Mission To Siena

Chapter IV

GINA

A little after twelve o'clock the following morning, Marian came into Don's study to announce that Chief Superintendent Dicks of the Special Branch was waiting to see him.

"Dicks? What's he want?" Don asked, signing the last letter of a number that lay before him.

"He didn't confide in me, but he did say it was urgent."

"I have half a mind not to see him," Don said, pushing back his chair. "I'm fed up with the police. They had those two just where they wanted them and they calmly let them get away." He reached for a cigarette. "Any news of Julia? Have you phoned the Clinic yet?"

"Yes, just now. She is doing as well as can be expected, but she is still very ill. I'll go down after lunch and see if I can't get something less vague."

"I wish you would. I can't get her out of my mind."

"The Superintendent is waiting," Marian reminded him.

"All right, I'll see him now."

Chief Superintendent Dicks, a red-faced, jovial-looking man, was sitting comfortably in an armchair before the fire in the lounge. He was puffing placidly at his pipe; his shrewd eyes were half-closed as Don walked in. He and Don had known each other over a number of years and were old friends.

"There you are," Dicks said, looking up. "I bet you're hating the entire police force this morning."

"You're right, I am," Don said, sitting on the arm of a chair that faced the fire. "I have every reason to. The way your people let those two slip through their hands sticks in my gullet."

Dicks lifted his broad shoulders.

"We'll find them," he said. "At the moment they are lying low, but sooner or later they'll have to make a move into the open. They can't get away."

"I don't believe it," Don said irritably. "It wouldn't surprise me if they weren't already in France or Italy, laughing at you. What's the good of watching the ports and airports? You don't imagine they will go that way, do you? They've probably gone by fast motor-boat. It's easy enough and you know it."

"Fortunately for me," Dicks said, "catching them isn't my pigeon."

Don wasn't in a patient mood. He stared hard at Dicks. "Well, I can't imagine you're here to chit-chat about the weather, Super," he said. "I suppose something is your pigeon. What is it you wanted to see me about? I'm a little pressed for time."

Dicks lifted his heavy eyebrows.

"Sounds as if you're a little testy this morning, Mr Micklem," he said. "Can't say I blame you. This has been a foul-up.

We should have had them by now. The Commissioner is raising all kinds of hell. Yes, I have a reason for seeing you. I thought you would like some information about the Tortoise."

Don looked at him, his angry expression fading. "What do you know about the Tortoise? What's he to do with your department?"

"I don't know much about him, and I'm afraid he is going to have a lot to do with my department," Dicks returned, settling himself more comfortably in his chair.

Don got up and as a gesture of peace went to the liquor cabinet, fixed two big whiskies and water and gave Dicks oxig of them. Dicks took it dubiously, sniffed at it and sighed with approval. "It's a bit early for me, but perhaps it won't do any harm. Thanks, Mr Micklem."

"Tell me about the Tortoise," Don said, sitting down. "I'd give a lot to get my hands on him."

"So would we, so would the French, Italian and American police. I know our people didn't come out of this business too well," Dicks said, "but you have to shoulder some of the blame. You see, Horrocks had never heard of the Tortoise while I had. If you had told me we might have had a very different story to tell."

"I did try to tell you," Don said shortly. "You happened to be out. I know it was careless of me not to try again, but I just couldn't take it seriously."

"I'm not saying we could have saved Mr Ferenci if we had known what was happening, but at least we would have had a good try. You aren't the only one who has looked on the Tortoise as a joke. The Paris police thought he was a harmless lunatic and Renaldo Busoni lost his life."

"Busoni? Wasn't he the Italian attache?" "That's right. He was fished out of the Seine after receiving threatening letters from the Tortoise. I got the report with a hint that Italian officials over here might be threatened in the same way."

"Who is the Tortoise?" Don demanded.

"He is a very dangerous and ruthless extortioner: a man who will stop at nothing."

"So Ferenci isn't his first victim?"

"Oh no; there have been nine others over a period of fourteen months," Dicks said. "Two of them were murdered in the States, three in France and four in Italy. Mr Ferenci is the first to be murdered in this country. The trouble is we have no idea who paid the Tortoise's demands. We feel pretty sure there must be a great number of men and women in Europe and in the States who are paying up and saying nothing. If you had told me Ferenci had been threatened by the Tortoise I would have advised him to pay up."

"You're not serious, are you? That's odd advice from a police officer."

"It happens to be good advice," Dicks said quietly. "His wife wouldn't be in the London Clinic now if he had paid up and he would be alive."

"But that's not the point. You are admitting the police would have been helpless to protect him."

"That's what I am admitting. Let's face it. We haven't enough policemen to shadow any but the V.I.P.s day in and day out. The Tortoise is patient. Sooner or later he gets his man. Mr Ferenci wouldn't have rated a day and night bodyguard.

We would have to do something about the Italian ambassador's staff if one of them was threatened, but Mr Ferenci was an ordinary individual. We couldn't have looked after him for weeks on end. You've seen how the Tortoise works. You, Mason and Dixon were guarding Ferenci. That didn't save him, did it?" Dicks tapped out his pipe, blew noisily down it and began to fill it again. "The Tortoise knows that if he fails to make good his threat a crack will start in the racket he has built up. Pay up or die is his slogan. People are paying up because they believe they haven't a chance to survive if they don't."

"But Ferenci didn't know that," Don said sharply. "The Tortoise meant nothing to him."

"That's true. The Tortoise is starting his racket over here. No one knew about him before Ferenci died, but they know about him now. After the way the newspapers handled the murder, no one can fail to know about him. The next rich man who gets a threatening note from the Tortoise will know it isn't a joke. I think Ferenci was deliberately killed to advertise the arrival in this countiy of the Tortoise."

"It's up to your people to catch him," Don said grimly. "That's what you are here for."

"It's not going to be easy. We have no lead on him. If we do catch up with the killer, he isn't the Tortoise. If we catch this redheaded woman, she isn't the Tortoise either. The French police did manage to catch one of the Tortoise's dagger-men and persuaded him to talk, but he didn't tell them anything of any use. He said he was hired by a man who made an appointment with him on a dark road. This man - he may or may not have been the Tortoise - arrived by car and stayed in the car. The dagger-man didn't see his face. He took his orders and did the job. So you see the Tortoise is quite a headache. The American, French and Italian police have been wrestling with the problem for the past fourteen months. Now it's our turn."

"You don't sound veiy confident that you'll catch him," Don said.

"I know how you feel, Mr Micklem," Dicks returned. "You have just lost a good friend, but we can't work miracles. You can be sure everything will be done that can be done. It is an international job, of course. It's my guess he operates from Italy."

"Why Italy?"

"Two reasons: every one of the Tortoise's victims have been Italians and this..."

He took from his pocket a flat box, opened it and produced a broad-bladed knife with an ornate wooden handle. "Take a look at this. It is the knife that killed Mr Ferenci. Make anything of it?"

Don took the knife and examined it.

"I don't pretend to be an expert," he said after he had turned the knife over, "but I'd say this is a copy of an Italian throwing knife of the medieval period: say about the thirteenth century. If I remember rightly I've seen something like it in the Bargello in Florence."

"That's correct," Dicks said, nodding. "Between them, the police in the States, France and Italy have nine such knives.

They have all been taken from the bodies of the Tortoise's victims. Every effort has been made to trace the knives without success."

"The red-headed girl, Lorelli, is an Italian," Don said. "Her accent was unmistakable."

"That's another pointer."

"Well, surely we are getting somewhere," Don said. "Why does he only attack Italians? Is it possible there's a political hookup? I know Ferenci was a rabid anti-Fascist. Know anything about the other victims' politics?"

"They are a mixed bag: nothing to go on. Some.were anti-Fascists, some Christian-Democrats, some Fascists. I've worked along that line but it gets me nowhere."

"Have you asked yourself why he calls himself the Tortoise?" Don asked. "It's not a name to strike fear into anyone - a most unimaginative name for an extortioner. Why the Tortoise? There must be a reason. A tortoise is slow and harmless: the exact opposite to this killer. There must be a reason."

"I wondered about that myself, but I haven't any bright ideas. It might be a deliberate smoke screen."

"I don't think so. And another thing - why go to the trouble of manufacturing a copy of a medieval knife? Why not use a knife without the elaborately carved handle? I have a hunch that the tortoise and the knife are something this killer has adopted as a trademark for a very positive reason. We might get somewhere if we found out that reason."

"It's possible, but I don't see how we do it."

Don tossed his cigarette into the fire.

"It's a thinking point.2 don't want to hurry you. Super, but I have a lot of work to do. I take it you didn't come here just to give me information?"

Dicks rubbed the side of his nose with his pipe.

"Well, I did and I didn't," he said. "I have a lot of respect for your talents. You did a fine job on that Tregarth business last year. Ferenci's a friend of yours. thought I'd put you in the picture in case you wanted to take a hand in2 finding the Tortoise. If we are going to catch him we will only do so by underground information. I know you have a number of contacts in Italy and over here. Every scrap of information we can get will be useful.'

"All right," Don said. "I'll see what I can do, but I'm not very hopeful. I know a couple of birds in Rome who might have some ideas. I'll have a talk with Uccelli. I don't know if you've run into him. He owns the Torcolotti restaurant in Soho. He is a smart old scoundrel. I've known him for years. What he doesn't know about the Italian colony here isn't worth knowing."

"We nearly nabbed him on a big black-market deal during the war," Dicks said, "but he was just too smart for us."

"I'm surprised you got as far as nearly nabbing him. I'll have a talk with him. He may know something."

Dicks put the throwing knife into the box and the box into his pocket.

"You wouldn't feel inclined to go to Italy and see what you can pick up there? I have a feeling that's where the real information is if we could only tap it."

"My dear Super, I can't plod over the whole of Italy in the hope of running into the Tortoise. Can't we pin it down to a district or better still a town? If we could do that I'd go."

"The five men who were murdered in Italy died in Rome, Florence, Padua, Naples and Milan. That's a pretty wide territory. I can't do better than that."

"Let's see if either of us can narrow it down first," Don said as Dicks got to his feet. "Let me have any information you get and I'll pass on any I get."

When the Superintendent had gone, Don remained before the fire, thinking. He was still there when Cherry came in to announce-lunch was ready.

Taller than the average Italian, Giorgio Uccelli was still erect in spite of his seventy-five years and his shrewd deep-set eyes were alert.

Don's father had known him some twenty years ago in Venice where Uccelli had owned a small, but first-class restaurant in Calle de Fabori. As a boy of sixteen, Don had had his first Venetian meal at Uccelli's restaurant and had immediately taken a liking for him. When Mussolini had come to power, Uccelli had left Italy and had settled in Soho.

Don had renewed their friendship and he often dined at Uccelli's now famous restaurant.

Having finished an excellent dinner, he had gone through to Uccelli's private room and was now sitting before a fire, a fine brandy in his hand and his face half-screened by the smoke of one of his cigars.

He and Uccelli had been chatting together for twenty minutes and Don decided it was time to get around to the reason for his visit.

"You heard about Mr Ferenci's death?" he said suddenly.

Uccelli's lined, swarthy face clouded.

"Yes. It was a great shock to me. Is Mrs Ferenci better?"

"She's still pretty bad. I guess you know the police aren't getting anywhere with the case?"

Uccelli lifted his shoulders.

"Police business doesn't interest me."

Don knew he was on touchy ground mentioning the police to Uccelli. He had heard mmours that Uccelli had been a big black-market dealer and now dealt in foreign currency on an extensive scale.

"Guido was one of my best friends," Don said. "I want to find the man who killed him. It's a personal thing."

Uccelli nodded. That was something he could understand.

There was a pause, then Don said, "I'm after information. Tell me what you know about the Tortoise?"

Uccelli shook his head.

"Very little. I know he exists and that he is dangerous. No Italian who owns more than five thousand pounds is safe from him," he said gravely. "He has a deadly reputation in Italy. Hundreds of people in Italy and France are paying him vast sums to keep alive."

"Does he live in Italy?"

"I don't know."

"He has people working for him: one of them is a girl with Venetian red hair. Do you know her?"

Uccelli shook his head.

"I don't know of any girl with Venetian red hair. That colouring has died out: you never see it these days."

"The other is a tall, thin man, dark, hooked nose, flashily dressed whose first name is Ed."

Uccelli stubbed out his cigar.

"Yes, that sounds like Ed Shapiro. He dines here sometimes."

Don sat forward.

"What does he do for a living?"

"He's a smuggler. At one time he was a knife-thrower in a circus."

"That must be the fellow!" Don exclaimed. "Where can I find him?"

"I haven't seen him for some weeks. Perhaps his girl can tell you."

"Who is she?"

"Her name's Gina Pasero. She is an Italian. She works at the Florida Club in Firth Street. She is greatly influenced by money. Offer her something: fifty pounds, perhaps. If she knows where Shapiro is, she will tell you."

"Right, I'll talk to her. Now about this girl with the red hair. Her first name is Lorelli. Will you try to get me information about her? It's worth a hundred pounds to anyone who can put me on to her."

Uccelli inclined his head. "I will do what I can."

Don got to his feet.

"I'll see if I can get anything out of Gina Pasero," he said. "What does she do at the club?"

"She is a dance hostess. You will be very careful," Uccelli said. "This could be a dangerous business. You are dealing with men who do not value life. Remember that. If it is thought you are showing an interest in their activities, they will wipe you out."

"Don't worry about me, I can look after myself," Don said. "Find out about this red-head for me."

"I will do what I can. Be careful of Shapiro. He is very dangerous."

"I'll watch out. Thanks for the wonderful dinner. I'll look in in a day or so."

"Leave it a few days. Information is not always easy to get." Uccelli looked at Don. "And it is understood that anything I have told you is for your own use and is not to be given to the police?"

"That's all right," Don said. "I'll keep it to myself."

Leaving the restaurant, he walked briskly up Firth Street until he came to a door, over which was a neon sign that spelt out in blood-red letters:

FLORIDA CLUB: Members only.

Having paid a pound for a temporary member's ticket to a flat-nosed doorman, Don descended a flight of dirty stone steps that led to a shabby bar. Beyond the bar he could see a dimly lit room containing thirty or forty tables, a three-piece band and a small space in the middle of the floor for dancing.

He paused at the bar as he knew it was expected of him and ordered a whisky. Two blondes and a long-haired man in a check suit with enormously padded shoulders were propped up against the bar, drinking neat gin. They stared at Don with undisguised curiosity.

Don ignored them. He lit a cigarette and toyed with his drink for a few minutes until two more men drifted out of the restaurant and joined the others at the bar. Then finishing his drink, he went into the restaurant.

The pianist, saxophone and drums combination was playing in a half-hearted way. Three couples were moving about the floor in time with the music, but with no other claim to dancing. One of the men held a glass of whisky in his hand as he shuffled around the floor. His partner, a hard-faced girl with copper-coloured hair, was smoking.

Don went to a table in a corner and sat down. Nearby was a small dais enclosed by a rail. Behind the rail were three girls who were smoking and staring with blank boredom across the room.

A waiter in a grubby white coat came over to Don.

"Straight whisky," he said.

The waiter nodded and went away.

The band stopped playing. The couples on the floor didn't bother to clap. They drifted back to their tables and a funereal hush fell over the room.

Don thought the Florida Club was in a class of its own as a sordid slice of dull night life.

He glanced again at the girls behind the rail and decided the dark girl with a rose in her hair could be Gina Pasero. She was small-featured and pretty in a hard, sophisticated way. The shadows under her dark eyes gave her an interestingly dissipated look. She was wearing a red and black evening dress cut so low Don could see the tops of her firm, young breasts. She sat motionless, her hands folded in her lap. If her eyes hadn't been open, he would have thought she was asleep.

The waiter brought the whisky and Don paid him. The two blondes came in from the bar and sat opposite Don's table.

They stared fixedly at him.

Five leaden minutes crawled by, then the pianist began to play. After the third bar the saxophone and drums joined in as if they were doing the pianist a favour.

Don went over to the dais.

"Do you think you have enough strength left to dance with me?" he asked the girl with the rose in her hair.

The other two girls giggled, looking at him, crude invitation in their eyes.

The girl with the rose in her hair got up and came round the rail. She moved listlessly and she made no attempt to conceal her boredom. Don put his arm round her and moved her out on to the floor. He found it impossible to do more than shuffle around the floor. The lagging beat of the drum made any attempt to dance a farce.

After a minute or so of shuffling, Don said, "I bet this is where undertakers come to relax."

The girl didn't say anything. Don could only see the top of her sleek head. She seemed content to let him push her before him and keep her nose close to his gold tie-clip.

They circled the room, then Don said, "Don't let me stop you sleeping. Just rest your feet on mine and have yourself a quiet time."

The girl leaned back to stare up at him. At that angle he could look down the front of her dress, but he was too well-mannered to stare. The girl's shadowy black eyes expressed irritation and weariness.

"Let it lie, Jack," she said in a cold, brittle voice.

"Certainly," Don said. "Just let me know if I'm driving too fast for you."

"If you don't like the way I dance you know what you can do about it," the girl said, her voice hardening.

Switching from English into Italian, Don said, "I know what I would like to do, but this is hardly the place."

Boredom, irritation and weariness went away from the girl's face. Her eyes became alive. Her red, sensual lips curved into a smile.

"How did you know?" she said. "No one has spoken to me in Italian for years."

"I'm psychic," Don said, smiling at her.

She pursed her red lips.

"I think you're tight."

"That's an idea. Shall we stop this depressing shuffling and see what we can do about it?"

"That's up to you. It'll still cost you a pound an hour."

"Think nothing of it," Don said, leading her back to his table. "I'm made of money. What'll it be?"

She ordered the inevitable champagne and Don ordered another whisky. When the drinks had been served, he asked her from what part of Italy she had come.

"I was bom in Naples," she told him. "I married an American soldier who brought me to London. We hadn't been here two weeks before a taxi knocked him down and killed him."

"Tough luck," Don said.

She shrugged.

"He wasn't much. I was glad to be rid of him."

"You must have been pretty young when you married."

She laughed.

"I was fifteen. There were eighteen in my family. We lived in four rooms. I was pretty glad to get out." She smiled at him. "You're American, aren't you? How did you learn to speak Italian so well?"

"My father lived most of his life in Florence. I spent a lot of time with him. What's your name?"

"Call me Gina."

She began to tell him about Naples. He could see she was badly homesick and he let her talk. After she had worked through half the bottle of champagne and the wine had relaxed her, he said casually, "By the way, how's Ed these days?"

She continued to smile, but the light went out of her eyes. After a second or so, the effort of keeping the smile on her lips proved too much of an effort. Her face reverted to a cold, expressionless mask.

"What do you know about Ed?" she asked harshly.

"I want to talk to him. I've been looking all over for him. Where's he got to?"

"How should I know?" She reached for her bag. "I've got to go. I can't spend all the evening with you."

"Don't be silly," Don said, smiling at her. "I've got a deal. I want to gut in Ed's way. It won't wait. It's worth fifty pounds to anyone who can tell me where he is."

Her eyes lost their cold look.

"You. mean you'll give me fifty pounds if I tell you where he is?" she said, staring at him.

"I'll give you fifty pounds if you show me where he is," Don said. "I'm not parting with all that money for an address."

The tip of her tongue passed over her lips as she studied him. "Honest? If I had fifty pounds could go home. I could go to

Naples."

"Show me where Ed is and you can go home. That's a promise." "I haven't seen him for weeks, but I think I know where he is. When will you have the money?" "In a couple of hours."

"All right. Meet me outside the Casino theatre at one o'clock. I can't get away from here until twelve, and I'll have to make sure he is where I think he is." "ThenyouTldoit?"

"There's not much I wouldn't do for a chance to go home," she said. "He's in trouble, isn't he?" "Would you worry?" She shook her head.

"Find out where he is, but don't tell him I'm looking for him," Don said. "That's important."

"I'm not likely to tell him," she said. "I'm not crazy. Ed's dangerous.”