Mission to Siena Read online

  Twenty minutes later he walked into Dicks’ office.

  “Any news of Gina Pasero?” he asked as he closed the door.

  “Not yet,” Dicks said. He looked tired and worried. “Have you something for me?”

  Don straddled the office chair, resting his arms along its back.

  “Are you still keen for me to go to Italy and see what I can dig up?” he asked.

  Dicks lifted his eyebrows.

  “I thought we had gone into that, Mr Micklem. You said…”

  “I know what I said,” Don interrupted. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes, I’m still keen,” Dicks said. “I think you could easily find something that would put us on to the Tortoise.”

  “Good. I’ve decided to go,” Don said. “But on one condition: I want a clear field for at least a week.”

  Dicks took out his pipe and began to fill it.

  “I don’t follow you,” he said. “What do you mean — a clear field?”

  “I’m backing a hunch. I don’t want you to contact the Italian police until I have explored a little. Too many fish in the pond will stir up the mud.”

  Dicks looked doubtful. . “This is a murder case. If you have any information…”

  “I said a hunch, not information. I’m not keeping it a secret. My secretary has been doing some research on the tortoise,”

  Don said, “and she’s turned up something that may give us the lead we’re looking for. Ever been to Siena, Super?”

  Dicks shook his head.

  “Siena is a medieval town. They take a great pride in keeping it that way. Twice a year the festival of the Patio is held in the main piazza1. It consists of a procession of men in fifteenth-century costumes and a horse race. Each horse represents a ward. For hundreds of years Siena has been divided into seventeen wards or districts. Each ward is a self-contained unit with its own crest, leader, church, traditions, and flag. The wards are named after animals, birds and reptiles. One of these wards is named after the tortoise.”

  Dicks’ deep-set eyes showed his interest.

  “I know it is a long shot: no more than a hunch,” Don went on, “but it might easily be the lead we are looking for. We are hunting for a killer who uses a copy of a medieval knife, who calls himself the Tortoise and who is apparently in rivalry with other Italians. The facts can be made to hook up with Siena.”

  Dicks shook his head doubtfully.

  “It is a long shot: overlong I think.”

  ’That’s why I’m justified in asking for a clear field,” Don said. “It isn’t more than a hunch, but it needs careful handling.

  If the Italian police started asking questions about the Tortoise in Siena, and if the Tortoise happens to be there, he’ll vanish before they can get their hands on him. I could get information, if there is any information to get, without stirring up too much mud. Do you see what I’m driving at?”

  Dicks rubbed his jaw.

  “All right,” he said. “Pm only agreeing because I don’t think my opposite number in Italy would bother to investigate this line, Mr Micklem. He hasn’t much imagination. If I haven’t heard from you after a week, then I’ll send him a report.

  How’s that?”

  “Fine.” Don got to his feet. “I’ll be leaving in three or four days. If I dig up anything, I’ll let you know.”

  The telephone bell rang as Dicks was getting to his feet. He picked up the receiver and growled into it. His sudden change of expression made Don look sharply at him.

  “Yes, all right,” Dicks said into the receiver. “I’ll be down.” He dropped the receiver back on its cradle. “Gina Pasero has just been fished out of Risings Lock. She was hit on the head before being thrown into the river.”

  “Poor little devil,” Don said. “I had an idea something like that had happened to her.” .

  “I’ve got to get down there. Do you want to come?”

  “No. There are plenty of other people who’ll identify her if that’s what you want. I’ve got a lot to do if Pm to get off by the end of the week.”

  Dicks nodded over to a shabby suitcase standing against the wall.

  “That belongs to her,” he said. “We brought it away from the hotel. There was nothing in it to tell us anything. The only thing of interest are some snapshots of her taken in Italy. It proves my point again that the guts of this business is in Italy.” He moved to the door. “Want me to drop you anywhere, ah, Micklem?”

  “I’ve got my car. Would you mind if I had a look at those snapshots, Super?”

  “Go ahead. I’ll leave you to it. My chaps are waiting for me. Mind how you go in Siena and good luck.”

  When Dicks had gone, Don lifted the suitcase to the desk and opened it. He found an envelope lying on top of Gina’s few possessions. He shook its contents on to the desk.

  The snapshots were all of Gina, most of them taken against the background of Brighton. In one of them, she was standing arm-in-arm with Shapiro, and she looked very happy.

  But the last half-dozen snapshots held Don’s attention. They were of Gina somewhere in Italy. The Second oneTie looked at made him stiffen. She was leaning against a low wall that was covered with a bougainvillaea creeper in flower. In the distance, forming a background to the picture, was a large, ornate building. Its familiar outlines and its black and white marble campanile were unmistakable: it was the famous cathedral of Siena.

  Chapter VI

  EBONY COLOSSUS

  Satisfied that he was now on the track of the Tortoise, Don went into action with a whirlwind rush that completely disorganized the placid calm of 25a, Upper Brook Mews.

  Three hours after he had returned from Scotland Yard, Marian had been rushed to the London airport to catch a plane to Rome. With her went Cherry, pop-eyed with excitement, and delighted to be at last escaping from the rain and fog of London. Their instructions were to find and rent a villa either in or near Siena.

  Harry was left in charge of 25a while Don cleared up outstanding business, swept half his correspondence into the waste paper basket and cancelled the numerous invitations that were the bane of his life1 during the London season.

  On Thursday morning, two days after her departures Marian telephoned to tell Don she had found a villa and he could move in when he was ready.

  “It’s on a hill a mile outside Siena,” she told him. “There’s a wonderful view, no neighbours and the villa is completely screened from the road. The rent is horrifying, but I didn’t think you would want to cut corners so I’ve taken it for a month with an option to run another three months if we want it.”

  On Saturday midday, a dusty Bentley nosed its way up a twisting lane, lined on either side by olive trees, through a massive archway, up a drive of flowering shrubs to a villa, red-roofed with dark-green shutters, that stood on rising ground overlooking Siena.

  As Harry pulled up before the front entrance, Cherry appeared, his pink and white face wreathed in smiles. He came down the wide stone steps and opened the car door, giving Don a dignified bow.

  “You look pretty pleased with yourself, Cherry,” Don said. He stared at the villa. “My, my, this is quite a place.”

  “It is eminently satisfactory, sir,” Cherry said. “Miss Rigby is waiting for you. Lunch will be ready in ten minutes.”

  An hour later, Don, Marian, Cherry and Harry were on the veranda that overlooked a magnificent view of Siena.

  They had just finished a lunch prepared and cooked by Cherry: a lunch of ravioli, veal steaks with white truffles and ice-cream encrusted with candied fruits.

  Don and Marian sat in basket chairs. Cherry rested his large haunches against the balustrade of the balcony: the furthest he would go to sitting in the presence of his employer. Harry was perched on the balustrade, his hands gripping his knees.

  “You’ve done a good job,” Don said, fanning aside the smoke from his cigar. “This is just the place for our headquarters. Somewhere in Siena is the man we are looking for. I’m sure of
it. Now we’ve got to find him. It might not be too difficult if we could go around asking questions haphazardly, but we can’t do that. He’s bound to have a grapevine and he’d know fast enough we were making inquiries. Once he does know, we’re sunk.”

  “So what do we do?” Harry asked, shifting impatiently.

  “You and Cherry don’t do anything for the moment. You’ll run the villa and keep up the standard that’s already been set.” Don looked over at Cherry. “That meal was right out of the book, Cherry. It’s obvious you haven’t lost your continental touch.”

  Cherry preened himself and coughed behind his hand.

  “If either of you could speak Italian,” Don went on, “I’d let you loose in the city to see what you could pick up, but as you don’t, the spade work1 must be done by Miss Rigby and myself.” He turned to Marian. “We’re going to dig into the history of Siena again. We’ll go to the local bookshop and get all the books on the history of Siena they have in stock. I want to find out a lot more about the ward that represents the tortoise than we know already. When we have some facts, I can then ask questions, but they have got to be the harmless kind of questions a tourist interested in the history of Siena would ask, and not the kind of questions a policeman would ask.”

  Marian nodded.

  “There’s a bookshop in Via Pantaneto. They should have all we want.”

  “Okay, let’s make a start. Harry, keep out of town. The less anyone sees of you the better. There may come a time when a new face will be useful, and that goes for you too, Cherry. Sooner or later, the Tortoise will find out, I am after him.

  What I don’t want him to know is I have you two helping me. Do you follow?”

  Cherry, who hadn’t forgotten the part he played in the Tre-garth affair, leaned forward, his fat face alight with excitement.

  “I have come prepared, sir,” he said. “I have my sword stick with me. If you will remember it came in useful in Venice last year.”

  The picture of fat Cherry tackling an armed thug with his sword stick jumped into Don’s mind and he had to make an effort to suppress a grin.

  “I remember all right. Keep it handy, Cherry. You never know. You may need it.”

  Marian and Don spent the next two days poring over the dozen or so books they had found at Pedoni’s bookshop.

  They sat together hour after hour on the veranda in the warm sunshine, oblivious of the view, searching for some clue that might ¦ lead to the Tortoise.

  Harry busied himself in the garden and helped Cherry run the villa. Both he and Cherry cast anxious eyes at the other two as they turned page after page, waiting hopefully for a discovery that would give them some action.

  On the evening of the second day, Don laid down his book and suppressed a yawn!

  “Phew! I’m getting bored with this,” he said. “Let’s give it a rest. I’m going for a stroll in the town. Come on, Marian, keep me company.”

  Marian shook her head.

  “I’ve nearly finished,” she said, patting the large, dry-as-dust tome she held on her knees. “Another couple of hours and I’m through. I really can’t face it again tomorrow. I must finish it.”

  “Your appetite for work is horrifying,” Don said, heaving himself out of his chair. “All right, I’ll go and find a nice blonde and paint the town red1. Don’t say you didn’t get the first offer.”

  Marian waved him away.

  “Some chance you’ve got to find a nice blonde in Siena,” she said.

  “Well, okay, I’ll settle for a brunette. Come on: change your mind.”

  “Don’t tempt me, please,” Marian said firmly. “I intend to finish this tonight.”

  Shaking his head, Don went down to the garage and got out the car. Harry came out of the darkness and looked hopefully at him.

  “You’re out of luck, Harry,” Don said. “I can’t take you with me.”

  Harry rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Okay, sir; just as you say.”

  “Go and play gin-rummy with Cherry. You might win some money off him.”

  Harry snorted.

  “Some hopes,” he said in disgust. “He’s got that sword stick out and he is cutting and thrusting like someone on the movies. I told the old goat if he didn’t watch out, he’d have a stroke.”

  Don laughed.

  “Leave him alone, Harry. He has an adventurous spirit. He did damn well last time he produced that sword stick.”

  He drove down the drive and out into the lane. A mile of moonlit road brought him to the Porto Camollia over which was the inscription in Latin: Siena opens her heart still wider to you.

  Leaving the car, Don walked towards the Piazza del Campo. It was just after half-past nine, and the narrow streets were already thronged with people aimlessly walking, filling the night air with the sound of their voices, moving aside indifferently as the cars with an impatient bep-bep on their horns forced their way through the solid crowd.

  Don found his way to the Campo and over to a cafe where he sat down.

  A brilliant scene lay before him. The shell-shaped Campo around which, twice a year, the Patio was raced for, was floodlit. The twelfth-century Palazzo Pubblico with its three hundred foot tower formed an impressive Hollywood-like background to the piazza.

  Looking at this scene, Don thought how easy it was to put the clock back in Siena. He wouldn’t have been the least surprised to see men in helmets and breastplates, arquebusiers and halberdiers, march into the piazza.

  * A harassed waiter, carrying a laden tray, paused to take his order for a coffee espresso.

  While waiting, Don glanced at the people sitting around him. There was the inevitable quota of American tourists, a number of Italians discussing politics at the tops of their voices, and two tables from him, a gigantic negro.

  The negro held Don’s attention. He had never seen a man built on such a colossal scale. He was a Michelangelo creation carved from ebony with a muscular development much larger than life.

  Although he was seated, he was a good foot higher than the waiter who was placing before him an enormous pile of pink icecream. His bullet-shaped head grew out of shoulders as wide as a barn door without any apparent neck to join one to the other. There was a brutish, alert expression on his face that made Don think of a gorilla. His bloodshot eyes were constantly on the move. They flickered in Don’s direction, ran over him with an insolent, inquisitive stare, passed on and came back to him and repeated the stare.

  Don stared back and the negro shifted his glance. He picked up a spoon that seemed like a toy in his enormous hand and began to shovel ice-cream into his thick-lipped mouth.

  What a beauty! Don thought. My goodness! I wouldn’t like to tangle with him. He’s the stuff nightmares are made of.

  He lit a cigarette and shifted his attention from the negro to the slow-moving crowd walking to and fro across the Campo.

  He was worried. Nothing had been achieved yet, and he had now only four more days before Dicks sent his report.

  Somewhere, he was positive, in this ancient city, was the headquarters of the Tortoise. So far the books he and Marian had been studying had yielded no clue. Was he going about this search the right way? he asked himself. Should he take a risk and make some direct inquiries? Whom should he ask? If he went to the police, he would have to explain why he wanted the information, and he could imagine the reaction he would get. There was Pedoni, the bookseller. While Marian and he had been choosing books, they had talked with the old bookseller. He had told them he had lived in Siena all his life. He might be the man to consult.

  Don finished his coffee. He glanced towards the negro who had suddenly risen to his feet. As he raised his great bulk to its full height of over seven feet, he seemed to enjoy the sensation he caused. The party of American tourists all stopped talking to stare at him. Even the Italians paused in their wrangling to gape. Slowly and with a jeering expression, the negro put a white slouch hat on his massive head, shot the cuffs of his crea
m silk shirt and strolled off into the crowd.

  Head and shoulders above the crowd, it was easy to watch him cross the Campo until he disappeared through one of the dark archways that led into the labyrinth of the city’s streets. Don signalled to the waiter, and while he was paying for his coffee, he asked casually, “Who was that negro? He looked like a prize fighter.”

  “For six months now,” the waiter said, “every night without fail, he comes here to eat ice-cream. He works at one of the villas, so I am told. Some American perhaps employs him. He never speaks and I take care not to ask questions. To me he is a bad man.”

  Don grinned.

  “You could be right,” he said and got to his feet.

  Deciding to explore the back alleys of the city, he left the Campo. He wandered through the narrow, crowded streets for an hour or so; aware that he was wasting time and that he should return to the villa and finish the book he was reading, but he was reluctant to leave the fascination of the pinched alleys, the massive Gothic-styled buildings that frowned down on him and the aimless, congested throng of people who surged around him like a sluggishly moving river.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when he began to make his way to where he had parked the Bentley. Cutting down a side alley to get away from the crowd, he came upon a steep dark hill that led to the Cathedral.

  He walked up the hill, relieved to find that he had the place to himself. Ahead of him was a solitary street lamp that made a pool of yellow light on the cobbled road. Out of the shadows and into this pool of light a girl suddenly appeared.

  Fifty or sixty yards behind her, Don was surprised to see her. He guessed she must have been moving ahead of him, but keeping to the dark shadows made by the high massive buildings. He had a brief glimpse of her as she walked through the pool of light before she disappeared again into the shadows.

  Brief as the glimpse was, he recognized the Venetian red hair and the compact slim figure in its white sweater and black slacks. With his heart thumping with excitement, he lengthened his stride, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound.