Ngaio Marsh - When in Rome

“I wouldn’t say that,” Alleyn said. “Oh, my dear Signor Questore, I wouldn’t say that, you know. Not by a long chalk.”

When he had explained this point of view he hung up the receiver and took counsel with himself. At last, by no means sure that he was doing the right thing, he went to the reception desk and sent up his name to Major Sweet.

It was hard to believe that this was the same man who, half an hour ago, had muttered away with Giovanni. The Major was right back on the form that Alleyn had suspected from the first to be synthetic. There he sat in his impeccable, squarish lightweight suit, wearing an R.A. tie, a signet ring, brown brogues polished like chestnuts and the evidence of a mighty hangover in his bloodshot eyes. The hangover, at least, was not assumed. Perhaps none of it was assumed. Perhaps the Major was all he seemed to be and all of it gone to the bad.

“Glad you looked in, Alleyn,” he said. “I hoped to have a word with you.”

“Really?”

“Only to say that if I can be of use I’ll be delighted. Realize you’re in a difficult position. Treading on foreign protocol corns, what? Don’t suppose there’s much I can do but such as I am — here I am. Services ought to stick together, what?”

“You’re a gunner, I see.”

“ Was , old man. Was . Retired list now but still good for a spell of duty, I hope.” He gave a sly comradely laugh. “In spite of the other night. Mustn’t judge me by that, you know, Bad show. Rather fun once in a while, though, what?”

“You’re not a regular patron of Mr. Mailer’s then?”

A fractional pause, before Major Sweet said: “Of Mailer’s ? Oh, see what you mean. Or do I? Can’t stomach the feller, actually. Picked him for a wrong ’un straight off. Still, I must say that show was well run even if I did look on the wine when it was red but let that go.”

“I wasn’t talking about alcohol. I meant hard drugs. Heroin. Cocaine.”

“I say, look here! You’re not telling me they’ve been pushing that rot-gut at Toni’s pad! I mean regularly.”

“And you’re not telling me you didn’t know.”

The Major took an appreciably longer pause before he said with quiet dignity: “That was uncalled for.”

“I would have thought it was obvious enough.”

“Not to me, sir. Hold on, though. Wait a bit. You’re referring to that ghastly youth: Dorne. Sorry I spoke. Good Lord, yes, I knew what he was up to, of course. You brought it all out next morning. Very neatly done if I may say so, though as a matter of fact I dozed off a bit. Didn’t get the hang of all that was said.”

“This isn’t your first visit to Rome, is it?”

“Oh, no. No. I was here on active service in 1943. And once or twice since. Never got hold of the lingo.”

“How long have you known Giovanni Vecchi?”

The beetroot ran out of the Major’s carefully shaven jaw leaving the plum behind, but only in this respect could he be said to change countenance. “Giovanni how much?” he said. “Oh. You mean the courier fellow.”

“Yes. The courier fellow. He’s in the drug business with Mailer.”

“Good Lord, you don’t say so!”

“I do, you know. They’re tied up,” Alleyn said, mentally taking a deep breath, “with Otto Ziegfeldt.”

“Who’s he?” asked the Major in a perfectly toneless voice. “Some dago?”

“He’s the biggest of the drug barons.”

“You don’t tell me.”

“I don’t think I need to, do I?”

“What you need to do,” said the Major and his voice jumped half an octave, “is explain yourself. I’m getting sick of this.”

“Ziegfeldt imports morphine from Turkey. The usual route, by diverse means, is from Izmir via Sicily to Marseilles and thence, through France or entirely by sea, to the U.S.A. During the past year, however, an alternative route has developed: to Naples by a Lebanese shipping line and thence by Italian coastal traders to Marseilles, where it is converted to heroin. Ziegfeldt established an agent in Naples whose job was to arrange and supervise the transshipments. We believe this man to have been Sebastian Mailer.”

Alleyn waited for a moment. They sat in the deserted smoking-room of the hotel. It smelt of furniture polish and curtains and was entirely without character. Major Sweet rested his elbow on the arm of his uncomfortable chair and his cheek on his hand. He might have been given over to some aimless meditation.

“It appears,” Alleyn said, “that at one time Mailer was married to the woman Violetta. Probably she acted for him in some minor capacity. Subsequently he deserted her.”

“Now,” said the Major into the palm of his hand, “you’re talking. Threatened to expose him.”

“Very likely.”

“Killed her.”

“Highly probable.”

“There you are, then.”

“Ziegfeldt doesn’t at all care for agents who help themselves to goods in transit and then set up their own account.”

“Daresay not.”

“He has them, as a general practice, bumped off. By another agent. He sets a spy upon them. Sometimes the spy is too greedy. He extorts a pay-off from — say — Giovanni? On consideration that he will not betray Giovanni and Mailer to his master. And then, unless he is very clever indeed, he is found out by his master and he too gets bumped off.”

A little bead of sweat trickled down Sweet’s forehead and got hung up in his eyebrow.

“The gunners were not in Italy in 1943. They arrived in ’44,” said Alleyn. “Where do you buy your ties?”

“—slip of the tongue. ’44.”

“All right,” Alleyn said and stood up. “How many times can a man double-cross,” he said of nobody in particular, “before he loses count? What’s your price?”

Sweet raised his head and stared at him.

“I wouldn’t try a bolt either. You know your own business best, of course, but Otto Ziegfeldt has a long arm. So, for a matter of fact, have Interpol and even the London Police Force.”

Sweet dabbed his mouth and forehead with a neatly folded handkerchief. “You’re making a mistake,” he said. “You’re on the wrong track.”

“I heard you talking to Giovanni Vecchi in the Eremo Caffè at a quarter to four this afternoon.”

A very singular little noise came from somewhere inside the massive throat. For the first time Sweet looked fixedly at Alleyn. He mouthed rather than said: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I have the advantage of you, there. I do know what you and Vecchi were talking about. Come,” Alleyn said. “You’ll do yourself no good by keeping this up. Understand me. I’m here in Rome to find out what I can about Otto Ziegfeldt’s operations. I’m not here to run in his lesser agents unless by doing so I can carry my job a step further.” He thought for a moment and then said: “And of course, unless such an agent commits some action that in itself warrants his immediate arrest. I think I know what you’ve been up to. I think you’ve been sent by Ziegfeldt to spy upon Mailer and Giovanni Vecchi and report on their side activities in Italy. I think you’ve double-crossed Ziegfeldt and played along with Mailer and Giovanni and now Mailer’s disappeared you’re afraid he may put you away with Ziegfeldt. I think you threatened to betray Giovanni to Ziegfeldt unless he pays you off in a big way. And I think you plan to clear up and get out while the going’s good. You haven’t a hope. You’re in a pretty ugly situation, one way and another, aren’t you? The safest thing for you, after all, might be for the Roman police to lock you up. The Roman streets won’t be too healthy for you.”

“What do you want?”

“A complete list of Ziegfeldt’s agents and a full account of his modus operandi between Izmir and the U.S.A. Step by step. With particular respect to Mailer.”