This reasoning would have convinced me if it were not for the new job: I wanted to run the foreign desk more than I wanted anything else in this world. I knew I wouldn't get the job if Chalmers learned the truth. I would be mad to throw away my future by telling the police the truth: that way I had everything to lose. If I kept quiet, and had some luck, there was a good chance I would get away with it.
It wasn't as if there had been anything between us, I told myself. I wasn't even in love with the girl. It had been a stupid, irresponsible impulse. She had been more to blame than I. She had encouraged me. She had arranged everything. According to Maxwell, she was a practised siren. She had a reputation for making trouble for men. I'd be a fool not to try and save myself. Having got all that off my chest, I calmed down-Okay, I thought, I've got to make certain no
one ever knows I've been here. I've got to establish an alibi for myself.
By now I had reached the gate that led through the garden to the villa. I paused there to look at my watch. The time was half-past eight. Maxwell and Gina believed right now that I was in Venice. There wasn't a hope of getting from here to Venice to-night. My only chance to establish an alibi was to get back to Rome. With any luck, I could get there by about three in the morning. I would go to the office early the following morning, and make out I had changed my mind about going to Venice and, instead, had stayed in Rome to finish a chapter of a novel I was writing.
It wasn't much of an alibi, but it was the best I could think of at the moment. The point was that it would be easy for the police to prove that I hadn't been to Venice, but impossible for them to prove that I hadn't spent all day in my pent house apartment. I had a private stairway to the apartment and no one ever saw me enter or leave.
If only I had brought my car! It would have been simple to get to Rome if I had the car. I didn't dare take the Lincoln convertible which I could see as I rounded the bend in the garden path.
The village woman whom Helen had hired to run the villa was certain to know Helen had brought the car. If it were missing, the police might jump to the conclusion that Helen's death hadn't been accidental.
I would have to walk to Sorrento, and then try for a train to Naples. I had no idea what time the last train left Sorrento for Naples, but I thought it more than likely that by the time I had covered the five long miles on foot, the last train would have gone. I knew there was an elevenfifteen from Naples to Rome, but I had still to get to Naples. Once again I looked at the Lincoln convertible. I fought down the temptation to take it. Whatever I did, I must not complicate this set-up more than it was already.
As I moved around the car and towards the drive, I looked back at the dark, silent villa and I got a shock.
Had I imagined the flash of light that had appeared from within the lounge?
Moving quickly and silently, my heart hammering, I crouched down behind the car.
I stared at the lounge windows for a long moment, then I saw again the gleam of white light which immediately disappeared.
I waited, breathing hard, as I peered over the hood of the car.
Again the light appeared. This time it remained on longer.
Someone was in the lounge with a flashlight!
Who could it be?
Not the woman from the village. She wouldn't need to creep around like this in the dark. She would have turned on the lights.
I was now really rattled. Keeping low, I moved away from the car, across the tarmac, away from the villa until I reached the comforting cover of a huge hydrangea shrub. I got behind this, then peered back at the villa.
The light was moving around the lounge as if the intruder in there was searching for something.
I wanted to find out who it was. I was tempted to creep in there and surprise whoever it was: probably some sneak thief, but I knew I had to keep out of sight. No one must know I had been to the villas. It galled me to watch the light moving around the room and to know I couldn't do anything about it.
After five minutes or so, the light went out. There was a long pause, then I became aware of a tall figure of a man who came through the front door. He paused for a moment at the head of the steps. It was now far too dark to see more than his shadowy outline.
He moved softly down the steps, went over to the car and peered inside. He turned on his flashlight. His back was turned to me. I could see he was wearing a black slouch hat and the width of his shoulders was impressive. I was glad now that I hadn't gone in there and surprised him. He looked big enough to more than take care of himself.
The light went out and he moved away from the car. I crouched down, expecting him to come towards me and make for the exit at the bottom of the drive. Instead, he went swiftly and silently across the lawn, and I just managed to see that he was heading for the path that led to the distant garden gate before he was swallowed up in the darkness.
Puzzled and uneasy, I stared after him, then realizing that time was going, and that I had to get back to Rome, I left my hiding-place and hurried down the drive, through the wrought-iron gates and on to the road.
All the way to Sorrento I puzzled about this intruder. Had he been a sneak thief? Or was he connected in some way with Helen? The question remained unanswered. The only comfort that
I could get from this mysterious situation was that I hadn't been seen.
I reached Sorrento at ten minutes past ten. I had run, walked and run again, and I was pretty near bushed as I walked into the station. The last train to Naples had left ten minutes ago.
I had five minutes over the hour to get somehow to Naples. I got my suitcase from the leftluggage office, taking care to keep my head bent so the clerk couldn't get a good look at me, then I went out into the dark station yard where a lone taxi waited. The driver was dozing, and I got into the cab before he woke.
"I'll give you double fare and a five thousand lire tip if you get me to Naples station before eleven fifteen," I told him.
There is no wilder, madder or more dangerous driver in the world than an Italian. When one gives him a challenge like this, the only thing to do is to sit right, close your eyes and pray.
The taxi driver didn't even turn around to look at me. He stiffened to attention, sank his thumb into the starter button, threw in his clutch and tore out of the station yard on two wheels.
The road out of Sorrento for twelve miles or so is shaped like a coiled snake. There are hairpin bends, tight corners and only enough room for two buses to pass if they stop, and the drivers lean out of their windows and then take it dead slow.
My driver went along this road as if it were as flat and as straight as a foot rule. He kept hi3 hand on his horn and his headlights gave warning of his coming, but there were moments when I thought my last hour had arrived. It was pure luck that we didn't meet the hourly local bus, otherwise we couldn't have avoided a smash.
Once on the autostrada to Naples it was plain sailing, and I could relax a little. At this hour there wasn't much traffic, and the taxi kept up a roaring, snarling eighty-five miles an hour for a little more than half an hour.
We got into the outskirts of Naples at five minutes to eleven. This was the crucial moment of the drive, for the traffic of Naples at all times is notoriously heavy and slow. It was then that my driver proved to me that he wasn't only a dangerous and mad driver, but he was also completely indifferent to human life and limb.
He cut through the traffic the way a hot knife slices through butter. The fact that other Italian drivers were intimidated underlined his ferocious ruthlessness. No Italian driver will ever give way willingly to another driver, but in this case, they seemed glad to give way, and the whole route to the station was punctuated with the screaming of tortured tyres as cars braked violently,
the honking of horns and the yells of fury.
I was surprised the police didn't take action. Maybe it was because the taxi was out of sight before they could get their whistles to their mouths.
We arrived at the station at five minutes a
fter eleven, and as the driver slammed on his brakes and came to a skidding standstill he turned around to grin at me.
I had my hat pulled well down over my eyes and the interior of the cab was dark. I knew he wouldn't recognize me again.
"How's that, signor?" he asked, obviously delighted with himself.
"Terrific," I said breathlessly, as I shoved a handful of dirty thousand lire notes into his hand, "Well done, and thanks."
I grabbed my suitcase, left the taxi and sprinted across the sidewalk into the station. I bought a ticket and legged it along the platform to where the train was waiting.
Four minutes later, alone in a dirty third-class carriage, I watched the lights of Naples fade in the distance.
I was on my way to Rome!
II
Gina's large blue eyes opened to their fullest extent when she saw me standing in the doorway.
"Why, Ed!"
"Hello."
I closed the door and came over to sit on the edge of her desk. It was a relief to be back on my home ground. There was a feeling of security in this neat, well-ordered office.
I had spent a horrible six hours sweating it out in my apartment. Being alone with Helen's death on my mind had been bad.
"Is there anything wrong?" she asked sharply.
I wish I could have told her just how wrong things were.
"Why, no: there's nothing wrong," I said. "I couldn't get a room in Venice. I called the Travel Association and they said I hadn't a dog's chance of getting in anywhere at short notice, so I decided to let Venice go. Then I thought I might put a little work in on my novel. I got so engrossed with my own cleverness I didn't stop working until three o'clock this morning."
"But you're supposed to be on vacation," Gina said. There was a worried, puzzled expression in her eyes that warned me she wasn't sure if I were telling her the truth. "If you're not going to Venice, where are you going?"
"Don't bully me," I said. I found it difficult to use a bantering tone and I realized that perhaps it was a mistake to see Gina so soon after Helen's death. I've said before that Gina had a knack of knowing to a certain extent what was going on in my mind. I could see as she stared up at me that she suspected something was badly wrong. "I thought I might take the car and go to Monte Carlo. You have my passport somewhere, haven't you? I can't find it in the apartment."
At this moment the door opened and Maxwell came in. He paused in the doorway and gave me a curious stare. His eyes became hostile.
"Why, hello," he said, then moved into the room, closing the door behind him. "Can't you keep away from this joint or don't you think I can handle the job?"
I was in no mood to take anything from him.
"You wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could handle it," I said curtly. "I've looked in for my passport. I tried to get fixed up in Venice, but all the hotels are full."
He relaxed a little, but I could see he didn't like my being here.
"You've taken enough time to find that out, haven't you? You want to get organized. What were you up to all day yesterday, for the love of mike?"
"Working on my novel," I said, lighting a cigarette and smiling at him.
His face hardened.
"Don't tell me you're writing a novel."
"Certainly, I am. Every newspaper man is supposed to have a good book in him. I'm hoping to make a fortune out of it. You should try: I'm not scared of competition."
"I've better things to do with my spare time," he said shortly. "Well, I've got work to do. Have you got your passport?"
"Which is another way of saying I'm in the way and will I please scram," I said, smiling at him.
"I've some letters to dictate."
Gina had gone to a filing-cabinet. She came back with my passport.
"I'll be ready for you in five minutes, Miss Valetti," Maxwell said, making for his office. "So long Ed."
"So long."
When he had gone into the inner office and had shut the door, Gina and I exchanged looks. I winked at her.
"I'll be getting along. I'll give you a call when I've found a hotel."
"All right, Ed."
"I won't be going for a couple of days. I'll be at my apartment until Thursday morning. If anything blows up, you'll know where to reach me."
She looked sharply at me.
"But you're on vacation. Nothing will blow up that Mr. Maxwell can't handle."
I forced a grin.
"I know that, but all the same, should you want me, I'll be at my apartment. So long for now."
I left her staring blankly after me and went down to my car.
I wasn't sure if it had been wise to have given Gina this hint, but I knew sooner or later the news would break about Helen's death. The police, once they found out who she was, were bound to contact the office, and I was anxious to be in on the investigation from the beginning.
I returned to my apartment.
I wasn't in the mood to work on my novel Helen's death lay on my mind like a pall. The more I thought about her, the more I realized what a fool I had been. I had been swept off my feet by her physical attractions. I discovered now I hadn't ever been fond of her. Her death, apart from the worry it caused me as to its repercussion on my life, meant little to me. I realized, too, that I shouldn't have run away as I had. I should have had the courage to have called the police and told them the truth. Until the inquest was over and the verdict of accidental death recorded, I knew I wasn't going to have an easy moment.
There was bound to be an inquiry about the mysterious Douglas Sherrard. Helen had said that she had rented the villa in that name. The estate agent was certain to give the police that information. Questions would be asked: who is Douglas Sherrard? Where is he? Maybe the police wouldn't get too curious. They would learn that Helen wasn't Mrs. Douglas Sherrard. They would guess she had arranged an affair with some man and the man hadn't shown up. Would they be content to drop that side of the investigation? Had I covered my tracks well enough to remain undiscovered if they did search for Sherrard?
I sat in my big lounge that overlooked the Roman forum and sweated. When, around four o'clock the telephone bell rang, I could scarcely force myself out of my chair to answer it.
"Hello?" I said, aware that my voice sounded like the croak of a frog.
"Is that you, Ed?"
I recognized Maxwell's voice.
"Sure, it's me. Who else do you think it is?"
"Will you come over right away?" He sounded excited and flustered. "My God! I've got a hell of a thing dropped into my lap. The police have just phoned. They say they've found Helen Chalmers . . . she's dead!"
"Dead! What happened?"
"Come over, will you? They're arriving at any moment, and I want you here."
"I'll be right over," I said, and hung up.
This was it. It had started a little sooner than I had expected. I crossed the room, poured out two fingers of Scotch and drank it. I noticed my hands were unsteady, and when I looked at myself in the mirror over the Liquor cabinet, I saw my face was the colour of tallow and my eyes looked scared.
I left the apartment and went down to the underground garage. By the time I had driven out into the heavy traffic the whisky was beginning to bite. I didn't feel quite so scared. I finally got rid of my shakes as I pulled up outside the Western Telegram building.
I found Maxwell and Gina in the outer office. Maxwell looked bad. His face was white as a fresh fall of snow. Gina looked worried too. She gave me an uneasy stare as I came in, and then moved into the background, but I felt she continued to watch me.
"Am I glad to see you!" Maxwell exclaimed. His hostility and smoothness had gone. "What's the old man going to say when he hears? Who's going to break the news to him?"
"Relax," I said sharply. "What happened? Come on! Let's have it!"
"They didn't give me any details. They just said she had been found dead. She fell off a cliff at Sorrento."
"Fell off a cliff?" I was acting hard now. "
What was she doing in Sorrento?"
"I don't know." Maxwell nervously lit a cigarette. "This is just my luck to have a thing happen like this on my first trip out here. Look, Ed, you'll have to tell Chalmers. He'll shoot his top."
"Take it easy. I'll tell him. What I can't understand is why she was at Sorrento."
"Maybe the police know. My God! This would happen to me!" He pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. "You've got to handle it, Ed. You know what Chalmers is like. He'll want an inquiry. He's bound to want an inquiry. He'll expect ..."
You Find Him – I'll Fix Him Page 5