“Did he seem worried when you first met him here or did the worry develop later?”
“It developed later. He was at the station to meet us and he seemed in good spirits then. We thought he would be staying at the Gritti where Carl always stays, but he said he was staying with friends. He didn’t say who they were. We all had dinner together, and we arranged to meet the next morning. Something must have happened during that night and the following day He didn’t meet us, but just as we were leaving for the party, he came to the hotel. He said he was leaving for Paris immediately and would we go with him to the station. It was then we both saw how agitated he was.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since?”
“No.”
“How do you know he is staying at the Chatham Hotel? Did he tell you that was where he intended to stay?”
“Yes. He said he would probably be in Paris for ten days, and would we join him at the Chatham when Carl had completed his business here.”
“Well, I shouldn’t worry about him,” Don said, smiling. “He’ll probably tell you about it when next you meet.”
“I hope so,” she said seriously. “We are both very fond of him and it worries us.”
Don turned the subject. He began to point out the various places of interest as the gondola drifted through the rio, but his mind was busy as he talked.
It would be easy enough to find out if Tregarth was at the Chatham Hotel. What if he were? Don didn’t relish a journey to Paris, but he had Hilda Tregarth’s letter to deliver and if Tregarth was in Paris, he would have to make the journey. But was he? If he had left Venice as Maria said he had, why all the excitement the previous night? Why had Don been followed? Why had Louisa Peccati been murdered? The only explanation Don could think of was that Tregarth had found he had to drop out of sight. He had told Maria and Carl he was going to Paris and had taken them with him to guard against attack. He had boarded the train, but had got off at the next station, returned to Venice and had hidden himself in that broken down house in Calle Mondello. In this way, he had hoped to shake off his watchers - probably the thickset man and the man in the white hat. But they hadn’t been fooled. They had found out Louisa Peccati knew where he was, tortured her until she told them, and then had gone to 39 Calle Mondello. Had they found him or had he escaped again? Was that the explanation?
“Will you come back to the hotel and lunch with us?” Maria asked, breaking in on his thoughts.
As much as Don would have liked to accept the invitation, he knew he couldn’t waste any more time. He had a lead and he had to follow it up. Besides, it was probable Giuseppe had news for him.
“I’d like to very much, but unfortunately I have a lunch date.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I’ll have to get back now, if I’m not going to be late.”
“Perhaps tomorrow, then?” she said. “I’ve so enjoyed my morning.”
“I’ll give you a call at the hotel,” Don said, knowing it was unlikely he would have the time to keep a date with her. They walked together to the Gritti Palazzo.
“Thank you, Don, for giving me such an interesting morning,” Maria said as they paused outside the hotel. “I will recommend you to all my friends as a learned and expert guide.”
Don grinned.
“I have no intention of recommending you to my friends as an enchanting and lovely companion. Competition must be keen enough without advertising.”
She gave him her slim, cool hand, then smiling she went into the hotel.
As Don moved towards the Palazzo della Toletta, he found himself regretting parting with her, but as soon as he saw Giuseppe waiting for him on the steps of the palazzo, he dismissed her from his mind.
“Come in,” he said to Giuseppe and led the way to his study. He poured a glass of wine for Giuseppe, then asked, “Any news? Did you find out anything about the girl?”
“Yes, signore,” Giuseppe said gravely. “Did you know she was murdered last night?”
Don nodded.
“Yes. Did you find out where she lives?”
“She lives with her father on the Fondamente Nuove. They have a little house next to Luigi’s restaurant.”
“Does her father know yet that she is dead?”
“Yes signore. It has been a very great shock to him. He is old and ill. At one time he used to be a guide, but he had an accident and lost both legs. The girl kept him and herself on what she made at Rossi’s glass shop. You know Rossi’s glass shop, signore?”
Again Don nodded.
“The police have seen the old man?”
“They were there this morning.”
“Okay. You say he lives next door to Luigi’s restaurant? Where exactly is that?”
“By the Rio di Panada. If you wish to go there, signore, I will take you.”
Don looked at his watch. The time was a few minutes after one o’clock.
“Be here at half past two. We’ll go together.”
“Yes signore.”
When Giuseppe had gone, Don rang for Cherry.
Cherry entered, his pink and white face displaying frosty dignity. “You rang, sir?”
“I want lunch in twenty minutes. Bring me a large dry martini, and stop looking as if you’ve swallowed a fish hook,” Don said, grinning.
Cherry lifted his eyebrows and refused to come off his high horse. He had been thwarted and he was determined to underline the fact.
“Very good, sir,” he said and walked out, his back as stiff as a ramrod.
Cherry’s airs and graces never had any effect on Don, but Cherry never gave up trying.
Don reached for the telephone and lifted the receiver.
“Get me the Chatham Hotel, Paris, right away,” he said to the operator.
“I will call you back, signore.”
Don hung up, lit a cigarette and began to pace slowly up and down. He scarcely noticed Cherry enter and place the cocktail on the desk.
“Excuse me, sir,” Cherry said stiffly. “Lady Denning telephoned. She is giving a small dinner after the opera tonight and hopes you will join her.”
“Call her up and say I have a previous appointment,” Don said. “I thought I told you I’m not accepting any invitations this trip?”
Cherry stiffened.
“May I remind you, sir, you have a duty to your friends? This house, sir, up to now, has played an important part in the success of the season. I may say our dinner parties are famous. . .”
“I’m sorry, Cherry, but there are more important things to do this trip than throw parties. Now be a good guy and don’t worry me,” Don said.
“Very good, sir,” Cherry said, his pink chins trembling.
He walked majestically to the door, closing it with an ominous little click.
Don shrugged, drank half the cocktail, then set the glass down hurriedly as the telephone bell rang.
“Your call to Paris, signore.”
“Thank you. Hello, is that the Chatham Hotel?” Don asked.
“Yes, monsieur. The reception desk here,” a smooth voice said in English.
“Have you a Mr. Tregarth staying with you? Mr. John Tregarth?”
“If you will hold on a moment, please.”
Don stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and drummed on the desk with impatient fingertips.
“Hello, monsieur? Yes, Mr. Tregarth is staying with us.”
Don drew in a long, slow breath. He realized then that he hadn’t believed Maria’s story that Tregarth had left Venice. He had expected the reception clerk to tell him Tregarth was not known at the hotel.
“Is he in?”
“I believe so, monsieur. Shall I inquire?”
“This is Mr. Don Micklem calling. Will you put me through to his room?”
“One moment, monsieur.”
There was a long pause, then Don heard a sharp click on the line and a voice said, “Hello? This is John Tregarth speaking.”
It was nearly thirteen years since Don had met and talked with Tregarth,
and most of their conversation had been carried on against the roar of four aircraft engines as they flew from a Middle East airfield towards Rome. He had no hope of remembering what Tregarth’s voice sounded like. This thin, far away voice he was listening to now could have been Tregarth’s voice; it could have been anyone’s voice.
“This is Don Micklem,” Don said. “Do you remember me, John?”
There was a pause, then the voice said, “Yes, I remember you.”
Don found himself pressing the receiver close to his ear so as not to miss any word or inflexion that might come over the line.
“How are you, John? It’s a long time since we met, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is. Time doesn’t mean much to me,” the voice said. “Where are you?”
There was something about the voice that made Don uneasy; it didn’t sound quite human. It was as if he were listening to a lifeless, spirit voice; a voice that had no body.
“I’m in Venice,” he said. “John, I have a letter for you from your wife. She’s worried about you.”
“Worried? Why?”
The flat, mechanical voice began to get on Don’s nerves.
“My dear man,” he said sharply, “she hasn’t heard from you for six weeks. Of course she’s worried. What have you been up to?”
There was a long, empty pause. Don listened to the faint hum that came over the line. He wondered if he were imagining the sound of quick breathing that seemed to beat against his ear.
“Hello? Are you there, John?”
“Yes,” the flat, lifeless voice said. “What were you saying?”
“Your wife hasn’t heard from you for six weeks. What have you been up to?” Don repeated, raising his voice.
“Six weeks?” The voice went up a note. “It can’t be as long as that. I wrote to her. I know I did.”
“She has had only one letter from you and that was six weeks ago,” Don said. “What have you been up to, John?”
“Six weeks . . .”
The voice died away and there was silence on the line, then as Don was about to speak he heard a faint sound that sent a chill crawling up his spine: the strangled sound of a man weeping.
“John!” Don said sharply. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”
Again there was a long pause, then the voice said tonelessly, “I don’t know. I think I must be going mad. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know what I’m doing. For God’s sake, Micklem, come and help me.”
“Take it easy,” Don said, shocked. “I’ll come right away. Stay where you are. I’ll get a plane from the Lido and I’ll fly straight to Paris. I’ll be with you in four or five hours at the latest. Just stay where you are, and take it easy.”
“Hurry . . .” the voice moaned. “Please hurry . . .”
It was just a shade overdone. Just enough to make Don suddenly suspicious.
“I’m coming now,” Don said, his eyes alert, his mouth a hard line. “Just take it easy. So long for now.”
He flicked his fingernail sharply against the mouthpiece of the telephone in the hope that the man at the other end of the line would think he was hearing the connection breaking. Don continued to hold the receiver against his ear while he listened, straining every nerve to catch the slightest sound.
The ruse worked.
He heard a faint laugh. A faraway voice of a man speaking as if he were some feet from the telephone said: “He swallowed it hook, line and sinker.”
Another man’s voice snapped: “Shut up, you damned fool. . .” and the line went dead.
Six: Counter Punch
For a long moment Don sat staring at the opposite wall, his mind busy. He wasn’t often angry, but now his temper was at boiling-point. He had very nearly been made a fool of, and that hurt his pride. If the man at the end of the line hadn’t slightly overplayed his part, Don would have rushed off to Paris. Now that he knew it was a trick, he saw clearly that whoever was behind Tregarth’s disappearance was anxious to get him out of Venice.
What annoyed him even more was being taken in by Maria Natzka.
You certainly fell for her, he thought, banging his fist on his desk She and her brother must be mixed up in this and you should have suspected her the moment she claimed to know Tregarth. Okay, it was smoothly done, but you should have been suspicious. That’s what comes of falling for a pair of sparkling eyes. At least, he consoled himself, he hadn’t given anything away. He had merely claimed to be an old friend of Tregarth’s.
Cherry came in at this moment
“Lunch is served, sir,” he said coldly.
Don went into the dining room and sat down at the table. He made a hurried meal scandalizing Cherry by refusing most of the courses. While he was eating, his mind was busy and by the time he had finished he had a plan of action ready.
“Go and have your lunch,” he said to Cherry as he pushed back his chair and stood up. “Then come and see me. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Cherry raised his eyebrows. If Mr. Micklem thought he could talk him into accepting a partyless season at the palazzo, he was making a grave mistake, he told himself.
“Very good, sir,” he said stiffly.
“And hurry: don’t be longer than ten minutes. This is urgent,” Don said and went back to his study.
He picked up the telephone and called the Gritti Palazzo.
“May I speak to la signorina Natzka?” he said when he got through to the reception desk. “This is Mr. Micklem calling.”
“If you will hold on a moment, please, signore.”
There was a little delay, then Maria’s voice came over the line.
“Hello, Don. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I was in the restaurant.”
“I hope I haven’t interrupted your lunch,” Don said, “but I wanted to speak to you. When I got back here, I called the Chatham Hotel and spoke to Tregarth. I had a very disturbing conversation with him. He asked me to go and see him right away.”
“Isn’t he well?” she asked anxiously, and if Don hadn’t been sure she was in the plot to get him to leave Venice, he would have been completely taken in by the alarm in her voice.
“I don’t think he can be. I couldn’t get much out of him, but it looks as if he’s gone a little crazy. He’s certainly in the middle of a nervous breakdown. He was crying and hysterical and didn’t seem to know what he was doing.”
“This is dreadful!” Maria exclaimed. “Hasn’t he anyone to look after him?”
“He seems to be quite alone. He begged me to go to him, and I’m going. I’ll charter an air-taxi from the Lido. I should reach Paris in about four or five hours. I was wondering if you would like to come with me. A woman’s sympathy would be helpful as he is so hysterical.”
There was a slight pause, and Don showed his teeth in a hard, mirthless smile. What excuse would she make? he wondered. If he hadn’t been sure she would refuse to go with him, he wouldn’t have asked her.
“I’m afraid I can’t possibly get away today,” she said at last. “I don’t think I can get away tomorrow either. You see, Carl is giving an important business party and I have to be his hostess.”
“Sure, I thought maybe you’d be tied up, but if you had been able to get away, I think it would have been a good idea for you to see him. I’ll talk to him, and if he is as bad as I think he is, I’ll take him home. I’ll be out here again by the end of the week.”
“I think it is very good of you to break up your holiday like this,” she said. “I only wish I could do something. I’ll tell Carl at once. If he thinks he can get away earlier, shall we come to Paris? Would you like us to?”
“Unless you can come today, I don’t think it matters,” Don said. “If he really is bad I intend to fly him home tonight.”
“Perhaps that would be the best thing. Please let me know what happens. We will be here for another four days, and after that we shall be at the Chatham Hotel.”
“I should be back here within two or three day
s. I’ll see you before you leave for Paris. I must hurry. I have some packing to do and then I’ve got to get to the airport. Goodbye now.”
“Goodbye, Don.” The inflexion in her voice was well done. “I do think it is splendid of you.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Don said. “I’ll be seeing you soon,” and he hung up.
You’ll be seeing me a damn sight sooner than you expect, my clever little schemer, he thought, and that also goes for your handsome brother.
Cherry rapped on the door and entered.
“Come in, Cherry, I have a job for you,” Don said. “Shut the door and sit down.”
“I beg your pardon, sir!” Cherry said, scandalized.
“Oh, sit down!” Don snapped impatiently. “This is no time to stand on ceremony. I’ve a lot to say to you and you’ve got to conserve your energies. Sit down, man!”
Slowly and frostily, Cherry lowered his bulk to rest on the edge of the most uncomfortable chair in the room. He somehow managed to give the impression that he was still standing. Rapidly, Don gave him a brief account of Hilda Tregarth’s visit, her request for help, his meeting with Sir Robert Graham and Superintendent Dicks. As he talked Cherry began to relax, and his forbidding expression faded to one of interest. By the time Don had told him of his meeting with Rossi, his encounters with the thickset man and the man in the white hat and the finding of Louisa Peccati’s body, Cherry’s eyes were popping and he had completely forgotten that Don had thwarted him and he was supposed to be on his dignity. Always a keen reader of shockers in his spare time, what Don was telling him was meat and drink to him. When Don described his telephone conversation with the man at the Chatham Hotel, Cherry could scarcely contain his excitement.
“Well, that’s the story,” Don concluded. “I want your help, Cherry. Do you want to get mixed up in this business? I warn you, you may run into trouble. These people appear to stick at nothing. What’s it to be?”
“You bet I want. . .” Cherry began, checked himself hastily as he remembered his position and dignity, coughed, and went on, “Certainly, sir, anything I can do I shall only be too pleased.”
1954 - Mission to Venice Page 7
