by Heron Carvic
No. This—this was too much. It was beyond. He had been plagued by English pigs, put in peril by Italian polizia, he had survived danger, he had been ordered to commit death and through it all, undaunted, he was now completing his main mission. He was no one to be mocked by a witless gorilla.
Mantoni swung the briefcase forward and up. The giant let out a howl and fell back clutching it to his tender pain. The little man closed the door. David and a stone—Elio and a briefcase—it was all one; either way Goliath fell. Swollen with rich food, heady wines and vindicated self-esteem, Mantoni swaggered to his room and swerved to bed.
Jonathan Feldman was stuttering with rage. “How d-dare you send her to Italy . . .?”
“We didn’t.” The assistant commissioner’s voice was mild.
“All right, if we must qu-quibble over words, allow her to go to Italy first without warning me? What are you going to say to Lord Gatwood? What am I supposed to say to Karl Telmark? D-do you realize he sent a car to meet her—and don’t forget he’s paying her—and not only does she make a fool of him by not turning up, but there’s headlines and photographs in all the papers that she’s p-playing the fool all over Italy. Good God,” he exploded. “The whole idea was to keep things quiet and now this—this misguided missile of yours is splashed in every headline. I can’t understand—”
Sir Hubert raised a hand in restraint. “Nor, Mr. Feldman, as yet, can we.” How was it that a modest retired drawing mistress, of a retiring nature, had the trick of setting everybody by the ears including, apparently, hardheaded banks and hardboiled government departments? “Misguided missile.” A happy simile; he must remember it. Perhaps a word to the War Office: the next time a cold war hotted up it might be an idea to launch her into the trouble spot, which should give the troublemakers enough troubles of their own to prevent them from troubling other people. England’s secret weapon? Sir Hubert composed his face. “I feel bound to emphasize that we at the Yard were against Miss Seeton being let loose on the Continent, particularly in regard to matters so far outside her scope as counterfeiting and finance, and that it was M. Telmark who, through you and the Foreign Office, overruled us. You, if you remember, gave us to understand that you would be responsible for seeing her onto the plane to Geneva. I hardly feel, therefore, that we should be held accountable, or not directly, for the fact that she finished up on a different plane to somewhere else. However, I have done my best. After your telephone call I arranged for Commander Conway and Inspector Borden of Fraud, who are in charge of our side of the investigation; for Deputy Assistant Commissioner Fenn of the Special Branch, who has kindly agreed to hold a metaphorical umbrella over her during her sortie abroad; and for Chief Superintendent Delphick and Sergeant Ranger, who know her better than any of us, to be present at this conference in the hope that between them they’ll be able to answer any queries that you—or Lord Gatwood, or M. Telmark, through you—wish to raise.”
The commander cleared his throat. “All we know—and don’t forget we’ve never met the lady—is that she’s gone chasing down to Genoa after Mantoni, whom we know to be a small-time artist turned crook and suspect of being a carrier for the snide. How she got on to him we don’t know, but why she decided to follow him is fairly obvious.”
Fenn roused himself. “’Fraid I can’t help. I set things up to keep a watch on her in Switzerland, but her sideskipping to Italy’s caught me on the hop.”
Sir Hubert looked a question at Delphick.
The chief superintendent cogitated. “Granted my sergeant and I know her and that she has worked with us or for us on three cases, but I think all it’s taught us of her is to expect the unexpected. The chief thing seems to be ready, when she explodes a bomb by accident, to pick up the pieces quickly, reassemble them and learn what’s going on.”
“All right, all right.” Feldman ran a hand through his hair. “According to you I asked for trouble. All right. But none of you”—he glared at them all accusingly—“ever warned me that the lady was a bomb.”
Milan
WHAT, MISS SEETON wondered, were those?
They were flying low and she was intrigued by scores of neat rectangles of water in different colors—shades of green, brown and yellow—while some were almost clear.
The interpreter leaned across. “Rice fields,” he informed her.
Rice fields? She felt a misgiving. Rice fields? China? Rice? How very unexpected. “I hadn’t realized that rice . . . in Italy, I mean.”
“Oh, yes,” he explained. “We grow it a lot, particularly around Milan.” With a small sigh of relief Miss Seeton settled back in her seat to enjoy the shifting panorama as they dropped to land.
One hostess stood guard by the curtain which divided the tourist from the first class, where Miss Seeton was ensconced, while another led her to the exit the moment that the plane came to a halt. The interpreter, carrying her case, blocked the other first-class passengers for sufficient time to ensure that his charge disembarked alone. After shaking her warmly by the hand, the hostess watched Miss Seeton descend and sustained a benign smile for the benefit of the battery of cameras lined up below. Ecco, she apostrophized in silent criticism. To be such a very important personage and yet to wear such clothes—and such a hat. Never, never would she understand the English.
The captain of the Milanese police advanced. The pictures in tomorrow’s papers should be impressive since the tarnish on the gold braid, the uniform’s indifferent fit and the scruff of an unsuccessful shave would not be patent. He took Miss Seeton’s hand and bowed over it while his retinue inclined in unison like a well-trained chorus. Cameras clicked and whirred, interviewers pushed forward, microphones at the ready, only to be waved aside. Miss Seeton was led to a car, shook hands with the driver, was ushered into it, the captain and his second in command—another handshake—spread a rug across her knees, put a cushion to her back, took their places on either side of her, the doors were slammed, the rest of the polizia jumped into the two escorting cars and the three vehicles moved sedately forward some six yards to the main doors of the airport, where they all unloaded, Miss Seeton was unwrapped and wafted past passports and customs to the refreshment end of the lounge. Milan, determined to be not a whit behind Genoa in canceling an error, was showing that Italy understood the deference due to an esteemed colleague and was refuting the morning headlines in the world press: BATTLING BROLLY JAILED—LA SEETON DÉTENUE—LA SIGNORINA SEETON IN CUSTODIA—ARREST OF YARD’S MISSESS.
Although Miss Seeton, traveling first class—so kind, but so extravagant of them, and the champagne, too, so palatable, but inclined to make one sneeze—had not seen the passengers in the tourist class, they had seen her. Among them, Elio Mantoni had watched her quasi-royal send-off and touch-down with mixed feelings. At least he knew once more where she was even if the knowledge, for the moment, was of little use to him and did nothing to alleviate his hangover. He would have several cups of strong black coffee and then, with nearly three hours before the flight to Geneva, he would have time to go to an alleyway off the eastern approach to the Castello Sforzesco where he would acquire a pistol—a pistol with a silencer—and he would take the first opportunity.
Miss Seeton, at a table for four, was flanked by the high command, while the rest of the police party, grouping themselves at satellite tables, brought her sandwiches, cold sausages, cheesecake and coffee. Toying with her food, she was distressed to note that the coffee cup was not clean, though naturally it would be impolite to draw attention to it. She waited patiently for it to be filled and it was not until she saw her companions sipping that it dawned upon her that the black stain at the bottom of the cup was in fact the coffee and that she would get no more unless she swallowed the bitter brew. Putting down her cup and taking in her surroundings she saw—good gracious, what a strange coincidence—the gentleman who had hummed at London airport. She smiled and nodded. Unknowing and out of key she began to hum the “Song of India.”
The police captain, watching
her carefully and having noticed her signal to a distant table, wondered if this tuneless excursion was part of some prearranged directive. Deliberately, in baritone, he joined in the aria and others of his force, taking their cue from their chief, supported him. Miss Seeton blushed. How rude of her to hum. But what a popular tune it seemed.
Mantoni glowered. Allora, so she derided him, derided him in public with all her friends of the polizia. She wished him to understand that she knew what he was doing—what he had done—and that she found him ridiculous and was only awaiting her opportunity. Allora—so. He got up. This was now personal. This was vendetta. He would go at once to the dealer he knew of and when he had his pistol—and its silencer—she would find that it would be he, he who would be making the opportunities. And soon.
Geneva
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, in a few moments we shall be passing Mont Blanc, which you will be able to see on your right if the clouds allow.”
Mont Blanc. That should be very impressive. Miss Seeton took her traveling sketching block and pencils from her handbag on the empty first-class seat beside her and continued to stare out of the window, ready to be impressed. Really, it was quite difficult to appreciate that all these balls of cotton wool, just below one—so like those that were conveniently sold in plastic bags by chemists nowadays—were, in fact, clouds. And that the very solid-looking snowfields, that stretched almost as far as one could see, were not. Snow, as well. And, right over there, in the distance, that blue lake, with its sandy shore, was merely a break in the clouds and the effect of the sun gilding the edge around it.
Oh. Suddenly, or so it seemed, a grayish-brown crag of rock jutted above the cotton wool quite close. Very close indeed. One side of it was almost bare, with dark streaks, while on the other it looked as if someone had carelessly spilled a can of whitewash. So that little bit of rock must be—she leaned forward to peer behind her—must have been Mont Blanc. How very odd that up here clouds should look like snow and snow like whitewash. So very topsy-turvy.
The name Mont Blanc brought realization that they must now be over Switzerland and the memory of her two previous and abortive flights caused her to flush with embarrassment. So extremely careless of her.
It might have comforted Miss Seeton to know that her case was not without precedent. The history of confusion between Geneva and Genoa dates back many centuries and even so recently as 500 A.D. both cities occasionally spelled their names Genua. There is a tradition which holds that Saint Nazarius was the first bishop of Geneva although this is incorrect since that saint belongs properly to Genoa. It is of course possible that the august gentleman, making Miss Seeton’s journey in reverse, had originally arrived in Geneva only to be redirected. In modem times such errors are less common. According to the airline authorities, bewildered travelers making the incorrect landfall are rare and such cases do not occur “more than a dozen or so times a year,” but if pressed these same authorities will admit that misplacement of travelers’ luggage is “rather more frequent.”
They dropped below the clouds and Miss Seeton’s interest revived. Those samples of colored veneers such as one saw displayed in the windows of high-class timber merchants must, she supposed, be really plowed and planted fields. Then little pools. In gardens. Of most peculiar shapes in highly improbable blues and greens. The plane flew down the length of Lac Léman and Miss Seeton watched through the window with satisfaction. How exactly it resembled the map that she had memorized, with the city spread across the end of the lake. And here it would, perhaps, be more tactful to remember to call it by its other name, Lake of Geneva.
Geneva: city of intrigue; where Machiavelli would have felt at home; where delegations come from every other land and every other delegate is other than they seem; where informers sell to spies and spies are counterspies and only unite to undermine the United Nations; where dubious financiers put doubtful gains into unnamed accounts and use the city as a springboard to new lives in brighter sunshine at their shareholders’ expense; where deviation from accepted standards is accepted as the norm; where infiltration is the order of the day and honesty is more suspect than the lie.
Genève: city of humane wealth; where the native, the resident, the Law, regard the foreign antic with passivity; where all is uncovered, all discovered, yet comment on discovery is rare; where the miscreant who oversteps will soon be asked to leave—why pay for his support?—but should a prison term prove politic the term will be short before his removal under guard to the frontier of no return.
Elio Mantoni joined the passengers clustered on either side of the luggage chute where it levels off for the last few yards of its length. Some had porters in attendance, some had managed to secure one of the small supply of trolleys, while others had neither and waited ready to grab and cope with their impedimenta as best they could. In Geneva travelers await their baggage at ground level. On the other side of the airport building their transport lands and discharges their belongings upon the ground. That their cases should then appear through a hole in the high ceiling and glide down a long, steep causeway toward their owners is one of the unquestioned, mysterious quirks of foreign travel.
Mantoni was keeping a lookout. Nowhere was there a sign of that horrible woman. She had vanished. She had boarded the plane and had been waved upon her way by half the polizia of Milano as though she were someone of the grandest importance—but now, no. She was hiding—watching, waiting, to see what he would do. Allora, he would do nothing. He too would watch, would wait—would see what she would do.
The luggage began its descent. As it trundled by him, Mantoni pulled his case from the conveyor belt but remained where he was as though anticipating more manna from the heavens. Suitcase after suitcase was snatched from its slow progress and borne away in triumph until but three remained, huddled against the end barrier, unclaimed, unloved, disconsolate. Casually he inspected them. One of them bore a label printed in smudged ink: MISS E. D. SEETON—GENEVA. Then where . . .? She could not have—not even she—altered her destination in midair. He would delay himself, would follow the case, or her, or both and so discover her hotel. And, once discovered, he would make his plan and he would be avenged. Avenged. He gripped his new briefcase with a sense of anticipation.
At Milan, intercepting the nodded sign and glance from the captain of police at Miss Seeton’s table to one of his subordinates, Mantoni had been prepared. He had eluded the agent who had tried to tail him, but when he had reached the shop in the alleyway near the castle he had found that the pistol he was purchasing, with its silencer attached, was too long for any pocket. After a consultation with the dealer he had decided to buy a briefcase as well, a case with handles and a zip fastener, and in this the pistol now reposed ready for the moment when, the zip unzipped, the hand inthrust, the pistol fired, the zip refastened, the marksman walked away showing no sign except the fallen body of the victim. The fact that Mantoni had never yet fired a pistol did not bother him. He was confident. The armature was pointed at the enemy, the trigger pulled and—phut, the enemy dropped dead. He’d seen it done in films. A simple exercise performed by common hired assassins and well within his scope, demanding little of the expertise of hand and eye such as he had and which it took to wield a painter’s brush. And—understood—he’d practice.
He considered the newspapers tucked beneath his arm: such vulgarity; that woman and her photographs spread over the front page. And the headlines: LA SEETON E POLIZIA FANNO FESTA DI MEZZANOTTE! He would—it would be wise—keep out of sight. He stepped on the mat which opened the glass doors, hailed a taxi, told the driver he wished to follow a friend to her hotel when she came out, threw in his luggage, climbed in and, with his briefcase held across his knees, he settled down to wait.
A policeman was studying the Journal de Genève with disapproval: a photograph of a line of uniformed men carrying trays covered with white cloths and a black arrow pointing to an embarrassed officer clutching a fistful of bottles in either hand; above it the capt
ion: A GÊNES C’EST LA POLICE QUI REGALE! MLLE SEETON S’EN RÉGALE! Further down the page was a picture of a woman descending from an aircraft, subtitled Mlle Seeton à Milan. He grimaced; those Italians—too emotional. She’d find things different here in Switzerland: no fuss; no midnight feasts in police stations; no photographers and reporters to greet her; no one to meet her save his driver and himself, who’d escort her to her hotel, see her safely in and, after that, whatever she did, it would not be their onions. Where was she? He stared around. The other passengers had gone and now a new lot were coming through. She’d been on the plane—he’d checked. And though the face in the photo wasn’t so clear, he could not have missed those clothes. Buying herself something duty-free? A drink? A call of nature? But with all this fresh crowd now arriving it might not be so simple to place her. Better get back to the car where he could watch the line of doors more easily. He went out, got in beside his driver and settled down to wait.
The chauffeur of the car ordered by Karl Telmark of the Banque du Lac stood, solid, patient, by the center exit. No sign of her—except her case there; he’d read the label but didn’t care to touch it till she came. Luckily he’d seen pictures of her—plenty in the papers. But now the place was filling up again. Best to attend outside. Safer. He got in behind the wheel and settled down to wait.
