Dicks lifted his heavy shoulders. He looked irritatingly placid.
“He’s not our pigeon, sir. You know I’d help you if I could, but he’s not our pigeon.”
“But aren’t you looking for him?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Why are your people shadowing Mrs. Tregarth if Tregarth isn’t your pigeon?”
“Are we? I don’t know everything that goes on here. I have quite enough to do without checking up on what my colleagues are up to.”
Don remembered what Hilda Tregarth had said. It was like talking to a brick wall.
“Can’t you tell me anything about Tregarth off the record, Super?” he asked persuasively. “Come on; you must know something. I want to find this guy.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Micklem. I’ve nothing to tell you. But I’ll give you a bit of advice. Keep clear of this business. It’s no concern of yours, and I’m sure Sir Robert would appreciate it if you didn’t take it further.”
“I’m sure he would,” Don said dryly and got to his feet. “Okay, sorry to have taken up your time.”
“Always glad to see you, Mr. Micklem,” Dicks said, rising and shaking hands. “Hope you have a nice trip.”
Don drove back to 25A Upper Brook Mews, his mind busy. He had learned very little, but what he had learned intrigued him. According to Sir Robert, Tregarth had made a fool of himself and was in a mess. Sir Robert should know, but Don remembered Tregarth and doubted if he was the type to make a fool of himself. He decided to keep an open mind on this angle and wait for more information. Why were the police shadowing Mrs. Tregarth? They knew she couldn’t leave the country. Did they imagine Tregarth would return and try to see her?
Don remembered the wording of Tregarth’s postcard: Find it very hot here. Unable to get away as planned. Was he in some mess with the Italians? It sounded as if he were in hiding or even in prison.
Again Don felt that cold, feathery chill crawl up his spine. I’m going to find him, he thought. This is right up my alley. I’ve been sitting around doing nothing for too long. It’s time
I exerted myself and went into action. He pulled up outside his house and went in. Marian met him in the hall.
“Now, don’t nag me,” he said hastily. “I’ve one or two things to do before I get down to work. I won’t be long.”
“Captain Hennessey is waiting to see you,” Marian said with ominous restraint. “I told him you were out, but he insisted on waiting for you.”
“What does he want? Okay. I’ll see him. Where is he?”
Marian motioned towards the lounge. Don crossed the hall, opened the door and went in.
Captain Ed. Hennessey of the U.S. Army Intelligence, a big, sandy-haired man with a red, freckled face, was sitting in an armchair, glancing through the morning paper. He got to his feet and grinned when he saw Don.
“Hi, Don,” he said, offering a big, hairy hand. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” Don said, shaking hands. “What do you want? I haven’t seen you in months.”
“This is an official visit. Why couldn’t you have gone to Venice today instead of stirring up trouble?”
“Is that what I’ve done?” Don asked casually. “Have a drink?”
“That’s a good idea. I never drink before six, but I guess my watch is slow.”
As Don mixed two highballs, he said, “An official visit? What does that mean?”
“You’re getting yourself mixed up in something that doesn’t concern you or the United States. I’ve been told to warn you off.”
Don gave Hennessey one of the tall, frosted glasses, then taking the other to an easy chair, he sat down.
“Is that right? Who told you to come?”
“The old man himself .”
Don’s eyebrows lifted.
“You mean the Ambassador?”
“Yeah. The Foreign Office has been on him. They imagine you’re going to be a nuisance. They want you to layoff.”
“You’re not serious, are you?” Don asked, a rasp in his voice.
Hennessey, who knew Don well, recognized the danger signs.
“Now, don’t start blowing your top. We can’t stop you from interfering, but we’re asking you not to. This set-up could be tricky. We don’t want to annoy the Foreign Office. This business is at a pretty high level.”
“What are you talking about?” Don asked with a deceptive look of bewilderment on his face. “What business?”
Hennessey blinked.
“Don’t you know?”
“I know a guy I once met in 1942 has disappeared and his wife has been to me to ask me to find him. What he’s got to do with the Foreign Office or with the old man I wouldn’t know,”
Don said shortly.
Hennessey scratched the back of his neck while he stared uneasily at Don.
“Sir Robert did explain to the old man, but I wasn’t included in his confidence,” he said. “But from what the old man told me I can make a fair guess at what’s happened. This is confidential, but you might behave yourself if you know how serious it could be. It looks as if Tregarth’s skipped. He’s gone behind the Iron Curtain.”
Don stared at him.
“Rubbish,” he said curtly. “Tregarth is the owner of a small glass factory. He doesn’t know anything that could possibly interest the Russians. Why should he go behind the Iron Curtain?”
“You may be surprised to know Tregarth was and probably still is about the smartest agent MI5 have got. He knows every trick in the box. He knows the names of all the agents operating in Europe and where they are. The Russians would love to have him. Now perhaps you’ll appreciate why Sir Robert is laying an egg.”
Don was so startled he got to his feet and began to pace up and down.
“You wouldn’t be kidding?”
“No, but you’ve damn well got to keep this to yourself,” Hennessey said.
“What makes them think he’s on the other side of the Iron Curtain?”
“I’m not saying he is,” Hennessey said cautiously. “It’s my guess he is.”
“He could have been caught’“
“Yeah, but from what the old man said I had an idea he’s gone over to the other side. The old man was plenty rattled. A guy with Tregarth s experience wouldn’t have been caught alive. From what I gather he is alive and talking.”
Don thought of the postcard from Venice It was on the tip of his tongue to say he knew where Tregarth was and he was certainly not behind the Iron Curtain, but an instinctive caution stopped him. He wanted more information before he gave away Tregarth’s position.
“Now I’ve let the cat half out of the bag,” Hennessey went on, “can I tell the old man you’ll mind your own business?”
Don shook his head.
“No. I might not be able to keep out of it. I’ve promised his wife to find him.”
“But that was before you knew what the set-up is,” Hennessey said. “This is a tricky business, Don. We could get tough with you if we wanted to.”
Don smiled.
“How tough?”
“We could take your passport away.” Hennessey stood up. “It’s not worth it, Don. Forget it, will you?”
“At least I’ll think about it.”
“Are you going to Venice for certain?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow without fail.”
“Well, that’s okay then. Well take damn good care you don’t get a visa for Germany. You stick to Venice and the old man will be satisfied.”
Don didn’t say anything.
“Sir Robert’s convinced Tregarth is behind the Iron Curtain,” Hennessey went on, “so if I tell the old man you’re only going to Venice he can pass on the good word. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“I’d better get back. Thanks for the drink. Have a good trip.”
“So long, Ed.”
“Just one other point,” Hennessey said, pausing at the door. “If you get tempted and stick your neck out, don’t go running to the C
onsul for protection. We’re not getting mixed up in this, and if you do, it’s your own personal funeral. Understand?”
“Sure,” Don said indifferently. “So long”
He watched Hennessey walk along the mews towards the Embassy, then he picked up a cigarette. There was a faraway look in his eyes as he scratched the match alight.
* * *
A few minutes after six o’clock, Don stopped the Bentley outside a small villa in Newton Avenue, Hampden. A hundred yards down the road was parked a black car in which two men were sitting. One of them half turned to watch Don cross the pavement and open the gate that led to the villa.
Don ignored him, walked up the path and rang the bell. Hilda Tregarth opened the door immediately. She looked anxiously at him as she stood aside.
“I have some news for you,” Don said gently. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
“Please come in here,” she said, opening a door that led into a small sitting room. Don glanced around. Although it was modestly furnished, the room was comfortable and homely.
They sat down, facing each other.
“I’ve seen both Sir Robert and Superintendent Dicks,” he told her. “I’ve been wondering how much to tell you, Mrs. Tregarth. I think it’s only fair to tell you the truth You have plenty of courage, and I’m afraid you’ll need it.”
She sat, tense and white-faced.
“Then John is in trouble?”
“I think so. From what I’ve discovered, he is an agent working for MI5.”
She closed her eyes and her hands turned into fists. Just for a moment she remained like that, then she stiffened, opened her eyes and looked at him.
“I had a feeling that was what he was doing. Has he been caught, do you think?”
Don hesitated.
“It’s doubtful,” he said, deciding she must be told the truth. “If he had been caught he wouldn’t have sent that postcard, would he? But we mustn’t overlook the fact that the postcard might be a forgery or he might have been forced to write it to put us off the track. But presuming the postcard isn’t a forgery, then I think he must be still at large, probably in hiding.”
“I see.” She looked down at her hands. “And they’re not going to do anything for him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She looked up then.
“There’s something more, isn’t there? Why should they be watching me? They think he’s gone over to the other side, don’t they?”
Don nodded.
“Yes. You know him better than anyone. Has he ever shown a sympathetic attitude towards them?”
“Never!” Her eyes flashed. “He would never go over to them!”
“From what I know of him, I’m sure you’re right.”
“But why do they think he has, Mr. Micklem? What proof have they got?”
“I don’t know. They were pretty cagey about telling me anything. They must have a reason, of course, but only Sir Robert seems to know, and he’s not talking. Frankly, I don’t think I’m going to find out anything more here. My only hope of getting more information is in Venice. I leave tomorrow. I’ll make inquiries as soon as I get there. Did your husband ever go to Venice on his travels?”
“Yes, he went every year. Venice is an important glass-making centre.”
“Who are his contacts there? Do you know? Has he any friends who would help look for him there?”
“I don’t know. He told me so little about his work. I know Manrico Rossi who owns a glass shop near the San Marco did business with him. There must be others, but he didn’t mention them to me.”
“Manrico Rossi?” Don made a note of the name. “Where did your husband usually stay?”
“At the Moderno. It’s near the Rialto bridge.”
“Have you a good photograph of him?”
“I’ll get it.” She left the room and in a few moments she returned with a quarter-plate photograph which she gave to Don. He examined it. Tregarth looked older in the picture than Don had imagined him to be. There were white streaks in his hair, but his eyes had the same steady determination that had impressed Don when he had met him. He put the photograph in his wallet. He realized the difficulty of his task. He had little information to go on. A photograph, the name of a glass seller and the name of a hotel. Hunting for a man in a tourist-packed city like Venice was taking on an almost impossible task, but he didn’t say so to Hilda Tregarth.
“All right,” he said. “There’s just one more thing. Would you care to write a letter to your husband? If I find him, he might welcome a word from you.”
For a moment he thought she was going to break down, but she quickly controlled herself.
“You are very kind, Mr. Micklem,” she said, her eyes bright with tears. “You think of everything. Of course I’ll write to him. Can you wait?”
“Go ahead,” Don said, admiring her courage. “I’m in no rush. He may need encouragement, and you’re the best person to give it to him.”
She left the room. It was some twenty minutes later before she returned. She gave him a sealed envelope.
“Fine,” he said, putting it in his wallet. “I’ll do my best to get it to him. Now don’t worry too much. You must be patient. I think it’s almost certain the police will watch your mail. I’m not risking writing to you. If I have anything important to tell you I’ll either fly back or get one of my friends to bring a letter to you.”
“I understand,” she said unsteadily.
As Don drove back to the West End, he wondered if Tregarth was thinking of his wife. He wondered, too, what Tregarth was doing at this very moment. Sir Robert had said: No one can do anything for him. He should have thought of his wife before doing what he did.
What had Tregarth done?
Don shook his head.
He was going to find out, and he was going to find Tregarth: not for Tregarth’s sake, but for the sake of his wife. Neither Sir Robert, the police nor Ed. Hennessey would stop him now.
Three: Black and White
The late evening sun was beginning to sink behind the dome of San Maria della Salute, tingeing the oily-green water of the Grand Canal a soft rose pink as Don Micklem crossed over to the window to look down on the busy scene below.
“There’s no other city in the world to touch this, Cherry,” he said. “Look at that sunset. I’ve seen it dozens of times, but I always get a bang out of it.”
“Very impressive, sir,” Cherry said. “The Duke had a very fine Canaletto of this very scene. I never thought I should be so fortunate to see the original scene for myself. Most impressive.”
“I guess that about describes it,” Don said, picking up his cigar case, keys and wallet and putting them in his pockets. “I won’t be in for dinner. If you want to go out, go out. I may be late.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cherry said, then coughed. “I would remind you there are several letters and invitations requiring your attention.”
Don grinned.
“They can wait. I’ve things to do.”
He left the room and went down the wide marble staircase that led to the hall.
Four years ago, Don had come to Venice for the first time and had immediately fallen in love with the floating city. He hadn’t rested until he had found and bought a small Veneto—Byzantine house, known as the Palazzo della Toletta. It faced the Grand Canal with a magnificent view of the Isle of San Giorgio, and was a mere two hundred yards from Sansovino’s masterpiece, the Liberia Vecchia.
Don had arrived in Venice two hours before, and now, having changed and bathed, met his Italian staff and had a word with Giuseppe, his gondolier, he was ready to begin his hunt for Tregarth.
He decided to see Manrico Rossi first in the hope that Rossi might have news of Tregarth. Failing him, he would try the Moderno Hotel.
He made his way along the crowded quay towards the Piazza San Marco, his eyes absorbing the bustling activities of the gondolas, the vaporeto steaming away towards the Lido, the barges, laden with melons an
d vegetables, and the palazzo front of marble and inlay, with their striped mooring poles.
The Piazza San Marco was packed with people, sitting at the tables of the cafes, shop-window gazing, feeding the pigeons or clustered in groups before the magnificent facade of the basilica with its four gilded bronze horses and its rich mosaics.
Don cut through the Calledei Fabbri. Manrico Rossi’s glass shop was down a narrow alley, near the Rialto Bridge. It took Don a little time to make his way there. The shop was at that moment recovering from an invasion of a group of tourists. They came out of the shop, sweating and tired, but determined to see everything there was to see, and Don stood aside until the last of them had gone.
He entered the long, narrow shop, and it seemed to him he had stepped into a softly lit cave with sparkling chandeliers roofing the ceiling and the walls furnished with miracles of glittering crystal.
At the far end of the shop was a long bench at which three girls were sitting. Before each girl was a powerful gas burner that threw a three-inch flame. The girls were holding long slender
rods of coloured glass in the heat of the flame. Working with fascinating speed, they fashioned little animals by softening the tubes and bending them to shape.
Don paused to watch them work. One of the girls, a dark, thin-faced little creature, glanced up and her big eyes met his for a moment before she continued to turn the strip of white glass into a miniature, prancing horse.
He watched her set the horse aside to cool, and again she looked up at him, and he half imagined she gave him a signal; the quick lift of her eyebrows and the sudden flash that came into her eyes held his attention. Her eyes shifted back to the row of various coloured glass rods that lay before her. She took one, ran it quickly up and down in the flame, then with amazingly expert fingers she bent the rod, twisted it, bent it again and to Don’s astonishment she laid before him a queer little pattern of bent glass. Looking down at it, he saw it was an intertwined monogram she had devised, and he saw the initials that stood out against the pattern she had designed were J.T.
He had scarcely time to read these initials before she had whisked up the design and had passed it through the flame, and in a moment, it had become the hind legs of yet another prancing horse.
1954 - Mission to Venice Page 3
