1954 - Mission to Venice Read online

  Giuseppe nodded.

  “Dr. Vergellesi is a good man, signore. He lives not far from here. Shall I get him?”

  Don hesitated. He felt Tregarth’s pulse, then alarmed at the feeble response, he nodded. “You’d better, Joe. He’s nearly done.”

  Giuseppe went quickly from the room.

  Harry came over and stood looking down at Tregarth.

  “He does look bad,” he said. “Do you know what it’s all about, boss?”

  “I haven’t an idea,” Don said, pulling up a chair and sitting down close to Tregarth. “I’ve been asking myself what the mess is he’s got himself into. What’s been happening to him? Why have they been torturing him like this?”

  As if in answer to his questions, Tregarth’s eyes suddenly opened. He looked fixedly at Don, and Don felt a little chill creep up his spine. The eyes were already dead: glazed and expressionless and lifeless. Tregarth’s lips twitched and his head moved.

  “John!” Don said sharply. “It’s Micklem. Can you hear me? It’s Don Micklem.”

  Very slowly the head turned in his direction. The lifeless eyes stared past his face as he leaned forward.

  “John! You’re safe!” he said, raising his voice. “It’s Micklem. Don’t you know me?”

  Tregarth shuddered. His eyes suddenly came alive and he stared up at Don.

  Don picked up the lamp on the table and held it so Tregarth could see him clearly.

  “You’re safe, fella,” he said. “Just take it easy. Don’t try to talk.”

  “He could do with a drink, boss,” Harry said. “A little wine and water won’t hurt him.”

  He went across to where Giuseppe kept a carafe of water and a couple of bottles of wine and quickly mixed the drink and brought it over.

  While Don lifted Tregarth’s head, Harry gave him the drink.

  Tregarth took some of the wine and water. He closed his eyes and Don let him down gently on the pillow again. Both men looked anxiously at the white, twitching face. For a long moment Tregarth remained motionless, then he opened his eyes and looked searchingly at Don. He looked from Don to Harry and back to Don again.

  “It’s all right,” Don said, guessing Tregarth was worried by Harry’s presence. “He’s one of us. He works for me. He and I got you out.”

  Tregarth’s lips moved. He muttered something that Don couldn’t hear.

  “Don’t try to talk,” Don said. “Just take it easy.”

  Again Tregarth’s lips moved. Bending low over him, Don just managed to catch the muttered words.

  “Dei Fabori. . . Shrine. . .”

  The effort of speaking was too much for Tregarth. His eyelids dropped and he drifted into unconsciousness.

  Don straightened up.

  “He was trying to tell me something,” he said as Harry looked questioningly at him. “What did he mean? Dei Fabori, and then the word shrine? There’s a Calle dei Fabori.” He suddenly snapped his fingers. “That’s right. In the Calle dei Fabori there is a wall shrine to the Virgin Mother. Now, what was he driving at?”

  They heard the street door open, and both of them stepped quickly to the door, Harry sliding behind it while Don opened it.

  Giuseppe, followed by a tall, elderly man in black, had just entered the passage.

  “This is Dr. Vergellesi,” Giuseppe said.

  “I’m Don Micklem.” Don shook hands with the doctor. “A friend of mine is seriously ill. He has got into some trouble with a political organization. I don’t know the details, but he has been wounded and tortured. This is not a matter for the Italian police, signore. The British Consul will be informed, and I must ask you to say nothing of the matter.”

  Vergellesi looked sharply at Don, his bushy eyebrows climbing.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. If il signore has been wounded it is my duty to report to the police.”

  “My friend is a British subject. It is not a matter for the Italian police.”

  Vergellesi lifted his shoulders.

  “If he is British, then that is another matter. Perhaps I had better see him.”

  Don led the way into Giuseppe’s room and stood at the head of the bed while Vergellesi examined Tregarth. It didn’t take him a minute or so to come to a conclusion. Gently he covered Tregarth’s mutilated chest and straightened.

  “Il signore is dangerously ill,” he said. “He must be taken to hospital immediately. He has acute pneumonia and is suffering from exposure and severe shock.”

  “Can’t he be taken to my house, doctor?” Don asked. “You need spare no expense. I don’t want him to go to hospital if it can be avoided.”

  Vergellesi shook his head.

  “He must go to hospital immediately. We have the equipment there to save his life. He must be put in an oxygen tent within half an hour or he will die.”

  “All right.” Don turned to Harry. “Go with him and don’t leave him for a second, Harry. I’ll be along in a couple of hours to relieve you.”

  “Okay, boss,” Harry said.

  Vergellesi looked uneasily at Don.

  “You speak as if il signore is still in danger. Would it not be better to inform the police?”

  “Not until I have spoken to the British Consul,” Don said. “How are we to get him to hospital?”

  “Could one of you carry him to a gondola?” Vergellesi asked. “I could have a stretcher brought, but time means everything.”

  Giuseppe said, “I can do it, signore.”

  “Very well. We will go at once. I will go ahead to arrange a room for him,” Vergellesi said.

  “Will you save him, doctor?” Don asked anxiously.

  “I hope so. It depends a lot on his own stamina. He has a chance, anyway.”

  “I’ll come with you as far as the gondola,” Don said to Giuseppe.

  Vergellesi moved to the door.

  “I will have everything ready for him by the time you get there,” he said. “In two hours I will be able to tell if I can save him.”

  “I’ll see you then, doctor,” Don said.

  Vergellesi hurried from the room.

  “You go on ahead, Harry,” Don said. “Keep your eyes open.” He turned to Giuseppe as Harry went off, “Sure you can manage, Joe?”

  “It is nothing, signore,” Giuseppe said and gently picked up the unconscious man.

  After waiting a moment or so to give Harry a chance to look around, they left the room and walked silently down the Calle to where Giuseppe had moored his gondola. They met no one, and when they reached the boat, Harry was in it, waiting for them. He helped Giuseppe lower Tregarth into the boat.

  “As quick as you can,” Don said. “I’ll be at the hospital in an hour or so.”

  “Okay, boss,” Harry said. “I’ll take care of him.”

  Don stood on the molo and watched the gondola move swiftly down the dark rio. He waited until it was out of sight, then he set off with long, quick strides towards the Calle dei

  Fabori.

  The Calle dei Fabori lay in the centre of the tourist sightseeing district, and when Don eventually reached it he found he had by no means the long Calle to himself. Ahead of him he could see a small group of American tourists; behind them wandered two elderly women with an elderly male escort and behind them, arm-in-arm were an obvious honeymooning couple.

  Don remembered that the little wall shrine was towards the Rialto Bridge end of the Calle. It wasn’t going to be easy to examine, he thought, with so many people about.

  Why had Tregarth mentioned the shrine? Had he left a message there or hidden something there? Was the shrine in some way connected with the mystery of his disappearance? Had he known what he was saying or had he been delirious?

  Don paused in a dark doorway to let the people ahead of him go on. He glanced back over his shoulder, but the lighted Calle stretched emptily back towards the rear of San Marco.

  Ahead of him he could just see the faint light of the lamp before the wall shrine. The elderly trio passed it without appeari
ng to notice it. The group of Americans paused for a moment to stare at the shrine, then they too went on, but the young couple stopped to admire it.

  Don waited impatiently.

  “What a lovely idea,” the girl said, her young voice coming clearly to Don. “Isn’t it a pretty thing, Jack?”

  Her escort slid his arm around her and pulled her to him.

  “It’s all right I suppose but I don’t believe in that kind of thing. And talking about pretty things, you should look in a mirror one of these days.”

  The girl laughed.

  “I wonder if you’ll be saying that to me in ten years’ time.”

  “The answer to that one is wait and see. Come on, let’s find somewhere to eat. I’m starving.”

  Don was relieved to see them move on.

  He walked quickly to the shrine.

  It was a small affair: no more than a hole in the wall and protected by iron bars. It contained a little statue of the Virgin Mary, a spray of artificial flowers in a metal vase and a small oil lamp to light the shrine.

  He examined the shrine carefully, but could see nothing that could have the remotest connection with Tregarth.

  Disappointed, he moved away. Then he paused, frowning. There must be something there he hadn’t seen. Tregarth had been so determined to tell him about the shrine. He went back and stared again into the lighted crevice. He decided the only place anything could be concealed in was the metal vase. With difficulty he squeezed his hand between the iron bars and tilted the vase towards him.

  There was something there beside the artificial flowers! He pulled the vase close to the bars, then lifted out the flowers. Wedged down in the funnel of the vase was a small green oilskin package.

  Don hooked out the package, and as he did so, he instinctively looked down the Calle.

  Coming towards him were two men: one of them had a white hat - it was Curizo!

  Don stepped back, the package in his hand.

  Curizo broke into a run, followed by the other man whom Don recognized as the brutish Hans: Don spun on his heel and ran. Pelting down the Calle, he reached the quay that ran along the Grand Canale and found himself immediately hemmed in by a packed, slowly-moving crowd of sightseers.

  He dropped the package into his pocket, and slackening his pace to a crawl, he threaded his way through the crowd, knowing that Curizo and Hans were close on his heels. He glanced back over his shoulder.

  Curizo was within six feet of him. They looked at each other and Don grinned. Curizo’s dark eyes were glittering, and his thin mouth snarled.

  Knowing neither of the men dared attack him in this vast crowd, Don kept on towards the Palazzo della Toletta. Curizo and Hans followed him, keeping a few yards behind him.

  Along the entire length of the fondamente the close-packed crowd moved slowly towards the San Marco piazza. As Don came into sight of his palazzo he suddenly quickened his pace. He edged sideways into the crowd, apologizing as he forced his way through. Then suddenly free of the crowd, he reacted the steps of the palazzo and ran up them. He opened the front door and stepped into the hall.

  He paused to look back.

  Curizo and Hans kept on. Neither of them looked at him, and Don was a little surprised they had given up so tamely although he realized there was nothing they could do before such a vast audience.

  He shut the door, shot the bolts and drew in a quick sigh of relief.

  But his feeling of security didn’t last a couple of seconds. He became aware how silent the house was. Mario, the underfootman, who took charge in Cherry’s absence, and who should have been in the hall, wasn’t to be seen. Then Don noticed there was a light showing under his study door. He stepped softly across the hall, took the oilskin package from his pocket and put it into a copper bowl that stood on a finely-carved Venetian table.

  He had just time to move away from the table when his study door opened and Carl Natzka appeared in the doorway.

  “Good evening, Mr. Micklem,” he said gently and smiled. “Please forgive this intrusion, but I am very anxious to talk to you.”

  Don moved across the hall and Natzka stepped aside so Don could enter.

  “Nice to see you,” Don said. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” and he walked into the study.

  Busso and the blond man Brun, were standing against the wall. Busso held a blunt-nosed automatic and as Don came in, he lifted it and pointed it at him.

  Nine: . . . Or Else

  Carl Natzka closed the door and leaned his back against it.

  “Forgive me for being so dramatic, Mr. Micklem,” he said, “but the past few hours have shown that you are a man of violence. Busso’s gun is effectively silenced, and he has orders to shoot you if the need arises. It is extremely important that we should talk without interruption.”

  “By all means,” Don said, and crossing over to his favourite chair he sat down. “By the way, how is your charming sister?”

  Natzka smiled.

  “A little anxious about you, Mr. Micklem. She is young and susceptible, and she has taken a liking to you as I have. I am embarrassed to have to threaten you in this way, but the situation is critical and I have no alternative. I can assure you the last thing I would wish to do is to harm you.”

  Don grinned.

  “That’s fine; I share the sentiment with you.” He reached into the cigar box on the table, selected a cigar and raised it, looking at Natzka. “Will you smoke?”

  “I think not,” Natzka said and came to sit near Don.

  Don lit the cigar in an atmosphere that had suddenly become tense. He blew smoke towards the ceiling, crossed one leg over the other and looked at Natzka.

  “Well, now, what is it you want to talk to me about?”

  “About Tregarth.” Natzka laced his fingers together and rested them on his knees. “Tregarth is an Englishman; you are an American. Tregarth has got himself involved in an affair of State. I am hoping that you will be intelligent, Mr. Micklem and declare yourself neutral. This matter is really between the British government and my government. It has nothing to do with the United States: nothing whatsoever, and I am only asking you not to interfere or obstruct either government.”

  “That’s reasonable,” Don returned. “I have no wish to interfere with any government.”

  Natzka nodded, his slate grey eyes watchful.

  “In that case I am sure you will hand over the package in green oilskin that you now have.”

  Don looked with interest at his cigar, then glanced at Natzka, raising his eyebrows.

  “An oilskin package? What makes you think I have an oilskin package?”

  Natzka’s face tightened and his eyes turned cold.

  “Don’t let us waste time, Mr. Micklem,” he said. “You have just said you were ready to cooperate. This package. . .”

  “One moment,” Don said, raising his hand. “I didn’t say I would cooperate. I said I wouldn’t interfere between governments. That is a vastly different thing to my thinking. Tell me about the package. Does it belong to you?”

  “It belongs to my government. It was stolen from our Foreign Office by Tregarth.”

  “And why should Tregarth steal it?”

  “It contains valuable information, Mr. Micklem: valuable to another power. I have orders to get the package back, and I intend to do so.”

  “Surely it was very careless of your Foreign Office to allow Tregarth to obtain this information if it is so valuable?” he said mildly.

  Natzka nodded.

  “Extremely careless, but then Tregarth is an exceedingly clever man. I should like to congratulate you on the way you rescued him by the way. It was very handsomely done.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” Don said and smiled. “But your henchmen aren’t particularly good in a rough house.”

  “That may be,” Natzka said, “but they have talents in other directions. They can persuade people to talk, Mr. Micklem.”

  “Can they? They appear to have failed to make Tregarth
talk, otherwise you would scarcely be wasting your time here.”

  “Tregarth would have talked,” Natzka said. “It was merely a matter of time. He was a sick man, Mr. Micklem; Busso had to be careful. If he had been stronger, Busso could have used more violence, but we had to be careful not to kill him.”

  “So you burned him with cigarettes instead?”

  “That is right It is an effective method when dealing with women or very sick men.”

  Don controlled his rising anger, and had to make an effort to keep his expression mild and interested. He wanted to jump across the room and smash his fist into Natzka’s face, but he knew that wasn’t the way to play this hand.

  “We have wandered from the subject of my call,” Natzka went on. “The package, please, Mr. Micklem.”

  “I must talk to Tregarth first,” Don said. “Suppose we meet again tomorrow? I’ll be clearer in my mind about it after I have heard Tregarth’s version. And now, signor Natzka, perhaps you will excuse me? I have still a number of things to do.”

  Don rose to his feet. Immediately he received a violent blow on his shoulder from behind that staggered him. He half turned to find Busso’s snarling face confronting him. The automatic pointed directly between Don’s eyes.

  “Sit down!” Busso said, “unless you want me to hit you again.”

  “Yes, please sit down, Mr. Micklem,” Natzka urged. “I apologize for the violence, but you don’t seem to understand your position. You are my prisoner.”

  “Is that right?” Don said, rubbing his shoulder and grimacing. He sat down again. “You can hardly expect me to take you seriously. This is my house. . .”

  “That will be remedied in a few moments, Mr. Micklem, unless, of course, you decide to cooperate. If you don’t, then I shall have you removed to my own ground. But I hope that won’t be necessary.” Natzka took out a leather cigarette case, selected a cigarette and lit it. “You said just now that you wanted to talk to Tregarth. I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Tregarth is dead.”

  Don looked at him; the cold grey eyes made him suddenly uneasy.