With the car’s engine roaring behind him and the glare blinding him, Joe struggled to keep his Vespa on track. He reached over to swivel the mirror so he could see. Then, in the wide beam of bright lights he could make out a path that crossed the road just before the curve and rose up the mountain on the right.
“Head for the path!” he yelled to Frank as he held tight to the handlebars and prepared for a rough ride. He was on Frank’s left and couldn’t make the move before Frank did, so he waited as the path approached, hoping Frank had heard him. The straightaway was fairly level, and as they pushed their engines to try to stay ahead of the car, they reached about sixty kilometers per hour. It wasn’t going to be easy to jump off the road—if they were going to do it. Now the car was honking its horn and swerving back and forth, its tires screeching.
Just as Joe was about to give up hope that Frank had understood, and they were almost into the curve, Frank pulled off to the right. His timing was perfect. The driver reacted quickly by veering to the right and cutting off Joe’s escape. Making a split-second decision, Joe turned left and applied the brakes at the same time. The black sedan whizzed past. Joe had to stick out his foot to stay upright during the skid, and he could feel the heat of the friction through the sole of his shoe as he slid over the pavement. Regaining control, he peeled off to join Frank on the path.
Following Frank’s lead, Joe flipped off his lights and navigated by the moonlight. The car stopped and backed up. But there was no way a car could negotiate that narrow, rocky path. They listened as the car screeched off.
The path climbed up through an olive grove, and Frank and Joe kept going till they reached a clearing on the hill. From there they could see the road below snaking up the mountain toward the villa. And at the limit of their view they saw the villa itself, its red-tiled roof lapping up the light of the moon.
“Hey, the car just stopped at the villa,” Frank said.
“And someone’s getting picked up there.” Joe strained without success to see who it might be, and then the car sped off toward the summit of Monte Morello.
They decided to head back to the villa even though whoever had followed them up the hill might return.
“I say we wake up Francesca and tell her what’s happened,” Frank said as he unlocked the garden door. “Maybe she can convince her father to search the house to see who’s missing.”
“What if it’s somebody who isn’t staying here?”
“Well, then, at least we’ll know that it’s not Bruno, or . . . ”
“Or the count himself?” Joe asked.
They weren’t sure which room was Francesca’s, but they knew where the family apartments were and had heard her say her room overlooked the garden.
“One good thing about creeping around a house like this,” Joe said as they climbed the stone steps, “is that the floors don’t creak.” Joe was wondering whether the rifle was still in the chapel when they reached the hallway and saw a light on in one of the rooms. The door was ajar, so they approached it cautiously.
Seeing the pastels of the walls and draperies through the crack, Frank assumed that the room was Francesca’s. He tapped lightly at the door, and when no one answered he gently pushed it open. Thinking that Francesca might have nodded off while reading, he poked his head in and looked around.
“Maybe she’s in the bathroom,” Joe suggested, noticing a tiled room coming off the far corner. “I mean, maybe it’s not too cool for us to be here right now, Frank.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right, but I’m not worried about being cool right now, are you?” He walked in and called out Francesca’s name, but there was no response.
“Strange,” Frank said as he looked around the room. “I wonder where she is.”
“I don’t know, but let’s get out of here.”
Neither Joe nor Frank shied away from concluding that Francesca might have been the one who had been picked up outside the villa, but neither of them said it. As they were leaving, Frank noticed a butterfly collection mounted on the wall over the bed.
“Hey, Joe,” he said, “you remember our butterfly collection?”
“Yeah, sure—but let’s get going, Frank.”
“You remember what chemical we used to knock ’em out?”
“Not really—something that smelled bad, that’s for sure.”
Frank was about to tell him that it was chloroform, the same thing the thief had used to knock out the guard, when a voice startled them.
“Francesca? Is that you?”
The door swung open before Frank and Joe had a chance to hide. The light swept into the dark hall and fell across the angry face of the count.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked. He looked less imposing in his bathrobe, and the harsh light made him appear older. “Where is Francesca?”
“We don’t know,” Joe answered.
“We were trying to get her to help us figure out who just tried to kill us,” Frank said.
The count walked slowly toward them, his jaw jutting out as he surveyed the room. “Let me tell you something,” he said sternly. “I have no idea what is causing you and your reckless ways to disrupt our lives. But I know one thing.” He looked into the bathroom and then walked over to within an inch of Frank. “Tonight it is going to end. You are no longer welcome here. Now please tell me where my—”
“Hello, Papa,” Francesca said breathlessly as she walked into the room. Her cheeks were flushed, but her eyes still had their steady gaze. “What’s everybody doing here?”
“Where have you been, young lady?” the count asked with a look that wavered between anger and relief.
“Just out for a walk in the garden,” she said. “It’s a lovely night and I couldn’t sleep.” She looked at her father in his bathrobe, practically standing on top of Frank, and smiled. “I guess nobody else could sleep, either. It’s nice that you all thought of coming here.”
The count backed off, his mood obviously softened by Francesca’s calm gaze. “Look here,” he said, thrusting his hands in his bathrobe pockets and looking at Frank. “What’s all this about being nearly killed? Is this another of your pranks?”
“No, sir, we were just riding home on our scooters, and someone tried to run us over.”
“I see. And you thought Francesca could somehow help?”
Frank could see that the count was skeptical, but he went on anyway. “It’s only because we saw the car stop here and pick someone up.”
“Ah, but you see, a great many of the local folk use our villa, with its well-lit facade, as a rendezvous point. You no doubt simply ran into a spirited youth on a joy ride. Now, I suggest we all get to bed and try from now on to avoid letting our imaginations become overheated.”
The count then calmly escorted the Hardys into the hall. They stood in front of a large casement window that opened out into the street, and he put his hands on both of their shoulders, as though to say, “never mind about what I said earlier.”
After they’d said good night, a loud crash followed by the sound of glass breaking on the pavement outside shattered the quiet. Then the squealing tires of a car could be heard on the street. Frank quickly rushed to the window to look out. A black sedan was hurtling down the road toward Colonnata. Frank was pretty sure it was the same one that had chased them.
The Hardys, the count, and Francesca ran down the steps toward the section of the villa where the sound had come from—toward the east wing, where the students were staying. When they reached the stairs leading up to their hallway, they could see that the lights were on and heard people screaming.
Joe bounded up the stairs first. After a few steps he could smell smoke and hear people yelling “Fire!” in several languages. He had a bad feeling as he reached the top and looked down the hall. Smoke was billowing out of their room. “Cosimo!” he yelled as he raced down the hall.