1954 - Mission to Venice Page 4

  Had he imagined it? he wondered, looking down at the sleek dark hair of the girl as she bent over her work. J.T. - John Tregarth?

  Had he imagined it?

  “Ah, signore, I see you are interested in our work,” a voice said, and turning sharply he found a tall, fat man in a grey lounge suit standing by him. The big, fat, sleepy-eyed face was typically Italian, and the smile, revealing some gold-capped teeth, was as professional as it was insincere.

  “That’s right,” Don returned.

  “It is a great honour to have you here, Signor Micklem. Four years now you have been coming to Venice, and this is the first time you have honoured my shop.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” Don said, smiling. He had become used to the Venetians recognizing him as soon as they saw him. You can’t remain an American millionaire with a palazzo on the Grand Canal without every trader in Venice becoming aware of the fact.

  “May I show you some of my treasures, signore?”

  “A friend of mine wants a chandelier. I promised to look at some.”

  “Ah, a chandelier! Please come to my office. I can show you many beautiful designs. Your friend would be more satisfied if he selected a special design and we made it for him. If he cares, he would be most welcome to see some of it made at our factory in Murano.”

  Don followed the fat man down a passage and into a small, well-furnished office. He sat down while the fat man began to look through a large portfolio full of various drawings.

  “You are Manrico Rossi?” Don asked quietly.

  “Yes, signore. You have been recommended to me perhaps?”

  “A good friend of mine told me to come to you. A friend of yours, too, I believe.”

  Rossi smiled. He faced Don, a sheaf of designs in his hand.

  “And his name, signore?”

  “John Tregarth,” Don said, his eyes on Rossi’s face.

  The fat man flinched. His smile became a fixed grimace. The designs slipped out of his fingers and fell to the floor. He immediately bent down to pick them up and Don lost sight of his face. Had that sudden fixed smile and that flinching look in the sleepy eyes been fear? he wondered, startled.

  When Rossi straightened up, the look had gone out of his eyes, although his fat face had taken on a yellowish tinge.

  “Ah, il signor Tregarth,” he said. “A very good friend of ours. Yes, it seems a long time since we saw him. A year perhaps or even longer.”

  By the way his eyes shifted, Don was certain he was lying, and he felt that feathery chill creep up his spine.

  He said, “I was wondering if he happened to be in Venice. You haven’t seen him then?”

  “Oh no, signore.” The black eyes stared at Don, then quickly shifted. The thick lips tightened. “Il signor Tregarth is not in Venice. He comes to see us always in July.”

  Don lifted his shoulders, then accepting the designs Rossi handed to him, he listened to Rossi eulogize their merits. He finally selected three of the more simple ones and asked Rossi to send them to Terry Ratcliffe. After Rossi had noted down the address, Don got to his feet.

  “But isn’t there anything I can show you for yourself, signore?” Rossi asked hopefully.

  “Not right now. I’m staying a month or so. I’ll be in again.”

  “Certainly, signore. We will always be pleased to see you.”

  Don walked over to the door. He paused and asked, “Has il signor Tregarth any friends in Venice, do you know?”

  “Friends? Why, surely. Il signor Tregarth must have many friends here.”

  “Would you know any of them?”

  Rossi lifted his fat shoulders regretfully.

  “No, signore. Il signor Tregarth did business with me in my office. We did not meet outside.”

  Don nodded. As he moved along the passage with Rossi behind him, he said, “If he happens to turn up, tell him I’m here, won’t you? It’s a long time since we met.”

  “I will tell him, but I fear he won’t come. Always in July he comes; never in September. Next year perhaps.”

  They moved into the shop and Don glanced at the thin, dark girl behind the bench who was hastily making yet another prancing horse. She didn’t look up, but just for a moment her fingers faltered, and she had to discard the rod of glass she was working with.

  Don paused near her.

  “You work late hours here?” he said to Rossi.

  “We have to, signore. The tourists expect to buy at night. We don’t close until eleven-thirty.”

  “That’s late. At that time I shall be enjoying a brandy at Florian’s,” Don said, pitching his voice so the girl could hear.

  “Well, I’ll be in again.”

  Without looking up the girl gave a quick little nod of her head. It could have meant something or nothing. Don nodded to Rossi and walked out into the still, hot air of the Calle.

  He hadn’t learned a great deal, but he was far from being discouraged. He had made contact. Rossi knew more than he said: that much was obvious. The girl also seemed to know something, and she was trying to be cooperative. Her mysterious secrecy bothered Don. Was Rossi in the opposite camp, if there was an opposite camp? It looked like it. Well, he had told her where she could find him and she had appeared to understand.

  In a little over three hours he would go to the Piazza San Marco and wait for her. He decided now to call on the Moderno Hotel and see if they had any news of Tregarth. As he walked slowly away from the glass shop, he failed to notice Rossi who was standing in his shop doorway, signal to a short, thickset man in a black suit and black hat who lolled in a shop doorway.

  The thickset man immediately went after Don.

  On the fondamenta, in sight of the Rialto Bridge, a tall, thin man in a white suit and white hat was staring aimlessly across the Canal. As the thickset man passed him he jerked his thumb towards Don and nodded. The tall, thin man moved casually after Don, fifty yards or so in the rear.

  Unaware that he was being followed, Don headed towards the Moderno Hotel.

  * * *

  At eleven thirty, Don found an empty table outside Florian’s cafe and sat down.

  The Piazza San Marco was still crowded. Across the way, under the shadow of the Procuratie Vecchie a band was playing Verdi’s march of the Long Trumpets, and its robust, stirring rhythm set Don’s foot tapping. Nearly every table in the vast square was taken. Groups of tourists stood about, watching the perspiring orchestra or staring up at the rich midnight blue sky, pinpointed with glittering stars.

  Don ordered a brandy, lit a cigarette and stretched out his long legs. He was no further forward in his quest. The manager at the Moderno Hotel had no information to give him about Tregarth.

  “Il signor Tregarth never comes to Venice in September,” he had told Don. “Always in July. This year he does not come. Next year perhaps.”

  And yet Tregarth was in Venice, Don said to himself, unless the postcard was a fake, but he doubted this. If it had been a fake, why hadn’t it been sent direct to Hilda Tregarth, and why had it been signed in the name of Saville?

  Everything now depended on the girl from the glass shop. If she failed him, he had a problem on his hands. He looked over the teeming piazza. He couldn’t hope to find her in this crush. She would have to find him. He had told her he would be outside Florian’s. He would have to be patient and hope she would come.

  A fat man sitting at a table a few yards from him, beckoned to a waiter, paid his bill and moved away towards the basilica. The man in the white hat came out of the shadows of the arcade and sat down at the vacant table. He ordered a brandy and opening an evening paper, he glanced casually at it.

  Don remembered seeing this man as he had left the Moderno Hotel. He remembered suddenly that he had also seen him soon after he had left Rossi’s shop. Now here he was again. Don’s mind alerted. He turned his chair slightly so he could examine the man without being too obvious.

  The man was swarthy, with a hooked nose, a thin mouth and deepset, glittering eyes. Al
though he was thin, Don guessed he could be immensely strong. Steel and whalebone, Don thought, glancing at the thin brown wrists that protruded beyond the slightly frayed cuffs of the white coat.

  A nasty customer, Don said to himself: vicious, and as quick as a lizard. He didn’t look Italian: he was probably Egyptian. As the man in the white hat turned his head, Don saw he was wearing gold rings in his ears. Again Don glanced over the crowded piazza, then looked at his wristwatch. It was now twenty minutes to twelve. It would take the girl at least ten minutes to reach the piazza from the Calle Formosa. He couldn’t expect her much before midnight.

  The man in the white hat hadn’t once looked in Don’s direction. He seemed completely absorbed in his newspaper, and Don began to wonder if the faint suspicion that had hold of him was a false alarm. He happened to have seen this man three times during the evening. Did that mean anything? Probably not, but there was no harm in keeping an eye on this swarthy-looking cutthroat.

  As the two bronze giants on top of the clock tower began to hammer out twelve ringing blows on the hanging bell, Don signaled to the waiter, paid his bill and casually stood up.

  The man in the white hat took no notice of him. He waved his empty glass at the waiter, calling for another brandy.

  Don edged his way free of the tables and took up a position outside Florian’s brightly-lit window.

  The man in the white hat didn’t even look to see where Don had gone, and Don’s suspicions subsided.

  Leaning against one of the arches on the arcade was the short, thickset man in black. He watched Don furtively.

  Don was now searching the moving mass of people in the piazza as they passed and repassed beneath the long row of lantern-shaped lamps.

  Then he saw her.

  She was looking towards him from across the piazza as she stood in a lighted shop doorway. She was still wearing her black working dress, and over her head she wore a long black shawl that half hid her face, but Don was sure it was the girl from the glass shop.

  He began to move slowly across the piazza towards her, elbowing his way through the crush. He paused once to look back at the man in the white hat who still sat at his table, half-hidden by his newspaper. He appeared to be taking no interest in Don’s movements.

  The short, thickset man had also seen the girl, and he moved around the arcade, taking the longer way round, but moving faster than Don as the arcade was less crowded. The girl waited a moment or so, then when Don was within forty yards or so of her, she turned and walked through the arch under the clock tower and into the Merceria.

  Don went after her.

  The short, thickset man sidled just behind him. As soon as Don had passed under the arch and out of sight, the man in the white hat got to his feet, paid the waiter and went towards the clock tower with long, twisting strides that took him quickly through the crowd.

  Don could see the girl ahead of him. She kept on, not looking back, and he made no attempt to overtake her. He decided if she wanted him to catch up with her, she would have waited for him. She kept on until she left the lighted shopping quarter and then she turned down a dimly lit Calle. Don followed her. Halfway down, he looked back over his shoulder, but the short, thickset man was far too great an expert in following people to be caught with his back against a light. He was waiting just out of sight, listening to Don’s retreating footfalls. The man in the white hat came up to him.

  “Get around to the back of them,” the short, thickset man muttered. “Quickly!”

  The man in the white hat ran down the Calle. His long legs covered the ground silently. He darted down the Calle that ran parallel to the one Don had just gone down. Seeing only the empty Calle stretching back to the lighted intersection and satisfied that no one was taking an interest in what he was doing, Don quickened his pace as the girl turned a corner. He also turned the comer, and a few yards ahead of him, he saw her waiting for him.

  “Excuse me, signore,” she said as Don came up to her. “You are il signor Micklem?”

  “That’s right,” Don said. “Who are you?”

  “I am Louisa Peccati,” she said breathlessly. “There is no one following you, signore?”

  Don remembered the man in the white hat.

  “I don’t think so,” he said cautiously “Those were Tregarth’s initials you showed me in the shop, weren’t they?”

  “Yes.” She looked fearfully up and down the dark Calle. “He is in very great danger. They are hunting for him. You must be very careful. . .”

  “Who are watching him?” Don asked sharply.

  She caught hold of his wrist.

  “Listen!”

  Don heard quick light footfalls coming down the adjacent Calle.

  “Someone’s coming!” she whispered.

  “It’s all right,” Don said quietly. “No one’s going to hurt you. Where’s Tregarth?”

  “Go to 39, Calle Mondello. . .” she began, then broke off as a thickset, short man came rapidly down the Calle towards them. Don felt the girl’s fingers tighten on his wrist and she crouched back. He also moved back, stepping slightly in front of her to give the approaching man room to pass. As the man came upon them, he paused abruptly.

  “Excuse me, signore,” he said and waved an unlighted cigarette at Don. “May I trouble you for a light?”

  “Sure,” Don said, anxious to get rid of the man. He groped in his pocket for his lighter.

  The short, thickset man stepped closer. Suddenly his right fist shot up with the speed of a striking snake and slammed with paralysing force into Don’s stomach.

  If Don hadn’t sensed the blow and tightened his stomach muscles at the moment of impact, the blow would have maimed him. As it was, the force of the punch brought him forward in helpless agony, but instinctively, he twisted sideways, avoiding the thickset man’s left that whistled up towards his jaw.

  Gasping, Don threw a wild, short arm punch that caught the thickset man under the heart, making him grunt and step back. But the punch Don had taken had been too damaging. He felt his knees buckle. He took another punch in the body and he jackknifed forward, dimly aware that the girl had slipped past him and was running down the Calle.

  He groped forward, trying to keep his balance. The thickset man hit him a crushing punch on the side of his jaw. The punch didn’t travel more than three inches but its impact was devastating.

  A dazzling light exploded before Don’s eyes. He fell face forward on to the greasy paving stones of the Calle.

  A girl’s voice said anxiously, “He’s not dead, is he?”

  Don became aware that gentle hands were touching him and he moved, shaking his head.

  “No just knocked out,” a man said.

  Don opened his eyes. He could see a man bending over him: a man in evening dress.

  “Don’t move for a moment,” the man said. “You may have broken bones.”

  “I’m okay,” Don said. He sat up, touching his aching jaw. He could feel a slight swelling and he grimaced. “At least, I think I am.” There was a dull ache in his stomach and he was thankful his hard, well-developed muscles had stood up to that vicious punch. “Give me a hand up, will you?”

  He got stiffly to his feet, and for a moment, he leaned against the man in evening dress. He felt his strength flowing back and, making an effort, he stepped away.

  “I’m fine,” he said, his eyes looking up and down the Calle.

  Apart from the man in evening dress and the shadowy outline of a girl in a white dinner gown, the Calle was deserted. “Did you see anyone?”

  “No. We’ve lost our way and came down here hoping to get to the Rialto. We nearly fell over you,” the man said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, thanks,” Don said.

  He put his hand inside his coat. His wallet was missing. A cold, ferocious fury gripped him, but he didn’t show it. What had happened to Louisa Peccati? Had she got away? What a fool he had been! He had certainly asked for it. What a sucker to have fallen f
or that old ‘light for my cigarette’ gag.

  “Have you been robbed?” the man asked.

  “I guess I have.” Don was now taking more notice of the speaker. He had a slight guttural accent although his English was fluent enough. Don couldn’t see much of him in the dim light, but he could see he was tall, slightly built and he appeared young.

  “These damned Italians!” the man said angrily. “Let’s get out of here. I’m sure you could use a drink. We’re staying at the Gritti. This is my sister, Maria. I’m Carl Natzka. If you feel like taking us back to the hotel I’ll offer you a good brandy.”

  “Oh, Carl, he must be feeling terrible,” the girl said anxiously. “Don’t you think he should rest a little first?”

  “That’s okay,” Don said and he gave the girl a little bow. “Don’t worry about me. I’m all right now. I’ll show you where the hotel is, but please excuse me joining you. I’m in a mess and I’d rather go back to my own place. I’m Don Micklem.”

  “I thought I recognized you,” the girl said. “You have a palazzo somewhere, haven’t you?”

  Don attempted a grin.

  “It sounds grander than it is,” he said. He wanted to be rid of these two. All he could think of at the moment was Louisa Peccati. What had happened to her? “I’ll put you on your way.”

  He set off down the Calle, and in a few moments, brought them to the lighted shopping quarter.

  “You know your way now?” he said. “Straight ahead will bring you to the San Marco.” He was now able to see these two clearly, and he looked at them. They were a handsome couple: Carl Natzka had a strong, friendly face, deeply tanned and his brown hair was bleached golden by the sun. Don liked the look of him. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-four or five.

  His sister, Maria, was probably a year or so older than her brother. She was tall and lovely, with a determined, firm mouth, large, black sparkling eyes, thick black hair that fell to her shoulders, and her white evening dress sparkled with glittering sequins. Don had met many lovely women in his time, but Maria Natzka had more than loveliness: she was warm, alive and exciting.