“What was the price?” demanded Vossi.
“Forgiveness of all the money I owed them. Thousands of ducats, excellency. I would be bankrupt if—”
“Owed who!” screamed Vossi.
“Owed the Luazzenza of Milan.”
Vossi stared at Coslossi for a long time before he asked: “Why did they want this... this thing... done?”
“I swear, excellency, I don’t know.”
“I know,” said Adrian. “It’s all clear now.”
Carlo’s movements revealed his pain, but he could walk. That was why Leon Vossi sent for him, rather than allowing Adrian to go to him. Clearly Vossi was upset with the young man. However innocently he might have done it, he had brought trouble to the family. Now that the trouble appeared to be over it was time to show disapproval.
Carlo was accompanied to his grandfather’s office by one of the armed men who had been guarding him throughout the evening. The old banker ordered the guard to stay outside the door. Only the two Vossi and Adrian remained in the office.
“You said it was clear to you now,” the old man said to Adrian. “Make it clear to us.”
Adrian turned to Carlo. “When I talked to Girolamo Eccli, he told me about an incident that occurred shortly before you left the university. You had been staying on a nearby estate and were riding back to the university. You saw two students talking under a big tree with an ugly stranger.”
Carlo nodded. “I remember that. It was the day—” he glanced warily at his grandfather “—that Girolamo took the signet ring. One of the students under the tree was the ring’s owner.”
“A kinsman of the Borgias.”
Carlo nodded.
“And with him,” said Adrian, “was Piero Luazzenza.”
“Yes.”
“Remember carefully, Carlo. Think back to that day. Can you know from the way those three men stood whom it was that the stranger was speaking to?”
“That’s easy. Piero. The Spaniard was on the other side of the tree. Piero and the stranger had their heads together, as though they didn’t want him to overhear them.”
Adrian faced Leon Vossi. “In other words, excellency, these young men were riding down a road and saw an ugly stranger speaking to Piero Luazzenza with care that Luazzenza’s companion not overhear them. Months later, an attempt was made to assassinate the Duke of Milan. The assassin, described as an ugly, frog-faced man, escaped in such a way that it was obvious that some powerful Milanese family or group was protecting him. Naturally, any family found protecting the man or having anything to do with him would be exterminated.”
“The Luazzenza!” said Vossi.
“Within days of the attempt on the duke, someone in Rome murdered the Spaniard who was Piero Luazzenza’s companion of that day. Then, in the following weeks, every person in Italy who was riding in the group that saw Piero Luazzenza talking with the ugly man was murdered, except Carlo — and an attempt was made upon Carlo.”
Vossi leaned on the tall desk, his eyes narrowed. “So, Adrian, what you’re saying is that the ugly man who met with Piero Luazzenza and the ugly man who tried to murder the duke are one and the same person, and that the Luazzenza are trying to protect themselves by murdering anyone who might recognize a description of that man and link him to their family.”
“Yes.”
“Adrian, you have done well.”
Vossi stepped away from the desk and began pacing the floor. Back and forth, back and forth he went, for a quarter hour. Neither Adrian nor Carlo dared intrude upon his thoughts by speaking.
Finally the old man wheeled around to face Adrian. “Coslossi wasn’t the only assassin in their pay?”
“No. They had Coslossi here, another man in Rome, another in Venice, and no telling how many in Milan.”
“Then, Carlo, you’re still in danger. We’ll move you to the country villa tomorrow. It really would be safer there... Pack now.”
“Uh... yes, Grandfather.”
Carlo left.
Vossi looked at Adrian and smiled. “Are you ready for your next assignment, my friend?”
“I... I guess so, excellency.”
Vossi’s smile broadened. “Good. I want you to ride to Milan and have a talk with my old friend, the duke.”
The Way Up to Hades
by Edward D. Hoch
My wife Shelly has often claimed that I would go anywhere with Simon Ark, and it’s true that I’ve journeyed with him to exotic places like India and Egypt and Brazil. Still, I used to think there was a limit to my patience with Simon. I would not go anywhere he asked, would I?
“It’s right here in New York, my friend, at Madison Square Garden.”
“Simon, you’re asking me to attend a rock concert with you? Have you lost your mind?”
“Rager claims to summon the Devil during his concerts. There is fire on stage.”
“Believe me, Simon, it’s all part of the act. There are a dozen others just like him, and some a lot better. Why should we waste an evening listening to some punk kid try to burst our eardrums?”
But I went, as Simon must have known I would.
The place was jammed with shouting, stomping teenagers. The few older members of the audience like Simon and myself seemed distinctly out of place, and I noticed one youth drop a hand-rolled cigarette to the floor and grind it underfoot when he noticed us. There was a warm-up act of a hard-rock trio and then after a suitable intermission Rager himself took the stage, appearing through the smoke and sparks of a spectacular electrical display. He danced around the stage while thumping on his electric guitar, looking exactly like the life-sized cutout in the lobby. Frequently during his act he hurled balls of fire at the floor of the stage, reminding me of a magician I’d seen in my youth. Perhaps rock stars like Rager were the magicians of a new generation.
The morning paper had told me all I needed to know about Rager. Born in London twenty-two years ago with the rather prosaic name of Roger Jones, he’d changed it to Rager when he broke away from a rock group three years ago and started recording and touring as a single. Sitting there watching him for the better part of an hour while he held the stage alone — his back-up singers and instrumentalists concealed by a curtain — I began to wonder what all the excitement was about. Then, as the act came to a gratifying conclusion, I noticed Simon Ark lean forward in his seat. Rager dropped his guitar, threw his hands to the heavens, and cried out, “Satan, take me! If there is a Lord of the Underworld, let me be with you this day in Hades!”
Then he vanished in a burst of flames and smoke. The kids went wild.
“I hope you’re satisfied,” I told Simon as we threaded our way toward the exit.
“I would like to go backstage,” he told me.
“Simon, I’m sure no one gets backstage except a few nubile groupies.”
He insisted, but I was right. We got no farther than a dapper young Englishman at the stage door who announced himself as Rager’s personal manager. “Les Fenton’s the name. You got any messages for Rager, they go through me.”
“I need to speak with the young man personally,” Simon Ark persisted.
Fenton looked him over, taking in Simon’s black suit and white hair. “What are you — his grandpa or his preacher?”
“Neither one,” I interjected, offering my card.
Fenton saw the name NEPTUNE BOOKS and shifted his gaze to me. “A publisher? Want to talk about a book? Rager’s autobiography would sell millions of copies.”
“He’s only twenty-two. Has he had that much of a life?”