You Find Him, I'll Fix Him

by James Hadley Chase

  “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.

  PART TEN

  I

  At ten the following morning, I entered the Press Club and asked the steward if there was anyone waiting for me.

  The steward said there was a gentleman in the coffee bar. From the tone of his voice he indicated that he was using the word “gentleman” as a matter of courtesy.

  I found Sarti sitting in a corner, twiddling his hat and staring blankly at the opposite wall.

  I took him over to a more comfortable chair and sat him down. He was clutching a leather portfolio which he rested on his fat knees. The garlic on his breath was enough to strip the barnacles off a ship’s keel.

  “Well? What have you got?” I said.

  “Following your instructions, signor,” he said, undoing the straps on his case, “I have set ten of my best men to work on la Signorina Chalmers’s background. I am still waiting for their reports, but in the meantime I have been able to gain a considerable amount of information from another source.” He scratched the tip of his ear, wriggling uncomfortably in his chair, then went on, “It is always possible that in making such a searching investigation unpleasant facts may come to light. I suggest that to prepare you for what is in my report, I should give you a brief resume of what I have discovered.”

  From what I had already found out about Helen’s background, I wasn’t surprised that he and his men had made similar discoveries.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I know more or less what you are going to tell me. I warned you this was a confidential business. La signorina was the daughter of a very powerful man, and we’ve got to be careful.”

  “I am aware of that, signor.” Sarti looked even more miserable. “You must realize Lieutenant Carlotti is also working along the same lines as we, and it will not be long before he will have the same information as I have here.” He tapped his portfolio. “To be more exact, he will have the information in three days’ time.”

  I stared at him. “How do you know that?”

  “Perhaps you know that la signorina was a drug addict?” Sarti said. “Her father made her a very small allowance. She needed considerable sums of money to buy drugs. I regret to tell you, signor, that to raise the money she blackmailed a number of men with whom she had been intimate.”

  I suddenly wondered if he had found out that I had been a prospective victim of hers.

  “I had more or less gathered that,” I said. “You didn’t answer my question. How do you know Carlotti… ?”

  “If you will excuse me, signor,” Sarti broke in. “I will come to that in a moment. In this folder I have a list of names and addresses of the men from whom la signorina obtained money. I will leave the list for you to study.” He gave me a long, slow stare that brought me out into a sudden sweat. I was sure now that my name was on the list.

  “How did you get hold of this information?” I asked, bringing out my packet of cigarettes and offering it to him.

  “No, thank you. I don’t care for American cigarettes,” Sarti said, bowing. “If I may be allowed…” He fished out the usual Italian cigarette and lit it. “I obtained the list from il Signor Veroni, a private detective who once worked for the police. He only undertakes special cases and is very expensive. I have been able to help him from time to time with my much larger organization. Knowing you wanted information urgently, I approached him. He immediately produced all this information I have here from his files.”

 
“How did he get it?” I asked, leaning forward and staring at Sarti.

  “He had been instructed to watch la signorina on her arrival in Rome. He and two of his men, taking it in turns, never let her out of their sight during the time she was in Rome.”

  That really shook me.

  “Did they follow her to Sorrento?” I asked.

  “No. They had no instructions to do that. Veroni was told only to watch her while she was in Rome.”

  “Who instructed him to watch her?”

  Sarti smiled sadly.

  “That I am unable to tell you, signor. You will understand that what I have already told you is strictly confidential. It is only because Veroni is my very good friend, and also because I gave him my sacred word that I would not pass on the information, that he agreed to help me.”

  “As you’ve broken your sacred word already,” I said impatiently, “what’s to stop you telling me who instructed him?”

  Sarti lifted his shoulders.

  “Nothing, signor, except that he didn’t tell me.” I sat back.

  “You said Carlotti would have this information in three days time. How do you know this?”

  “Veroni is giving the information to the Lieutenant. It was I who persuaded him not to do so until this period has elapsed.”

  “But why should he give Carlotti this information?”

  “Because he suspects la signorina was murdered,” Sarti said mournfully, “and he feels that it is his duty to give the Lieutenant the information. It is only when investigators help the police that the police in their turn will help them.”

  “Why have you told him to hold up the information for three days?”

  He moved uncomfortably.

  “If you will kindly read through the report I have prepared, you will see the reason, signor. You are my client. There may be things you wish to do. Let us say I have gained a little time for you.”

  I tried to meet his eyes, but I didn’t make it. I stubbed out my cigarette and lit another. I was feeling pretty bad.

  “My name is on the list, is that it?” I said, trying to make it sound casual.

  Sarti inclined his head.

  “Yes, signor. It is known that you went to Naples on the afternoon she died. It is known you visited her apartment twice during the night. It is also known that she telephoned you at your office and asked you to bring a piece of photographic equipment with you when you went to join her at Sorrento, and that she used, while speaking to you, the name of Mrs. Douglas

  Sherrard. Veroni took the precaution to tap your telephone line.”

  I sat for a moment, motionless.

  “And Veroni is going to turn this information over to Carlotti?”

  Sarti looked as if he were going to cry.

  “He feels it is his duty, signor; besides, he knows he could get into serious trouble by withholding evidence in a murder case. He could be charged as an accessory.”

  “But in spite of that he is still willing to give me three days’ grace?”

  “I have persuaded him to do so, signor.”

  I looked at him, feeling like a rabbit who has seen a ferret in its burrow. This was it. This was something I just couldn’t lie myself out of. If Carlotti knew I was Douglas Sherrard, he wouldn’t even need the note that I had left for Helen. He had only to hammer away at me, and sooner or later I would crack. I wasn’t kidding myself that I could get out of this spot once Carlotti had Veroni’s report in his hands.

  “Perhaps you would care to study the report, signor?” Sarti said. He was careful not to look at me. He managed to exude the sympathetic, mournful air of an undertaker. “Then perhaps we might talk again. You may have instructions for me.”

  I had an idea that there was something sinister behind this remark, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “Let me have it,” I said. “If you’re not in a hurry, you might wait here. Give me half an hour, will you?”

  “Certainly, signor,” he said, and pulled a sheaf of papers from his portfolio. He handed them to me. “I am in no hurry.”

  I took the papers and, leaving him, I walked down the corridor to the cocktail bar. At this hour and the fact that it was Sunday, I had the place to myself.

  The bar steward appeared. He conveyed to me by his hurt look that this was no time to disturb him.

  I ordered a double whisky, carried the drink to a corner table and sat down. I took the whisky neat. It did something to blot out my trapped feeling, but it didn’t take away my fear.

  I read the twenty-odd pages of carefully typed script. It contained a list of fifteen names: most of them were familiar to me. Giuseppe Frenzi’s name headed the list. Mine came halfway down. There were dates when Helen spent the night with Frenzi, when he called on her at her apartment, when she spent nights with other men. These I skipped through. I studied the details concerning my own activities with Helen. Sarti hadn’t been lying when he had told me that Veroni and his men had never let Helen out of their sight. Every meeting I had had with her was carefully logged. Every word that she and I had ever said to each other over the telephone was there to read. There were details of other telephone conversations between her and other men, and it was so obvious now, after reading the report, that I was just another of her prospective blackmail victims.

  Three days!

  Could I possibly pin Helen’s murder on Carlo before then? Would it be wiser to go to Carlotti and tell him the whole truth and let him get after Carlo? But why should he? He had only to listen to my story to be convinced that I had killed Helen. No… that wasn’t the way to handle it.

  Then a sudden thought struck me. There was not one mention of Carlo or Myra Setti in Veroni’s report. Helen must have telephoned either one or the other at least once. The fact that Myra’s telephone number had been scribbled on Helen’s wall proved that. Then why wasn’t Carlo or Myra in the report?

  There was a chance that Veroni had only noted down the conversations Helen had had with her blackmail victims, but surely she must have said something to Carlo or Myra over the telephone at one time that was worth recording in the report?

  I sat thinking about this for several minutes. Then I asked the bar steward to get me the Rome telephone book. He handed h to me as if he were doing me a favour and asked if I would like another drink. I said not at this moment.

  I nicked through the pages of the book, looking for Veroni’s name, but it didn’t show. This didn’t mean much. He probably ran his agency under a fancy name.

  I crossed over to the telephone booth near the bar and called Jim Matthews.

  It took me a little time to wake him up and get him out of bed.

  “For the love of mike!” he exclaimed when he came on the line. “Don’t you know it’s Sunday, you crazy lug? I didn’t get to bed until four this morning.”

  “Quit beefing,” I said. “I want some information. Have you ever heard of Veroni, a private detective who handles special cases and is very expensive?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Matthews said. “You’ve got the name wrong. I know all the private dicks in this city. Veroni isn’t one of them.”

  “He couldn’t be someone you’ve missed?”

  “I’m damn sure he isn’t. You’ve got the name wrong.”

  “Thanks, Jim. Sorry to have got you out of bed,” I said, and before he could start cursing me, I hung up.

  I told the bar steward that I had changed my mind about a drink, carried the whisky back to my table and went through the report again.

  Out of the fifteen men whom Helen had blackmailed, I was the only one, according to the report, who not only had the motive, but the opportunity of killing her.

  I spent another five minutes turning the set-up over in my mind, then I finished my drink, and, feeling a little high, I went back to the coffee bar.

  Sarti still sat where I had left him, twiddling his hat and looking sad. He rose to his feet as I came across to join him and sat down when I did.

  “Thanks for le
tting me read this,” I said, and offered him the sheaf of papers.

  He recoiled from it as if I had waved a black mamba in his face.

  “It is for you, signer. I wouldn’t wish to keep it.”

  “Yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking.” I folded the papers and put them in my inside pocket. “Il Signor Veroni has copies of these papers?”

  The corners of Sarti’s mouth turned down.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  I lit a cigarette and stretched my legs. I wasn’t feeling scared any more. I now had the idea what was behind this set-up.

  “Is il Signor Veroni wealthy?” I asked.

  Sarti raised his black, bloodshot eyes and looked inquiringly at me.

  “A private detective is never wealthy, signor,” he said. “For a month you work, then for three months, perhaps, you wait. I wouldn’t say il Signor Veroni is well off.”

  “Do you think we might make a deal with him?”

  Sarti appeared to consider this. He scratched the top of his scruffy head and frowned down at the bronze ashtray that stood on the table by him.

  “In what way — a deal, signor?”

  “Suppose I offered to buy these reports from him,” I said. “You must have read them.”

  “Yes, signor. I have read them.”

  “If Carlotti got hold of them, he might jump to the conclusion that I was responsible for la signorina’s death.”

  Sarti looked as if he were going to burst into tears.

  “That was the unfortunate impression that I got, signor. That was the only reason why I begged il Signor Veroni not to do anything for three days.”

  “Do you imagine Veroni’s high sense of duty would prevent him from making a deal with me?”

  Sarti shrugged his fat shoulders.

  “In my work, signor, one always looks ahead. It is a good thing to be prepared for every contingency. I thought it was possible that you would wish to keep these reports from Lieutenant Carlotti. I mentioned the fact to il Signor Veroni. He is a difficult man: his sense of duty is over-developed, but I have been friends with him for a long time and it is possible for me to put my cards on the table. I know his ambition is to buy a vineyard in Tuscany. It is possible that he could be persuaded.”