The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [30]
“Not impossible,” José’s cool voice broke in. “There have been cases of fatally injured men who lived for—”
“Very well, Father, very well,” di Cavallo interrupted. “Until I speak with the police surgeon, such speculation is irrelevant. Now, signorina. He raised his head. Did he speak, then?”
“No.” Jean remembered that horrible voiceless whistle of breath, and a shudder ran through her. “He tried to, but he…He wrote something, though. On the floor, with his finger.”
The general incredulity was so thick Jean could almost feel it. Di Cavallo continued to stare, but there was now more impatience than suspicion in his face. Apparently he took her for one of those suggestible witnesses who invent dramatic details after the fact.
“I saw the room, signorina. There was, I assure you, no last message scrawled in the dying man’s blood.”
“It wasn’t scrawled in blood,” Jean snapped. “He just scratched it in the dust. It was probably obliterated when he fell forward.”
“Very well.” Di Cavallo sighed. “And what were the man’s dying words?”
“Not words. Not even one word.” Jean looked wildly at the faces of her friends, and found them pitying, amused, protesting—and all unbelieving. “I tell you, he wrote it! The number seven!”
III
The room was almost dark when Jean woke up from a nap she had had no intention of taking. Sitting up too suddenly, she clutched her spinning head and tried to orient herself. Slowly, memory returned. She was in Jacqueline’s apartment, and apparently Jacqueline had slipped her a Mickey in that ritual cup of tea. She might have known that even Jacqueline wasn’t old enough to really believe in the restorative properties of a nice hot cup of tea….
Something was in the room with her. She could hear it breathing. After a long, horrible moment, she identified the lump at the foot of the bed as the sleeping poodle. Jean crept out of bed without rousing the animal; it looked so comfortable she couldn’t bring herself to disturb it.
She located her hostess on the balcony off the salone. The railings were screened by thick masses of blue-flowered plumbago and the trailing greenery of ivy geraniums, pink and white and salmon-colored. Wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse, Jacqueline was seated at a small table reading a book. She put the book down and greeted Jean coolly.
“How do you feel?”
“Groggy.” Yawning, Jean dropped into a chair and propped her chin on her hands. “What did you give me?”
“A mild sedative.”
“Mild!”
It was still daylight, but the sky to the east was beginning to darken. The evening breeze felt good after the airless bedroom; it lifted Jean’s hair from her forehead, and she turned her face to it gratefully. Through the flowered greenery she could see the blue sparkle of the pool below.
“Corruption,” she said dreamily.
“What?”
“Money corrupts. I wish somebody would try to corrupt me. I could learn to like living this way.”
“So enjoy it while you’re here. Would you like something to eat?”
With an effort Jean roused herself from the pleasant lethargy induced by the seductive air and the setting.
“You’ve done enough. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I can’t let you coddle me any longer. I’m going home.”
“I’m not offering to serve you pheasant under glass on a tray in bed,” Jacqueline said drily. “Prosciutto and rolls are what I had in mind. Your stomach is completely empty, and if you leave now you’ll just pass out on the street somewhere. That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
She sounded as grouchy as an arthritic old lady, and Jean stared at her in surprise.
“You don’t have to do this for me,” she said stiffly.
“What else could I have done? You were in no state to be alone.”
“Ann wanted me to come home with her and Andy.”
“Yes, and your whole blasted club would have gone along, and sat there yelling and talking and rehashing the whole business. Seven Sinners, indeed! You’re a bunch of irresponsible kids, every one of you.”
“You really didn’t want me to come here, did you?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
Jacqueline sighed. She turned slightly