Don grinned at him.
“I thought you’d say that. That’s fine. You’re going to Paris right away. You’ll go to the Chatham Hotel and ask for Tregarth. I’m pretty sure he will have gone by the time you get there, but just in case he is still there, make sure he is Tregarth. I’m willing to bet my last buck he’s an impostor, but I must be sure.” He took from his desk drawer the photograph of Tregarth Hilda had given him. “This is a good likeness of Tregarth. Take it and check it against this man who says he is Tregarth. If he isn’t Tregarth, don’t let on you know he is an impostor. Tell him I have been called back to London on most urgent business and that I suggest he returns with you and comes to Upper Brook Mews where we can talk I don’t think you will have to do this for a moment. I’m sure our man won’t be there. If he isn’t, show the photograph to the reception clerk and see if he recognizes Tregarth. Here again, I’m sure he won’t be able to. Now can you do all that?”
Cherry moistened his lips and his bright blue eyes gleamed with excitement. This was much more interesting than organizing a string of society parties.
“Certainly, sir. I should behave like an inquiry agent, I take it? What is popularly known as a private eye, I believe.”
“That’s the idea,” Don said, concealing a grin “But watch out, Cherry. These people are dangerous.”
“I shall take every precaution,” Cherry returned gravely. “My late master, the Duke, presented me as a parting gift with a sword stick. I have acquired a certain amount of skill with it and any assassin will find I am not easily disposed of, that I can assure you.”
Don gaped. The idea of fat Cherry defending himself with a sword struck him as so funny he had difficulty in controlling his features.
“In the meantime, sir,” Cherry went on, “what do you intend to do? I take it your plan is to mislead these people into thinking you have gone to Paris when in reality you will remain here?”
“That’s the idea,” Don said, startled that Cherry should take so easily to this situation. “As soon as we’re ready, we’ll get Giuseppe to run us over to the Lido airport in the motorboat. I’ll fix it with Jack Pleydell to have a plane waiting. We’ll fly first to Padua and there I’ll leave the plane and return to Venice by train. Jack will take you on to Paris. I’m hoping I’ve convinced la signorina Natzka that I am going to Paris, but there may be someone at the Paris airport to see if I do arrive. I will tell Jack to go on to London as soon as you have left the plane. I want Jack to pick up Harry and bring him back to Venice. I have an idea I might need him.”
Cherry looked relieved.
“I was going to suggest you should send for him, sir. Mason may be a little unruly and there are times when he is an extremely dangerous driver, but he is to be relied on. I’m glad you are having him with you.”
“That’s settled then. Keep in touch with me through Giuseppe. You know where he lives and he will know at all times where I am.” He looked at his watch. “He should be waiting for me now. I said I would see Louisa Peccati’s father this afternoon, but that’ll have to wait. Go and pack, Cherry, while I fix the plane.”
“Yes, sir.”
Moving with surprising speed for a man of his age and bulk, Cherry left the room.
* * *
A tall, bearded man, wearing a dark blue corduroy suit and a black slouch hat walked down to the embankment from the railway station. He waited with a crowd of newly—arrived tourists while the vaporetto edged towards the landing stage. Hitching up his rucksack, he moved forward as the barrier was let down and took his place against the outer rail with a small group of young Americans who were seeing Venice for the first time.
Not even Don’s closest friends would have recognized him now. Arriving at Padua he had gone to a theatrical shop he had dealt with when he had once staged a costume ball at his palazzo and there, swearing Benvenuto, the owner of the shop, to secrecy, he had put himself in Benvenuto’s hands to alter his appearance. Benvenuto had turned him into a hard-up American artist on a walking tour, and he had excelled himself.
The beard was necessary to hide the Z-shaped scar on Don’s cheek, and it bothered him, but he knew he had to put up with it. The clothes, the hat and the heavy walking shoes made him look bigger and heavier than he was, and he was confident no one would recognize him.
He left the boat at the San Zaccaria landing-stage, and walking slowly, he made his way across the Piazzetta, past the San Marco basilica and through the shopping quarter towards Giuseppe’s modest lodging close to San Maria Formosa.
As he turned the corner of the Calle he had to make a sharp effort not to check his stride. Just ahead of him, walking slowly, was the man in the white hat. There was no mistaking the tall, lean figure. He walked leisurely, his hands in his pockets, his white hat at the back of his head, the sun glinting on his gold earrings.
Don slightly slowed his pace, wondering if this man’s presence so close to Giuseppe’s lodgings meant anything. The man in the white hat glanced over his shoulder. He looked directly at Don who stared at him indifferently, then he looked away and Don breathed again.
At the end of the Calle was a wine shop, and the man in the white hat went in and sat at a table near the door. Don paused outside the shop, hesitated as any tourist might hesitate, and then entered.
The man in the white hat glanced at him, then glanced away.
Don sat down.
A girl came over to him.
“Vino rose,” Don said loudly. “You understand?”
The girl looked at him indifferently, nodded and went over to the man in the white hat who ordered a bottle of white chianti.
Don lit a cigarette and stared through the open door.
The girl brought him a carafe of very indifferent red wine and a glass. She charged him twice as much as the wine was worth, and then she went over to the man in the white hat and served him with the chianti.
“Have you seen il signor Busso this morning?” the man in the white hat asked. “I’m expecting him.”
“No, Signor Curizo, I haven’t seen him this morning.”
The man in the white hat grunted and lighting a cigarette, stretched out his long legs and stared gloomily down at the soiled table top.
Don drank some of his wine, then opening his rucksack, he took out a copy of the Continental Daily Mail and glanced at it.
The man in the white hat whom the girl had called Signor Curizo had drunk half his wine before a shadow suddenly darkened the doorway and the short, thickset man came in.
“I know I’m late,” he said, sitting down at Curizo’s table, “but my head is very bad. I shouldn’t be here.”
“Forget your damned head,” Curizo snarled. “It was your own fault. I’ve been waiting twenty minutes for you.”
The thickset man whose name Don guessed was Busso, showed his teeth in a vicious snarl.
“The next time . . .”
“Yes; it is always the next time. There won’t be a next time. He’s gone to Paris.”
“But he will be back.”
“By then we won’t be here.” Curizo got up. “Come on; there are things to do.”
Busso grunted as he got to his feet.
“Don’t I have time for a drink?”
“No. We’re late already. Come on.”
They left the wine shop and Don watched them walk down the Calle and out of sight. He got up quickly and went after them. He caught sight of them as he turned the corner of the Calle. They were crossing a campo, and as Don watched them, keeping just out of sight, he saw Curizo pause outside a tall, flat fronted house, take a key from his pocket and open the shabby, black-painted front door.
Both men entered and shut the door behind them.
Don made a mental note of the number of the house and the name of the campo, then feeling it would be unwise to venture into the campo in case he was seen from one of the windows of the house, he retraced his steps, passed the wine shop and in a few moments was rapping on the door of Giuseppe’s l
odgings.
Giuseppe himself opened the door.
“Good evening,” Don said gruffly. “I understand a gondolier lives here who claims to be the best oarsman in Venice. Is that so?”
Giuseppe drew himself up to his full height and his fierce black eyes flashed.
“I am the best oarsman in Venice,” he said loudly. “Who are you and what do you want?”
Don grinned at him.
“Don’t you know me, Joe?”
Giuseppe stared, blinked, stared again, then stood aside.
“I did not know you, signore. It is a very fine disguise.”
Don entered a large room, sparsely furnished, but clean and orderly.
“I’m without a home at the moment,” he said. “Can I make this room my headquarters? I shall only be here a few hours for some sleep, and it won’t be for more than a couple of days.”
“Certainly, signore,” Giuseppe said, his face lighting up. “Consider everything here for what it is as your own.”
“Thanks, Joe,” Don said. “Now listen, those two fellows we ran into last night have just gone to 22A, Campo de Salizo. They may live there; they may not. I want the house watched, day and night. Do you know anyone we can trust to do this? I shall want a report on who goes in and comes out. There is a cafe almost opposite. It shouldn’t be difficult.”
“That can be arranged,” Giuseppe said. “I know the girl who works at the cafe. She will watch the house until midnight then I will take over. There will be perhaps a little money for her?”
“Pay her what you think,” Don said, taking out a roll of Italian currency. He gave Giuseppe a ten thousand lira note. “This should take care of the use of this room and what you pay her. Okay?”
Giuseppe’s dark face beamed.
“Yes, signore.”
“These two men have seen us together. They mustn’t see us together again,” Don went on. “I have no immediate job for you, but there will be one before long. Go to this cafe right away and warn the girl to watch the house. I am going to talk to il signor Peccati. I’ll see you back here in about two hours or so.”
“I shall be here, signore.”
The two men left the room. Giuseppe hurried away to the Campo del Salizo, while Don made his way towards the Fondamente Nuove.
Stefano Peccati sat in a wheeled chair in a small, gloomy room that boasted only of two chairs, a table and a shabby rug. Peccati’s yellow, wrinkled face was set in a cold, stony agony of grief. His legless torso was upright, and he regarded Don with bright, hard, unblinking eyes.
“I cannot see you today, signore,” he said. “I have just lost my daughter. An old man is entitled to share his sorrow with no one.”
“Yes,” Don said gently, “but I know something about the way your daughter died. I feel you should know about it.”
The old man’s face tightened.
“Who are you? What do you know about my daughter?”
“I am Don Micklem. Perhaps your daughter has mentioned my name?”
“I have seen il signore. You are nothing like him. Please go away.”
“You have noticed the Z-shaped scar on the right side of Micklem’s face?” Don said. “Look, see for yourself,” and he carefully parted the false hair that Benvenuto had gummed to his face and leaned forward. “Do you see it?”
Peccati stared at him suspiciously.
“I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps you will if you will listen to me,” Don said. “Does the name John Tregarth mean anything to you?”
By the change of expression in the old man’s eyes, Don’s question was answered.
“The name is familiar,” Peccati said quietly. “What of it?”
“He is a friend of mine and he has disappeared,” Don said. “I am looking for him. Two men named Curizo and Busso have some connection with his disappearance. I was told by Tregarth’s wife to contact Manrico Rossi who is a business associate of Tregarth. I went to his shop. Your daughter recognized me. She made from a piece of glass Tregarth’s initials. It was done in such a way that only I saw it. This action told me she didn’t want me to speak to her then. I saw her later. She gave an address to go to after I had told her I was looking for Tregarth. Before she could tell me anything further, Busso surprised and knocked me out. When I recovered, I went immediately to 39 Calle Mondello, the address she gave me. It was obviously Tregarth’s hiding place, but he wasn’t there. I found your daughter: she had been tortured and murdered.”
The old man closed his fists and lowered his head.
Don lit a cigarette and walked over to the window to give the old man time to recover. He turned only when, after a few moments, Peccati said, “Go on, signore, you have more to tell me?”
“Very little more. Since then, every move I have made has been watched. An effort has been made to get me to leave Venice. I decided if I am to solve this mystery I must have freedom of movement. I left Venice, disguised myself as you see and returned. I want as many facts as I can get. I not only want to avenge your daughter, I want also to find Tregarth. Can you help me?”
“How can I help you? I am a helpless cripple,” Peccati said bitterly. “If I could, I would. It is not possible.”
Don sat down.
“You can help me perhaps by giving me some information. Did you know your daughter and Tregarth knew each other?”
The old man nodded.
“Il signor Tregarth is a very good friend of ours,” he said. “He saved the life of my son during the war. My son was an active leader of the resistance movement in Milan. If il signore hadn’t supplied arms and money the movement would have failed.”
“Where is your son now?” Don asked.
The old man lifted his shoulders.
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard or seen him for six years. The last I heard of him he was in Rome.”
“Is Tregarth in Venice now?” Don asked.
“I think he must be,” the old man returned. “He may have got away, but I think it is unlikely.”
“Will you tell me what happened? Did he come to see you?”
“Yes, he came.”
“When was this?”
“Seven days ago. We had gone to bed. About two o’clock in the morning I woke to hear someone knocking on the door. Louisa came into my room. I told her not to answer the door, but she said it was someone who knew the old signal we used during the war: a sign that help was needed. I didn’t like her going to the door. As you see, signore, I am old and helpless. There was nothing I could do to protect her, but she insisted on going. It was il signor Tregarth. He was ill and exhausted. Before he collapsed he managed to tell her someone was after him and that he might have been seen coming here. Louisa locked and bolted the door. She dragged il signore into the back room and made him as comfortable as she could. He had been shot: a bad flesh wound across his ribs. It wasn’t a new wound: perhaps a fortnight or three weeks old, but it was infected and very painful. He was feverish too. While she dressed the wound, I sat by the windows of the front room in the darkness and watched. I saw two men: a tall man and a short man come along the Fondamente. They passed the house, then after a little while, they returned and went the other way.”
“One of these men wore a white hat?” Don asked.
The old man nodded.
“Those two men murdered your daughter,” Don said quietly.
“I guessed it,” Peccati said. “They must be punished, signore.”
“They will be.” Don got up and began to move about the room while he considered the information the old man had given him. “How long did Tregarth stay with you?”
“For one day only. He recovered a little of his strength after Louisa had dressed his wound and had given him a meal. I don’t know what he told her; not much, I think. I spent most of the time at the window of the front room, keeping watch. She told me a ‘little of what was said when he had gone. He was in bad trouble. He had been followed all the way from Vienna, and twice attempts had been mad
e on his life. He managed to reach Venice, but by then they were close on his heels. They nearly caught him, but he remembered Louisa lived close by and he got under cover just in time.”
“Did he say who these people were who are hunting him?”
The old man shook his head.
“We didn’t ask. We have learned that no mouth is to be relied on not to talk under pressure. Some talk under little pressure; some talk under great pressure, but sooner or later, they all talk.”
“There are exceptions,” Don said quietly. “He remained with you for the whole of the next day? Then what happened?”
“He was able to remain with us all that day because it was Sunday, and Louisa didn’t have to go to work. Il signor Tregarth said it was necessary for him to find another hiding place.
He refused to risk our lives although we both wanted him to stay. He insisted. Louisa knew of this house in the Calle della Mondello. No one ever went there. One of the rooms had a bed in it, left by the previous occupier. That night she and il signore went there. It took them a long time as il signore was very weak. He said he would remain there until he got better, then he would try once more to get to England.”
“That was what he wanted to do? Return to England?”
“He said it was imperative he should return to England without delay.”
If this were true, Don thought, it made nonsense of Sir Robert Graham’s theory that Tregarth had gone over to the other side. But how could he be certain it was the truth?
“What happened then? Did he get better?”
“No, signore, he did not get better. The house was damp. Louisa couldn’t get to see him to dress his wound as often as was necessary. Il signor Tregarth’s fever increased. Two days after he had left here, this man in the white hat came to see Rossi at the shop. Louisa recognized him from my description. Rossi knew Tregarth had once helped our family. This man Curizo - is that his name? - knew Tregarth had vanished near our house. It was simple then for him to suspect we knew where Tregarth was. From then on our house was watched, and Louisa had very great difficulty in seeing il signor Tregarth at all. She warned him that she was being watched. It was then he remembered you were coming to Venice. He had seen it in the newspaper. He wrote a postcard to his London business manager. He was afraid to write direct to his wife in case Louisa was caught posting the card and Curizo saw it. Did you receive the message, signore?”
1954 - Mission to Venice Page 8