1954 - Mission to Venice

by James Hadley Chase

  “Wouldn’t it be better if I dropped off and you stayed with the car, boss?” Harry said. “If I run into trouble, you can hop it in the car.”

  Don nodded.

  “Sure, that’s right. We’ll do that. We may not run into trouble, of course. Natzka may think we’re making for Milan. But we’ve got to be on the lookout. It’s his life or ours.”

  “We’ll watch out,” Harry said, and settling himself further down in the bucket seat he gave himself up to his driving. Forty minutes later, ten minutes better than Don had hoped was possible, Harry was slowing down to pass through Chur.

  Once clear of the town, he again pushed down the accelerator and the big car surged forward along the mountain-flanked road towards Sargans. They were ten miles out of Chur, when Harry suddenly swore softly under his breath, and Don felt the speed of the car sharply fall off.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Can’t be out of gas,” Harry said looking at the petrol gauge as the car slid slowly to a standstill.

  “Of course we can’t. I shoved in fifteen gallons at St. Moritz.”

  Harry opened the car door and got out.

  “Maybe it’s a choked feed,” he said as he lifted the bonnet. Don reached in the boot and found the tool kit. He joined Harry in the road. Harry had been trained to trace faults quickly. It didn’t take him more than a few minutes to find the trouble.

  “Someone’s put water in the petrol, boss.”

  “I certainly was kidding myself when I said Natzka’s last trick would be tried at the airport,” Don said. “Well, okay, let’s get rid of it Every minute we stay here gives him the chance of catching up with us.”

  “I’ll drain out the tank and we’ll fill up again. That’s the quickest way.”

  Don went to the boot and lugged out the four petrol cans while Harry let the watered petrol run into the road. It took a few minutes to empty the tank, then Don unscrewed the cap on one of the cans, took an experimental sniff at the can, and his mouth tightened to a hard line.

  “This isn’t gas, Harry,” he said. “It’s water!”

  “Properly done it on us, haven’t they?” Harry said, his face expressionless. “Well, we’ll have to do something about it, won’t we?” He began to strip down the carburetor. “We’ll have to get some more. Maybe we could get a lift back to Chur.”

  “What a dope I’ve been!” Don said savagely. “I should have checked the gas. Tregarth warned me what we were up against. We won’t give up the car, Harry. It’ll be quicker to go back to Chur and get more petrol than thumb a ride in a car or a lorry.”

  “There was a garage just outside Chur,” Harry said as he carefully cleaned the carburetor filters with his handkerchief.

  “I spotted it as we came out. A small place on the left-hand side.”

  Don began to empty the water out of the petrol cans.

  “I’ll go; you stick with the car. With any luck, I’ll get a lift You wait for me, Harry.”

  “I’ll have everything checked and ready by the time you get back, boss.”

  Taking two cans in either hand, Don set off down the road, covering the ground with long, swinging strides. He walked about half a mile before he heard a car coming. He set down the cans, shifted his automatic from his hip pocket to the side-pocket of his windbreaker and kept his hand on the butt.

  He was now much more conscious of Natzka’s long, powerful arm than he had been, and he was determined to take no risks.

  A small car came into sight, and, stepping into the middle of the road, Don waved.

  The driver seemed reluctant to stop, but Don gave him no alternative. If he had gone on, he would have run Don down. The driver was a fat, elderly man; probably a commercial traveller, Don thought, and he stepped up to the driving window, his finger around the trigger of his hidden gun.

  “Will you take me to Chur? I’ve run out of petrol,” he said.

  The fat man shrugged and opened the car door with bad grace.

  “I’m not supposed to carry passengers,” he grumbled, and scowled still more when Don put the petrol cans on the floor at the back of the driving seat. He didn’t speak the whole way to Chur, and when he dropped Don outside the small garage Harry had noticed, he drove off before Don could thank him.

  A lanky man in overalls came out of a wooden hut beside a row of petrol pumps and looked hard at Don as Don set down the cans.

  Don was instantly suspicious of this man. There was a furtive, uneasy expression in the small ferret-like eyes that warned Don to be alert.

  “Fill these with your best petrol,” he said, indicating the cans.

  “You’re too late. We’re shut,” the man growled and, turning, he went back into his hut.

  It was a good half-mile further on to the main street of Chur, and Don wasn’t wasting that much time. He followed the lanky man into the hut. He entered the dim little room cautiously, and it was as well he did. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the lanky man pressed up against the wall, his hand raised, and in his hand was a heavy wrench. He slammed a vicious blow at Don’s head, but Don sidestepped, jumped into the room, jerking out his automatic as he did so.

  “Watch it!” he said sharply.

  The sight of the gun made the lanky man’s eyes pop. He hurriedly dropped the wrench, his foxy face turning white.

  “Okay,” Don said, “you’ve had your fun, now get out there and fill those cans. I’m staying here, but don’t think I can’t put a slug in your leg from that range, because I can.”

  With knees that wobbled, the lanky man went out and began to fill the cans. When they were filled, Don slipped the gun into his windbreaker pocket and kept his hand on the butt. He came out of the hut.

  “Put the cans in that truck,” he said, pointing to a breakdown van that stood on a ramp near the pump. “Snap it up!”

  The lanky man did as he was told.

  “Get in,” Don said. “You’re going for a little ride.”

  Sullenly, the man got into the van and Don sat beside him.

  “Make for the Sargans road,” Don said, “and get some speed into it.”

  When they were out of sight of the garage, Don said, “Did you get orders not to sell me gas?”

  The lanky man didn’t say anything.

  Don dug him in the side with the gun.

  “If you want to come out of this alive, you’d better talk,” he snapped.

  “They telephoned me,” the lanky man snarled. “I was only obeying orders.”

  “You’re a mug, but that’s your funeral,” Don said. “When did they telephone you? “

  “About an hour back.”

  This information startled Don, It meant there must be a trap waiting for them by this time at the Zurich airport. Natzka was obviously covering every possible line of escape. This must also mean there would be a deputation waiting for them at the French-Swiss and the German-Swiss frontiers.

  He was still considering the best way to beat Natzka when he saw ahead Harry waiting by the Bugatti.

  “Stop by that car,” Don told the lanky man.

  When the van stopped, Harry ran up and unloaded the petrol cans. He started filling the Bugatti’s tank while Don gave the lanky man enough money to cover the cost of the petrol.

  “Now get back and keep your mouth shut,” he said to him.

  The lanky man glowered, reversed his van and drove away. By the time Don reached the Bugatti, Harry was screwing on the cap to the tank.

  “All ready, boss.”

  “We’ve lost an hour, but it can’t be helped,” Don said, getting in beside Harry. “Let her rip.”

  Once more they continued the journey, and Harry drove a shade faster, taking more risks, and he scarcely cut down speed as they went through Sargans and stormed on towards Wallenstadt.

  Don told him what the lanky man had said about receiving orders on the telephone.

  “Natzka must be sure we are heading this way, and you can bet your last buck, he’ll do every
thing he can to stop us getting on a plane.”

  “Should we stick to the car, boss?”

  Don shook his head.

  “We’d never get through the frontier post. The sooner we get rid of the car the safer it will be. That garage guy is certain to give a description of it, and they may try to fix us on the road. You get on with the driving. I’ll try and figure something out.”

  Harry nodded and thumbed down the horn button, blasting the car ahead of him to one side so he could pass. They were now running along the Zurich lake. Harry was too busy driving to appreciate the beauty of the scene. He was driving at just under ninety-five miles an hour, and it was all he could do to keep the great car steady on the uneven road.

  Don said abruptly, “There’s only one way out for us, Harry. We’ll have to hole up somewhere until it gets dark, then we’ll have to sneak into the airport and either pinch a plane or smuggle ourselves on board one.”

  “Blimey!” Harry said, startled. “That’s not going to be easy.”

  “I’m hanged if I can think of any other way. They’re certain to be waiting for us at the airport, and we must fly to get through the frontier posts.”

  Harry brooded for a moment, then grinned.

  “How about you and me becoming stewards, boss?”

  Don’s face lit up.

  “That could be an idea. Our first move is to get rid of the car as soon as we are within striking distance of the airport. We’ve got to get hold of a change of clothes and get into the airport. From there we must grab what chances are offered us, but kidnapping a couple of stewards and taking their places might be a good idea.”

  It was a minute after eight forty-five when the Bugatti slackened speed and entered Zurich, and, considering they had lost an hour on the road, Don considered it a miraculous piece of driving on Harry’s part.

  They drove straight to the Europa Hotel where the manager of the Palace Hotel at St. Mortiz had asked Don to leave the Bugatti.

  Taking Harry with him, Don interviewed the manager of the hotel, an elderly suave-looking man, who could have been a French diplomat.

  At first he was a little frosty when he saw their dusty, travel worn clothes, but when Don mentioned his name, he immediately thawed.

  “Why, Mr. Micklem, of course. I recognize you now. Please come into my office. I am delighted to be of service to you. Did you wish for rooms?”

  They followed him into his private office, then when Harry had closed the door, Don said, “We would like a room with a bath for a couple of hours. We also want a hot meal served in the room. Can you do that for us?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Micklem; it will be a pleasure.”

  “We also want two outfits from two of your staff. Ordinary working suits, white shirts, ties and hats. I’m sorry I can’t explain why we want them, but our need is urgent, and we will, of course, pay for them. Can you fix that for us too?”

  The manager’s face remained impassive, but not without an effort of will. He had been asked in the past for many odd things by his clients, but this request seemed to him to be the oddest.

  “That can be arranged, Mr. Micklem,” he said resolutely.

  “If anyone should ask for me or want to speak to me on the telephone, please tell them that I’m not here,” Don went on.

  The manager lifted his shoulders despairingly.

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Now, may we go to our room? If you could take us there yourself. . . in case one of your staff recognizes me.”

  The manager got up.

  “Certainly, Mr. Micklem.”

  Half an hour later, bathed, shaved and freshened, wearing neat black suits that fitted fairly well, white shirts and black ties, Don and Harry sat down to a chicken vol au vent dinner, washed down by a bottle of the hotel’s best wine. As they were finishing the meal, the telephone bell rang. Don got up and lifted the receiver.

  “This is the manager,” and Don recognized the manager’s voice. “A man has just been in to inquire for you. My clerk obeyed your instructions. He said you were not staying with us.”

  “Fine,” Don said. “Did he get a description of the man?”

  “He tells me he was short, powerfully-built and apparently an Italian.”

  “Thank you. Now, I would like to settle my account. We shall be leaving very shortly.”

  “Certainly. I will come up myself.”

  Don replaced the receiver and looked at Harry.

  “They are right on our heels. Busso has been asking for us.”

  Harry grinned cheerfully.

  “Well, they haven’t caught us yet, boss.”

  “No, but we mustn’t underestimate Natzka,” Don said seriously. “He must be certain now that we are somewhere in Zurich. Everything depends for him on whether we slip through his fingers or not This is going to be tough, make no mistake about it.” He lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down.

  “When should we go?” Harry asked.

  “There’s a plane out for London at eleven o’clock. We have just under two hours,” Don returned. “I’m trying to think what I would do in Natzka’s place. Obviously, I would have the airport guarded. We may find, Harry, that we won’t be able to get near the airport. If we are lucky and do get near it, we may not be able to get near a plane.” While he was talking, he stood before the mantelpiece that was strewn with attractive little knickknacks. He picked up a small, square-shaped box and turned it over in his fingers. Then he smiled. “I’m going to lay a false trail, Harry.”

  Harry looked interested.

  “How are you going to do that? “

  Don took off his coat, opened his shirt and removed the body belt around his waist. He took from the belt the leather bound book that Tregarth had entrusted to him. He carried the box he had found on the mantelpiece and the oilskin-packed book to the table and sat down.

  “Stand by the door, Harry.”

  Harry obeyed. He watched Don unpack the book and put it in his pocket. He then wrapped the box in the oilskin covering and sealed it as carefully as it had been originally sealed.

  “Right,” he said. “The next move is to get to the American consul here, and that’s not going to be easy.”

  “The consul?” Harry said, looking puzzled. “What’s the idea?”

  A tap sounded on the door. Don whipped the oilskin package out of sight, crossed the room and stepped into the bathroom, gun in hand.

  “See who it is,” he said quietly.

  Cautiously Harry opened the door, found the hotel manager outside, and let him in.

  Don put away his gun and came into the room again.

  “I have your account, Mr. Micklem,” the manager said. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”

  “You can tell me where I can find the American consulate,” Don said, taking the account.

  “Certainly; it is merely a few buildings down the road. You leave the hotel, turn left and you will see the flag above the building.”

  “Thank you.” Don settled the account. “And thank you for making our short stay such a comfortable one. Is there a back way out we could use?”

  Again the manager had to make an effort not to show his surprise. This wealthy young American, he thought, was behaving in an extraordinary manner; almost as if he were a criminal.

  “At the end of the corridor, you will find a service lift. That will take you down to the back exit.”

  “Fine. Well, thanks again. We’ll be leaving almost at once.”

  When the manager had bowed himself out, Don sat down at the writing desk, scribbled a note, put it in an envelope and sealed it with sealing wax.

  “I guess we can go,” he said to Harry. “Leave the rucksacks here. With any luck we shan’t be needing them again.”

  “I still don’t know what it’s all about,” Harry said plaintively. “Why do we go to the consul?”

  “I’ll tell you as we go down,” Don said, opened the door, peered up and down the deserted corridor, then nodded
. “All clear. Let’s go.”

  As the service lift carried them down to the ground floor, Don briefly outlined his scheme.

  “Whatever happens I must give the book to Sir Robert Graham myself. Tregarth warned me to trust no one, and I don’t intend to. Natzka doesn’t know this. I am going to ask the consul to deliver the oilskin package containing the box and not the book to the London ambassador. He’ll fly it in the diplomatic bag, and I’m hoping Natzka will guess this is what I’ll attempt to do. If he has someone working at the consulate, and I bet he has, the news will leak out that I have given the package to the consul. I’m hoping once he knows I haven’t the book, he’ll leave us alone. After all, it’s not us he wants; it’s the package. If I fool him, we should be able to board a plane without difficulty.”

  Harry nodded.

  “That’s right, boss.”

  “But we still have to get to the consul.”

  The lift stopped. They left it, and walked down the dimly-lit passage to the double doors that led into the street.

  “No chances, Harry,” Don warned, pausing before the closed doors. “I’ll go first. Have your gun handy. Let me get a few yards ahead, then come after me.”

  Harry nodded.

  “Okay, boss.”

  Don opened one of the doors and peered cautiously out into the dark street.

  The few street lamps made isolated pools of light on the pavements, but the rest of the street was shadowy and dark, Any number of people, Don though , could be lurking in doorways without being seen. He pulled his gun from his hip pocket and moved silently from the shelter of the doorway. Keeping close to the wall he went rapidly along the street. Silhouetted against the night sky, three buildings down the road, he could see a flag mast with a flag hanging to it, and he guessed that would be the American consulate. He glanced back over his shoulder. He couldn’t see Harry nor hear him, but he guessed he was behind him. He kept on.

  Suddenly from a doorway on the other side of the road Don saw a match flare up as if someone was about to light; cigarette but instead, whoever it was hiding in the darkness, flicked the burning match into the road.