Assignment Sorrento Siren

by Unknown Author

  “When the prince’s paintings were stolen by Talbott?” “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard of the Dwan Scrolls,” Durell said. “There are four of them, right? Silk paintings on rolls about three feet wide and ten feet long; but they can be rolled up into a pretty compact package. Weren’t they on exhibit at the Museum in Rome recently?”

  “That’s right. Normally, you don’t look at scroll paintings all at once, you know. You unroll them and study a section at a time.” Ellen’s voice was professional. “They were done by a wandering Buddhist pilgrim, a painter named Peng Dwan, who went down into Southeast Asia about the year 741 A.D.—during the T’ang Dynasty. Rather ancient and most precious relics, Sam; remarkable examples of Chinese art. Their monetary value might run into half a million dollars, the way prices for art have been going these days.” “Prince Tuvanaphan doesn’t want them back because of the money, though,” Durell suggested.

  “No. The Dwan paintings depict various scenes of the Emperor’s pilgrimage to Shu—the ancestral land that Tuvanaphan rules as his birthright; and where he has the tin mines we’re bidding for, against the Czechs. The prince is very proud of the scrolls, naturally. The seals of kings and emperors of all his lineage are painted on the scrolls, rather like an authenticated genealogical table.”

  “What were the scrolls doing in Rome recently?”

  “He lent them to the Museum there as a gesture of good will and cultural interchange, so to speak. They were only on exhibit for two weeks, but they created an enormous stir in the art-collecting world. Too much so, perhaps. Every crook and greedy collector in Europe drooled over them.”

  “Were they stolen in Rome?”

  “They were taken right here in Geneva, last night. Tuvanaphan planned to take the scrolls back home with him as soon as the tin deal was settled. It was in the bag for us, Sam. Jack was doing a wonderful job. The prince trusted him completely, and Jack made himself Tuvanaphan’s right-hand man. Which makes his betrayal all the worse for us, of course. The prince has the enormous pride and arrogance of so many small men. Jack went down to Rome with some of the prince’s men to bring the Dwan Scrolls back to the suite at the hotel here in Geneva. And last night the scrolls and Jack both disappeared.”

  Durell said quietly, “Ellen, have you been thinking about Anton Pacek? It could be his work. If we were winning out on the tin deal, it’s possible that Jack was snatched by the KGU, along with the scrolls, to put the blame on an American and turn Tuvanaphan against us.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve considered that?” Ellen asked sharply. She stood up and walked across the room to the window, then turned and regarded him across the length of the carpet. The sound of student singing came again from the Rue Saint-Pierre. “Don’t you think I’ve tried to believe that this happened and that Jack is innocent and maybe hurt or dead somewhere? I wish I could convince myself of it!” “Why can’t you?”

  “I have to be honest with myself,” she said quietly. “No matter how much it hurts.”

  “Then you’re sure Jack is the thief?”

  “Tuvanaphan claims Jack was seen leaving the Hotel de la Paix, where the prince’s suite is, with a package that could only have been the scrolls. One of Tuvanaphan’s men was slugged, and when he was brought around, he said Jack did it.”

  “Pacek could have paid the man for that story.”

  “True. And Pacek could also have paid Jack to do exactly what he was seen to do.”

  “Would Jack go sour like that? You knew him well, Ellen. You were in love with him. Still are, right? You had every chance to judge him and know his capacities.”

  “I’ve judged him,” she said grimly. “We had to use Jack Talbott on the economic mission because of his past association with Tuvanaphan. Jack is an adventurer, the kind of American who rolls and brawls all around the world. He was trained as an engineer—Silas Hanson will give you his run-down sheet—and he got to know Tuvanaphan pretty well when he did some exploratory mining work in the prince’s territory back in ’57. Tuvanaphan trusted Jack, and that made the deal just duck soup for us—but now it’s all blown up by Jack’s going sour and stealing the prince’s precious paintings.” “You say Tuvanaphan gives us three days?”

  “He’s going home then. He wants the scrolls back when he leaves. He’s furious, naturally. He feels betrayed, and he’s transferred his anger against Jack to all Americans, including Noramco Tin. You can bet Anton Pacek is happy at this moment.”

  “He didn’t look too happy at the airport,” Durell said. Ellen frowned. “I don’t understand that. But in any case, we have three days to find Jack and get the scrolls back into Tuvanaphan’s hands. Otherwise, we’re just mud. General Dickinson McFee put a high priority on this job, Sam. That’s why he pulled you halfway around the world to handle it.”

  Durell stood up. He looked tall and muscular in his dark suit. He wore a white button-down shirt and a dark blue knitted necktie, and in the special pocket tailored in his coat he carried the usual snubby-barreled .38.

  “If there’s a time limit, I’d better get started. We don’t really know if Jack Talbott is our target or not. I’d better go over his apartment first. You have the address?”

  “I’ve already fanned it,” she said.

  “You have a key?”

  Her eyes regarded him calmly, but there was a faint flush on her cheeks. “Yes. That’s the way it was with us.”

  “I don’t care about that. Did you find anything?”

  “He’s not there. I’ve called several times, too. The consulate doesn’t know where he is; he didn’t show up at his desk this morning, naturally. The only thing I found was an address written on Jack’s telephone pad—a place called Villa del Sol, on the Lausanne Road, the north shore of Lake Geneva. I checked it out while waiting for you. It belongs to an Italian nobleman, a man of utterly impeccable reputation, named Count Bernardo Apollio.”

  “The Apollio?”

  Ellen’s eyes were shadowed. “Yes, the art collector.”

  “It ties Jack in a bit, doesn’t it? But from what I’ve heard of Apollio, the man is above reproach.”

  “Well, he has a four-million dollar art collection specializing in Chinese antiques,” Ellen said quietly. “And a beautiful American wife. Jack saw the wife occasionally in Rome when he went down there on mission business.”

  Durell watched her closely. “Was she competition for you, Ellen?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being feminine, or vaguely jealous, even mentioning her.”

  Durell considered this. “Is Apollio or his wife at this place called Villa del Sol, in Geneva?”

  “There’s no answer on the phone out there.”

  “I’ll check it out,” Durell decided. “Or I’ll have Si Hanson do it.”

  Ellen said, “Do you want another drink before you go?” “No, thanks. You say Si is touchy about this thing?”

  “In one sense, it’s a criminal case involving an American national—Jack Talbott. So it comes under the F.B.I. attache abroad, naturally. We get along pretty well, despite the usual interdepartmental jealousies. But Si is fine. We can’t call in the local police, of course—I had to talk fast to get Tuvanaphan to keep quiet about the stolen scrolls for the next three days. And Interpol can’t be used, either. Our work doesn’t permit publicity.”

  “The quieter, the better, in our business.”

  “Sam . . . about Jack and me . .

  “You don’t have to tell me any more,” he said.

  “There’s still a chance you’re right about Pacek grabbing him to make it look as if an American took Tuvanaphan’s paintings. It’s a small chance, but I want to hope for it.” She paused. “I hope for it very much. But in that case, they might have killed Jack already, isn’t that so?”

  “If Pacek took him, yes. But we have to look at the other side of it. Jack Talbott may have done this on his own, but it isn’t likely he took this enormous chance just on impulse. He doesn’t seem to be that sort of man.
If he did it, he had to be motivated by something more than just money, considering the risks involved. He’d know how we’d step on him. And for a big bull of a man like Jack, the something more could well be a woman.”

  “I don’t know,” Ellen murmured. She looked pained. “If you’re thinking about the Contessa di Apollio, I just don’t know. That would hurt even worse, personally.”

  “Is it possible there was another woman?” Durell persisted.

  “I can’t say. I know you don’t want to be cruel, Sam, but I’m not in a position to judge.” She paused again and regarded him gravely. “If Jack is guilty, you’ll have to do the job on him, won’t you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Jack can be dangerous, though. He’s tough, he’s knocked around a lot. He always talked about making a big haul some day. It’s true, he had money on his mind. Maybe the other side got to him, or maybe he couldn’t resist the temptation of those valuable paintings. But you’re right, I think his motivation would have to be more than just the money. He’d know how irrevocable a step it would be to steal the scrolls. So maybe there was another woman.” Ellen spoke with quiet distaste.

  “In any case, there are plenty of unethical art dealers in Europe who’d buy the scrolls from him. And if he’s guilty, he’s aware of how final his move is and how we’ll hunt him down. So he won’t be caught easily.”

  “What are you getting at, Ellen?” Durell asked.

  “I don’t want Jack to kill you, Sam.”

  “He won’t.”

  “I can’t help it. I’m scared about this.”

  “We all know what fear is like,” he said gently.

  “But this is worse, for me. The trouble is, I always knew Jack had a bad streak. But I was lonely, and he worked for the consulate and he seemed all right, and he has an enormous strength of personality as well as a certain physical attraction.”

  Her voice was thin with tension. Her face was very pale. She got up again and walked the length of the room and then turned back to regard Durell with strange eyes.

  “Please be careful, that’s all.”

  “I intend to be.”

  “I mean, don’t jump to any conclusions. Silas is convinced that Jack is our target. I still don’t know, but I don’t trust myself. It’s such a mess for me—I ought to count myself out of this whole operation because I can’t be truly objective. You see, I don’t want Jack to kill you—and I can’t bear the thought that you might kill Jack.”

  “Take it easy, Ellen. Do I have an appointment with Prince Tuvanaphan? I’d like to see him.”

  “Yes, he wants to see the man who’s taking charge here, too. That’s you, Sam. He’s at his hotel. Has a big suite there and lives in unrestrained splendor, naturally. I’m afraid you’ll find him arrogant and quite adamant about wanting the scrolls back. I doubt if you’ll shake his conviction that Jack is the thief. All of which,” she added resignedly, “puts the tin deal up in the air. Noramco Tin swings a lot of weight in Washington. I’ve had a coded cable from National Security and even one from Senator Goodhughman—though how the senator gets into it, I don’t know.”

  “The senator represents a lot of tin stock,” Durell said drily. He got to his feet. “If we only have three days, I’d better get on my horse, Ellen.”

  “Yes. And come back, Sam. I’ll wait up for you.”

  He kissed her briefly. Her lips were cold.

  “Take care, yourself,” he said.

  chapter three

  IT WAS a few minutes after nine when Durell walked away from the art shop. He had slept on the plane from Istanbul, knowing he could never be sure when the next chance for rest might come. He was a careful man, practicing caution until it was second nature to him, and he never took anything for granted. It was a way of life he could not change after all these years, and he could not conceive of any other pattern for himself.

  He made a mental note to cable Washington tonight and have Ellen Armbridge withdrawn from foreign duty. Somebody else would have to operate the apparatus based on the safe house off the Rue Saint-Pierre. It was too bad, but it was better than letting her get killed. As Ellen had said, many good men had died in various obscure corners of the world, but there was another kind of attrition in the business, a slow fraying of nerves over the course of weeks and months of watchful tension; a slackening of alertness, of pulse and reflexes. The strain could destroy you as easily as a bullet, he thought. Breakdowns were uncommon, but they happened. And in Ellen’s case, her personal involvement and emotional state could mean a slight shading of judgment at a critical moment that could lose the ball game.

  He walked to the Grand-Rue, turned right, and passed several small cafes and hotels. The evening was cool and pleasant. The sidewalks were moderately crowded. Young couples from the university strolled in the shadows of the chestnut trees, and auto traffic on the narrow old streets was quite thin.

  He noticed the tail before he went two blocks, but he gave no sign that he knew he was being followed. He kept walking, trying to spot the second member of the team. Usually there were two shadows, one deliberately overt and clumsy to claim the quarry’s attention, and the other much more subtle, perhaps exchanging personnel from time to time, to carry out the final purpose of the surveillance.

  But he could only spot the one man.

  He was a rather stout man, wearing a pale topcoat and a wide-brimmed hat. Not Anton Pacek, of course. Pacek had a dozen men under his command. What disturbed Durell most was the fact that he’d been picked up so close to Ellen’s house. It meant the art gallery was under observation and known to others. Geneva, being neutral territory, could not be kept as clean as other places, but it was a bad sign that the safe house was under observation. His shadow could be a Swiss security cop, of course; but somehow he did not think so.

  At 9:15 Durell turned into a narrow street of stone houses that led up by a series of ramps and twisting steps toward St. Peter’s Cathedral and the sweeping view of Lake Leman. His shadow hesitated, then followed, walking about fifty paces behind him. There were deep, alcoved doorways on either hand, and at the top of the second flight of stone stairs, Durell stepped into one and waited.

  The shadow paused. There was no one else on the street, although there were lights in the tall, narrow windows of the medieval buildings on either hand. Durell was patient. Finally, the stout man in the pale topcoat came on.

  He knew the other was suspicious of his abrupt disappearance and would be ready for trouble, and when the man drew abreast of the doorway, Durell moved with quick precision. He stepped out just behind the light topcoat, his left foot forward, his left arm slightly lowered, his right hand striking fast just below the back of the man’s hat. You could kill a man like that, or paralyze his neural centers and simply stun him. Durell kept the blow relatively light.

  The man grunted and stumbled to his knees on the cobblestone street. Durell stepped to his right side, caught his right arm and pulled it up and back across the shoulder blades and hauled his quarry erect on uncertain legs. In the dim glow of the street lamp, the man’s eyes looked glazed. He had a saddle nose, broad cheekbones, and a wide mouth; he needed a shave. His tie was a garish silk print.

  “Let’s go in here,” Durell said quietly.

  He forced the man into the dark, recessed doorway. For a moment he felt quick resistance, and he applied pressure at the elbow and the man swore softly and bumped against the entry wall.

  “Comment?”

  “Don’t try your bad French on me, my friend. You’re not Swiss.”

  “Let go of me!” the other gasped.

  “Your English sounds worse. You must have had a Brooklyn teacher at KGU school. Why are you following me?”

  “I am not. . .”

  “Let’s see your passport.”

  “You have no right—this is Swiss territory. . . .”

  “Go call a cop,” Durell said. His voice was savage. He applied more pressure to the man’s elbow and sweat popped out on the
broad face and saddle nose. “Go on, yell.”

  “Please—it is painful.”

  “I’ll make it worse.”

  “M’sieu Durell . . .”

  “You know my name. What else do you know?”

  “Nothing! I am only paid to watch you.”

  “Since when?”

  “An hour ago. Shortly after you arrived.”

  “You work for Major Pacek?”

  The man’s wide mouth closed stubbornly. His eyes reflected wet hatred. Durell did not really expect to get anything from him, under the circumstances. The man breathed hard, resisting his grip on his arm. It was possible he might call the police after all, although everyone in the business knew the value of a quiet operation. On the other hand, it might occur to him that the balance of sacrifice might be in his favor if he yelled for the cops and thus delayed Durell’s work. He had only three days. The others might be able to afford a few days in the local jail; but Durell could not.

  He made it quick.

  The chunky man uttered no sound as Durell delivered a blow to the side of his neck. Durell caught him as he felL, lowered him quietly to the alcoved doorway. There was no alarm. The street was still quiet. He felt the man’s pulse with a sense of detachment; there was nothing personal in what he had done to this man. He saved that sort of thing for people like Major Anton Pacek.

  Ten minutes later he was in a taxi heading for a bridge over the Rhone and the Hotel de la Paix.

  The prince received him at once. A retainer in a native uniform bowed and murmured that His Highness had been waiting for some time, and would Durell please come this way. Durell followed through several lavishly decorated rooms into the largest reception chamber of the suite. Although the servants wore native costumes, Prince Tuvanaphan, seated in a high-backed chair at the opposite end of the room, wore a gray business suit and an immaculate white shirt and dark necktie. His feet, in tiny, highly polished English shoes, did not quite touch the floor.

  “M’sieu Durell,” he said in French, “we were growing most impatient. The thought crossed our mind that perhaps we were not important enough to demand the attention of American officials in this matter.”