Chapter Five
Chatsworth stood stock still for a moment, unable to make sense of the situation. Fogg's hand came out of nowhere, took him in a iron grip, and dragged him to the other side of the big room.
"She's posted a guard," Fogg whispered. "She must have announced what it is she has for auction, and she must not want any overexcited guests helping themselves to the Orsini documents. We have only a few moments to make our escape."
"W—wuh… What do we… My God, Fogg, how can we…," Chatsworth stammered, paralyzed. His imagination turned the man outside into an ogre, the stairs into an insurmountable abyss, the situation into a hopeless one. He panted and sweated. His mind was a blank.
"We must act quickly," Fogg was saying. "His back is to us. We'll open the door and overpower him, then we'll leave the way we've come. Are you ready?"
Fogg started moving toward the door, but Chatsworth stopped him with a strength born of pure terror.
"Wait!," he almost exclaimed, "Fogg, wait. I— I cannot… It's impossible, I couldn't…"
"I cannot get him by myself, man," Fogg hissed, vehemently. "I need your help. Grab him while I—"
"No!" Chatsworth felt his face hot and his hands cold as ice. He knew he was a coward now. He had only suspected it before, but now the certainty struck him between the eyes with enough force to leave him numb. That Fogg was the witness to his disgrace only served to turn his terror into abject helplessness.
"I… can't," he panted, mouth dry, heart pounding. "I can't."
There was a pause. Chatsworth made the most fervent wish of his life at that moment. But no lightning bolt came down to strike him dead. Instead came Fogg's voice. It was worse.
"I see," the voice said. It held no inflection at all. No judgment. Everything was clear now.
"Change of plans, then," Fogg said grimly, after a second. Chatsworth was grabbed again and pulled towards what turned out to be another door. This opened into a small space smelling of soaps and perfumes. A narrow rectangle up one wall let in a faint glow of yellow gaslight from the street.
"An exit?" gargled Chatsworth, his shame momentarily assuaged to realize that they may yet escape unnoticed. Fogg had climbed a stool and was trying to open the window. It did so with a fearful creak, letting in cold night air.
Then Fogg went back to the door, opened it, and threw one of his lockpicks into the bedroom. It clinked loudly against a bedpost and fell by the nightstand. Chatsworth opened his mouth to voice his shock, but Fogg, leaving the door ajar, went back to him.
"Come on, up," Fogg said. Before Chatsworth could protest, he was pushed, with some effort, through the narrow opening. They were a few yards up from a small, enclosed courtyard filled with all sorts of junk. There was some sort of lean-to shed made of wood and old roof tiles underneath the window.
"Down the drainpipe, hurry," came Fogg's voice from inside. Chatsworth was no climber, but fear gave him enough strength to half-slid, half-fall down the lead drainpipe. He scraped his hands, tore his trousers, and landed badly on a bent foot, but eventually he made it down to the earthen floor of the courtyard. A second later, Fogg dropped lightly by his side.
"What's the way out?," Chatsworth asked, looking around him at the old crates, discarded furniture, piles of broken earthenware, bundles of muddy clothes and assorted garbage that filled the small space. Fogg pointed up to one of the walls, apparently unclimbable.
"You can reach the street from there and then run towards the river. Look for busy streets," he said hurriedly, searching inside his clothes. He produced something and thrust it inside Chatsworth's coat, taking at the same time the closed lantern. Chatsworth, surprised, patted his chest and felt the rustle of heavy legal papers.
"The Orsini documents! Why…?"
"No time," Fogg said curtly, and fixed him with a stare, holding his arm in a death grip. "Listen. Hide up there and don't move or make a sound no matter what happens. When the coast is clear, figure out a way of climbing that wall and leave. Take the documents to safety. Do you understand?"
"But…"
"This is a high price to pay. You must do it, Chatsworth!," Fogg said, hoarse urgency in his voice. He pushed Chatsworth behind a reeking pile of junk. "Keep hidden! I'll distract them."
The How choked in Chatsworth's throat as Fogg practically threw him on the ground and left him. He walked to the middle of the courtyard and then, unexpectedly, tripped or fell. There was a loud noise of broken crockery.
"In here!," said a voice from above. Chatsworth peered through a small opening in the pile of junk that hid him and saw a red-haired head lean from the window. A hand also came out, holding a pistol.
"Stop!," said Maddalena, and pointed the gun at Fogg, who was standing quite visibly in the middle of the courtyard, apparently trying to get to the opposite wall. He stopped and raised his arms slowly. His face was set. For a second he looked directly to where Chatsworth was hiding, and something in his eyes struck the older agent like a bullet to the chest.
"Turn around," she ordered. Fogg complied. Chatsworth breathed again now that he couldn't see those terrible eyes.
"Well, well," Maddalena was saying. "Mister Phileas Fogg. A very enterprising man, I see."
Fogg shrugged.
"The opportunity was too good to let it pass, madonna," he said, gentle mockery in his voice.
"True," she acknowledged. A dilapidated small door by the shed opened, and Marco and Ercole came out. "Seize him," said Maddalena. "I'm coming down."
The head disappeared from the window. Fogg made no resistance as the two men grabbed him and twisted his arms behind his back. A few instants later Maddalena joined them in the courtyard. She was dressed in gold velvet, with rubies in her white throat. Even then, Chatsworth's breath stopped for a second at her beauty, and his heart fluttered painfully. Her pistol was pointed at Fogg's chest.
"Marco, search his clothes."
Ercole got Fogg in a strangle hold while Marco searched his clothes. From the labored gasps that Fogg let out, it was clear that Ercole was not being too gentle. Lockpicks appeared, then the lantern.
"Strange equipment for a gentleman," Maddalena said coldly, with a gesture to Ercole. Both men took hold of Fogg again.
"Just… trying my luck," Fogg gasped.
"He has nothing else? Any papers?," Maddalena asked. Marco shook his head, and she smiled. It was a radiant smile, warm and full of joy. Only a hard light in the dark amber eyes belied it.
"I know who you are. A friend told me. Phileas Fogg the agent. Phileas Fogg the player. I wanted to play against you last night", she said, softly, going to him, caressing his lapel with the back of her fingernail. "You're a very good player. You play cards as well as you play with women you have no right to, and with documents you have no right to. Except sometimes, you cannot get them. Sometimes, it seems, luck is not with us, non é vero?"
"Nor time," Fogg said calmly. Maddalena pressed the pistol to his chest.
"So now I kill you," she said, almost happily. "And throw you in the river. And Phileas Fogg plays no more with documents — nor with women."
Fogg looked at her directly. There was no fear in his expression, just an odd earnestness.
"I wasn't playing," he said, very softly. Maddalena's eyes widened for a second. Then she struck Fogg in the face with the pistol.
Chatsworth had never seen a man being hit before. He was surprised at the noise it made, hard and wet. His hand went to his cheekbone in involuntary sympathy as Fogg staggered and was supported by his two captors. Maddalena took a step back, panting.
"And Phileas Fogg won't lie again," she said in a low voice, full of certainty. "Don't you fear me? You should. I'm going to kill you."
"You won't shoot," Fogg stated flatly. "Your clients will hear. They won't trust you as the keeper of the Orsini documents if you have to shoot a burglar during the auction."
Maddalena looked surprised. Then she looked at the pistol in her hand and burst out laughing. It was a rich laugh, fruity and contagious. Chatsworth flinched.
"Clever Phileas Fogg! Charming, clever, darling Phileas! Of course I won't shoot you!," she trilled, and twirling around as if dancing, she tossed the pistol aside. In two long strides she was again close to him. Her hand caressed his hair. "You are right, of course. Men so often think they are. I won't shoot you, no."
Her hand extended towards Ercole in a demanding gesture, although her eyes never left Fogg, who looked at the discarded gun hungrily for a second and struggled briefly, to no avail. Ercole, meanwhile, took something from a pocket and put it in Maddalena's hand.
"I don't need to shoot you, Phileas," she purred, caressing his face, his neck, the bloody bruise on his cheekbone. "There are so many thugs in this city, you know. They mug rich gentlemen. They beat them to death and rob them and throw their bodies into the river. I'll have you killed tonight, my Phileas. Aren't you afraid?"
Chatsworth was. He could see Fogg's profile, the untouched side of his face, and wondered how the man could look so calm. He was pale, true, but his face betrayed no emotion; he stood as straight as he could, aloof and cold, forbidding even. Maddalena searched into his eyes for a long moment and frowned.
"You will not look at me like that for long," she said. Now there was a slight tremor in her voice, as of suppressed rage. She flicked her wrist; Chatsworth saw that what Ercole had given her was a small folding knife with a thin, straight blade that now glinted white in the gaslight. She touched the tip to Fogg's cheek, just under his eye. He didn't blink.
"I don't need to send you whole to your death," she said, smiling again. The sharp point caressed lightly his cheek, his jawbone, his neck. Chatsworth felt like vomiting. "I could do something to that beautiful face of yours. Uncover those lovely bones. Show you the red underneath."
If she was looking for a reaction, she got none. Fogg kept looking at her, face unreadable, even when her knife went to the corner of his left eye and stayed there. She smiled, bit her lip playfully.
"I could make you stop looking at me like that. I could make you stop looking at anything at all, you know?"
The knife pressed a little; a drop of blood appeared at the corner of Fogg's eye and fell down like a ruby tear.
"Should I go… left? Or should I go right? Or up?" she said in a singsong voice. "Oh, it looks like it's going to be… down." The knife traced a slow, deliberate arc downwards, leaving a short red line that turned into a red rivulet running down Fogg's face. This time she got a reaction: his lips parted slightly. She withdrew the knife.
"Does it hurt, my Phileas? What is it? Is death loosening your tongue? What will you ask of me? Life? A boon? Half my kingdom?" She laughed again and waited.
Fogg bent his head slightly towards her, as if he wanted to kiss her. She raised an eyebrow, amused at first. Then her gaze softened and she turned her face to his, a half-smile playing on her parted lips, her red tongue flickering tantalizingly from between the white, small teeth.
He bent down, but stopped short of kissing her. For a moment they stood like that, frozen, a macabre love tableau.
"Noli me tangere, Maddalena," he said, coldly and deliberately, into her waiting mouth. "Noli me tangere."
A snarl of rage came from Maddalena. She flailed wildly with her knife and the blade cut a diagonal slash across Fogg's chest, who let out a cry. The she dropped the knife and gouged deep scratches into his neck with her nails, all semblance of playfulness or calm gone from her face or voice.
"Oh, I won't touch you," she screeched. "I won't touch you because you are dead, and the flesh of your corpse sickens me! I won't touch you because you're dead, dead and broken in the bottom of the river, and fishes eat your eyes and your tongue! I won't touch you for fear of the slime that covers you, and your glassy eyes, and the smell of the grave upon you! Ercole!"
A brutal blow to the kidneys sent Fogg to the ground. Marco and Ercole stood over him as he tried weakly to get up. Maddalena spat by his side.
"Make it look like a mugging, and throw the body somewhere," she ordered in Italian, going to retrieve the pistol. "And then come back here as fast as you can, I'll need you."
Without another look at his victim, she disappeared inside. Fogg was trying to get up again; Marco kicked him viciously in the ribcage, drawing a hoarse yell from the Englishman, and Ercole went to get a piece of wood with a businesslike air. Chatsworth, feeling about to faint of horror and revulsion, looked without seeing as the blows started falling, relentless, one after the other, punctuated by Fogg's cries. No matter what, no matter what, said a voice inside his head during the onslaught. Even this?
He had no time to figure out an answer. Fogg was silent now. After a short while, the blows stopped. The two men picked up the limp, bloody form and disappeared through the door.
Chatsworth was alone.