I listened carefully; in the corridor, there was not a sound. Hardly had I risen, however, fumbling for the edge of the bed, when I again heard creaking, followed by a heavy thud, then metallic sounds, then yet another creak. My heart was beating hard; this was certainly the thief. I freed myself of the string that had tripped me and groped in search of the lantern which was on the table in the middle of the chamber, but with no success. With great trepidation, I decided then to leave the room and intercept the thief, or at least to discover his identity.
I plunged into the dark corridor, without having the least idea of what to do. Laboriously, I made my way down the stairs to the closet. If I found myself face to face with the mysterious individual, was I to attack him or to call for help? Without knowing why, I ducked and tried to approach the door of the closet, holding my hands out in front of me both to defend my face and to explore the unknown.
The blow was cruel and unexpected. Someone, or something, had struck my cheek, leaving me confused and in pain. Terrified, I tried to avoid a second blow by backing against the wall and screaming. My anguish became insuperable when I realised that no sound was issuing from my mouth; for such was my panic that it crushed my lungs and blocked my vocal cords. I was about to roll desperately on the ground to escape from my unknown adversary, when a hand grasped my arm firmly and at the same time I heard:
“What are you up to, you little fool?”
It was beyond any doubt Atto’s voice, and it was he who had rushed up when I rose in alarm at the creaking and pulled on the string. I explained to him what had happened, complaining of the blow I had received to the face.
“That was no blow, it was I who was running to help you—but you came tumbling down the stairs like a half-wit and collided with me,” he whispered, holding back his anger.
“Where is the thief?”
“I have seen no one but you,” I murmured, still trembling.
“I heard him. While I was climbing the stairs, I heard his keys jangling. He must have entered the closet,” said he, lighting a lantern which he had had the foresight to bring with him. From above, we glimpsed a slit of light issuing from under the door of Stilone Priàso, on the right-hand side of the second floor corridor. The abbot asked me to lower my voice and indicated the entrance to the little passage into which he supposed that the thief had gone. The door was ajar. Within, all was dark.
We looked at each other and held our breath. Our man must be within, aware now that he was trapped. The abbot hesitated for a moment and then opened the door boldly. Inside, there was no one.
“It is not possible,” said Melani, visibly disappointed. “If he had escaped downstairs, he would have run into me. If he had run up stairs, even if he had succeeded in getting past you, there is nowhere left to hide. The doorway from Cloridia’s tower to the roof has been sealed from the outside. And if he had opened the door of one of the other rooms, we should surely have heard him.”
We were utterly disconcerted; but just when we were on the point of beating the retreat, Atto gestured that I was to stay put, and went rapidly down the stairs. I followed his lantern with my gaze and saw him stop at the second-floor window onto the inner courtyard. He put the lantern on the floor and I saw him leaning over the window sill. Thus, he remained awhile. Growing curious, I too approached the grate of the little window which gave light to the closet during the day. But it was too high for me and I could see nothing but the pale moonlit night. Returning to the closet, the abbot knelt down and measured the length of the floor with his palms, until he reached under the sideboard loaded with household utensils which stood against the far wall. There he stopped for a moment, then repeated the operation, taking account this time of the thickness of the wall. He then measured the distance between the window and the end wall. When at last he raised his hands from the dust, he grasped me without uttering a word and lifted me onto a stool; then, putting the lantern on my head, so that I had to hold it in place with my hands, he set me before the grate. “Do not move,” he commanded, tapping my nose with his finger.
I heard him grope his way down to the second floor window. When at long last he returned, I was impatient to know what he was thinking.
“Follow this carefully. The closet is a little over eight hands long; about ten hands, if we include the wall. As one can see quite clearly from the courtyard, the little wing to which this closet belongs was built later than the main body of the inn. Indeed, from the outside, it looks like a great pillar rising up to here from the ground, attached to the posterior corner of the building’s west wall. Only, there’s something here that does not add up: the pillar is at least twice as wide as the closet. This little window is, as you can see, very close to the shelf, not more than a couple of palms from the end of the room. Therefore it should, when seen from the outside, be close to the outer corner of the wing. But, when I leaned out from the window on the second floor, I saw that the little window, lit up by the lantern which you were holding, was not even half way along the wall.”
The abbot stopped, perhaps waiting for me to reach my conclusions. But I, with my head cluttered to suffocation by all those geometric figures piled one on top of the other and adduced by Atto’s rigorous reasoning, had understood nothing. So he continued: “Why so much wasted space? Why was not more room given to this closet, which is so small that the two of us cannot stand up in it without touching one another?”
I too went to look from the second floor window, happy above all to breathe the fresh night air.
I screwed up my eyes. It was true. The light from the oil lamp which I could descry through the grate of the closet was curiously distant from the far corner, outlined by the pale moonlight. I had never paid attention to this, being too busy by day and tired by night to tarry by that window sill.
“And do you know what the explanation is, my boy?” asked Abbot Melani the moment I rejoined him.
Without awaiting my reply, he reached out with his arm to the sideboard and began busily to explore the wall behind the utensils. Panting, he asked me to help him shift the piece of furniture.
The operation was not too difficult. The abbot seemed not at all surprised by the revelation which met our eyes; half hidden by the dirt which time’s disrespectful hand had spread over the wall, there emerged the outline of a door.
“Here you are,” he exclaimed, satisfied.
And without flinching, he gave a push on the door; the old hinges squealed.
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