You Find Him, I'll Fix Him

I

I came down.

There was nothing else I could do. There was no room up on the landing if it came to a fight and, besides, the only way out of the villa was down the stairs and out through the front door or one of the ground-floor windows.

I came down slowly.

I’m not exactly a pigmy, but I didn’t kid myself that I had much chance against this bull of a man. By the way he had moved from the lounge to the centre of the hall I knew he could be as fast as a streak of lightning once he got going.

When I reached half-way down the stairs I came into the full glare of the hall light, and I stopped so he could take a look at me.

He grinned, showing big, white even teeth.

“Hello, Mac,” he said. “Don’t think this is a surprise. I was right behind you all the way from your joint to this. Come on down. I’ve been waiting to have a talk with you.”

He took four paces back so he wouldn’t be too close to me when I reached the hall. I came down. If he went for me, I’d try to handle him, but I wasn’t starting anything — anyway, not just yet.

“Go in there and sit down,” he went on, jerking his thumb towards the lounge.

I went in there, chose a comfortable chair that faced the door and sat down. By now I had control of my nerves. I wondered what he was going to do. I doubted if he would call the police. I had only to show them my things upstairs for him to be in a worse jam than I.

He followed me into the lounge and sat on the arm of a big leather chair, facing me. He was still grinning. The zigzag scar on his face looked sharply white against the deep tan of his skin.

“Find your stuff up there?” he asked, taking out a pack of American cigarettes. He flicked one out, pasted it on his duck lower lip and set fire to it with a match he scratched alight with the thumb-nail. He looked like a shot from a Hollywood gangster movie when he did that.

“I found it,” I said. “What have you done with the camera?”

He blew smoke towards me.

“I’ll do the talking, Mac,” he said. “You listen and answer. How did you get on to this place?”

“A girl wrote the telephone number on her wall. It wasn’t difficult to get the address,” I said.

“Helen?”

“That’s right.”

He pulled a face.

“The dumb cluck.” He leaned forward. “What did the copper want with you this afternoon?”

I suddenly wasn’t scared of him any more. I told myself the hell with him. I wasn’t going to sit there and answer his questions.

“Why don’t you ask him?” I said.

“I’m asking you.” His smile went away. There was a sudden vicious look in his eyes. “Let’s get this straight. You don’t want me to get tough with you, do you?” He laid his hands on his knees so I could see them and slowly closed them into fists. They were sharp-knuckled, big fists that looked as if they had been carved out of a hunk of mahogany. “I’ll tell you something: I like to hit a guy. When I hit him, he stays hit. Right now I want to talk to you, so don’t make me hit you. What did the copper say?”

I braced myself.

“Go ahead and ask him.”

I was half-way out of the chair by the time he reached me. I had been a mug to have sat in such a low chair. If I had sat on the arm as he had done I would have been more ready for his rush. He came across the space between us so fast I hadn’t a chance. He threw a left-hand towards my stomach that I managed to knock aside, but he was only making an opening for his right. I didn’t see it coming. I had a brief glimpse of his brown, snarling face and his gleaming teeth when something that felt like a club hammer slammed against the side of my jaw. The room exploded into a blinding flash of white light. I was only vaguely aware that I was falling, then black oblivion wiped out everything.

I came to the surface in about five or six minutes. I found myself spread out in the lounging chair with a sore jaw and a bead that pulsated like the breathing bag of a dentin’s gas equipment.

Carlo was sitting close to me. He kept slamming his balled-up fist into the palm of his hand as if he were itching to hang another bone crusher on my jaw.

I struggled into an upright position and looked at him, trying to get him into focus. That punch had taken a lot of steam out of me.

“Okay, Mac, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Now, let’s start again. The next time I hit you, I’ll bust your jaw. What did the copper want?”

I tested my teeth with the tip of my tongue. None of them seemed loose. I felt cold, and there was a rage growing in me that made me want to get to close quarters with this thug and maim him. But I wasn’t all that crazy in the head. Maybe I am big and fairly tough, but I know when I am out of my class. I wouldn’t mix things with Rocky Marciano: net because I’d be scared to, but because I know I wouldn’t stand a chance. I knew if it came to a fight, this bull of a man was too strong and much, much too fast for me.

The way to take him was to surprise him. There was no other way, and I’d have to have a club in my hand to slow him down first.

“He wanted the names of Helen’s men friends,” I said thickly. It hurt to speak.

Carlo scratched the end of his nose.

“Why?”

“Because he’s hunting for her killer.”

I hoped that would faze him, but it didn’t. Instead, his grin switched on again, and he left off pounding his fist into his palm.

“Is that right? He thinks she was knocked off?”

“He’s sure of it.”

“Well, well” He continued to grin. “I didn’t think he’d be that smart.” He lit a cigarette. “Here, Mac, have one. You look as if you could use a smoke.”

I took the cigarette and the box of matches he nicked into my lap. I lit the cigarette and dragged down a lungful of smoke.

“Why is he so sure she was knocked off?” he asked. “You ripped the film out of the camera and stole all her spares. That was a pretty dumb thing to have done.”

“Think so? I think it was smart, pally. Has he got on to you yet?”

I tried to control my start, but I wasn’t successful.

“What do you mean?”

Carlo’s grin widened.

“Don’t feed me that crap: you know what I mean. You’re an open and shut case for the job. Why, I even took the trouble to alter her watch so the cops would think you were up there when she took her dive, and believe me, Mac, that was quite a climb to get to her. I nearly broke my neck.” I stared at him. “So you did kill her.”

He shook his head.

“The record says you did it. You were up there when she fell. You’re the guy named Douglas Sherrard.” He leaned forward and pointed a thick finger at me. Emphasizing each word, he went on, “And you’re the sucker who left a note for her telling her to meet you on the cliff head. You forgot that little item, didn’t you? I found it where you had left it on the table, and I’ve got.

II

I felt as if the bottom of my world had fallen out. It was only at this moment, hearing this, that I remembered the note I had left for Helen in the villa.

“I’ve got it right here,” Carlo went on, tapping his hip-pocket. “It’s a beauty. That and the watch could fix you, Mac. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

He was right. If Carlotti ever got hold of that note, I’d be finished. In my mind, I saw the note now as plainly as if it lay before me.

Helen (I had written), meet me on the path beyond the garden gate if we miss each other. Ed.

I had even put the time and the date on the note and I had written it on the villa’s headed notepaper. The shock of finding Helen had completely driven the note out of my head until now.

“When the cops find your bags in a left luggage office, they’ll also find the camera and some of the films,” Carlo continued. “They’ll also find a letter from Helen to you that will clinch the case if it needs clinching. She wrote it before she took her dive.”

I made an effort and pulled myself together. I couldn’t be in a worse jam, and because it was so bad, it made me angry.

The only way to get out of this situation was to get the note and destroy it. He said he had it on him. I had to surprise him, knock him cold and get the note.

“She never wrote to me,” I said.

“Oh, yes, she did. I persuaded her to. It’s quite a letter. In it she tells you how she’s hired the villa and how you two are going to stay there as Mr. and Mrs. Sherrard. It’s a complete give away, Mac. Don’t make any mistake about that. I’ve got you sewn up tight.”

But he was too glib. I was sure he was lying. There was no letter; not that it mattered. The note I had written to Helen would be enough to fix me.

“Okay, so you’ve got me sewn up tight,” I said. “What are you going to do about it?”

He got to his feet and began to wander around the room. He didn’t come near me while he wandered.

“I’ve been hoping to find a guy like you for months,” he said. “When Helen told me she was making a play for you and who you were, I knew you were the boy I wanted. I’ve got a job for you. You’re going to take a parcel across the French frontier for me. It’ll be a cinch for you. You’ll sail through. With your background and job, they won’t even bother to look in your bags, let alone examine your car. I’ve been hoarding the stuff up for months for just such a chance as this.”

“What stuff?” I asked, watching him.

He grinned.

“You needn’t know that. All you have to do is to drive from here to Nice. You’ll spend the night at a certain hotel, leaving your car in the hotel garage. I’ll have planted the parcel in your car before you leave, and my contact in Nice will collect it during the night. It’s as simple as that.”

“And if I don’t do it, Carlotti gets my note to Helen, is that the idea?”

“You cotton on fast.”

“And if I do it, what happens then?”

He shrugged.

“You have a nice vacation and come back. Then maybe in about six months’ time, you’ll find you’ll have to make another trip to Nice. A newspaper man is expected to travel. You’re custom-made for the job. That’s why I picked on you.”

“So long as I know,” I said. “Did Helen have anything to do with the picking?”

“Oh, sure, but she was strictly small-time.” He grimaced. “She wanted to put the bite on you for a thousand bucks, but I talked her out of that. I showed her you’d be far more useful as a carrier.”

I suddenly realized what this was all about.

“She was a drug addict, wasn’t she?” I said. “That’s why she had to have money and didn’t care how she got it, so long as she got it. And it’s a parcel of dope you want me to take to Nice, isn’t it?”

“You don’t think it’s face powder, do you, Mac?” he returned, grinning.

“And you supplied her with the drugs?”

“That’s it, pally. I’m always willing to help a girl if she’s got dough to spend.”

“Was it your idea or hers we should go to the villa?”

“Why should you care?”

“It was your idea, wasn’t it? It was a convenient villa, and there was a convenient cliff to fall off. You knew I wouldn’t play unless you really got a stranglehold on me. You laid the trap, threw her off the cliff and I walked into it.”

He laughed.

“You’ve certainly got a great imagination. Anyway, that’s a yarn you can’t prove, Mac, but I can prove mine.”

“Did she take you on her cine when you two were up there? Is that why you were so anxious to get rid of the film?”

“Nothing like that, pally. Don’t worry about the cine. That was a plant to make the cops think it was murder.” He lit another cigarette. “Now let’s get down to business. Are you going to Nice or do I send the note to Carlotti?”

“Doesn’t look as if I have much choice, does it?”

I glanced aimlessly around the room, looking for a likely weapon. There was nothing I could see substantial enough to hit him with. I knew I wasn’t going to stop him with my bare fists.

Near the door was a small occasional table, and on the table stood a large vase full of carnations. By the vase was a large photograph in a silver frame of Myra Setti. She was in a white swimsuit, lying on a lounging chair and sheltered by a big sun umbrella. There was something vaguely familiar about this photograph, but I only half-glanced at it. My eyes shifted to a solid glass paper-weight that stood by the photograph. That, I told myself, might do.

“So you’ll do it,” he said, watching me.

“I guess I’ll have to.”

“That’s the boy.” He grinned. “I knew you’d play. Okay, this is what you do. Leave your car in your garage on Thursday night. Don’t lock the garage. I’ll be along during the night to plant the parcel. Get off early on Friday morning. Stay the night at Geneva, then, on Saturday, you drive to Nice. You want to time it so you cross the frontier around seven in the evening. That’s when they’ll be thinking of their suppers and they’ll be glad to push you through quickly. You go to the Soleil d’Or hotel. It’s one of the swank joints on the Promenade des Anglais. Maybe you’d better book a room there. Leave your car in the hotel garage and forget about it. Got all that?”

I said I had got it.

“And no funny business, Mac. I have a little fortune tied up in that stuff, and I’ll fix you for sure if you try a doublecross.” His eyes hardened as he stared at me. “You’re on the hook, so don’t forget it. You’re on it for keep.”

“What happens if Carlotti finds out I was at the villa when Helen died?”

“Let him prove it,” Carlo said. “If he gets too tough, I’ll fix an alibi for you. I’ve got ways of fixing alibis. You’ve got nothing to worry about so long as you play with me. You and I can work this racket for years. There’s the Swiss run you can handle too.”

“Looks like I’ve got myself a new career.”

“That’s the idea.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Well, Mac, I’ve got things to do. You be set to leave on Friday. Okay?”

I got slowly to my feet.

“I guess so.”

He moved around me, keeping his distance and watching me.

I paused by the table and looked at the framed photograph.

“Is this your girl-friend?” I asked.

He moved a little closer, but he was still out of reach.

“Never mind who she is… beat it, Mac. I’ve got things to do.”

I lifted the frame.

“Some dish. Is she on drugs too?”

With a snarl, he stepped up to me and snatched the frame out of my hand. That put his right hand out of action. I gave the vase of carnations a swipe with my left hand and grabbed the paper-weight with my right hand.

The vase, water and carnations exploded against Carlo’s knees. For a split-second he looked down, cursing.

I had the paper-weight balled in my fist. I hit him on the side of his head with everything I had got packed behind the punch.

He went down on his knees. I saw his eyes roll back. I clubbed him on the top of his head and he slid forward, stretching out at my feet.

I dropped the paper-weight and knelt beside him. That was a mistake. He was unbelievably tough. His right hand groped upwards towards my throat and he very nearly had me. I knocked his arm aside as he levered himself upwards. His eyes were blank. He was practically out, but he was still dangerous. I set myself, and as he lifted his head, I hung a punch on his jaw that jarred me from my fist to my elbow. His head slammed back on the floor and he went limp.

Breathing hard, I caught hold of him and rolled him over on his face. I slid my hand into his hip pocket and my fingers closed over a leather wallet.

As I was pulling the wallet out, the door jerked open and Myra Setti came in.

She held a .38 automatic in her hand and she pointed it at me.

III

For a long moment we looked at each other. There was a look in her eyes that told me she would shoot if I gave her the slightest encouragement, so I remained motionless, my hand half in Carlo’s pocket.

“Take your hand away!” she said.

Slowly I withdrew my hand from Carlo’s pocket. He stirred, half-turned over and made a growling sound in his throat.

“Get away from him!” she said sharply.

I stood up and backed away.

Carlo pushed himself on to his hands and knees, shook his head and then staggered to his feet. For a moment he stood swaying backwards and forwards, his legs rubbery, then he got his balance, shook his head again and looked over at me. I expected to see a vicious, furious expression on his face, but, instead, he grinned.

“You’ve got more guts than I thought you had, Mac,” he said, and ruefully rubbed the side of his head. “I haven’t been hit so hard for years. You didn’t really think I’d be such a sucker as to carry that note around, did you?”

“It was worth a try,” I said.

“What is all this?” Myra demanded impatiently. “Who’s your playmate?” She didn’t lower the gun nor did she take her eyes off me.

“This is Dawson — the guy I was telling you about. He’s taking the stuff to Nice on Friday,” Carlo said. He touched his head again and grimaced.

“Look at the mess you two apes have made. Get out of here!” she said. “Go on, clear out, both of you!”

“Aw, skip it!” Carlo said. “You’re always beefing about something. I want to talk to you.” He turned to me. “Go on, Mac, scram. Don’t try that dodge again. Next time I’ll get tough too.”

I looked dejected again.

“I’m on my way,” I said, and slouched towards the door.

Myra gave me a contemptuous look and turned her back on me. As I passed her, I grabbed the gun out of her hand, gave her a shove with my shoulder that sent her reeling into one of the lounging chairs, spun around and covered Carlo.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s have that wallet!”

For a long moment he stood transfixed, then he threw back his head and gave a burst of raucous laughter that rattled the windows.

“Gee! You’ll kill me!” he bellowed, slapping his thigh. “Talk about crust!”

“Give me that wallet!” I said, and there was something in my voice that made him stiffen.

“Listen, dope, it’s not on me,” he said, his face hardening.

“If you don’t want a slug in the leg, you’ll chuck the wallet right here!”

We stared at each other. He saw I wasn’t fooling. He suddenly grinned, took the wallet from his hip-pocket and tossed it at my feet.

I kept him covered, bent, picked it up, backed against the wall and went through the wallet. It was stuffed with ten thousand lire notes, but there was no other paper in it.

Myra was glaring at me, her eyes smouldering.

“Some kid, isn’t he?” Carlo said to her. “Nearly as tough as I am. But we’ve got him hamstrung. He’s got to do what he’s told. Haven’t you, pally?”

I tossed him the wallet.

“Looks like it,” I said. “But watch out: it won’t be all that easy.”

I put the gun on the table and walked out.

Carlo’s loud explosive laughter followed me.

It was still raining as I walked down the steps to the drive. Near the front door was the dark green Renault. Behind it stood the Cadillac.

I broke into a run, reached the street, and kept on running until I reached my car. I drove fast to my apartment, left the car outside, bolted up the stairs into my lounge. Without taking off my soaked raincoat I called the International Investigating Agency and asked for Sarti. I hadn’t much hope of finding him in as it was now getting on for half-past ten, but he came on the line almost at once.

“The Renault I was talking about is standing in the drive of the villa Palestra on viale Paolo Veronese,” I said. “Get some men to cover it right away. I want to know where the driver goes when he leaves. Watch out: he’ll probably be on the lookout for a tail.”

Sarti said he would take care of it at once. I heard him speaking to someone, giving instructions to get men out to Myra’s villa.

When he was through, I asked, “Any news for me?”

“I will have something for you by to-morrow morning, signor.”

“I don’t want you to come here.” The fact that Carlo had known that Carlotti had been to see me that afternoon warned me that my apartment was being watched. I told him to meet me at ten o’clock at the Press Club. He said he would do that.

I stripped off my raincoat, took it into the bathroom, then I came back to the lounge and poured myself a big shot of whisky. I sat down. My jaw ached and I was feeling pretty sick, with myself. I was in a jam, and there was no one to get me out of it except myself.

To-morrow was Sunday. On Monday I would have to fly down to Naples to attend the inquest. Friday morning I would have to leave for Nice unless I could pin Helen’s killing on to Carlo. It didn’t leave me a lot of time.

I was sure he had killed her, but I couldn’t think why he had done it.

I couldn’t believe he had killed her to get a hold-on me. That idea had come after he had killed her, and probably after he had found the note I had left for her. Then why had he killed her?

She was spending money with him. He had her where he wanted her. A drug pedlar always has his victims where he wants them… unless, of course, the victim happens to find out something about the pedlar that gives her a bigger hold on him than he has on her.

Helen was a blackmailer. Had she been crazy enough to try to blackmail Carlo? She wouldn’t have attempted it unless what she had found out was sheer dynamite: something, she must have been sure, that was so dangerous to Carlo that he would have to toe the line. Had she found some evidence that really put Carlo on the spot? If she had, she would have lodged it somewhere under lock and key before she dared to put the squeeze on Carlo.

The fact that he had killed her either proved that he had found the evidence and destroyed it, or else she hadn’t had the time to tell she had it hidden. As soon as she began her blackmail threat, he had swept her off the cliff. Was that what had happened?

It was a long shot, but a likely one. If I could get my hands on this evidence, I could draw Carlo’s teeth. If it existed, where had she hidden it? In her apartment? In her bank? In a safe deposit?

There was nothing I could do about her apartment. Carlotti had a police guard there. There was not much I could do about finding out if she had a safe deposit, but I could call in on her bank before I flew down to Naples on Monday.

I might be wasting time, but I had to think of every angle. This one seemed to be promising.

I was still thinking about it when, half an hour later, the telephone bell rang. As I picked up the receiver, I glanced at the clock on my desk. It was just after eleven-ten.

“I have traced the Renault, Signor Dawson,” Sarti told me. “The owner is Carlo Manchini. He has an apartment on via Brentini. It is over a wine-shop.”

“Is he there now?”

“He went in to change. He left five minutes ago, wearing evening clothes.”

“Okay. Stick where you are. I’m coming over,” I said, and hung up.

I pulled on my soaking raincoat, left the apartment and went down to the car. It took me

twenty minutes to reach via Brentini. I left my car at the corner of the street and walked quickly down until I spotted Sarti’s fat figure sheltering from the rain in a dark shop doorway. I stepped out of the rain beside him.

“He hasn’t returned?”

“No.”

“I’m going in there to have a look round.”

Sarti pulled a little face.

“It is illegal, signor,” he said without any hope.

“Thanks for telling me. Any idea how I can get in?”

I was looking at the wine-shop opposite. There was a side entrance that obviously led to the apartment over the shop.

“The lock isn’t complicated,” Sarti said, fumbled in his pocket and pressed into my hand a bunch of skeleton keys.

“These are strictly illegal too,” I said and grinned at him.

He looked depressed.

“Yes, signor. Not everyone would want my job.”

I crossed the road, paused to look up and down the deserted street, took out my flashlight and examined the lock. As Sarti bad said, it didn’t look complicated. I tried three of the keys before I turned the lock. I pushed open the door. Moving into darkness, I closed the door, once more turned on my flashlight and went quickly up the steep, narrow stairs that faced me.

There was a stale smell of wine and sweat on the landing, also the smell of cigar smoke. Three doors invited inspection.

I opened one and glanced into a small, dirty kitchen. In the sink was an accumulation of dirty pots and two frying pans around which flies buzzed busily. The remains of a meal of bread and salame lay on a greasy paper on the table.

I moved down the passage, looked into a small bedroom that contained a double bed, unmade and with grimy sheets and a greasy pillow. Clothes were scattered on the floor. A dirty shirt hung from an electric light bracket. The floor was spotted with tobacco ash and the smell in the room nearly choked me.

I backed out and entered the sitting-room. This too looked as if a pig had lived in it for some time. There was a big settee under the window and two lounging chairs by the fireplace. All three pieces looked grimy and dark with grease. On a small table stood six bottles of wine, three of them empty. A vase of dead carnations stood on the dusty overmantel. There were grease marks on the walls, and the floor was spotted with tobacco ash.

On one of the arms of the chairs was a big ash-tray loaded with cigarette butts and three cheroot butts. I picked up one of these butts and examined it. It seemed to me to be the exact fellow of the butt I had found on top of the cliff head. I put it in my pocket, leaving the other two.

Against one of the walls stood a battered desk on which were piled old, yellowing newspapers, movie magazines and pictures of pin-up girls.

I opened the desk drawers, one after the other. Most of them were crammed with junk that a man will accumulate who has never had a clear out, but in one of the lower drawers I found a new T.W.A. travelling bag that is given to passengers to keep their overnight kit in. I took it from the drawer, zipped it open and looked inside.

It was empty except for a screwed-up ball of paper. I smoothed this out and found it to be the duplicate of a return ticket from Rome to New York, dated four months ago and made out in Carlo Manchini’s name.

I stood looking at the ticket for several seconds, my mind busy.

Here was proof that Carlo had been in New York before Helen had left for Rome. Did it mean anything? Had they met in New York?

I slipped the paper in my wallet, then returned the bag to the drawer.

Although I spent another half-hour in the apartment, I found nothing else to interest me, nor did I find my note to Helen.

I was glad to get out into the rain and the fresh air once more.

Sarti was very uneasy when I joined him.

“I was getting nervous,” he said. “You stayed there too long.”

I had too much on my mind to bother about his nerves. I told him I’d be at the Press Club at ten the following morning and left him.

When I got back to my apartment I sent the following cable to Jack Martin, Western Telegram’s New York crime reporter:

Supply all dope you can find on Carlo Manchini: dark, blunt-featured, broad, tall with white zigzag scar on chin. Will telephone Sunday. Urgent. Dawson.

Martin was an expert at his job. If there was an angle to Carlo’s visit to New York, he would know it.