1954 - Mission to Venice

  Table of Contents

  One: S.O.S.

  Two: Your Own Personal Funeral

  Three: Black and White

  Four: 39 Calle Mondello

  Five: The Voice from Paris

  Six: Counter Punch

  Seven: Rough House

  Eight: The Shrine

  Nine: . . . Or Else

  Ten: At All Costs . . .

  Eleven: Tallyho!

  Twelve: Out of the Sky

  Thirteen: Check

  Fourteen: Checkmate

  Mission to Venice

  James Hadley Chase

  1954

  One: S.O.S.

  Marian Rigby, a tall, dark beauty, in a grey coat and skirt and a red fan-fronted beret, walked briskly along the carriageway of cobblestones known as Upper Brook Mews.

  On either side of the mews were the garages that housed the Rolls-Royces, the Bentleys and the Daimlers whose well-to-do owners lived in the neighbouring vicinity. Above the garages were the living quarters of the chauffeurs who spent most of their spare time washing, waxing and polishing their charges.

  At the far end of the mews, overshadowed by the back of the American Embassy, was a small, two-storey house. Its white face, olive-green shutters, its geranium and lobelia-filled window boxes and its gay, continental green and white sun awnings invariably attracted the attention of any passerby.

  The house was the home of Don Micklem, American millionaire, sportsman and man-about-town whose social activities were constantly reported in the gossip columns of the evening papers. Marian Rigby was his personal secretary, and this morning she was arriving ahead of her usual time as Micklem was leaving London at midday for a month’s stay at his palazzo in Venice. As she paused outside the front door of No. 25A to search in her handbag for the door key, one of the chauffeurs, cleaning a mud-splashed Rolls-Royce, straightened and touched his cap.

  “Morning, miss,” he said cheerfully.

  “Good morning, Tim,” Marian replied, and her smile seemed to warm the whole mews.

  The chauffeur watched her disappear into the house, and he heaved a sigh. Marian Rigby was a great favourite of his. He saw her every morning and they always exchanged a word. Micklem was a lucky bloke to have a girl like her to work for him, the chauffeur thought as he began to wash the car. Come to that, Micklem must have been born lucky. To have inherited five million pounds on the death of his father, to have a palazzo in Venice, a penthouse in New York and a villa in Nice as well as this nice little house in London was giving one man more than his fair share. But the chauffeur didn’t begrudge Micklem his good fortune.

  “If all Americans were like him,” he thought, swishing water over a hubcap, “we wouldn’t have to worry about the Russians trying to split the Western Union or whatever they’re supposed to be doing. He’s a toff. Always has a word to say to me when he passes. No side. That’s what I can’t abide about some of these rich blokes - big heads; too full of themselves to notice you, but not Mr. Micklem. Maybe he doesn’t work for a living, but he’s never idle. Up at half-past five this morning, riding in the Row. I’ve never known a bloke who sleeps so little. Blimey! If I lived like he does I’d be dead in a week.” He paused to look up at the little house. “And entertain! Always some big nob calling to see him. The Home Secretary and the American Ambassador last night. A duke and an actress the night before.”

  He tried to imagine what he would do if he had five million pounds, was his own master and had a secretary as beautiful as Miss Rigby.

  After some thought, he decided he would probably be happier as he was.

  Marian Rigby took off her hat, gave herself a quick glance in the hall mirror and then walked briskly into Don Micklem’s study.

  It was a pleasant room, lined with books and furnished with deep, easy chairs, shaded lamps, Bukhara rugs and a big mahogany desk on which stood a typewriter and a tape recorder.

  Don Micklem lolled in one of the easy chairs, a pile of letters in his lap which he was opening and glancing at with obvious impatience.

  His fleshy suntanned face lit up when he saw her and his wide smile welcomed her.

  He was a big man: close on six feet two, dark and built like a heavyweight boxer. The small Z-shaped scar on his right cheek and his black pencil-lined moustache gave him a slightly raffish air. He was wearing a nigger-brown polo sweater and tan-coloured jodhpurs. A tray containing coffee and the remains of orange juice and toast on a low table near him told her he had only just finished breakfast.

  “There you are,” he said, gathering up the letters and dumping them on the desk. “I was beginning to think I’d have to read these myself.” He reached for a cigarette, lit it and eyed her approvingly. “You’re looking very smart this morning. Is that a new costume you’re wearing?”

  “I wore it yesterday and the day before that,” Marian said patiently. She began to look through the letters with practiced speed. “Your plane leaves at twelve. You have only two and a half hours, and there’s a lot to do.”

  “My dear girl,” Don said gently, “I am fully aware of that fact. Cherry has been driving me crazy ever since I got back from my ride. I don’t know why it is but whenever I go away, you and Cherry create an atmosphere of confusion and panic. You would think I’m planning to be late the way he has been bullying me. Two and a half hours! Why Napoleon could conquer a nation in that time.”

  “But you are not Napoleon,” Marian said crisply. “You know very well every time you go away something happens at the last moment to turn your departure into a nightmare scramble. I’m determined this time you will arrive at the airport with at least ten minutes in hand.”

  Don groaned.

  “How pleasant it will be to get to Venice and not be bullied for a month. The fatal snag is I have to take Cherry with me.” He glanced at her as she sat down at the desk and began to rip open the envelopes. “What will you do with yourself while I’m away?”

  “Have a nice long rest,” Marian said with feeling. “These last two months have been a little too hectic even for me.”

  “Yes; they have been hectic,” Don said, suppressing a yawn, “but they’ve been fun.” He got out of his chair. “I guess I’ll take a shower and change. Then we’ll polish off those letters. There’s nothing else for me to do, is there?”

  “You know very well there is,” Marian said. “You have four telephone calls to make. Mr. Studleigh must have your comments on the Union Steel merger before you go. You promised that Herbert girl an introduction to Mr. Llewellyn.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t always call her that Herbert girl,” Don said. “She’s a very nice little thing.”

  “She hasn’t the brains of a louse,” Marian said curtly.

  “She has extraordinarily pretty legs. Old Llewellyn will be delighted with her. Besides, he hasn’t any brains himself. They’ll make a grand pair.”

  “Lady Stennham reminds you her son will be in Venice and she hopes you will see something of him,” Marian said maliciously, glancing up from a letter she had just opened.

  “You can tell her that if I see him first, he most certainly won’t have the opportunity of seeing me. Remind Cherry to ever crawled out of Burke’s peerage.” He made for the door. “I’d better get changed. Sounds as if we’ve got a full day’s work on our hands. Think well get through it in time?”

  “We’ll have to,” Marian said ominously.

  Ten minutes later, Don, now in a pale grey lounge suit, came into the study, followed by Cherry, his general factotum majordomo, valet and butler all rolled into one.

  Cherry was an awe-inspiring sight. He had the stately aloofness of an Archbishop. He was tall and bulky with a pink and white complexion and several pink chins
that quivered when he was vexed. He was of the old school. Having seen twenty years’ service with the Duke of Walsingham, he knew what was right and what was wrong, and he didn’t hesitate to express an opinion. He was much sought after. Many of Don’s friends had tried to persuade him to leave Don and come to them, but without success. It wasn’t that Cherry approved of Don, but he was fascinated by him. Even the Duke hadn’t been able to offer him such a variety of visitors, such unexpected changes and such comfort. Today he was going to Venice. At the end of the month he would be in New York. Then he would return with his master for Christmas in London, and in January he would be going to Nice. Cherry liked foreign travel. He liked to observe foreign customs and watch how the rich lived abroad. He found Don often irritating, difficult and sometimes even shocking, but he offered Cherry the opportunity to travel. His millions gave

  Cherry a tremendous sense of security that had been badly shaken when his late master, the aged Duke, to meet his tax demands, had been forced to admit what Cherry called “the rabble” at two shillings and sixpence a head into the sanctity of his castle. The sight of them swarming all over the place and leaving their sandwich papers on the magnificent lawns was too much for Cherry. He packed his bags and left.

  “You might let Cherry have the tickets and passports,” Don said, settling himself in his easy chair. “He can go on ahead and get the luggage cleared. That should save a little time.”

  Marian handed over the tickets and passports to Cherry who took them, an eager gleam in his bright blue eyes.

  “Hello,” Don said, looking out of the window. “Who’s this coming?”

  A taxi had pulled up outside the house, and a girl got out.

  While she hunted in her handbag for the fare, Don examined her critically.

  “Suburban, neat, middle-class and pleasant to look at,” he murmured. “She looks as if she hasn’t been sleeping well recently, and she’s probably got some worry on her mind.” He glanced at Marian who was regarding him with an exasperated expression “How am I doing? Or do you think her paleness is due to pernicious anemia?”

  “I have no idea and I couldn’t care less,” Marian said shortly. “Will you please look at these letters?”

  “She’s coming here,” Don said. “Now, I wonder what she wants.”

  “Mr. Micklem is engaged,” Marian said, catching Cherry’s anxious eye. “Please explain that he is going away immediately, and he won’t be back until December.”

  “Yes, miss,” Cherry said, his fat face relieved. He began to move like a galleon in full sail towards the door.

  “Before you send her away, find out who she is and what she wants and tell me,” Don said sharply, and there was a note in his voice that brooked no argument. “I like the look of her.”

  Marian and Cherry exchanged exasperated glances, then Cherry went away.

  “Will you please concentrate on these letters?” Marian said. “How are we going to finish . . . ?”

  “Okay, okay,” Don said, picking up the letters. He watched the girl come to the front door and ring the bell. Then he impatiently glanced through the letters. “Tell Terry I’ll get him a chandelier if he must have one. What on earth he wants a chandelier for I can’t imagine. Oh, this Sotherby woman! Tell her I’ll look out for her at Florian’s, but I can’t manage a dinner date. Say ‘no’ politely to these next four, and ‘no’ very firmly to Mrs. Van Ryan’s invitation. Say ‘yes’ to these three.”

  Cherry tapped and entered.

  “The young person is a Mrs. Tregarth. She wishes to see you on urgent, personal business,” he said gloomily.

  ‘Tregarth?” Don frowned. “I’ve heard that name before. Does it strike a note with you, Marian?”

  “It does not,” Marian said firmly. “We must get on. Here’s Harry with the car.”

  Don glanced out of the window. His big, black Bentley was coming down the mews with Harry Mason, his chauffeur, at the wheel.

  “Oh, Harry’s always early,” he said indifferently.

  “Shall I tell Mrs. Tregarth you are engaged, sir?” Cherry asked anxiously.

  “Wait a minute. Tregarth: I met a guy during the war whose name was Tregarth.” Don got to his feet. “He was a damned good guy. I wonder if this is his wife.”

  Marian and Cherry exchanged alarmed glances.

  “It can’t be,” Marian said hurriedly. “Tregarth isn’t an unusual name. She’s probably after a subscription for some charity. Shall I get Mr. Studleigh on the telephone? You promised to speak to him about the merger.”

  “Tregarth,” Don was muttering, his mind far away. “It could be. I guess I’ll see her.” He crossed the room with two long strides, opened the door and made for the lounge.

  Marian threw down her fountain pen in disgust.

  “Oh damn and blast!” she said with unladylike vehemence. “Now we are going to be late!”

  “Yes, miss,” Cherry said, his pink chins quivering.

  Hilda Tregarth was standing by the window as Don entered the long, narrow lounge. She turned quickly, and into her tired, anxious eyes came an expression of relief and hope.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Micklem,” she said. “I was told you were engaged.”

  “That’s all right,” Don said, smiling. “Come and sit down. Is your husband John Tregarth?”

  “You remember him then? I was so sure you wouldn’t.”

  “Why, sure. He’s not the type you forget I’m glad to know you. John’s a terrific guy. I only met him once. That was when I took him to Rome. Those guys who dropped into enemy territory had a lot of nerve, and your husband was no exception.”

  She sat down.

  “He often speaks of you,” she said, her voice low. “He says you were the best pilot he has ever flown with.”

  “I’m glad he thinks so.” Don was wondering why she looked so pale and ill. He could see she was tense with controlled anxiety.

  “What’s the trouble, Mrs. Tregarth? It is trouble, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I know I shouldn’t have come worrying you, but I saw in the paper last night that you were going to Venice. I knew I had to come.” Her voice broke and she turned her head as she fumbled in her handbag for a handkerchief.

  “Now don’t get upset,” Don said a little startled. “Anything I can do, I’ll do. Suppose you tell me what it’s all about?”

  She made an effort, touched her eyes with her handkerchief and turned to face him.

  “John’s missing, Mr. Micklem. A month ago he went to Vienna. I haven’t heard from him since he arrived He - he’s vanished, and I’m so worried . . .”

  “Vienna? Have you reported this to the police?”

  “They won’t help.” Her pale face was bitter. “I can’t understand it. They are utterly indifferent. I’ve been to the Foreign Office. They won’t help me either. It’s as if they don’t care what’s happened to John.” She clenched her fists. “There’s something very wrong. I wanted to go to Vienna. I sent my passport in to be renewed, and it hasn’t been returned. They say it’s mislaid. They’re watching me, too. I was even followed here.”

  Don had a sudden uneasy thought that this pale, scared looking girl might be a lunatic. She was quick to see what was going through his mind by his sudden wary expression.

  “I’m not mad, Mr. Micklem,” she said quietly, “but I sometimes feel I shall be if someone doesn’t help me.” She opened her handbag and took out some papers and a photograph. “Please look at these. They should convince you I am John’s wife.”

  Don glanced at the marriage certificate she had given him and then at the photograph. He recognized Tregarth immediately. He was with his wife, his arm around her: a puny man with a jutting chin and solemn, steady eyes.

  “Thanks,” Don said, and gave her back the papers. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The time was five minutes to eleven. He was supposed to be at the airport at twelve.

  It didn’t take him long to decide that Hilda Tregarth interested him a lot
more than catching a plane. After all there were other planes and other days. He couldn’t turn this girl out without first hearing her story. “What makes you think I can be of any help, Mrs. Tregarth?”

  “I don’t know if you can help, but John seems to think you can,” she returned quietly. “I received this yesterday.” She took from her handbag a highly coloured picture postcard.

  He took it, frowning.

  It was a picture of the Bridge of Sighs, Venice: a typical tourist’s postcard. He turned it over, examined the Italian stamp and saw the postcard had been posted three days ago. The card was addressed to Mr. Alec Howard, 133, Westbrook Drive, West Acton. Written in a small, neat handwriting was the message: Find it very hot here. Unable to get away as planned. Remember me to Don Micklem. S. O. Saville.

  Don looked up, his face bewildered.

  “But this isn’t from your husband. It’s not even addressed to you.”

  “If s in John’s handwriting,” Hilda said, her voice unsteady. “Alec Howard is John’s factory manager. He recognized John’s handwriting and brought the card to me. Saville was John’s mother’s maiden name. Read the message again, Mr. Micklem. Don’t you see the hidden meaning in it? People who crossed the Bridge of Sighs were condemned. He’s trying to tell me he’s in trouble. That’s why he sent the picture. He ends his message with S.O.S. Don’t you see? He is calling for your help.”

  Don drew in a long, deep breath He stared at the card for a few moments. He experienced a sudden chill that crawled up his spine: a prickly, feathery sensation he used to feel during the war when he knew he was running into danger. He got to his feet.

  “Wait a moment, Mrs. Tregarth. I want to hear all about this from the beginning. Please excuse me for a minute.”

  He went out of the room just as Cherry came down the stairs with the last of the luggage. “I’m going to the airport now, sir,” Cherry said mournfully. He gave Don a hurt, grieved look. “We have only an hour before the plane leaves.”

  Marian came to the study door.

  “Don, please. . .” she began.

  “Take all that junk upstairs again,” Don said curtly, waving at the luggage. “We’re not going. Marian, please cancel the tickets. Something has cropped up that I’ve got to look into.