James Chase - Mission to Siena

“You’re not serious, are you? Hang it, if it hadn’t been for Harry and me…”

“I know that, sir,” Horrocks said curtly, “but there may be more shooting, and I’m not carrying the can if you happen to stop a bullet. I’ll let you know how it works out, but right now, you’re going home.”

Don saw the sense in this, and although he was reluctant to leave, he lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug.

“Okay, Inspector; good luck and don’t let him get away.”

“He won’t get away,” Horrocks said. “Г let you know how it works out.”

“Come on, Harry, let’s get out of here.”

Leaving the shelter of the archway, Harry and he walked down the cul-de-sac into Old Crompton Street.

“That’s a bit of a washout,” Don said as they made their way to where he had left the Bentley. “I would like to have seen him caught.”

“How’s Mrs Ferenci?” Harry asked.

“She’s pretty bad. Miss Rigby is looking after her.”

As he paused to unlock the Bentley, two cars, packed with men, swept past.

“That’s the end of Ed,” Don said. “Let’s get moving. As soon as the shooting starts, every street around here will be blocked.”

It took them only a few minutes to reach Upper Brook Mews. During the drive, Don quickly sketched in what had happened at Ferenci’s house.

“Looks like an organized gang, doesn’t it, sir?” Harry said. Don pulled up outside No. 25a.

“That’s what it looks like.” He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was twenty minutes past one. “Okay, Hany, put her away and go to bed. We may be busy tomorrow.”

He unlocked the front door and walked into the lounge. Some chicken sandwiches with a bottle of whisky, ice water and glasses stood on the table by the fire.

He poured himself a stiff drink and sat down. He sat for ten minutes or so, staring into the fire, thinking of Julia. It was hard to believe that Guido was dead. The whole nightmare thing was impossible to believe.

The sound of the telephone bell startled him. He picked up the receiver.

“Is that you, Mr Micklem?” Horrocks’s voice boomed over the line. “Bad news: he got away.”

“Got away!” Don exclaimed, starting to his feet.

“Yes. We broke in and found a tunnel in the cellar. It led to a builder’s dump in Dean Street. He must have sneaked out that way.”

“For the love of mike!’” Don exploded. “That’s not very bright, is it? So now both of them have got away.”

“They won’t get far,” Horrocks said. “Every port, airport and station is being watched. We’ve got a good description of them. They won’t get far.”

“Like to bet on that?” Don said and slammed down the receiver.

A girl came across the hall of Polsen’s hotel, hesitant and unsure of herself. Dale jerked himself out of a doze, looked at his watch and saw the time was fourteen minutes past four a.m. He got to his feet and leaning on the counter of the desk stared ill-temp eredly at the girl as she came up to,him.

Good grief! he thought. Where in the world has she come from?

The girl was dark and stupid-looking. She had buck teeth and she wore horn-rimmed spectacles. She had on a red and green tartan cloth coat that was slightly too large for her and her lank black hair was caught up in a pale blue silk scarf.

“If you want a room, it’ll cost you a couple of pounds,” Dale said, “and I want it in advance.”

“Yes, I want a room,” the girl said, opening her purse. “I lost the last train home.”

“If you haven’t any luggage, the charge is three pounds. That’s the rule of the hotel,” Dale said. “Take it or leave it.” At that moment Grantor came in and up to the desk. “Gimme my key,” he said curtly. The girl looked at him.

“Excuse me,” she said, “he’s charging me three pounds for a room because I haven’t any luggage. Is that right?”

“Look, ugly,” Dale snarled, “you heard what I said. Get out and stay out if you don’t want to pay.”

“Give her a room,” Crantor said, picking up his key. “The charge is a pound.” He looked at the girl. “Give him a pound.”

Dale took a key off the rack and slid it across the counter. His thin, rat-like face was expressionless.

“Room 24,” he said and took the pound note the girl gave him. “I’m on the same floor,” Crantor said, looking at the girl out of the corner of his eye. She was drab and dull, but he was used to the ugly ones. “I’ll show you the way.”

The girl followed him obediently up the stairs. When they had rounded the bend and were out of sight of the desk, she said, “Have you heard from Shapiro?”

Crantor started, turned swiftly to stare at her. It was only when she slipped out the buck teeth that he recognized her.

“Lorelli! Well, I’ll be damned!”

“I asked if you had heard from Shapiro?” “I’ve heard from him,” Crantor said. He paused outside his door, pushed in the key, unlocked the door and opened it. “You’d better come in.”

She followed him into the room and went over to the mirror above the fireplace. He shut the door and turned the key.

“The police nearly nabbed him,” he said, taking off his damp overcoat and dropping it on the chair. “He’s in a hell of a state.

Something must have gone wrong. He slipped up somewhere, but he wouldn’t say where.”

“The fool was followed,” Lorelli said. “The police nearly caught me.” She took a packet of cigarettes from her purse, lit one and blew smoke towards Crantor. “When I left Athens Street I was followed by a tall, powerfully built man. He wasn’t a policeman. I’m sure of that. I couldn’t shake him off. I went back to the room I had rented in Market Mews. I saw him go to a call box. I changed into this rig-out and got away over the roofs. The police came a few minutes later.

Have you any idea who he could be?”

Crantor shook his head.

“Shapiro killed a cop. He’s yelling for his money. It’s going to be tricky getting him out of the country.”

Lorelli came over to the table and sat down.

“Where is he?”

“He has holed up in his girl’s flat. Maybe you remember her: Gina Pasero? Didn’t she do a job for the old man in Rome some years ago?”

Lorelli nodded.

“I remember her. She’s unreliable. I didn’t know she was Shapiro’s girl.”

“What do you mean — unreliable?” Crantor asked sharply.

“If the police connect her with Shapiro, she’ll talk. Has Shapiro told her anything about you?”

Crantor stiffened.

“I don’t know. He might have.”

Lorelli opened her purse and took out a slip of pink paper. She pushed it across the table.

“I left my bag at Euston station,” she said. “There are two things in it that will interest you. One of them is a thousand pounds in five-pound notes. I was instructed to give that sum to the man who killed Ferenci… a man, you understand, not any particular man.”

Crantor stared at her. “What’s the other thing then?”

“A replica of the knife you gave Shapiro.”

Crantor took the slip of paper, folded it carefully and put it in his wallet.

“The police have a description of Shapiro,” Lorelli went on. “He can’t get away. When he is caught, he will tell them about you.”

“Yes,” Crantor said.

“I don’t think Shapiro is much use to us,” Lorelli went on, looking at Crantor. “Do you?”

“Not now,” Crantor said and picked up his overcoat. He put it on. “You’d better get some sleep. Your room is across the way.”

“I’ll wait here until you come back,” Lorelli said. “We shall have to do something about Gina Pasero too. It won’t take the police long to connect her with Shapiro. Do you know where she lives?”