name Innocent the Second. The vote outraged Cardinal Pietro Pierleoni’s supporters, who promptly elected him pope. That was Anacleto. Both men were consecrated as pope the same day, but in different churches. Ironically, given his eventual anti-pope designation, Anacleto’s ceremony took place in St. Peter’s, since his Roman family had control of it. What followed was a schism that lasted about eight years, during which Innocent traveled around Europe garnering support for his papacy, but it was really only when Anacleto died that the dust-up ended.”

  He crooked his head at Rick. “Was that more than you really wanted to know about this fellow Anacleto, Mister Montoya?”

  Rick was impressed. The guy really knew his stuff, and imparted it with the aura of a true academic. The upper-class British accent helped greatly, of course.

  “Not at all, that was fascinating. So you were aware of the count’s hobby and its connection with the street of that name.”

  “Indeed, I was. Umberto frequently recounted his daily adventures to me. His project was not exactly the type of research that I normally engage in, mind you. I’m more into poring over ancient documents. But such efforts as his can have their place, I suppose.”

  How could he ask about skullduggery without revealing that he had read it in the count’s papers? Rick asked: “What kind of adventures did the count tell you about?”

  Syms-Mulford folded one leg over the other, revealing a gray silk sock. “Perhaps that was the wrong word to characterize his interviews. I don’t recall exactly, but there was one source, a woman, I believe, who knew a great deal about the street.”

  That would be Pina. “Do you recall anything specific he said about her, or the others on the street? We can’t help speculating that his death had a connection with someone on the street.”

  “Assuming it was not just random violence? Such things do happen in the city.” He took a pensive breath. “I assume you are asking if there was any kind of conflict with someone on the street. Well, certainly not with this woman; the way he described it, he had a good relationship with her. The others on the street?” He shook his head. “I don’t recall anything that would suggest a problem, and I think he would have said something.”

  “When did you see the count last?” Rick knew the answer, if Rospo was to be believed.

  “It was the very day of the evening he was killed. We met for coffee at a bar where he used to play cards. Not the most elegant of establishments, but he enjoyed going there.”

  That would be Il Tuffo, so the stories matched. “How did he seem that day? Different from other meetings?”

  The question took Syms-Mulford out of his previously reserved demeanor, and he coughed, which Rick took to be a stalling device. “Umberto was not quite himself, which I took to be connected somehow to his bookie. The man was leaving just as I arrived. Perhaps he brought Umberto news that his horses had not performed well. I trust the police are aware of my friend’s gambling habit.”

  “Yes,” Rick answered simply. No need to tell him that the count’s bar buddies and Rospo had been interviewed. “You didn’t ask him what was bothering him?”

  “I had tried scolding him about the gambling in the past, and it never did any good. I was not about to push him on it again.”

  “Do you know where he went after you saw him?”

  “To Via Anacleto. But you probably already knew that.”

  Rick didn’t want to answer, so he just nodded. “Thank you for your time. I must let you get back to your work.” He got to his feet, followed by Syms-Mulford.

  “I am always willing to help the authorities,” he said with a conspiratorial smile. “Especially when they are involved in delicate situations, like my embassy friend.”

  “Mr. Syms-Mulford, I am really only—”

  “Of course, of course. I understand.” He drew an imaginary zipper across his lips.

  Rick took a long pull on his beer, a local lager that Art had recommended. The TV on the wall near them had a basketball game, but since neither team was recognizable, it wasn’t even clear in what country it was being played. Half the players sported heavy beards. The usual odor of stale beer mixed with fried foods floated through the pub’s air, somehow dimming the already faint light coming from randomly placed fixtures. From Guido’s perspective it was a plus: it kept the electric bill down as well as making it difficult for his patrons to notice the dust.

  At one of the tables sat Rick and Art Verardo, glasses of beer before them. Art wore his usual accountant’s uniform; Rick had on jeans and a lightweight sweater.

  “Why didn’t you tell me she was a nun?”

  “And spoil your fun? I couldn’t do that.” Art chuckled and took a drink from his glass. “And you know, Rick, what they say about kissing a nun.”

  “I do, and that joke will never be the same for me after seeing Sister Teresa.” He sighed a profound sigh. “I feel guilty asking her for help with the crazy Argentine.”

  “Nonsense, that’s just the kind of thing she does, if I remember correctly. Tell me something; is she still strikingly good looking, despite a total lack of makeup?”

  Rick could only nod and stare at his beer glass. A cheer went up from a corner of the pub from a group of men watching the basketball game, but they were too far from Rick and Art’s table to hear what language they were speaking, or if English, with what kind of accent. Most had beards.

  “Rick, my friend, you seem despondent, and Guido doesn’t allow despondency here. If you don’t snap out of it he’ll give us the bum’s rush. There is no reason for you to be down in the dumps, despite the small detail of your beautiful ex-girlfriend taking vows. You are not to blame—at least I hope you aren’t. But consider this: you’re now living in Rome, Italy. Think of that: Rome, Italy, the Eternal City. There are people who would kill to be living here, and…”

  He held up his hand. “Wait, that reminds me, how is your count’s murder investigation going? Is the perpetrator in custody, so that the Roman public can once again walk the streets in safety, knowing the rogue is behind bars? Has this wicked fiend finally been—”

  “Enough, Art. The answer is no, but we’re working on it.”

  “Your reply does not instill confidence. Have you interrogated the harp teacher yet?”

  “No, but we talked to the people on the street where the count spent his last day.” Rick told him of the count’s street history project and the people he and Carmella had interviewed on Via Anacleto. Art focused immediately on Pina, the salumaio.

  “So, this Count Zimbardi could have been interested in more than her salami.”

  “Leave it to your perverse mind to go right to that detail. I also talked this afternoon with the count’s dearest friend, another Anglo-Italian.”

  “We get a few of those here to watch British football.”

  As if on cue, shouts exploded from the corner.

  “Art, this is not the kind of place Girolamo Syms-Mulford would frequent, I can assure you.”

  “Too classy for him?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Who’s too classy?” It was a feminine voice, causing Rick and Art to look up from their drinks and see Giulia standing behind their table. They both got to their feet and exchanged kisses with the new arrival. She was not in her business uniform, but instead wore a colorful sweater
and slacks, both fitting nicely.

  “You’re looking quite fetching tonight, my dear.” Art held the chair out for her. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Thank you, Art. A glass of red wine would be nice.”

  “Guido’s house plonk? Coming right up.” He got up and walked to the bar.

  “How are you settling in, Rick?” She pushed her hair on one side behind the ear, exposing a dangly earring.

  “I’m moving into an apartment tomorrow. And keeping busy otherwise. Did you find someone to be your tour guide?”

  He hadn’t meant the question to embarrass her, but it appeared to have that effect. “Oh, that, I’ll work it out. I should not have bothered you, with moving in and all. Where’s the apartment?”

  “Near Piazza Navona. It’s owned by a distant relative who lives in Perugia.”

  “I’ve just recruited someone to start a branch in Perugia. It gets a lot of tourists. But there I go talking business again.”

  The glass of red wine was placed in front of her. “You always talk business.” Art sat back in his seat. No one said anything for a full minute after she tapped her glass to theirs. Finally Art broke the silence.

  “Rick saw Lidia.”

  “Oh, really? How did that go, Rick?”

  Rick gave Art an annoyed look before answering. “Well, since our friend here had not informed me of Lidia’s new, uh, vocation, I was naturally taken aback. But it turned out fine, and we had a very pleasant conversation.”

  Giulia smiled. “You weren’t disappointed?”

  “Why would I be disappointed?”

  “This conversation is turning awkward,” said Art, “and it is my fault for bringing up Lidia. Why don’t we talk about something else? Like your business, Giulia? Did you find the guide you needed?”

  “Rick just asked me that. No, but my problem now is something else.”

  “There are always problems when you are running your own business,” said Art. “It’s why I have preferred not to branch out on my own. My boss has the problems, leaving me to simply crunch numbers all day.”