You Find Him – I'll Fix Him

by James Hadley Chase

  We pulled up outside an apartment block off via Flaminia Nuova. Carlo got out, crossed the sidewalk, pushed open the entrance door and walked up the stairs, three at a time. He paused outside a shabby door on which was tacked one of Sarti's business cards. He dug his thumb into the bell-push and kept it there.

  There was a six seconds pause, then the door opened cautiously. I had a glimpse of Sarti's fat, unshaven face before he tried to slam the door shut.

  Carlo was ready for this move. His knee came up and smashed into the door panel, slamming the door into Sarti who went over with a little yelp of fear and pain. He sat down on the floor of the hall. Carlo walked in, let me pass, then kicked the door shut.

  He reached out and hauled Sarti to his feet by his necktie. The tie tightened around Sarti's fat throat and his face turned purple. He hit Carlo feebly in the face, his small fat hands making as much impression on Carlo as a rubber hammer would make on a lump of rock.

  Carlo suddenly let go of the tie and gave Sarti a violent shove. Sarti went reeling back through a door into a small sitting-room. He cannoned into a table set for a meal, and he and the table went over on the floor.

  I stood aside and watched.

  Carlo wandered into the room, his hands in his trousers pockets, whistling under his breath.

  Sarti sat in the wreckage of his lunch, his face the colour of a ripe Camembert cheese, his bloodshot eyes bolting out of his head.

  Carlo wandered over to the window and sat on the sill. He smiled at Sarti.

  "Listen, fatso, this guy's my pal." He jerked his thumb at me. "If anyone is going to put the bite on him, it'll be me. I won't tell you a second time. Do you get it?"

  Sarti nodded. He licked his lips, tried to say something but he couldn't get the words out.

  "You've got a lot of written stuff about him, haven't you?" Carlo went on. "Bring it around to my place to-morrow morning: all of it. Get it?"

  Again Sarti nodded.

  "If any of it gets in the hands of the cops, then someone will tip them off about that little job you did in Florence. Get that?" Carlo went on.

  Sard nodded. Sweat began to run down his face.

  Carlo looked at me.

  "Is that okay, pally? This bum won't worry you again. I guarantee it."

  I said it was okay with me.

  Carlo grinned.

  "Fine. Anything for a pal. You play with me and I'll play with you. You get off and enjoy yourself. Me and fatso are going to have a little session together."

  Sarti's eyes bulged until I thought they were going to drop out of his head. He waved his fat, dirty hands at me.

  "Don't leave me, signor," he implored in a voice that chilled me. "Don't leave me alone with him."

  I had no pity for him.

  "So long," I said to Carlo. "I'll be seeing you."

  As I went down the stairs I heard a sound like the scream of a frightened rabbit.

  I was sweating by the time I reached the street.

  PART ELEVEN

  I

  It was only as I was driving back to my apartment I realized I still didn't know the name of Sarti's client who had hired him to watch Helen. This was something I had to know.

  I wondered if I should go back to Sarti's apartment and get Carlo to squeeze the information out of him, but I decided against this. There was no point in giving Carlo any more information than I could help.

  I happened to be near the offices of the International Investigation Agency. I wondered if I should risk trying to get the information for myself. It would mean breaking into the place. At least at this hour of three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon it should be fairly safe. I decided to do it.

  I left my car down a side street, took from the boot a tyre lever and a screw driver and, concealing them in the pccket of my raincoat, I walked quickly to the block of offices where the agency was housed.

  The front entrance was shut and locked. I went around to the back of the building to the janitor's entrance and found the door open. I walked into a lobby full of dustbins and empty milk bottles, paused to listen, then, hearing nothing, I made my way quietly up the stairs to the first floor.

  I found the International Investigation Agency at the far end of a corridor. It consisted of six rooms, and no light showed through the frosted panels of the doors. I went from door to door, rapping each and waiting, but no one answered my knock.

  With a heavily beating heart I took out my tyre lever, inserted it in between one of the doors and the doorpost and put a little pressure on it. The lock broke without any alarming noise and the door swung open. I entered an empty office, closed the door and looked around.

  This office belonged to one of the executives. I went through the communicating door into the second office. It wasn't until I reached the fourth office that I found what I was looking for. Along the wail was a row of filing cabinets. I selected the file marked "C", and with the aid of my screw driver and tyre lever I managed to force the lock and get the file open.

  I spent ten minutes going through the mass of folders in the file, but I didn't find one with Helen's name on it. I stood back foxed. There were so many files in the drawers that it would have been impossible to have gone through them all. It then occurred to me that there was a chance that Sarti had kept Helen's file away from the rest. I went into the fifth office.

  There were three desks in this room: one of them was Sarti's. I knew that by the notes in the In-tray addressed to him.

  I sat down at the desk and went through the drawers. The third one down on the right was locked. I made short work of it with my tyre lever, pulled it open and felt a surge of relief run through me. The only thing in the drawer was the file I was looking for.

  I took it from the drawer and laid it on the desk and opened it. For about a minute I examined it then I shoved back the chair, reached for a cigarette and lit it. I knew now who had instructed Sarti to watch Helen, and I was completely taken out of my stride.

  Sarti's file began:

  Acting on the instructions of la Signorina June Chalmers, I have to-day arranged with Finetti and Molinari to keep a twenty-four hour watch on la Signorina Helen Chalmers ...

  June Chalmers!

  So she was at the back of this! I flicked through the reports until I came to one headed with my name. There were ten pages given up to my association with Helen. At the top of the page was the following:

  Copy of report sent to la Signorina Chalmers, Ritz Hotel, Paris, August 24th.

  The report contained all the details of Helen's plan to rent a villa in Sorrento, of her suggestion to me that we should go there as Mr. and Mrs. Sherrard, that she should arrive at Sorrento on the 28th and I would join her on the 29th.

  I sat back, feeling sweat on my forehead. It was obvious that at some time Sarti had planted a microphone in Helen's apartment to have learned all these details. It was obvious too that June Chalmers had known I had gone to Sorrento to be Helen's lover when I first met her at the Naples airport. Then why hadn't she told Chalmers?

  I hurriedly folded the file and put it away in my pocket. I couldn't remain here any longer. There was always the chance that the janitor might take a walk around the office block and catch me here.

  I put my tools in my pocket, then after peering cautiously down the long corridor I made my

  way quickly down the stairs and out into the street.

  I drove back to my apartment. Stripping off my raincoat, I sat down and again went through the file.

  It was far more comprehensive and complete than Sarti had led me to believe. Not only were the telephone conversations recorded, but also my conversations with Helen while I had been with her. There were conversations between her and other men also recorded that made hairraising reading: the file was bulging with evidence that proved beyond doubt the kind of immoral life Helen had lived. Every one of these reports had been sent to June Chalmers, either to New York or to Paris.

  Why hadn't she used this information? I kept asking mysel
f. Why hadn't she given me away to Chalmers? Why hadn't she warned him of the life his daughter was leading?

  I had no answers to these questions and, finally, I locked the file away in my desk.

  The time was now after five o'clock. I put a personal call through to Jack Martin, and was told there was a half-hour wait for New York. I booked the call, and went over to the window and stared down at the fast-moving Sunday traffic until the call came through.

  "Is that you, Ed?" Martin asked as I came on the line. "For the love of mike! Who's paying for this call?"

  "Never mind that. What have you got for me? Have you managed to dig up anything on Manchini yet?"

  "Not a thing. I've never heard of him," Martin returned. "Are you sure you've got the name right? You don't mean Toni Amando, do you?"

  "My guy calls himself Carlo Manchini. Where does Amando come in?"

  "Your description fits him. He's big, tough and dark, and he's got a zigzag scar on his chin."

  "That sounds like him. My man's got a voice like a hog caller and he wears a gold ear-ring in his right ear."

  "That's the fella!" Martin said excitedly. "That's Amando! There can't be two of them."

  "What do you know about him, Jack?"

  "He's not here any longer, I'm glad to say. He was a troublemaker and as dangerous as a rattlesnake. He's somewhere in your territory, I believe. He left with Frank Setti when they ran Setti out of the country."

  "Setti?" My voice shot up.

  "That's right. Amando was Setti's gunman and lieutenant."

  This was the first really constructive piece of news I had had up to now.

  Setti's gunman!

  Now, at long last, some of the pieces of this jigsaw puzzle were falling into place. Martin was speaking again. "Have you run into him in Italy?"

  "Yes. I think he's hooked up in a dope-smuggling racket. I wanted to get a check on him."

  "Setti ran dope here before he was kicked out. He's in Italy, too, isn't he?"

  "So I hear. Look, Jack, I can prove Amando flew from Rome to New York two days before Menotti was knocked off, and he returned to Rome the day after."

  "Well, that's something. I'll pass the information to Captain Collier. He may be able to use it. That may be the link he's looking for. He was so sure either Setti or Amando knocked off Menotti, but both of them had cast-iron alibis at the time Menotti died. They had a flock of witnesses that put them in a gambling joint in Naples."

  "Amando boasts that he is red-hot at manufacturing alibis. Talk to Collier, Jack, and thanks for the information."

  I began to pace the room while I turned over this new information. It looked as if my theory that Carlo had killed Menotti and that Helen had tried to blackmail him was right. But I hadn't as yet a shred of evidence that would convince a jury. It was all theory, but I was moving in the right direction.

  I was tempted to go to Carlotti and tell him the whole story. With his organization, there was a chance that he might get at the truth with this theory as a lead.

  I resisted the temptation. The moment Carlo learned that I had been to Carlotti, he would produce his mass of evidence against me and that would cook me.

  It wasn't the time yet to tell Carlotti the truth. I had to have some real concrete evidence.

  I spent the rest of the evening going through Sarti's report again and racking my brain for angles. My hope now, I decided, was to concentrate on Carlo. When I got to Naples, I would go out to Myra's villa and see if I could turn up anything there.

  II

  Before I caught the first plane out to Naples on Monday morning, I called Gina at her apartment.

  "Hello, Ed," she said. "I've been waiting to hear from you. What is happening?"

  "Plenty. I can't talk now. I'm in a rush. I'm flying down to Naples in five minutes to attend the inquest. We'll get together when I get back."

  "But you keep saying that. I'm sure there is something wrong. I'm worried about you, Ed. Why do you keep avoiding me?"

  "I'm not avoiding you! I'm busy! Skip it, will you? I've only got a couple of minutes. Here's what I want you to do. The police have taken the guard off Helen's apartment. The key is with the janitor. Will you get the apartment cleared for me?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "I'll be back sometime to-morrow and I promise to call you. Can you do something about the apartment to-day?"

  "I'll try."

  "Tell Maxwell the old man wants it done. He won't raise objections."

  "And you will call me when you get back?"

  "Yes, of course. So long for now."

  I had to run across the tarmac to catch the plane.

  I reached Naples soon after ten-thirty. I booked a room for the night at the Vesuvius, had a wash, then took a taxi to the coroner's court.

  I was surprised to find I was the only witness to be called. Grandi and Carlotti were there. Grandi gave me a long, gloomy stare and then looked away. Carlotti nodded, but he didn't come over.

  Giuseppe Maletti, the coroner, a bald-headed little man with a sharp, beaky nose, avoided meeting my eyes. He kept looking in my direction, but always managed to focus on a spot just above my head at the last moment.

  I was called upon to identify Helen's body and to explain why she had been in Sorrento.

  The three newspaper men who attended were obviously bored by the proceedings, and their expressions became gloomier as I explained that, as far as I knew, Helen had rented the villa for a month's vacation. There was nothing said about her renting it in the name of Mrs. Sherrard.

  As if for something to say, Maletti asked me if I knew if Helen had had a bad head for heights. I was tempted to say she had, but, catching Grandi's sardonic eyes at this moment, I decided it was safer to say I didn't know.

  After a few more stock questions that got no one anywhere, Maletti indicated that I could step down. He then called Carlotti.

  Carlotti's evidence electrified the three newspaper men and the odd straggler who had come in to pass an hour out of the heat.

  He said he wasn't satisfied Helen's death was accidental. He and the Naples police were pursuing certain investigations that would probably prove that Helen had met with foul play. He said their investigations should be successfully concluded by the following Monday, and he would like the inquest adjourned until then.

  Maletti looked as if he had been stricken with a sudden attack of toothache. He said he hoped the Lieutenant had substantial reasons for asking for an adjournment, and Carlotti said mildly that he had. After a long hesitation, Maletti granted the adjournment, and scuttled away as if he were scared someone would question his authority for such an action.

  The three newspaper men combed Carlorti, but he had nothing to tell them. As they made a bee-line for the door, I blocked their way.

  "Remember me?" I said, and smiled at them.

  "This is something you can't talk us out of." the reporter for L'Italia del Popolo said. "This is news, and we print."

  "Just so long as you print facts, and not opinions," I said. "Don't say I haven't warned you."

  They shoved past me and ran for their cars.

  "Signor Dawson ..."

  I turned.

  Grandi was standing at my side. There was a bleak expression in his eyes.

  "Hello there," I said.

  "Signor Dawson, I hope for your co-operation. We are looking now for the American who was at Sorrento on the day la signorina died. We have found a man who answers to the description we have obtained from witnesses. We are arranging an identity parade. You happen to be of the same height as this man. Would you very kindly consent to be a member of the parade?"

  I felt a cold, sinking feeling inside me. "I've got a cable to get off ..."

  "It will only take a few minutes, signor," Grandi said. "Please come with me." Two uniformed policemen moved forward, smiling at me. I went with them.

  There were ten men already standing in a line: two of them were Americans, one of them was a German, the rest were It
alians. They were all shapes and sizes. The two Americans were about my height.

  "Merely a matter of a few seconds," Grandi said with the air of a dentist who is about to extract a molar.

  A door opened and a thick-set Italian came in. He stood looking along the line, his unshaven face embarrassed. I didn't recognize him, but by his worn overcoat and the leather gauntlet gloves he carried I guess he was the taxi-driver who had driven me from Sorrento to Naples on the mad rush to catch the Rome train.

  He looked down the line and his eyes rested on me. I found I was beginning to sweat. He stared at me for about three seconds. They felt like an eternity, then he turned around and went out, slapping his thigh with his gloves.