Assignment Sorrento Siren

by Unknown Author

Surprise made her speak in English. “Who—what do you think—?”

  “Countess Francesca Apollio?” he asked quietly.

  She stood with her back to the wall, fear draining the color from her piquant face. Her rich underlip trembled. She made a little gesture with her hands, as if to push away the sight of him, and whispered, “Who are you?”

  “Don’t be frightened. Are you looking for Bruno?”

  “Yes, but how did you—?”

  “He hasn’t come back yet,” Durell said.

  She drew a deep breath. It was deliberately designed to create an effect as her firm breasts were delineated against her white silk blouse. The effect was most successful. She smiled. There were deep dimples at the corners of her mouth.

  “You’re an American, aren’t you?” she asked huskily. “It’s good to talk English again. I get so sick of—well, you know. It’s so tiresome. How do you know Bruno, by the way?”

  “I met him in Geneva, shortly after you left.”

  “But I wasn’t there.”

  “You were.”

  She launched herself at him without warning. She tried for the door, leaping like a sleek little cat. Durell threw out an arm, caught her, swung her around and flung her toward the bed. Her hair flew wildly with the impact; her legs scissored, flashed, and her high, spiked heels lashed at him. He dodged, caught her again as she rolled quickly across the bed and tried for the door again. Her body was soft and full, but possessed of a desperate strength. She clawed at him, and her breath hissed. A string of pearls around her throat broke and scattered all over the tiled floor. Her dark eyes flickered, and she tried to knee him. She knew all the dirty tricks of the game.

  But Durell knew a few more.

  He caught her wrist and twisted it back between her writhing shoulder-blades. The musky scent of her perfume reminded him of that white-curtained bedroom in the Swiss chalet last night. She was the one who had been there.

  He threw her on the bed and she bounced, lashed at him with her heel again. He caught her ankle, pulled off the shoe, and threw it aside. She came up trying to scratch him, and he slapped her—not hard, but hard enough.

  She whimpered and wriggled away to the headboard, tucked her legs under her and began to swear at him in a gutter language laced with a strong Missouri accent.

  He grinned at her.

  “Frannie Smith, of Missouri.”

  “Oh, you bastard. Who are you? Where is Bruno?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “The fish in Lake Geneva are eating him.”

  “You sonofabitch, did you kill him?” “I suppose I’m responsible,” Durell said. “I’m looking for Jack Talbott, honey—and the Dwan Scrolls.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she snapped. “You can’t treat me like this. I’m an important person around here, understand? The cops will lock you in the clink and throw the key away. I’ll see to it, I’ll see you rot. .

  “Take it easy, Fran. The home town is showing.”

  She cursed him and at the same time managed to look helpless and appealing. “I don’t know what you want from me.” “I told you. Jack Talbott, first.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “You slept with him. Or teased him into thinking you would. You got him to steal the Dwan Scrolls from Prince Tuvanaphan, and then you crossed him and used Bruno Bellaria to help you get the paintings out of Switzerland.”

  “You’re off your nut, buster.”

  “I want Jack. He’ll kill you, you know, if I don’t catch up with him first.”

  “I’m not afraid of him.” She flushed. “I mean, I don’t know who he is, and you can’t scare me with all this kookie talk. You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How a good-looking guy like you can act so nasty. . ."

  She moved her hips and extended one leg and then tucked it in again. Her eyes looked innocent. “You play rough, buster, but I can show you a few tricks to make you wish you were never born.”

  “I don’t doubt it, sweetheart. You don’t look or sound much like a lady, though, right now. The count would be disappointed in you.”

  “He doesn’t know I’m here.” She paused, annoyed. “I mean, when I tell him how you molested me . . ."

  “Why don’t you call him right now?”

  She glared at him.

  “Or call the cops, why don’t you?”

  She made a spitting noise. “You can’t keep me here. I won’t tell you anything. I don’t know who you are or why you’re bothering me, but you’ll be sorry. You’ll be dead, buster.”

  Durell said nothing. He stood tall and lean, his blue suit hardly disheveled by his struggle with the girl, his eyes dark and somber, regarding her. After a moment she licked her lips, her pink tongue darting out over her full red mouth.

  “May I have my shoes back?” she asked quietly.

  “You were used to walking barefoot once, weren’t you?” “Don’t remind me. Those days are gone forever.”

  “Where are the scrolls, Fran?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You came here to meet Bruno and pick them up, didn’t you? Are you working with your husband?”

  She laughed. “You don’t know Bernardo, do you?”

  “I intend to.”

  “You’re going to tell him about this?”

  It was obvious, then, that Count Apollio didn’t know about his wife’s activities, Durell thought. He was out of it. Or maybe the girl was deliberately trying to mislead him. He did not underestimate her. He guessed that Countess Francesca di Apollio, nee Frannie Smith, had a quick, shrewd mind behind her petulant voice and voluptuous body.

  He said: “Fran, you’re in more trouble than you suspect. Jack is going to kill you, don’t you know that?”

  “I’m not afraid of any man,” she whispered.

  “I might kill him for you, if you help me.”

  “Yeah? What are you, a hit man?”

  “In a way.”

  “You never give a straight answer, do you?”

  “I might swap a few, if you cooperate.”

  “You can’t do anything to me. You put a hand on me again, and I’ll yell, don’t worry, and I’ll think up some answers for the cops later. I’m getting out, and you won’t stop me.” She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, her lips parted angrily. Then all at once the color drained from her cheeks, and her eyes darkened with terror as she looked beyond Durell. It was a warning, but not enough. He thought for an instant that she was trying a simple diversionary tactic, and for one slight moment he did not turn his head. When he did, it was too late.

  The big blond man seemed to explode through the doorway and fill the room. Francesca screamed, but the sound was drowned out by the crash of the man’s fist against Durell’s head. He staggered, caught his heel against the iron foot of the bed, and spun around. The man was fast, not losing a split second of his advantage. Durell got a whirling, dizzy impression of enormous size and power, of cruel good looks, of a small scar on the cheekbone, and tight blond hair. He had caught up with Jack Talbott—or Talbott had caught up with him.

  There was no time to think of anything but survival. The man’s fist was like a rock, smashing at his face. Durell rolled across the bed, fell to hands and knees on the other side, started to rise when Talbott leaped, spread-eagle, over the bed and smashed him to the floor again. There was no let-up, no respite. He felt staggered by the silent ferocity of the attack. He got his fist in the other’s throat, ground at the larynx, and gained an instant’s reprieve to roll free. “Francesca!”

  The girl paused in the doorway, looking back. She held her shoes in her hand, and her dark hair swung heavily to cover one side of her face. A little smile of triumph touched her lips as she looked at Durell.

  Then she was gone.

  Durell looked into the muzzle of Jack Talbott’s gun.

  It was as big and fathomless and
unwinking as the death that brooded in the man’s eyes. Talbott was sweating. A little tremor shook his shoulders, but the gun was steady.

  “Where is Cesare Bellaria?” Talbott whispered. “Where is she going to meet him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You came down from Switzerland?”

  “Yes,” Durell said.

  “Government man?”

  “K Section.”

  “I’ll have to kill you, then.”

  “That won’t get you the scrolls back.”

  “To hell with it. First I get a piece of that bitch.”

  “Like you did with Ellen Armbridge?”

  “You called it, friend. You lay off, understand? You know what I got from Ellen.”

  “Yes,” Durell said. “I intend to get it back.”

  “In a pig’s ear. That’s my little life preserver, eh, friend? You touch me, and our mutual acquaintance, Major Pacek, gets all the dope on your playmates behind the Iron Curtain. I guess you figured all that out, already.”

  “You didn’t have to kill her,” Durell said.

  “Ellen?” Talbott shrugged his massive shoulders. “She was stubborn and stupid, like you. So lay off. Give me a few days. Then you can take it like a bird. I’ll send you the Fremont stuff, in Geneva. Until then, stand clear.”

  The big man exuded an animal tension, listening with his head cocked to one side. The door was open, and from far down the wide corridor came the clang of the elevator lift. There had been no alarm. Talbott wore a shaggy tweed coat, a white shirt that looked as if he’d slept in it, a green necktie loose at his muscular throat. There was a dark red glow behind his eyes. Durell thought of his own gun, of all the tactics he knew for this, but he did not move.

  “You’re lucky,” Talbott said. “You’re smart. You know what happens if I don’t show up in a certain place at a certain time?”

  “I suppose you’ve arranged to mail the stuff to Pacek,” Durell said. “But I think you’re bluffing.”

  “Still, you’re not sure, are you? You can’t take the chance that Pacek gets the names of your pals behind the Iron Curtain, can you? And don’t give me any jazz about being a patriotic American. I was never happier than when I got out of the country. It never did a damned thing for me. Nobody did. So I’m doing something for myself. Too bad about your tin deal with Tuvanaphan, but that goes down the drain and I collect some dough and something extra from that little bitch who double-crossed me.”

  Durell shook his head. “It didn’t make sense at first.”

  “What didn’t make sense?”

  “Why a smart boy like you did such a stupid thing as to steal the Dwan Scrolls. You knew you were slitting your own throat with us. You knew we’d suspect you and get on your tail. It would have been simpler and easier to understand at first if you simply sold data to Pacek. But the girl got you into it, didn’t she? She snuggled up to you and threw you for a loop and got you into it. She needed you and used you, right? A bright lad like you doesn’t sit into a game with the cards stacked against you unless there’s a bonus—such as Francesca, right?”

  “Shut up,” Talbott growled. He trembled. “Shut your mouth.”

  “Aren’t you going after Francesca now?”

  “Hell, I can find her. Maybe she did throw me a curve. But it fitted with my other plans. Turn around, friend.”

  Durell made his manner one of dispirited defeat. He did not know if it fooled Talbott, but it was the only thing he could think of to keep the man from blowing his head off. His easy compliance made Talbott relax just a little, and when the big man took a step toward him, Durell kept turning, flexing his right knee. Then he dropped his head and shoulders and slammed his fist into Talbott’s belly. It was like ramming concrete. But it deflected Talbott’s blow with the gun just enough. As it was, the weapon tore at Durell’s ear and slashed into the side of his throat. He hit Talbott again, felt the same impact on steely muscles, and saw the man grin and heard him laugh an instant before the gun came down again.

  This time Talbott’s aim was better.

  Durell hit the tiled floor and knew nothing more.

  chapter ten

  SOMEONE shook him and said pleadingly, “Signor, signor, please. . . .” He pushed away the offending hand and shoved with both palms flat on the cool tiled floor and grabbed for the bed as it seemed to fall away from him. His head ached. The left side of his face felt peculiar, and he touched it with careful fingers and found crusted blood from his lacerated ear. He swore softly and tried to focus on his watch. It was like looking at it under turbulent water.

  “It is 10:15, signor. What happened here?”

  He lifted his head, which seemed to weigh two tons, and saw the bellboy. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Pietro, signor. You wish me to call a doctor?”

  “No, I’ll be all right, Pietro. It was an accident.” Durell straightened with an effort. “You haven’t called the cops, have you, son?”

  “No, signor.”

  “Good. That’s worth a thousand lira to you.”

  “Molte grazie. I get you a hot towel, yes?”

  The room still vibrated with the aura of Jack Talbott’s violence. He was alive, though, and it had only been the first round. He had the measure of the man, and had touched the insane driving force of him. There would be another round, and soon. Jack Talbott couldn’t count on his insurance forever. Give Paris and Washington another day—two, at the most —and the people in the Fremont group might make it home clean and clear. You hope, he told himself. Working against Jack Talbott was like trying to do a hundred-yard sprint with a ball and chain around your legs.

  Pain hammered in his head. The bellboy gave him a hot, wet towel and he took it into the bath and washed carefully at the blood on his neck and ear, relieved to uncover only painful scratches. He might have had a cracked skull if he hadn’t managed to divert Talbott’s blow.

  “I have the small suitcase, signor. And a razor.”

  Durell looked at Pietro. “Suitcase?”

  “I sent the shirts up earlier, with Carmela, signor.”

  “That’s right. Thank you. They’re in my room?”

  “Yes, signor.”

  “Fine. I’m all right now. Thanks again, Pietro. By the way, you didn’t happen to see the Countess di Apollio in the hotel the past hour or so, did you?”

  “The boss’s wife? Who could miss her?” Pietro’s gamin face grinned, and his dark eyes shone lewdly. He made a quick, Neapolitan gesture of obscenity with his hands. “There is something, in that one. She was in the lobby, signor, collecting mail from the parcel room. For her husband, I think. It was only fifteen minutes ago. Then I had a call from an American couple on this floor and I saw this door open and peeked in and saw you, signor, on the floor. I thought you were dead.” Durell stared at the boy. “What kind of mail did the countess collect?”

  “It was a parcel, pretty big.” Pietro gestured, indicating a size that might well have been the Dwan Scrolls, carefully rolled and wrapped. Durell swore softly, and the boy watched him curiously. “It made me envious,” Pietro said, “the way she carried that parcel.”

  “Envious?”

  “She hugged it, signor. It would be a sensation . . . !” Durell grinned. “You are irreverent, Pietro.”

  “Ah, no, signor. I adore beautiful women.”

  “May you have a long life in which to enjoy them.”

  He gave the boy some more money and went down to the lobby a few moments later. He did not think the desk clerk would be as easy to pump as Pietro, and he did not even try. Francesca was long gone, of course. And there was no sign of Jack Talbott.

  He had told Deirdre over the telephone that he would be at the Sentissi to see her within ten minutes. An hour had gone by since then. She was not in her room. The desk clerk suggested that he go to the Santa Lucia waterfront, with its cluster of restaurants that ringed the harbor and the massive Castell dell ’Ovo. He walked there. Naples was wide awake and
noisy now in the hot sun, and the waterfront boulevard was jammed with traffic. At Santa Lucia a small knot of onlookers had gathered along the sea wall of the yacht basin to stare down with admiring eyes—they were mostly men, and a few thin-lipped women—at the scene being photographed on the beach. Against a background of old ruined piers and stone abutments artfully draped with fishnets, a dozen models posed in costumes that varied from next year’s spring frocks to vestigial swim suits designed to make the girls look even more nude than they actually were in the dazzling Neapolitan sunlight.

  Reflector shields behind the photographers on the beach sent blinding flashes of light here and there as they were adjusted to back-light the girls. A select group of men and women were gathered around a buffet table that scurrying servants had set up on the beach, and a row of folding chairs had been placed near the scene for these spectators. The whole thing had the air of a party that had lingered on from the night before.

  Durell recognized a number of world-famous personalities from the Rome movie colony—Dom Angelo, short and fat and bouncy, rumored to have three mistresses living together in a villa near Positano—he was a major producer of Italian art films, the latest having won awards at the Cannes Festival; and there was Patrelli, the tall, skeletal director of Sidewalk Shadows, morose and unhappy among the animated, overrouged young girls bouncing about in their skimpy Bikinis. It was rumored that Patrelli adhered to a Lucullan philosophy and was dying of cancer of the stomach. The fantastically overdeveloped redhead, who looked more naked in her low-cut white summer dress than the young girls draped among the fishnets, could only be Gina Cantani. Durell went down the stone steps to the beach and worked his way through the noisy, drinking and eating crowd in search of Deirdre.

  She was working at a small table under a scarlet and gold sign that advertised one of Rome’s most extravagant couturiers. Her head was bent over a notebook, and he felt a sudden quickening of his pulse and a gladness that cheered him. He had known many women in his life, but there had never been anyone like Deirdre.

  A director was shouting something in explosive Italian to the models, posed with masked faces among the ruined beach piers. Deirdre looked up then and saw Durell walking toward her across the dark sand.