1954 - Mission to Venice Page 6

  Louisa.

  Had he?

  Don stiffened as the thought went through his mind. He had no proof that the thickset man and the man in the white hat were responsible for the girl’s murder. He was also jumping to conclusions. Suppose she had come here and Tregarth. . .

  He shook his head.

  No, he was sure Tregarth hadn’t had anything to do with her death.

  “Signore. . .”

  Giuseppe’s whisper floated up the stairs. The warning, urgent note in his voice made Don snatch up the suitcase and move quickly on to the landing.

  “What is it?”

  “The police are coming.” Giuseppe’s voice quivered with excitement. “They are already on the bridge.”

  Don was quick to realize his position.

  There was a dead woman in the house, and she had been recently murdered. Suspicion might easily fall on him. He would have to explain what he was doing here. His explanation was bound to leak out. He might even be arrested.

  “Shut and bolt the door,” he said sharply, and carrying the suitcase, he went down the stairs as quickly as he dared and joined Giuseppe in the dark passage.

  “There are four of them, signore,” Giuseppe whispered.

  A loud knock sounded on the street door.

  “Come on,” Don muttered and moving silently down the passage, he opened the door leading into the back room, crossed over to the window, pushed it up and leaned out. He looked down at the dark, oily water a few feet below the level of the window. A violent sound of splintering wood told him the police were forcing the street door.

  “Can you swim, Joe?” he asked as he swung his leg over the window sill.

  “Yes, signore.”

  “You’d better be good,” Don said. “I’ve got this suitcase. You’ll have to tow me. Game on.”

  He slid down into the water, turned on his back, holding the case across his chest.

  Giuseppe joined him in the water. Don reached out and took a hold of Giuseppe’s blouse.

  “Get me out of here,” Don said, “and hurry.”

  With long, powerful strokes, Giuseppe swam into the darkness, pulling Don after him.

  When they were clear of the house, Giuseppe headed for the quay. While Don trod water, Giuseppe hauled himself up, then bent and took the suitcase from Don as Don struggled on to the quay.

  “I hope you are en joying yourself,” Don said, grinning.

  Water dripped from him, making puddles at his feet. He took the suitcase, also dripping water, from Giuseppe.

  “Let’s get home. I’ve had about enough for tonight.”

  They walked quickly and silently through the maze of dark Calle.

  The San Marco clock was striking three o’clock as they crossed the Grand Canale by the Ponte della Accademia.

  At this hour the far side quay was deserted, and no one saw them as they walked quickly towards the Palazzo della Toletta.

  At the lighted entrance, Don paused.

  “Get off home,” he said to Giuseppe. “Come and see me tomorrow. Thanks for your help.”

  “I’ve enjoyed myself,” Giuseppe said simply.

  “There’s one more thing you can do for me,” Don went on.

  “See if you can get any information for me about a girl who calls herself Louisa Peccati. I want to find out where she lives, if she has any people. She works at Rossi’s glass shop. Be careful who you ask. The police are interested in her.”

  “Yes, signore. I will find something for you by tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Joe, and thanks again,” Don said.

  As he entered the hall, he saw Cherry sitting on one of the massive hall chairs. He was dozing, an expression of stem disapproval on his pink and white face. As Don closed the front door, Cherry started and opened his eyes.

  “Mr. Micklem!” he gasped. “You’re wet!”

  “So I am,” Don said cheerfully. “What are you doing out of bed at this hour?”

  “I was waiting up for you, sir,” Cherry said, getting to his feet. “Have you had an accident?”

  “Nothing like that. I just fancied a swim. Get off to bed.”

  “I’ll come up and take your wet clothes,” Cherry said frostily.

  “Go to bed! I’ll leave them in the bathroom. Good night Cherry,” and Don went up the stairs, leaving a trail of drips behind him.

  He entered his bedroom, closed the door, set the wet suitcase down in a corner, then crossed to the bathroom. He stripped off his wet clothes, took a shower, put on a pair of pyjamas and returned to his bedroom. He sat on the edge of his bed, lit a cigarette and stared down at the floor.

  He rubbed his aching jaw as he considered the events of the evening. Not a very successful effort, he thought, frowning. Plenty has happened, but I’ve got nowhere. I’m just as far from finding Tregarth as I was when I arrived this afternoon. But at least I do know he’s somewhere in Venice or at least he was here recently.

  Is he still here? Is he still alive? Did those two guys catch him and if they did, did they treat him as they treated the girl? How was it the police turned up as they did? If I had been caught in that house, it would have been damned awkward.

  Was that the idea? Had there been a third watcher, and when he saw me go to the house, had he tipped the police?

  Don shook his head.

  I’ve got to get some sleep, he told himself, stubbing out his cigarette. He rolled into bed. Right now it looks as if I’m up against a blank wall. There are no more leads to follow unless

  Giuseppe finds out something about the girl that’ll give me an idea to work on.

  He closed his eyes. But sleep didn’t come easily. His mind was haunted by the image of Louisa Peccati’s tortured body. Finally, when he did drift into sleep, it wasn’t the murdered girl who came into his uneasy dreams, but the dark, lovely Maria Natzka.

  Five: The Voice from Paris

  It was after eleven o’clock the following morning before Don had finished attending to his more urgent correspondence, answering a number of telephone calls from people who had heard he had arrived in Venice, and had made his excuses for unaccepted invitations.

  He was inclined to be curt with the last caller, and when he had hung up, he told Cherry to put no more calls through to him.

  “I haven’t time for social activities this trip,” he said. “Tell them I’ve got measles or something if they keep pestering.”

  Cherry looked at him in alarm.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I have an important job to do,” Don said patiently. “I’m not being sociable for some time.”

  “Am I to understand, sir,” Cherry said, drawing himself up to his full majestic height, “that you will not be entertaining now you are here?”

  Don knew how much Cherry had been looking forward to organizing parties and dinners, and he felt a little guilty as he avoided Cherry’s accusing eyes.

  “That’s the idea,” he said, sweeping a pile of answered letters into his wastepaper basket. “I’ve got to find a man who’s got himself lost. It’s a matter of life and death, Cherry. Sorry, but it’s just one of those things.”

  “I see, sir,” Cherry said frostily. “Something to do with the young person’s visit before we left London no doubt.”

  “Right first time,” Don said. “I have to go out. Now, relax Cherry. You’re on vacation. Go and look at some pictures or paddle in the lagoon. Take your hair down and have a good time.”

  He hurried from the room before Cherry could recover his breath, and leaving the palazzo, he walked briskly along the quay towards the gondola station.

  He hoped by now Giuseppe might have some information for him, but there was no sign of him when Don reached the station. A gondolier, lounging in the sun, told him he hadn’t seen Giuseppe as yet.

  Too early, Don thought, as he walked to the edge of the quay to look across the expanse of blue water while he decided what he was going to do.

  “It’s Mr. Micklem, isn’t it?”
a girl’s voice said.

  Turning, he found himself looking into the sparkling, dark eyes of Maria Natzka.

  He thought she looked enchanting in her pale blue frock and big picture hat.

  “Why, hello,” he said, taking off his hat. “How nice to see you again.”

  “How is your bruise?”

  “It’s fine, thank you. My jaw’s a little stiff, but it doesn’t stop me talking.”

  He thought she was quite the loveliest woman he had ever met, and the Tregarth problem faded into the background of his mind as he looked at her.

  “We were very worried about you,” Maria said. “I told Carl he should have seen you home.”

  Don laughed, “You don’t have to worry about me. I thrive on rough treatment. What are you doing here this morning?”

  “I was planning to see the Colleoni statue. Can you tell me where I can find it?”

  “You had best go by gondola. It’s by the church of Santi Giovanni e Paolo which is also worth looking at. The church is a kind of Pantheon of the Doges.” Seeing the interest in her sparkling eyes, and slightly intoxicated by her ravishing smile, he went on before he could stop himself: “You may not think so to look at me, but I’m an expert guide. Would you like me to take you and fill in the background or would you rather go alone?”

  “I’m going to be quite brazen and admit I was hoping you would offer,” she said and laughed. “The last time I ventured alone in a gondola, the wretched man ran after me all the way to the hotel, insisting I hadn’t paid him enough.”

  “It’s a favourite dodge of theirs. You have to know how to handle them. Come with me. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  She moved with him towards the gondola station. She had the easy, graceful carriage of a mannequin, and Don noticed how a group of young American tourists stared at her and then

  at him.

  One of the gondoliers came forward, bowing.

  “Il Campo dei Santi Giovanni e Paolo,” Don said to him as he helped Maria into the gondola.

  He sat beside her and stretched out his long legs. At the back of his mind, he knew he shouldn’t be doing this. He should be trying to find Tregarth, but the temptation to share the company of this enchantress was too much for him. He tried to console his conscience by telling himself he had nothing to work on until Giuseppe reported to him and he was entitled to an hour or so to himself.

  “Where’s your brother this morning?” he asked. “Why isn’t he looking after you or has he found someone else’s sister to look after?”

  “He is working this morning. You see, I am on holiday, but he is here on business.”

  “Are you staying long? “ Don asked.

  “Perhaps a week. It depends on Carl. You are very fortunate, Mr. Micklem, to be your own master.”

  “Don, perhaps, would be less formal,” Don said. “Could we make it Don?”

  She looked at him from under her long eyelashes.

  “If it would please you.”

  “It would. To return to your remark. I guess I am lucky,” Don said. “Your brother said your name was Maria: it is a lovely name. What about you? Have you been lucky, Maria?”

  She lifted her elegant shoulders.

  “Not always. I am more lucky than some, less lucky than others. My father had a very bad time during the war. He was in a concentration camp. Carl and I were refugees. When the war was over, my father rebuilt his business. Then perhaps you could say I became lucky. I was able to have many things I couldn’t have when I was a child. It would have been better, I think, if I could have had those things when I was a child. I missed them so much then, whereas now, I don’t think I would have missed them.”

  “Your father is still alive?”

  “Oh yes, but he sends Carl to buy glass. He is more interested in the financial side of the business.”

  “Glass? Is that Carl’s job?”

  Don’s mind alerted.

  She looked at him, smiling.

  “You sound surprised. The Natzka glass factory is well-known.”

  A cold, feathery feeling crawled up Don’s spine.

  “I must confess my ignorance. Your brother then is here to buy Venetian glass?”

  “Yes. We have thirty shops in Hungary. We sell a lot of Venetian glass.”

  “Do you sell English glass too?”

  “Yes, a lot of it, and even a little American glass as well,” she said, smiling.

  Don tried to sound casual, but he found himself strangely tense with excitement.

  “Who do you deal with in England?” he asked.

  “With John Tregarth of Hampden,” she said without hesitation. “And in America with the Van Ryder factory. You see, I know quite a lot about the business although Carl tries to make out I don’t take any interest in it.”

  At this moment the gondola swung to the quay and the gondolier sprang from the gondola and held it steady.

  “Well, here we are,” Don said, glad of the respite so he could consider what his next move should be. He helped Maria to alight. “Wait for us,” he said to the gondolier and, together, they walked across the campo and stood under the statue of Colleoni.

  Don had taken many of his friends to see the statue and he knew its history well. He told Maria who Colleoni was, and how Verrocchio, the master of Leonardo da Vinci, had designed the statue which was considered to be the finest equestrian statue in the world.

  “There’s only one other equestrian statue that can compete with this one,” he concluded, “and that is Donatello’s Gattamelata in Padua.”

  While he talked his mind was seething with suppressed excitement.

  Had it been a coincidence that Tregarth’s name had cropped up as it had done or was she connected in some way with this affair?

  He decided not to appear anxious for information about Tregarth, and having explained the history of the Colleoni statue, he took her into the church and gave her a brief description of the various Doges’ tombs. When he felt she had seen enough of the wonders of the church, he suggested they should return to the gondola.

  “It’s getting hot now,” he said. “The best place in the Venetian heat is on the water. Let’s take a tour through the rio and talk”

  “Are you sure you can spare the time?” she asked, and he could see she was teasing him.

  “I’m not considering myself,” Don said, grinning. “The gondolier expects it of us and I wouldn’t like to hurt his feelings.”

  She followed him out into the blinding sunshine.

  When they had once more settled in the gondola, and the long, black boat was moving effortlessly through the still water of the rio, Don said, “You mentioned John Tregarth just now.

  Do you know him?”

  “Know John? Why, of course. He is an old friend of ours. Why do you ask? “

  “I used to know him. I haven’t seen him for a long time now: not since the war.”

  She half turned to look at him.

  “You couldn’t be the American pilot he has often talked about. You must be! How stupid of me. I didn’t associate you with the Don Micklem John admires so much. You took him to

  Rome during the war, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right. Have you seen him recently?”

  “He was here three days ago,” Maria said and her eyes darkened, losing their sparkle. “Both Carl and I are very worried about him. We think he is in some kind of trouble.”

  “Trouble? Why do you say that?”

  “He left so hurriedly. He seemed so upset.”

  “Then he has left Venice?”

  “Oh yes. He left for Paris three nights ago.”

  A barge, laden with empty chianti bottles, came slowly down the rio, poled by two ragged young boatmen. Muttering in disgust, Don’s gondolier edged his boat against the wall of a house to let the barge through. There was an exchange of insults as the barge passed, but Don wasn’t ever aware that the gondola had stopped.

  He left for Paris three nights ago.

/>   This information startled him. If it were true, then he was wasting his time running around Venice hunting for Tregarth. But was it true? Had she been misinformed? Was she lying?

  “That’s disappointing,” he said casually. “I should like to have met him again.”

  “We are very fond of John,” Maria said. “I wish I knew what was the matter. He went off in such a hurry: it was almost as if he was running away from someone. Carl says I’m imagining it, but I’m sure I’m not. John wasn’t only worried, he seemed frightened.”

  “Are you sure he went to Paris?”

  “Yes. We saw him on the train.”

  “When you said just now he seemed frightened, didn’t you ask him what was bothering him?”

  She nodded.

  “He wouldn’t say. ‘It’s something I can’t discuss,’ he said. ‘You two have got to keep out of it. It will be all right when I get to Paris.’ Those were his exact words. He asked us to go with him to the station. We were going to a party and Carl said there wasn’t time. John got very agitated. He said we must come to the station with him. I had an idea he was nervous of going alone. He was so insistent that we did go with him.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of the whole thing. It’s been worrying me.”

  “Sounds odd,” Don said, puzzled. “How long was he in Venice?”

  “He was here when we arrived. I think he was here for about five days. And that’s another thing that puzzles me: Carl and he more or less cover the same ground. None of the people Carl has been to see have seen John. He couldn’t have done any work here.”

  “Do you know where he is staying in Paris?”

  “The Chatham Hotel. We asked him to write, but he hasn’t. We shall be going to Paris as soon as Carl has completed his business here. We hope to see something of him then. I will tell him I met you. I know he will be disappointed he missed seeing you.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Don said. He wondered if he should tell Maria what he knew about Tregarth, but decided not to. “Did he visit your factory before coming to Venice?”

  She shook her head.

  “He usually does, and when he does, he stays with us, but this trip, he wrote to say he wasn’t coming so far, and he hoped he would see us in Venice.”