Mission To Siena

Chapter V

THE LONG SHOT

At five minutes to one, as Don walked briskly along Old Compton Street, his head bent against the driving rain, he could hear Harry's light footfalls behind him.

Although Don had promised Uccelli not to bring in the police, he had no intention of tackling Shapiro single-handed.

"This girl may not know where Shapiro is hiding," he told Harry. "She wants the money badly, and if she doesn't know where he is, she may be tempted to pull a fast one. So watch out. Keep out of sight, but move in if there's trouble."

He glanced over his shoulder as he neared the darkened Casino theatre and motioned Harry to stop. Harry slid into a dark doorway and out of sight.

Glad to get under the shelter of the Casino's canopy, Don glanced at his watch. It was now two minutes to one o'clock, There was no sign yet of Gina. He opened his coat and shook off the rain drops. Then lighting a cigarette, he leaned against the wall and settled down to wait.

After he had finished his second cigarette, he began to pace slowly up and down the length of the sheltered pavement. It was now quarter past one. He decided to give Gina another quarter of an hour before making a move. He continued to pace up and down, listening to the rain beating on the roof of the canopy. He remembered that Uccelli had warned him how dangerous Shapiro was. If Shapiro suspected Gina was betraying him...

Again Don looked at his watch. It was three minutes to half-past one. He looked up and down the deserted street, then crossing the street he joined Harry in the shop doorway.

"It doesn't look as if she's coming," he said. "I don't like it, Harry. She may have run into trouble."

"Do you know where she lives, sir?"

"No, but we should be able to find out. There's no point in hanging around here any longer. We'll go to the Florida Club.

They may know where we can find her."

Stepping out into the rain, they hurried over to Firth Street.

The Florida's neon sign still blazed into the dark night, making a red pool on the wet pavement.

"Wait here," Don said. "I'll see what I can find out."

He went down the steps to where the doorman sat in his cubby hole.

The doorman looked up and scowled at him.

"We're shut," he growled. "The last lot are coming out now."

"Is Gina around?" Don asked.

"She's gone home."

"I have a date with her, but I 've mislaid her address," Don said, taking out a pound note and letting the doorman see it.

"Can you give it to me?"

The doorman eyed the pound note, rubbed his jaw, then lifted his heavy shoulders.

"I could," he said and pulled a well-thumbed notebook out of a drawer, flicked through the pages, found an entry and scowled at it. "I 'ave an idea she's moved from the address I've 'ere. If she 'as, then you've 'ad it. Want to try it, mister?"

"Sure," Don said.

"2a, Peters Road: know where it is?"

"That's off Charing Cross Road, isn't it?" Don said and slid the pound note through the window of the glass partition.

"That's right." The doorman snapped up the note. "Twenty yards past Cambridge Circus on the left."

Don nodded and climbing the steps, walked out into the rain again.

Harry joined him.

"We may be out of luck," Don said. "I have an address, but she may have moved. Let's go and see."

Five minutes' brisk walking brought them to Peters Road: a dingy street lined on either side by shabby warehouses, small factories and two or three Greek restaurants. No. 2 turned out to be the address of a firm dealing in bathroom fitments. A narrow alley ran down the side of the building. Harry threw the beam of his flashlight into the darkness.

"This is it: No. 2a," he said and moved into the alley.

Don joined him.

Shielding the light with his fingers, Harry let the beam play over the door. He put his hand on the cracked, shabby door panel and pushed, but the door was locked.

Don stepped back and looked up at the building. There were two windows; one on the first floor and another on the second. No lights showed: the lower window was without curtains.

"Let's see if we can raise anyone " he said.

Harry dug his thumb into the bell push. They could hear the bell ringing somewhere in the house.

They waited for a minute or so while the rain fell steadily on them.

"Doesn't look as if anyone's at home," Harry said. "What do we do now?"

"Let's see if we can get in. I want to be sure this is her place."

Harry examined the lock of the door.

"Nothing to it, sir, I've a bit of wire that'll fix it." He handed the flashlight to Don and inserted a piece of wire into the lock. He fiddled for a few seconds then twisted sharply. The lock clicked back.

Don turned the handle and pushed the door open.

They stepped into a musty-smelling passage and Harry closed the door. The beam of Don's flashlight lit up a flight of stairs leading to the upper landing.

Moving silently and followed by Harry, Don went up the stairs. His flashlight showed a door at the head of the stairs, a short passage and another flight of stairs.

Across the door was painted in white letters:

The Acme Manufacturing Co.

"Stay here, Harry," Don said. "If she's anywhere, she'll be on the next landing."

He went along the passage and began to mount the second flight of stairs. These, he noticed, were covered with a dusty, threadbare stair-runner that looked as if it hadn't been swept in months.

At the head of the stairs was a red-painted front door; its brass fitments tarnished. The card-holder screwed to the door was empty.

Don listened outside the door. He stood listening for some moments, but no sound came to him. Turning the door handle, he pushed, expecting to find the door locked, but to his surprise it swung inwards.

Holding the door open, and not moving, he swung the beam of his flashlight around the small hall. Facing him was a large gilt framed mirror. Below it a carved wood chest on which stood a vase of dead zinnias. Dust lay thick on the chest and obscured the mirror. On either side of the mirror was a door.

Don moved into the hall, leaving the front door open. He crossed to the door on the right, turned the handle and opened it.

Darkness and silence came out of the room. He groped for the light switch, found it and pressed it down. A shaded lamp in the centre of the room sprang alight.

The bedroom, Don found himself looking at was skimpily furnished. A small padded chair stood before a walnut dressing-table on which stood triple mirrors. A walnut clothes closet stood against one of the walls. A pale blue fitted carpet covered the floor. Against the wall, facing the window, was a wide divan bed, covered with a pale blue bedspread.

It was this bed that held Don's rigid attention.

Ed Shapiro lay across the bed in a dark puddle of blood, his lips drawn off his teeth in a wolfish snarl. His bloodstained fingers were curled round the wooden handle of a knife that had been driven with great violence to the hilt into his chest.

Don didn't have to touch him to know he was dead.

Leaning over the banister rail, Don called softly, "Harry! Come up."

Harry mounted the stairs, two at a time. The sight of Don's set face brought him up short.

"Shapiro's in there - he's dead," Don said. "Take a look at him."

They went into the bedroom.

Harry touched the dead man's hand.

"He's been dead some time."

"Look at the knife. It's a copy of the one that killed Guido." ,

"I bet his pals decided he wasn't any further use to them, and they knocked him off," Harry said, stepping away from the bed.

"Yes." Don glanced around the room, then went out into the hall. He crossed over to the door on the left and opened it.

He looked into a small kitchen. On the table was a large stock of tinned food.

"Looks as if he had settled here until the police had given him up," he said. "Let's get out of here, Harry."

They left the flat and went down the stairs. Rain was still falling steadily. Harry closed the street door and he and Don walked quickly down the alley to Peters Road.

"Are you going to report this to the police, sir?" Harry asked.

"I'm finding Gina first," Don said. "Uccelli might know where I can find her." He peered at his watch in the light of the street lamp. "It's just two. Maybe he hasn't gone to bed yet. Let's see."

Uccelli hadn't gone to bed, and he answered Don's knock himself.

"I'm trying to find Gina Pasero," Don said after he had apologized for disturbing Uccelli. "Have you any idea where I can find her?"

"Come in," Uccelli said. "How wet you are. Have you tried the club?"

Don and Harry followed the old man into his room.

"I saw her at the club. I made a date with her for one o'clock. She hasn't shown up. Shapiro's been murdered. I'm worried about the girl."

Uccelli's eyes widened. "She used to live in a flat in Peters Road, but I did hear she had moved..."

"I've been there. That's where I found Shapiro."

"Why do you think the girl's in trouble?" the old man asked.

"I offered her fifty pounds for information. She said she would meet me later. She was anxious to have the money. She didn't turn up."

Uccelli pulled a little face.

"I don't know where she could be unless she's at the Miremare Hotel in Western Road. She often stayed there before she took the flat in Peters Road."

"All right, I'll try there." Don turned to Harry. "Get the car, will you?"

When Harry had gone, Don went on, "This is getting complicated, Giorgio." He sat on the edge of Uccelli's desk.

"Shapiro was hiding in the flat. Whoever killed him gave him a dose of his own medicine. The knife was thrown at him with tremendous force. It went into his body up to the hilt."

Uccelli lifted his shoulders.

"A good riddance. He was a bad and dangerous man."

"I must tell the police," Don said. "You understand?"

"Of course."

"You have heard nothing about the red-headed woman yet?"

"Not yet. I nave already made one or two inquiries, but it may take time."

Don heard the Bentley pull up outside.

"You can rely on me not to tell the police where I got my information from."

"I know that," Uccelli said. "The night clerk at the Miremare may help you. His name is Cavallino. Tell him you come from me."

"Right," Don said. "I'll be in touch with you."

He went out into the wet night and got into the Bentley. A few minutes' fast driving brought them to Western Road.

"This is it," Harry said, slowing down. "Doesn't look much of a joint, does it?"

The entrance to the Miremare Hotel was sandwiched between a chemist shop and a petrol station. The name of the hotel was picked out in tarnished gold letters across two glass-panelled doors.

"Wait for me," Don said and slid out into the rain. He ran up the six steps, pushed open the door and walked into the dingy reception hall furnished with four shabby leather armchairs, a bamboo table and a fern in a tarnished brass pot.

The reception desk faced him. A single light lit up a row of keys and a series of empty pigeon-holes at the back of the desk.

A white-faced, black-haired man sat behind the desk, yawning over a paper-backed novel. He looked up as Don crossed the hall, pushed aside his novel and stood up.

"Is Miss Pasero staying with you?" Don asked, coming to rest at the desk.

The clerk looked him over suspiciously.

"I'm sorry, but I can't answer that question at this time of night," he said. "If you will call tomorrow morning..."

"You are Cavallino, aren't you?" Don said. "Uceelli told me to come to you."

Cavallino's face brightened: the suspicion went away.

"Please excuse me. I didn't know," he said. "Uccelli is a good friend of mine. Yes, Miss Pasero is staying here."

Don drew in a sharp breath of relief.

"I want to speak to her," he said. "It's most urgent."

Cavallino spread his hands.

"If you would care to wait, sir, I don't think she can be much longer." He consulted his watch. "It is nearly half-past two.

She is not usually as late as this."

"She's not in then?" Don said, his voice sharpening.

"No, she went out soon after twelve-thirty when her friend called for her."

"What friend?"

Cavallino frowned.

"Excuse me, sir, but you ask too many questions. It is not my business..."

"My reason is urgent," Don broke in. "Gina Pasero is connected with Shapiro. He was murdered in her flat and I think she is in danger. Who was the friend who called for her?"

"I don't know," Cavallino said, staring at Don in alarm. "A girl: I haven't seen her before. Miss Pasero returned from the club just after midnight. Someone called her on the telephone. At half-past twelve she came down from her room. I asked her if she were going out, but she acted as if she hadn't heard me. She went out. I went to .the door. There was a car waiting. Miss Pasero was talking to this girl. They got into the car and drove away."

Don hunched his shoulders against the chill that crawled up his spine.

"What was the girl like?" he asked, and the tone of his voice made Cavallino stiffen.

"I couldn't see much of her, but I did notice her hair. It was an unusual colour: a Venetian red."

Don stared at him for a loag moment.

"Let me have your telephone'," he said curtly

Cavallino pushed the telephone towards him.

"There is something wrong then?" he asked anxiously.

"That's what I'm going to find out," Don said and dialled Whitehall 1212.

Lorelli sat in the driver's seat of the Humber, her hands over her ears, her eyes shut.

The old, battered car stood under the trees of the tow-path, a few yards from Risings Lock. It was dark, and the white, damp mist hid the river.

It had been too easy. She had traced Gina to the Miremare Hotel. Gina had recognized her at once, although it was now five years since they had met in Siena. She had accepted Lorelli's tale that there was work for her again in Italy. Excited and unsuspicious, she had got into the car to discuss the details.

Crantor had been hiding in the back of the car. He had risen up and hit Gina with a sock filled with wet sand. He had struck her on the top of her head, very hard and viciously. She had slumped against Lorelli. Shuddering, Lorelli had pushed her away from her, ancl Crantor, leaning over the front seat, had shoved Gina's unconscious body off the seat on to the floor.

"Okay," he said. "Straight ahead. I'll tell you where to go."

It had taken them half an hour to reach Risings Lock. It was now a quarter past one. The tow-path was deserted. Crantor got out of the car and stood listening for some moments to the sound of the rain, the gentle movement of the river and the wind in the trees. Then he dragged Gina's body out of the car, letting it slide on to the wet, muddy tarmac.

"Wait for me," he said and picking up the unconscious girl, he threw her over his shoulder and walked away into the darkness.

Lorelli waited, her hands pressed to her ears. She couldn't bear to hear the splash that she knew would follow when Crantor threw Gina into the river. After an interminable time Crantor returned to the car. He was breathing heavily. The front of his dirty trench coat was wet.

"Move over," he said curtly. "I'll drive."

Lorelli slid along the bench seat. Crantor got in under the steering wheel, started the car, turned on the parking lights and drove along the tow-path. After a hundred yards or so, he turned left on to the main road.

He drove fast, heading for London. Neither he nor Lorelli said anything until they came to the main London road, then Crantor said abruptly, "What will you do now?"

"The job's finished," Lorelli said. "I'll go back. I'll catch the ten o'clock plane to Rome."

"Is it safe? They'll be watching the airports."

"My papers are in order. They won't recognize me. Of course it's safe."

"Don't be too sure. The cops here are smart."

"They won't worry me."

"You'll tell Felix I did a good job?" Crantor said.

"Yes, I'll tell him," Lorelli said indifferently.

Crantor looked sideways at her.

"You don't sound enthusiastic. It is important he should know how I handled it."

"You were well paid," Lorelli said, staring through the windscreen at the beams of the car's headlights as they raced ahead of them.

Crantor grunted. He drove for ten minutes or so without speaking, then he said, "Do you want to stay at Polsen's for the night?"

"I may as well," she returned.

Again he glanced at her. Then his big, hairy hand dropped on to her trousered knee.

"You and I could be useful to each other," he said.

She hit the back of his hand hard with her handbag. The steel clip cut the skin. He jerked his hand away, cursing.

"Every man I have had to work with comes out with that proposition," Lorelli said angrily. "Can't you be different?"

"Why?" Crantor snarled as he sucked at his bleeding hand. "I'm a man, aren't I? Just because my face..."

"Oh, shut up!" Lorelli snapped. "You flatter yourself. What's your face got to do with it?"

Crantor's hands gripped the steering wheel viciously. He imagined his ringers' were sinking into her white throat.

They drove on in silence.

It wasn't until half-past two the following afternoon that Don came down to his study.

Marian was sitting at his desk, busying herself with a pile of unanswered correspondence. She concealed a smile as she watched him amble to his favourite armchair and lower himself into it with a groan.

"What a night!" he exclaimed, clasping his head in his hands.

"I didn't get to bed until half-past eight this morning. If this goes on much longer I'll finish up in a home for incurables."

"It wasn't so long ago that you told me you didn't need any sleep," Marian said, getting up and coming over with a number of letters in her hand. "Will you see your mail now?"

"Most certainly not!" Don said firmly. "I'm not doing a stroke of work today. Put those letters away and sit down. I want to talk to you."

With a resigned sigh, Marian put the letters on the desk and sat down.

"How's Julia?" Don asked, struggling with a gigantic yawn.

"She's better. The doctor says she can see the police tomorrow, and if she continues to make progress she can go home in a week."

"That's fine. I'm going to offer her the villa at Nice. She shouldn't go back to the Hampstead house after what has happened. The change and sun will do her good. I won't leave London until this murder has been cleared up. Right now, we don't seem to be getting anywhere." He went on to tell Marian what had happened the previous night. "So now Gina has vanished. The police are hunting for her, but they haven't got a thing to go on. Except for the hotel clerk, no one seems to have seen her. This woman with the red hair haunts me. She turns up and vanishes like a ghost."

"Why was Shapiro murdered?" Marian asked.

"The police had his description. He had to keep under cover. Dicks thinks the gang - he's convinced there is a gang over here decided he was too big a danger, so they wiped him out." He reached for a cigarette and lit it. "I'm hanged if I can see how we are going to get anywhere unless we get a lead on the Tortoise himself. Dicks thinks he is in Italy, and I'm inclined to agree with him. The facts

point to it. He uses an Italian weapon. He only attacks Italians, and the red-headed woman is an Italian. Dicks wants me to go to Italy and hunt around for information. He has a pathetic faith in my abilities after the Tregarth business. It's a cock-eyed idea.' f can't go tramping over the whole of Italy in the hope of running into the Tortoise. If I could narrow the hunt down to a town or even a district I'd go, but I just don't know where to start."

"I think Siena would be a good starting place," Marian said.

Don stared at her.

"Siena? Why Siena of all places?"

"I've been doing some research," Marian said quietly. "You told me you couldn't understand why this extortioner calls himself the Tortoise, and that there must be a reason. I began going through books on history and symbolism, trying to find a connection between Italy and a tortoise. In the history of Siena I found that the tortoise is the crest of one of the seventeen wards of Siena."

"Wards? What wards?"

"Siena is divided into seventeen districts or wards: each ward has its name, its chapel and its flag. Most of the wards are named after animals or birds. There's the she-wolf, the owl, the goose, and the tortoise..."

"Well, I'll be hanged!" Don said. "Isn't this something to do with the festival of the Patio: the annual horse race?"

"Yes, that's right. There has always been rivalry between the wards, dating back to the tenth century. They keep up their rivalry by racing a horse blessed by their church, against the other horses representing the other wards."

"My stars!" Don said, starting to his feet. "This could be the clue we're looking for. It would explain why the knife is a copy of a medieval weapon. This killer could be a crackpot who has borrowed from medieval history. I must tell Dicks.

He'll know if the Italian police have worked this line or not. Find out if he can see me right away, will you?"

Marian called up Dicks' office.

"He'll be waiting for you," she said when she had hung up.

"Then I'll get off. Marian, go and buy yourself a hat: money's no object and charge it to my account. You are an exceedingly bright and clever young woman."

"Thank you, but that's what I'm paid for," Marian said, smiling.

"I'll take you out to dinner tonight," Don said as he made for the door. "If you're not wearing that new hat, there'll be trouble."

Twenty minutes later he walked into Dicks' office.

"Any news of Gina Pasero?" he asked as he closed the door.

"Not yet," Dicks said. He looked tired and worried. "Have you something for me?"

Don straddled the office chair, resting his arms along its back.

"Are you still keen for me to go to Italy and see what I can dig up?" he asked.

Dicks lifted his eyebrows.

"I thought we had gone into that, Mr Micklem. You said..."

"I know what I said," Don interrupted. "That doesn't answer my question."

"Yes, I'm still keen," Dicks said. "I think you could easily find something that would put us on to the Tortoise."

"Good. I've decided to go," Don said. "But on one condition: I want a clear field for at least a week."

Dicks took out his pipe and began to fill it.

"I don't follow you," he said. "What do you mean - a clear field?"

"I'm backing a hunch. I don't want you to contact the Italian police until I have explored a little. Too many fish in the pond will stir up the mud."

Dicks looked doubtful. . "This is a murder case. If you have any information..."

"I said a hunch, not information. I'm not keeping it a secret. My secretary has been doing some research on the tortoise,"

Don said, "and she's turned up something that may give us the lead we're looking for. Ever been to Siena, Super?"

Dicks shook his head.

"Siena is a medieval town. They take a great pride in keeping it that way. Twice a year the festival of the Patio is held in the main piazza1. It consists of a procession of men in fifteenth-century costumes and a horse race. Each horse represents a ward. For hundreds of years Siena has been divided into seventeen wards or districts. Each ward is a self-contained unit with its own crest, leader, church, traditions, and flag. The wards are named after animals, birds and reptiles. One of these wards is named after the tortoise."

Dicks' deep-set eyes showed his interest.

"I know it is a long shot: no more than a hunch," Don went on, "but it might easily be the lead we are looking for. We are hunting for a killer who uses a copy of a medieval knife, who calls himself the Tortoise and who is apparently in rivalry with other Italians. The facts can be made to hook up with Siena."

Dicks shook his head doubtfully.

"It is a long shot: overlong I think."

'That's why I'm justified in asking for a clear field," Don said. "It isn't more than a hunch, but it needs careful handling.

If the Italian police started asking questions about the Tortoise in Siena, and if the Tortoise happens to be there, he'll vanish before they can get their hands on him. I could get information, if there is any information to get, without stirring up too much mud. Do you see what I'm driving at?"

Dicks rubbed his jaw.

"All right," he said. "Pm only agreeing because I don't think my opposite number in Italy would bother to investigate this line, Mr Micklem. He hasn't much imagination. If I haven't heard from you after a week, then I'll send him a report.

How's that?"

"Fine." Don got to his feet. "I'll be leaving in three or four days. If I dig up anything, I'll let you know."

The telephone bell rang as Dicks was getting to his feet. He picked up the receiver and growled into it. His sudden change of expression made Don look sharply at him.

"Yes, all right," Dicks said into the receiver. "I'll be down." He dropped the receiver back on its cradle. "Gina Pasero has just been fished out of Risings Lock. She was hit on the head before being thrown into the river."

"Poor little devil," Don said. "I had an idea something like that had happened to her." .

"I've got to get down there. Do you want to come?"

"No. There are plenty of other people who'll identify her if that's what you want. I've got a lot to do if Pm to get off by the end of the week."

Dicks nodded over to a shabby suitcase standing against the wall.

"That belongs to her," he said. "We brought it away from the hotel. There was nothing in it to tell us anything. The only thing of interest are some snapshots of her taken in Italy. It proves my point again that the guts of this business is in Italy." He moved to the door. "Want me to drop you anywhere, ah, Micklem?"

"I've got my car. Would you mind if I had a look at those snapshots, Super?"

"Go ahead. I'll leave you to it. My chaps are waiting for me. Mind how you go in Siena and good luck."

When Dicks had gone, Don lifted the suitcase to the desk and opened it. He found an envelope lying on top of Gina's few possessions. He shook its contents on to the desk.

The snapshots were all of Gina, most of them taken against the background of Brighton. In one of them, she was standing arm-inarm with Shapiro, and she looked very happy.

But the last half-dozen snapshots held Don's attention. They were of Gina somewhere in Italy. The Second oneTie looked at made him stiffen. She was leaning against a low wall that was covered with a bougainvillaea creeper in flower. In the distance, forming a background to the picture, was a large, ornate building. Its familiar outlines and its black and white marble campanile were unmistakable: it was the famous cathedral of Siena.