“Are you sure you won’t come back to the hotel?” Natzka asked.
“No, thank you. I’ll get home. Thanks for finding me.”
“Perhaps we will see something of you?” Natzka said, offering his hand. “I don’t like to be curious, but I must say I would like to know what happened. We won’t keep you now, but please tell us some time.”
“I’ll tell you,” Don said, shaking hands. He looked at Maria and smiled. “You will excuse me now?”
“You must be very strong and very tough, Mr. Micklem,” she said, and he noticed she spoke English without a trace of an accent. “You have a bad bruise.”
He grinned ruefully.
“I’m just putting on an act. As soon as I get home, I’ll burst into tears. Good night.”
He left them and walked quickly across the piazza towards the Palazzo della Toletta. He went immediately to his room, stripped off his soiled clothes, and put on a pair of dark blue linen trousers, a matching shirt and a black zip windbreaker. He changed his shoes for a pair of light, rubber-soled sneakers. From a drawer he took a small, flat flashlight and a leather case containing a burglar’s outfit. He put these two articles in his hip pockets. Then he took a roll of Italian currency from a despatch case and stowed it away in one of the pockets of the windbreaker.
While he changed, he had been trying to make up his mind if the short, thickset man had had anything to do with Tregarth’s disappearance or whether he had been a hold-up man who had taken the opportunity of grabbing some easy money.
Don remembered what Louisa Peccati “had said: You must be very careful. He is in very great danger. They are hunting for him.
Was the short, thickset man one of the hunters? That was something Don was determined now to find out He had had a lesson. From now on, he would be constantly on his guard. They wouldn’t find him so easy to handle next time.
39 Calle Mondello. Was that where Tregarth was hiding? Where was it? Venice was honeycombed with hundreds of dark, badly-lit Calle. Giuseppe, his gondolier, would know. It might be an idea to take Giuseppe along with him.
Don made for the door, then paused. He turned off the lights in the room, groped his way to the window and parted the curtains. He looked down at the quay. Although it was getting on for a quarter to one, crowds of sightseers still moved leisurely along the quay towards the focal point of all tourists: the San Marco.
Don watched them for a few moments, then a hard little smile lit up his face.
Leaning against the balustrade, his back to the canale di San Marco, apparently taking his ease while he watched the crowds, was the man in the white hat.
Four: 39 Calle Mondello
As Don walked quickly along the quay towards the Ponte della Paglia, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man in the white hat push himself away from the balustrade against which he had been leaning and move after him.
Don didn’t look around nor give any indication that he knew he was being followed. He kept on until he reached the gondola station.
A small group of gondoliers stood on the narrow quay where their long black gondolas were moored, gossiping and waiting hopefully to be hired. Giuseppe saw Don coming towards him and he broke away from the group.
“You wanted me, signore?” he asked. “We are going somewhere?”
“Not in the gondola,” Don said. “Come with me.”
He took Giuseppe to a square just behind the gondola station where there was a small cafe. The two men entered and sat down at a table at the far end of the room where Don could see the door.
He ordered two cappuccinos, offered Giuseppe a cigarette and grinned when he saw how excited and curious Giuseppe was. Giuseppe was a famous racing gondolier. For the past three years he had won the gondoliers’ race at the annual regatta, beating all comers, and he liked nothing better than to brag about his strength and his prowess as an oarsman. Tall, swarthy and immensely powerful, with a teak-hard face and heavy black moustache he made a striking picture in his black blouse and black trousers. He was on Don’s payroll, and was much envied by his companions for having a steady income without much work.
“Do you know where Calle Mondello is?” Don asked.
Giuseppe looked surprised. He nodded.
“Certainly, signore. It is near the Campo San Polo, on the other side of the Canale by the Rialto Bridge.”
“That’s where we’re going, but before we go, there’s a man we have to get rid of.”
Giuseppe’s eyes opened.
“We kill him, you mean, signore?” he asked, intrigued.
“No, we don’t kill him, you dope,” Don said shortly. Giuseppe might be the fastest gondolier in Venice, but his brainpower was nothing to get excited about. “We knock him on the
head. He’s been following me around all the evening and it’s time to discourage him.”
Giuseppe eyed the bruise on Don’s chin.
“Il signore has already been fighting?” he asked. When Giuseppe wasn’t rowing his gondola, fighting and lovemaking were his favourite pastimes.
“Never mind that,” Don said. He touched his jaw gingerly. “Just pay attention to what I’m saying.”
“Certainly, signore,” Giuseppe said, grinning. “Where is this man?”
“He’s probably outside waiting for me. He is tall and thin, and is wearing a white suit and a white hat. Now, listen, here’s what we do. You wait here. I will walk towards San Maria Miracoli. Give me one minute, then come after me. You should see this guy tailing me. You can’t miss him. When we get to a quiet place I’ll give a whistle. We’ll both go for him; but watch out, he’s dangerous.”
“Pooph!” Giuseppe said scornfully. “I am dangerous, too. Show me this man, signore, and I will take care of him. I will hit him so, and boom! he’s no more.”
“Watch out he doesn’t go boom first,” Don said.
“I will take care of him for you, signore. It will be a pleasure. It is perhaps an affair of the heart? This man is the signorina’s brother or father perhaps?”
“It’s nothing of the kind,” Don said shortly. He finished his coffee and stood up. “Watch out, and don’t make a move until I whistle.”
“Yes, signore,” Giuseppe returned, looking crestfallen.
Don paid for the coffees and left the cafe. He saw no sign of the man in the white hat, but he was sure he was lurking somewhere in the shadows, watching him. He set off along the dimly-lit Calle, his ears pricked for the sound of following footsteps. After he had gone some fifty yards, he thought he could hear soft footfalls in the rear. He kept on, not looking back, cutting down one Calle after another.
At that hour this particular district was deserted, and when Don reached a Calle so narrow that he could touch either wall by stretching out his arms, he gave a shrill whistle turned and quickly retraced his steps.
The man in the white hat who had been keeping just out of sight, heard Don coming back, and he, in his turn, spun around and retreated swiftly.
Giuseppe was close behind him and, invisible in his black blouse and trousers, he stepped into a doorway. As the man in the white hat passed him, he shot out his great hand, caught the man by the back of his neck and slammed his head against the wall.
Stunned, the man in the white hat sagged at the knees, and Giuseppe, still holding him by the back of his neck, turned him and hit him a crushing punch on the side of his jaw.
Don came up in time to see the man in the white hat drop like a sack of coal on to the paving stones.
“Nice work, Joe,” he said, bending over the inert body.
“You see, signore, it is as I say. I go boom! and he is no more,” Giuseppe said proudly and he blew on his fist. “He will sleep a long time now.”
Don was going swiftly through the unconscious man’s pockets. He found a short stabbing knife, but little else to interest him. There was no clue on the man to tell Don who he was.
He took out his lighter and holding the flame close to the dark, hawk-like face, he said, “E
ver seen him before, Giuseppe?”
“No, signore. He is a stranger to me.”
Don straightened up.
“Okay; take me to Calle Mondello fast,” he said.
A few minutes quick walking brought them to the Rialto Bridge. Here Don paused.
He remembered Louisa Peccati’s warning to be very careful. There might be more than one man watching him. Before he went to this place, he had to be certain no one else was following him.
“You go on ahead,” he said. “Go slowly and make a noise as you walk. Don’t go immediately to this Calle. I want to be sure no one else is watching us. Do you understand?”
Giuseppe nodded. This was far more interesting and exciting than rowing a gondola.
“You will be all right, signore, alone?”
There were times when Giuseppe irritated Don and this was one of them.
“Get going!” he said sharply.
Giuseppe went on ahead, crossed the bridge and disappeared into the darkness.
Don remained in the shadows. He gave Giuseppe a few moments’ start, then he went after him. He could hear Giuseppe’s heavy boots clumping on the paving stones. As he came onto the bridge, Don darted into one of the dark arches. There he waited, listening. Nothing happened, no one appeared. He could now see Giuseppe on the far bank of the Canale, moving along the quay.
Still Don waited, listening. Then he heard a soft footfall. He flattened himself against the wall of the arch, knowing he would be invisible in his dark clothes. Very cautiously he peered around the arch. He saw nothing for some moments, then he caught sight of the short, thickset man in black moving on to the bridge.
So he wasn’t, after all, just a hold-up man, Don thought. It looked as if he and the man in the white hat worked together. The thickset man seemed uneasy. He stood in the shadow of the bridge, looking across it. Don guessed he was puzzled as to why he could only hear one set of footfalls. He probably suspected a trap. Apparently he decided he couldn’t just stand and stare, and cautiously he moved forward, making no sound.
He passed the arch where Don was standing and went on until he reached the middle of the bridge. He looked back uneasily, then entered one of the arches to stare across at the farside quay.
Don left his hiding place and ran silently up to the arch where the thickset man stood. The man’s squat, broad back was turned to him. Like a ghost, Don crept up to him and tapped him sharply on his shoulder.
The thickset man must have had nerves like steel. He didn’t even start. He spun around and his fist struck upwards, but this time Don was ready for him. He hadn’t held a brown judo belt for five years for nothing. He had hoped the thickset man would throw a punch, and he caught his flying wrist, twisted around and pulled down hard.
With a grunt of alarm, the man sailed over Don’s head and landed with a sickening thud on the paving stones. His head cracked against the low kerb and he went limp. Don bent over him and went through his pockets. He found his own wallet stuffed in the thickset man’s hip pocket and he relieved him of it. Apart from a similar stabbing knife to the one the man in the white hat carried, there was nothing else of interest in the man’s pockets.
Don left him lying in the shadow of the arches and ran swiftly across the bridge, down on to the quay and into the Calle where Giuseppe was waiting for him.
“We’re clear now,” Don said. “Where’s this place?”
“Down here, signore. Follow me.”
Giuseppe led Don down the Calle and into another that was so narrow the two men had to walk in single file. At the far end was a hump-shaped bridge that took them over a rio, down some steps into yet another Calle, flanked either side by shabby, forlorn-looking houses that showed no lights.
“This is it, signore,” Giuseppe said.
Don took out his flashlight and sent the beam on to a door just by him.
“Thirty-nine must be further along on this side,” he said, keeping his voice low.
They moved forward into the darkness. A few yards on, Don paused again and turned on his light.
“This is it,” he said, stepping back to look up at a narrow three-storeyed house whose peeling walls and boarded-up windows seemed to frown down at him. “It doesn’t look as if anyone is living here.”
“These houses are condemned, signore,” Giuseppe told him. “They are going to be pulled down. You won’t find anyone here.”
Don was examining the door of No. 39. He noticed the hinges of the door had been recently oiled. He took hold of the doorknob, turned it and pushed.
To his surprise the door opened silently and swung inwards.
He threw the beam of his flashlight through the open doorway. The light picked up a narrow passage, a door to the right and a flight of stairs.
“Wait here,” he said to Giuseppe. “I’m going in. Keep your eyes open.”
“Yes, signore,” Giuseppe said.
Don stepped into the passage and paused for a moment to examine the dusty floorboards. They were covered with footprints; at least one set was the prints of a woman’s shoes. He went cautiously to the door on the right, turned the handle and pushed. The door opened with a sharp, creaking sound. Don swung his light around the empty room. Dust, cobwebs and a sour, stuffy smell greeted him. A gigantic spider scuttled across the dusty floor and into a hole in the rotting floorboards. Don closed the door and examined the stairs. Most of the banisters had disappeared and the stairs looked old and rotten, but he could see footprints in the dust, telling him more than one person had climbed the stairs recently.
Keeping close to the peeling wall, he went up the stairs while Giuseppe watched him uneasily.
“Have a care, signore,” he muttered. “Mind where you step.”
Don waved him to silence, and went on up until he reached the first floor landing.
Two doors faced him.
He paused to listen, then hearing nothing, he stepped silently to the first door, gently turned the handle and eased the door open.
A sudden sound inside the room made him stiffen. There came out of the evil-smelling darkness a rustle of paper, then a soft, distinct thud.
Don snapped off his light and stepped away from the door. His heart beat a little faster as he waited, listening. More paper rustled. Then he heard a scurrying sound, and he grimaced. Rats! he thought. A place like this must be full of them. He put his foot against the door and gave it a quick shove, then he sent the beam of his flashlight around the room.
A monster water rat ran frantically around the room, jumped up against the wall, fell back with a thud, and scurried into the darkness unlit by Don’s flashlight. But Don scarcely paid it any attention. He shifted his light to the centre of the room.
Lying on the floor in the thick dust, the front of her black dress sodden with blood, was Louisa Peccati.
A big squat spider with long hairy legs crawled out from under a heap of rat-torn paper that at one time had peeled off the walls. Fat and obscene-looking, it moved slowly across the floor, through the pool of light from Don’s torch to disappear into the shadows.
Don felt cold sweat on his face. He didn’t move. He kept his flashlight directed on the dead girl. As he stared at her, he saw there was something wrong with her right hand and, peering forward, he caught his breath sharply as he saw the back of her hand was a mass of small burns as if someone had pressed lighted cigarettes into her flesh.
Suddenly coldly angry, he moved forward.
There was a flash, a scurry as a furry brown body whipped past him as the rat dashed out of the room.
Don bent over the girl and gently touched her cheek. She was still warm. She couldn’t have been dead for more than half an hour, he decided. Those two men must have caught her after knocking him out. Probably the man in the white hat had captured her as she had run down the Calle. Don’s face was hard and set. They wanted information, and they had burned it out of her. She knew Tregarth’s hiding place. She had told him to come here. The fact she was here herself and dead su
ggested they had forced her to talk.
He straightened up, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.
Had these two found Tregarth?
He moved quickly out of the room, closed the door and crossed the landing to the other door. He turned the handle and pushed the door open.
As soon as he swung the beam of his flashlight around the room, he guessed he was looking at Tregarth’s hiding place. A camp bed on which were two rough blankets, stood against the wall. A packing case served as a table; a small box served as a chair. A half-burned candle, stuck in a wine bottle, stood on the packing case.
There was no one in the room.
Don crossed to the candle and lit it.
He stood looking round.
By the bed was a basket containing tins of food, some grapes, a bottle of wine and a long, crusty loaf. A biscuit tin contained dozens of cigarette butts, and, picking one up, Don saw it was an English brand.
In a corner lay a leather suitcase, its contents tumbled on to the dusty floor. Don went over to it. He felt a little wave of excitement run up his spine when he saw the initials J.T. on the side of the case.
On the floor were a few handkerchiefs, a change of underwear, a hairbrush, toothbrush and shaving kit. Don squatted down on his heels and turned these few articles over, but they told him nothing. Obviously someone had already searched the case. If there had been anything of value or any papers in it, they had been taken.
Don straightened and once more looked around the room.
Why had Tregarth hidden himself in this evil-smelling, filthy house? Who was Louisa Peccati and what was her connection with Tregarth for which she had paid so dearly? Where was
Tregarth now?
Don ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. There were so many questions and apparently no answers. He put the various articles that lay on the floor back into the suitcase, closed it and stood up.
He didn’t intend to leave the suitcase here for the police to find. If they succeeded in tracing the suitcase to Tregarth, they might jump to the conclusion that Tregarth had murdered
1954 - Mission to Venice Page 5