Mission to Siena Read online

  Mission to Siena

  James Hadley Chase

  For years, the operations of a mysterious and ruthless extortioner, who called himself “The Tortoise”, had baffled Scotland Yard and the police forces of Europe. But the Tortoise made a mistake of interfering with Don Micklem, millionaire settled in London, with friends in high places. And once Micklem was aroused, he tracked down the Tortoise to his lair in a remote place in Italy….

  James Hadley Chase

  MISSION TO SIENA

  Chapter I

  PRELUDE TO MURDER

  Police constable Elliott stood in a shop doorway and surveyed the east side of the square with placid indifference.

  It was a dark, wet November night; the time was a few minutes after eleven o’clock, and because of the rain and the hour, the square was deserted.

  It had been raining steadily for the past three hours. Water gurgled in the gutters and dripped from the street lamps that made yellow pools on the glistening pavement. A cold wind added to the misery of the wet, and Elliott thought longingly of his comfortable sitting-room, the bright fire that would be burning, and of his wife who he hoped would be thinking of him. He scowled up at the dark sky, looking for a break in the clouds.

  A woman’s voice said, “Can you please direct me to Polsen’s hotel?”

  Elliott lowered his gaze and regarded the girl who stood before him. Her back was to the street lamp and he wasn’t able to see much of her. She was wearing a white mackintosh and a close-fitting black hat, and she carried in her right hand a canvas and leather hold-all.

  She spoke with a foreign accent that could have been Spanish or Italian. Elliott, who was no language scholar, couldn’t decide which it was.

  “Polsen’s hotel, miss?”

  “Yes.”

  “A hundred yards up on the right.”

  He stepped out of the shelter of the doorway and pointed. The girl turned to look in the direction he indicated, and the light from the street lamp fell on her face.

  Elliott decided she would be twenty-five or six. The first thing he noticed was her red gold hair that showed just below her hat: a tone of colour he had never seen before. Her eyes were set wide apart, and as far as he could judge in the uncertain light, appeared to be as green as emeralds. There was a sensual quality in her beauty that aroused the male in him, something that hadn’t happened to him in years.

  “Thank you,” the girl said and made to move on.

  “Just a moment, miss,” Elliott said. “If you are a stranger to London, I ought to tell you that Polsen’s hotel isn’t much.”

  The girl looked away across the wet square. He wasn’t sure if she were listening to what he was saying.

  “It’s got a bad reputation, miss,” Elliott went on. “It’s not the sort of place a young lady like you should stay at.”

  The girl looked at him.

  “Thank you. I am not staying there,” she said. “Good night.”

  She turned and walked quickly away into the rain and darkness, leaving Elliott looking after her, frowning.

  He lifted his massive shoulders under his glistening cape. Well, he had warned her, he told himself. He couldn’t do more than that. He wondered who she was and where she had come from. He wondered too why she was going to Polsen’s hotel. Polsen’s was one of the many room-by-the-hour-and-no-questions-asked hotels in the district: no worse than the others, but distinctly unsavoury and sordid.

  He shook his head. You wouldn’t have thought a girl like that… Then because he had been on the same beat for fifteen years and was utterly bored with the routine, he ceased to ponder why she should be going to the hotel. If he worried about the actions of everyone who asked him the way, he told himself, his life would become a burden.

  He moved on, carrying the image of the girl’s beauty with him on his lonely, wet patrol.

  Jack Dale, the night clerk of Polsen’s hotel, watched the fat, elderly man hurry across the dingy hall to the revolving door and disappear into the rain.

  He shrugged his thin shoulders. He supposed the fat man had a train to catch. He grinned cynically, wondering what tale he would tell his wife to account for his lateness. It was the elderly and the married who came to Polsen’s.

  A girl, her shabby cloth coat showing large damp catches, came down the stairs. Any claim she had to prettiness was marred by granite-hard eyes and a thin, bitter mouth.

  She came over to Dale and tossed a key on the ink-stained blotter. She dropped a crumpled pound note beside the key.

  “Going out again?” Dale asked as he picked up the note and slid it into a drawer. “It’s raining like hell.”

  “Of course I’m going out again,” the girl said crossly. “I haven’t made enough this week to pay the rent. If this rain goes on much longer, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Dale grinned.

  “The same old story,” he said, turning to hang the key on the key rack behind him. “If it’s not the rain, it’s something else.”

  “You can talk,” the girl said bitterly. “You don’t have to stand in the rain hour after hour.”

  “Go away,” Dale said. “You’re breaking my heart.”

  He watched her walk down the steps into the wet darkness, shrugged his shoulders and reached for the Evening Standard. He was reading the football news when the girl in the white mackintosh came in.

  He looked up, wondering what she wanted. She was a new one to him, and what a looker! He straightened and showed his discoloured teeth in a leering grin.

  “Is Mr Crantor in?” the girl asked, her green eyes looking straight at him.

  Dale stared at her.

  “Yes, he’s in. Room 26, on the first floor. He said for you to go up.”

  The girl turned away, crossed the hall and walked briskly up the stairs.

  Dale whistled silently.

  What in the world did a piece like that’ want with Crantor? he asked himself. Crantor of all people. She had a hold-all with her. Was she staying? If she didn’t come down in an hour, he’d better telephone Crantor.

  The girl walked down the dimly lit corridor until she reached room No. 26. She paused outside the door and listened for a moment. Hearing no sound from within the room, she knocked with a gloved hand.

  The door opened and Crantor stood in the doorway.

  “There you are,” he said, and his single eye moved over her. “I was beginning to wonder if you were coming.”

  She followed him into the large bed-sitting-room.

  A shaded reading lamp made a pool of light on the large table on which lay a litter of papers. The rest of the room was in heavy shadows. Neither Crantor nor the girl could see much of each other.

  “It’s a filthy night,” Crantor said. “Take off your mac. I’ll hang it in the bathroom.”

  The girl took off the white mackintosh and her hat and gave them to him. She shook out her hair and crossed over to the mirror above the gas fire.

  As Crantor carried the wet things into the bathroom that led off the bed-sitting-room, he thumbed down the light switch, lighting up the big shabby room.

  He took his time hanging the wet mackintosh over a chair, then he came back and stood in the bathroom door and looked over at her.

  Go on, he said to himself, take a good look at me. Let’s see how strong your stomach is, you red-headed beauty.

  The girl was wanning the back of her slim legs before the gas fire. She was fumbling for a cigarette as she glanced up and saw him in the full light from the overhead lamp.

  It was during the battle for Cassino that Crantor received his face wounds. Redhot splinters of a mortar shell had mangled his features almost beyond repair. Plastic surgeons had worked patiently on him, and considering what he ha
d looked like before he passed through their hands, they succeeded in achieving a minor miracle in giving him some resemblance to a human being. His left eye was covered with a black patch; his thin, cruel mouth was twisted down, and showed some of his lower teeth, fixing his face in a ferocious snarl. The rest of his features looked as if they had been moulded by someone doodling in putty.

  The surgeons had told him to let the scars heal and then come back for another series of operations. They assured him in a year or so they would make him a passable-looking guy.

  But Crantor had never gone back. He intended to, but he never found the time, and when Alsconi made him his London agent he put the idea out of his head for good. He was certainly not going to spend unprofitable months in a hospital when he could pick up the easy money Alsconi put in his way. Money was more important to him than looks.

  After the first bitter months, he took a perverted pleasure in watching people look at him, shudder and look away, and he studied the girl facing him, watching for her reaction.

  He was disappointed. She didn’t shudder nor did she look away. She examined his face intently with neither pity nor disgust.

  “Couldn’t they do better than that for you?” she said. “Or hadn’t you the patience?”

  Crantor felt a spurt of vicious fury run through him. He had wanted to make her cringe. Now he wanted to take her by her white throat.

  “What’s it to do with you?” he said. “I’ll look after my mug,’ you look after yours.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that!” the girl said sharply.

  Crantor controlled his temper. What was he thinking of? He wanted to make a good impression on this girl, and snarling at her wasn’t the way to do it. She was his first contact with Alsconi’s organization. She had come all the way from Italy to discuss the arrangements he had made. If he gave satisfaction, there was a chance of promotion. He was ambitious.

  He had worked for Alsconi now for two years and he had recently discovered the work he had been doing was of little importance to the organization: it was nothing more than a side-line. Now Alsconi had decided to begin real operations in London, and this was his chance.

  “Sorry,” he said and turned on the overhead light. “I’m still touchy about my face. Who wouldn’t be? Here, sit down.

  How about a drink?

  “No, thank you.”

  She came over to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. She was wearing a smartly tailored black frock. Around her throat was a thin gold collar of bay leaves.

  Crantor also sat down. He kept back in the shadows, and when he lit a cigarette, he turned away so she couldn’t see his face lit by the flame of his lighter.

  “Have you found anyone yet to do the job?” she asked.

  “I’ve found him,” Crantor said. “It’s taken time, but he’s dead right for it.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “He’ll be along in a few minutes. I thought you’d want to see him.”

  “There must be no mistakes,” she said, her green eyes searching out his single, gleaming black one. “This will be the first, and the first must always be successful.” She tapped ash off her cigarette, and went on, “Who is this man you have found?”

  “His name is Ed Shapiro,” Crantor said. “He has no police record. He started life in a circus. Later, he became a knife thrower. He’s good: that’s why I’ve picked him. He chucked circus life after the war. He’s done some smuggling for me, and he’s now anxious to start up on his own. He wants to buy a fast boat. He jumped at the chance to earn the money we’re offering.”

  “He won’t bungle it?”

  “If anyone can do it, he can.”

  “What have you done so far?”

  “The note for the money was sent on Tuesday. Tonight, Shapiro is going out to the house. He will put the tortoise in the breakfast-room with another note. At nine tomorrow night a messenger will call for the money…” He broke off and looked across the table at the girl.

  “There is one point I am not clear about. Suppose he pays up?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. He won’t pay: that’s why we have chosen him. He’s not the type to be threatened.”

  “All right, if you are sure. It will come unstuck if he does pay.”

  “He won’t.”

  “Then Shapiro will move in at nine-fifteen. You have brought the knife?”

  She leaned sideways and pulled the hold-all that lay on the floor towards her.

  He stared at the curve of her back as she bent to open the bag. He felt bitterness stir within him. A woman as beautiful as this one wasn’t for him. He had to make do with the ugly ones.

  She took from the hold-all a flat wooden box which she put on the table. She opened it and took from it a broad-bladed knife with a heavy, carved wood handle.

  Crantor studied it.

  “Isn’t this dangerous?” he asked. “Won’t the police be able to trace this?”

  “It is one of a pattern we always use,” the girl said. “It is specially made for us. There’s no chance of it being traced.”

  “I suppose all this is necessary,” Crantor said uneasily.

  “All what?” the girl asked sharply.

  “The tortoise, the knife and the warning notes.”

  “Of course. We want publicity. The tortoise will intrigue the press. This affair will be headline news, and that is essential. We have someone else lined up after Ferenci. When this other one gets our demand note he will know we mean business and he will pay up. The plan has worked successfully in France, Italy and America. It will work successfully here.”

  “And if it does come off, am I to handle the others?” Crantor asked.

  “Of course.”

  “It will be successful. I promise you that.” Crantor got to his feet, crossed the room and poured whisky into a glass.

  “Sure you won’t have a drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He stood in the shadows, looking across at her. “I don’t even know your name,” he said, “or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “Call me Lorelli,” the girl said.

  “Lorelli…” Crantor nodded. “It’s a pretty name. Have you been with the organization long?”

  “I have been instructed to pay Shapiro,” the girl said, ignoring the question. “Where will I find him after he has done the job?” Crantor felt the blood rush up to his head. “You pay him? Why? I engaged him. Give me the money. I will pay him.”

  “Where will I find him?” the girl repeated, looking steadily at Crantor.

  “But I don’t understand,” Crantor said, coming back to the table. “Don’t they trust me?”

  “Am I to report that you are not willing to obey instructions?” the girl asked, her voice flat and cold.

  “Of course not,” Crantor said hastily. “It just seemed to me…” “Where will I find him?” the girl asked. “25, Athens Street. It’s in Soho,” Crantor said, making a tremendous effort to conceal his anger.

  The telephone bell tinkled and Crantor answered it. “There’s a fellow down here asking for you,” Dale said. “Shall I send him up?”

  “Yes,” Crantor said.

  “By the way,” Dale went on, “is that young lady wanting a room? I can fix her up next to you.” Crantor looked across at Lorelli. “Do you want a room here?”

  She shook her head. “She won’t be staying,” he told Dale. “That’s your bad luck,” Dale said and laughed. Crantor slammed down the receiver.

  Ed Shapiro was tall and lean, with a hooked nose, swarthy complexion and small restless eyes. He wore a black suit with a broad white stripe, a black shirt and a white tie. Cocked over his right eye, he wore a black snap-brimmed hat.

  He lolled against the reception desk, a cigarette hanging from his thin lips, and breathed whisky fumes into Dale’s face.

  “Go on up. Room 26,” Dale said, drawing back and grimacing. “You’re carrying a load, aren’t you?”

  Shapiro shot out a long arm and caught hold of Dale’s shirt
front, twisted it and gave Dale a hard shake, jerking his head back.

  “Shut it, pally,” he said. “Button it up unless you want to lose some of those dirty teeth of yours.”

  Dale stood very still, his face turning white. The vicious expression in Shapiro’s eyes shocked him.

  Shapiro released his grip, pushed his hat a little further over his eye and walked across the hall and mounted the stairs.

  He had been drinking heavily most of the evening, bolstering up his shaky nerves. He had done most things, but up to now he had stopped short at murder. But he wanted the fast motor-boat with a want that had gnawed at him for the past two months. He knew it was a bargain. He knew he would never get one as good and as cheap again. Where else could he hope to raise the thousand pounds Crantor was offering him that would complete the purchase price? He had been told that there was another buyer in the market.

  “I can’t hold it for you any longer,” the owner had told him. “I’d like to do you a favour, but this other bloke has the cash. If you can’t come across by next Friday, I’ll have to let him have it.”

  That was unthinkable, but the thought of murder made Shapiro’s nerves jangled. Crantor had assured him the set-up was foolproof, but Shapiro had a healthy respect for the police. He had a healthy respect too for his own neck. Murder had a nasty habit of backfiring on you, just when you thought you had got away with it.

  Crantor had brushed aside Shapiro’s doubts.

  “Use your head,” he had said. “You’ve never been through their hands. They haven’t got your prints. You won’t be seen if you handle it the way I’ve told you to handle it. You’re not hooked up with this fellow in any way. So what have you got to worry about?”

  But the more Shapiro had thought over the plan, the more doubtful he became. He might be seen leaving the house. The thought of being hunted for murder turned him cold. That was when he began to drink, but after a few double whiskies his nerve returned and he thought of the boat. He could drive down to Falmouth as soon as he had done the job, buy the boat and hop over to France.