Mission to Siena

by James Hadley Chase

  “We nearly nabbed him on a big black-market deal during the war,” Dicks said, “but he was just too smart for us.”

  “I’m surprised you got as far as nearly nabbing him. I’ll have a talk with him. He may know something.”

  Dicks put the throwing knife into the box and the box into his pocket.

  “You wouldn’t feel inclined to go to Italy and see what you can pick up there? I have a feeling that’s where the real information is if we could only tap it.”

  “My dear Super, I can’t plod over the whole of Italy in the hope of running into the Tortoise. Can’t we pin it down to a district or better still a town? If we could do that I’d go.”

  “The five men who were murdered in Italy died in Rome, Florence, Padua, Naples and Milan. That’s a pretty wide territory. I can’t do better than that.”

  “Let’s see if either of us can narrow it down first,” Don said as Dicks got to his feet. “Let me have any information you get and I’ll pass on any I get.”

  When the Superintendent had gone, Don remained before the fire, thinking. He was still there when Cherry came in to announce-lunch was ready.

  Taller than the average Italian, Giorgio Uccelli was still erect in spite of his seventy-five years and his shrewd deep-set eyes were alert.

  Don’s father had known him some twenty years ago in Venice where Uccelli had owned a small, but first-class restaurant in Calle de Fabori. As a boy of sixteen, Don had had his first Venetian meal at Uccelli’s restaurant and had immediately taken a liking for him. When Mussolini had come to power, Uccelli had left Italy and had settled in Soho.

  Don had renewed their friendship and he often dined at Uccelli’s now famous restaurant.

  Having finished an excellent dinner, he had gone through to Uccelli’s private room and was now sitting before a fire, a fine brandy in his hand and his face half-screened by the smoke of one of his cigars.

  He and Uccelli had been chatting together for twenty minutes and Don decided it was time to get around to the reason for his visit.

  “You heard about Mr Ferenci’s death?” he said suddenly.

  Uccelli’s lined, swarthy face clouded.

  “Yes. It was a great shock to me. Is Mrs Ferenci better?”

  “She’s still pretty bad. I guess you know the police aren’t getting anywhere with the case?”

  Uccelli lifted his shoulders.

  “Police business doesn’t interest me.”

  Don knew he was on touchy ground mentioning the police to Uccelli. He had heard mmours that Uccelli had been a big black-market dealer and now dealt in foreign currency on an extensive scale.

  “Guido was one of my best friends,” Don said. “I want to find the man who killed him. It’s a personal thing.”

  Uccelli nodded. That was something he could understand.

  There was a pause, then Don said, “I’m after information. Tell me what you know about the Tortoise?”

  Uccelli shook his head.

  “Very little. I know he exists and that he is dangerous. No Italian who owns more than five thousand pounds is safe from him,” he said gravely. “He has a deadly reputation in Italy. Hundreds of people in Italy and France are paying him vast sums to keep alive.”

  “Does he live in Italy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He has people working for him: one of them is a girl with Venetian red hair. Do you know her?”

  Uccelli shook his head.

  “I don’t know of any girl with Venetian red hair. That colouring has died out: you never see it these days.”

  “The other is a tall, thin man, dark, hooked nose, flashily dressed whose first name is Ed.”

  Uccelli stubbed out his cigar.

  “Yes, that sounds like Ed Shapiro. He dines here sometimes.”

  Don sat forward.

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s a smuggler. At one time he was a knife-thrower in a circus.”

  “That must be the fellow!” Don exclaimed. “Where can I find him?”

  “I haven’t seen him for some weeks. Perhaps his girl can tell you.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name’s Gina Pasero. She is an Italian. She works at the Florida Club in Firth Street. She is greatly influenced by money. Offer her something: fifty pounds, perhaps. If she knows where Shapiro is, she will tell you.”

  “Right, I’ll talk to her. Now about this girl with the red hair. Her first name is Lorelli. Will you try to get me information about her? It’s worth a hundred pounds to anyone who can put me on to her.”

  Uccelli inclined his head. “I will do what I can.”

  Don got to his feet.

  “I’ll see if I can get anything out of Gina Pasero,” he said. “What does she do at the club?”

  “She is a dance hostess. You will be very careful,” Uccelli said. “This could be a dangerous business. You are dealing with men who do not value life. Remember that. If it is thought you are showing an interest in their activities, they will wipe you out.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I can look after myself,” Don said. “Find out about this red-head for me.”

  “I will do what I can. Be careful of Shapiro. He is very dangerous.”

  “I’ll watch out. Thanks for the wonderful dinner. I’ll look in in a day or so.”

  “Leave it a few days. Information is not always easy to get.” Uccelli looked at Don. “And it is understood that anything I have told you is for your own use and is not to be given to the police?”

  “That’s all right,” Don said. “I’ll keep it to myself.”

  Leaving the restaurant, he walked briskly up Firth Street until he came to a door, over which was a neon sign that spelt out in blood-red letters:

  FLORIDA CLUB: Members only.

  Having paid a pound for a temporary member’s ticket to a flat-nosed doorman, Don descended a flight of dirty stone steps that led to a shabby bar. Beyond the bar he could see a dimly lit room containing thirty or forty tables, a three-piece band and a small space in the middle of the floor for dancing.

  He paused at the bar as he knew it was expected of him and ordered a whisky. Two blondes and a long-haired man in a check suit with enormously padded shoulders were propped up against the bar, drinking neat gin. They stared at Don with undisguised curiosity.

  Don ignored them. He lit a cigarette and toyed with his drink for a few minutes until two more men drifted out of the restaurant and joined the others at the bar. Then finishing his drink, he went into the restaurant.

  The pianist, saxophone and drums combination was playing in a half-hearted way. Three couples were moving about the floor in time with the music, but with no other claim to dancing. One of the men held a glass of whisky in his hand as he shuffled around the floor. His partner, a hard-faced girl with copper-coloured hair, was smoking.

  Don went to a table in a corner and sat down. Nearby was a small dais enclosed by a rail. Behind the rail were three girls who were smoking and staring with blank boredom across the room.

  A waiter in a grubby white coat came over to Don.

  “Straight whisky,” he said.

  The waiter nodded and went away.

  The band stopped playing. The couples on the floor didn’t bother to clap. They drifted back to their tables and a funereal hush fell over the room.

  Don thought the Florida Club was in a class of its own as a sordid slice of dull night life.

  He glanced again at the girls behind the rail and decided the dark girl with a rose in her hair could be Gina Pasero. She was small-featured and pretty in a hard, sophisticated way. The shadows under her dark eyes gave her an interestingly dissipated look. She was wearing a red and black evening dress cut so low Don could see the tops of her firm, young breasts. She sat motionless, her hands folded in her lap. If her eyes hadn’t been open, he would have thought she was asleep.

  The waiter brought the whisky and Don paid him. The two blondes came in from the bar and sat o
pposite Don’s table.

  They stared fixedly at him.

  Five leaden minutes crawled by, then the pianist began to play. After the third bar the saxophone and drums joined in as if they were doing the pianist a favour.

  Don went over to the dais.

  “Do you think you have enough strength left to dance with me?” he asked the girl with the rose in her hair.

  The other two girls giggled, looking at him, crude invitation in their eyes.

  The girl with the rose in her hair got up and came round the rail. She moved listlessly and she made no attempt to conceal her boredom. Don put his arm round her and moved her out on to the floor. He found it impossible to do more than shuffle around the floor. The lagging beat of the drum made any attempt to dance a farce.

  After a minute or so of shuffling, Don said, “I bet this is where undertakers come to relax.”

  The girl didn’t say anything. Don could only see the top of her sleek head. She seemed content to let him push her before him and keep her nose close to his gold tie-clip.

  They circled the room, then Don said, “Don’t let me stop you sleeping. Just rest your feet on mine and have yourself a quiet time.”

  The girl leaned back to stare up at him. At that angle he could look down the front of her dress, but he was too well-mannered to stare. The girl’s shadowy black eyes expressed irritation and weariness.

  “Let it lie, Jack,” she said in a cold, brittle voice.

  “Certainly,” Don said. “Just let me know if I’m driving too fast for you.”

  “If you don’t like the way I dance you know what you can do about it,” the girl said, her voice hardening.

  Switching from English into Italian, Don said, “I know what I would like to do, but this is hardly the place.”

  Boredom, irritation and weariness went away from the girl’s face. Her eyes became alive. Her red, sensual lips curved into a smile.

  “How did you know?” she said. “No one has spoken to me in Italian for years.”

  “I’m psychic,” Don said, smiling at her.

  She pursed her red lips.

  “I think you’re tight.”

  “That’s an idea. Shall we stop this depressing shuffling and see what we can do about it?”

  “That’s up to you. It’ll still cost you a pound an hour.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Don said, leading her back to his table. “I’m made of money. What’ll it be?”

  She ordered the inevitable champagne and Don ordered another whisky. When the drinks had been served, he asked her from what part of Italy she had come.

  “I was bom in Naples,” she told him. “I married an American soldier who brought me to London. We hadn’t been here two weeks before a taxi knocked him down and killed him.”

  “Tough luck,” Don said.

  She shrugged.

  “He wasn’t much. I was glad to be rid of him.”

  “You must have been pretty young when you married.”

  She laughed.

  “I was fifteen. There were eighteen in my family. We lived in four rooms. I was pretty glad to get out.” She smiled at him. “You’re American, aren’t you? How did you learn to speak Italian so well?”

  “My father lived most of his life in Florence. I spent a lot of time with him. What’s your name?”

  “Call me Gina.”

  She began to tell him about Naples. He could see she was badly homesick and he let her talk. After she had worked through half the bottle of champagne and the wine had relaxed her, he said casually, “By the way, how’s Ed these days?”

  She continued to smile, but the light went out of her eyes. After a second or so, the effort of keeping the smile on her lips proved too much of an effort. Her face reverted to a cold, expressionless mask.

  “What do you know about Ed?” she asked harshly.

  “I want to talk to him. I’ve been looking all over for him. Where’s he got to?”

  “How should I know?” She reached for her bag. “I’ve got to go. I can’t spend all the evening with you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Don said, smiling at her. “I’ve got a deal. I want to gut in Ed’s way. It won’t wait. It’s worth fifty pounds to anyone who can tell me where he is.”

  Her eyes lost their cold look.

  “You. mean you’ll give me fifty pounds if I tell you where he is?” she said, staring at him.

  “I’ll give you fifty pounds if you show me where he is,” Don said. “I’m not parting with all that money for an address.”

  The tip of her tongue passed over her lips as she studied him. “Honest? If I had fifty pounds could go home. I could go to

  Naples.”

  “Show me where Ed is and you can go home. That’s a promise.”

  “I haven’t seen him for weeks, but I think I know where he is. When will you have the money?”

  “In a couple of hours.”

  “All right. Meet me outside the Casino theatre at one o’clock. I can’t get away from here until twelve, and I’ll have to make sure he is where I think he is.”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  “There’s not much I wouldn’t do for a chance to go home,” she said. “He’s in trouble, isn’t he?” “Would you worry?” She shook her head.

  “Find out where he is, but don’t tell him I’m looking for him,” Don said. “That’s important.”

  “I’m not likely to tell him,” she said. “I’m not crazy. Ed’s dangerous.”

  Chapter V

  THE LONG SHOT

  At five minutes to one, as Don walked briskly along Old Compton Street, his head bent against the driving rain, he could hear Harry’s light footfalls behind him.

  Although Don had promised Uccelli not to bring in the police, he had no intention of tackling Shapiro single-handed.

  “This girl may not know where Shapiro is hiding,” he told Harry. “She wants the money badly, and if she doesn’t know where he is, she may be tempted to pull a fast one. So watch out. Keep out of sight, but move in if there’s trouble.”

  He glanced over his shoulder as he neared the darkened Casino theatre and motioned Harry to stop. Harry slid into a dark doorway and out of sight.

  Glad to get under the shelter of the Casino’s canopy, Don glanced at his watch. It was now two minutes to one o’clock, There was no sign yet of Gina. He opened his coat and shook off the rain drops. Then lighting a cigarette, he leaned against the wall and settled down to wait.

  After he had finished his second cigarette, he began to pace slowly up and down the length of the sheltered pavement. It was now quarter past one. He decided to give Gina another quarter of an hour before making a move. He continued to pace up and down, listening to the rain beating on the roof of the canopy. He remembered that Uccelli had warned him how dangerous Shapiro was. If Shapiro suspected Gina was betraying him…

  Again Don looked at his watch. It was three minutes to half-past one. He looked up and down the deserted street, then crossing the street he joined Harry in the shop doorway.

  “It doesn’t look as if she’s coming,” he said. “I don’t like it, Harry. She may have run into trouble.”

  “Do you know where she lives, sir?”

  “No, but we should be able to find out. There’s no point in hanging around here any longer. We’ll go to the Florida Club.

  They may know where we can find her.”

  Stepping out into the rain, they hurried over to Firth Street.

  The Florida’s neon sign still blazed into the dark night, making a red pool on the wet pavement.

  “Wait here,” Don said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  He went down the steps to where the doorman sat in his cubby hole.

  The doorman looked up and scowled at him.

  “We’re shut,” he growled. “The last lot are coming out now.”

  “Is Gina around?” Don asked.

  “She’s gone home.”

  “I have a date with her, but I’v
e mislaid her address,” Don said, taking out a pound note and letting the doorman see it.

  “Can you give it to me?”

  The doorman eyed the pound note, rubbed his jaw, then lifted his heavy shoulders.

  “I could,” he said and pulled a well-thumbed notebook out of a drawer, flicked through the pages, found an entry and scowled at it. “I ’ave an idea she’s moved from the address I’ve ’ere. If she ’as, then you’ve ’ad it. Want to try it, mister?”

  “Sure,” Don said.

  “2a, Peters Road: know where it is?”

  “That’s off Charing Cross Road, isn’t it?” Don said and slid the pound note through the window of the glass partition.

  “That’s right.” The doorman snapped up the note. “Twenty yards past Cambridge Circus on the left.”

  Don nodded and climbing the steps, walked out into the rain again.

  Harry joined him.

  “We may be out of luck,” Don said. “I have an address, but she may have moved. Let’s go and see.”

  Five minutes’ brisk walking brought them to Peters Road: a dingy street lined on either side by shabby warehouses, small factories and two or three Greek restaurants. No. 2 turned out to be the address of a firm dealing in bathroom fitments. A narrow alley ran down the side of the building. Harry threw the beam of his flashlight into the darkness.

  “This is it: No. 2a,” he said and moved into the alley.

  Don joined him.

  Shielding the light with his fingers, Harry let the beam play over the door. He put his hand on the cracked, shabby door panel and pushed, but the door was locked.

  Don stepped back and looked up at the building. There were two windows; one on the first floor and another on the second. No lights showed: the lower window was without curtains.

  “Let’s see if we can raise anyone ” he said.

  Harry dug his thumb into the bell push. They could hear the bell ringing somewhere in the house.

  They waited for a minute or so while the rain fell steadily on them.