James Chase - Mission to Siena

“You don’t sound veiy confident that you’ll catch him,” Don said.

“I know how you feel, Mr Micklem,” Dicks returned. “You have just lost a good friend, but we can’t work miracles. You can be sure everything will be done that can be done. It is an international job, of course. It’s my guess he operates from Italy.”

“Why Italy?”

“Two reasons: every one of the Tortoise’s victims have been Italians and this…”

He took from his pocket a flat box, opened it and produced a broad-bladed knife with an ornate wooden handle. “Take a look at this. It is the knife that killed Mr Ferenci. Make anything of it?”

Don took the knife and examined it.

“I don’t pretend to be an expert,” he said after he had turned the knife over, “but I’d say this is a copy of an Italian throwing knife of the medieval period: say about the thirteenth century. If I remember rightly I’ve seen something like it in the Bargello in Florence.”

“That’s correct,” Dicks said, nodding. “Between them, the police in the States, France and Italy have nine such knives.

They have all been taken from the bodies of the Tortoise’s victims. Every effort has been made to trace the knives without success.”

“The red-headed girl, Lorelli, is an Italian,” Don said. “Her accent was unmistakable.”

“That’s another pointer.”

“Well, surely we are getting somewhere,” Don said. “Why does he only attack Italians? Is it possible there’s a political hookup? I know Ferenci was a rabid anti-Fascist. Know anything about the other victims’ politics?”

“They are a mixed bag: nothing to go on. Some.were anti-Fascists, some Christian-Democrats, some Fascists. I’ve worked along that line but it gets me nowhere.”

“Have you asked yourself why he calls himself the Tortoise?” Don asked. “It’s not a name to strike fear into anyone — a most unimaginative name for an extortioner. Why the Tortoise? There must be a reason. A tortoise is slow and harmless: the exact opposite to this killer. There must be a reason.”

“I wondered about that myself, but I haven’t any bright ideas. It might be a deliberate smoke screen.”

“I don’t think so. And another thing — why go to the trouble of manufacturing a copy of a medieval knife? Why not use a knife without the elaborately carved handle? I have a hunch that the tortoise and the knife are something this killer has adopted as a trademark for a very positive reason. We might get somewhere if we found out that reason.”

“It’s possible, but I don’t see how we do it.”

Don tossed his cigarette into the fire.

“It’s a thinking point.2 don’t want to hurry you. Super, but I have a lot of work to do. I take it you didn’t come here just to give me information?”

Dicks rubbed the side of his nose with his pipe.

“Well, I did and I didn’t,” he said. “I have a lot of respect for your talents. You did a fine job on that Tregarth business last year. Ferenci’s a friend of yours. thought I’d put you in the picture in case you wanted to take a hand in2 finding the Tortoise. If we are going to catch him we will only do so by underground information. I know you have a number of contacts in Italy and over here. Every scrap of information we can get will be useful.’

“All right,” Don said. “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not very hopeful. I know a couple of birds in Rome who might have some ideas. I’ll have a talk with Uccelli. I don’t know if you’ve run into him. He owns the Torcolotti restaurant in Soho. He is a smart old scoundrel. I’ve known him for years. What he doesn’t know about the Italian colony here isn’t worth knowing.”

“We nearly nabbed him on a big black-market deal during the war,” Dicks said, “but he was just too smart for us.”

“I’m surprised you got as far as nearly nabbing him. I’ll have a talk with him. He may know something.”

Dicks put the throwing knife into the box and the box into his pocket.

“You wouldn’t feel inclined to go to Italy and see what you can pick up there? I have a feeling that’s where the real information is if we could only tap it.”

“My dear Super, I can’t plod over the whole of Italy in the hope of running into the Tortoise. Can’t we pin it down to a district or better still a town? If we could do that I’d go.”

“The five men who were murdered in Italy died in Rome, Florence, Padua, Naples and Milan. That’s a pretty wide territory. I can’t do better than that.”

“Let’s see if either of us can narrow it down first,” Don said as Dicks got to his feet. “Let me have any information you get and I’ll pass on any I get.”

When the Superintendent had gone, Don remained before the fire, thinking. He was still there when Cherry came in to announce-lunch was ready.

Taller than the average Italian, Giorgio Uccelli was still erect in spite of his seventy-five years and his shrewd deep-set eyes were alert.

Don’s father had known him some twenty years ago in Venice where Uccelli had owned a small, but first-class restaurant in Calle de Fabori. As a boy of sixteen, Don had had his first Venetian meal at Uccelli’s restaurant and had immediately taken a liking for him. When Mussolini had come to power, Uccelli had left Italy and had settled in Soho.

Don had renewed their friendship and he often dined at Uccelli’s now famous restaurant.

Having finished an excellent dinner, he had gone through to Uccelli’s private room and was now sitting before a fire, a fine brandy in his hand and his face half-screened by the smoke of one of his cigars.

He and Uccelli had been chatting together for twenty minutes and Don decided it was time to get around to the reason for his visit.

“You heard about Mr Ferenci’s death?” he said suddenly.

Uccelli’s lined, swarthy face clouded.

“Yes. It was a great shock to me. Is Mrs Ferenci better?”

“She’s still pretty bad. I guess you know the police aren’t getting anywhere with the case?”

Uccelli lifted his shoulders.

“Police business doesn’t interest me.”

Don knew he was on touchy ground mentioning the police to Uccelli. He had heard mmours that Uccelli had been a big black-market dealer and now dealt in foreign currency on an extensive scale.

“Guido was one of my best friends,” Don said. “I want to find the man who killed him. It’s a personal thing.”

Uccelli nodded. That was something he could understand.

There was a pause, then Don said, “I’m after information. Tell me what you know about the Tortoise?”

Uccelli shook his head.

“Very little. I know he exists and that he is dangerous. No Italian who owns more than five thousand pounds is safe from him,” he said gravely. “He has a deadly reputation in Italy. Hundreds of people in Italy and France are paying him vast sums to keep alive.”

“Does he live in Italy?”

“I don’t know.”

“He has people working for him: one of them is a girl with Venetian red hair. Do you know her?”

Uccelli shook his head.

“I don’t know of any girl with Venetian red hair. That colouring has died out: you never see it these days.”

“The other is a tall, thin man, dark, hooked nose, flashily dressed whose first name is Ed.”

Uccelli stubbed out his cigar.

“Yes, that sounds like Ed Shapiro. He dines here sometimes.”

Don sat forward.

“What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a smuggler. At one time he was a knife-thrower in a circus.”

“That must be the fellow!” Don exclaimed. “Where can I find him?”

“I haven’t seen him for some weeks. Perhaps his girl can tell you.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name’s Gina Pasero. She is an Italian. She works at the Florida Club in Firth Street. She is greatly influenced by money. Offer her something: fifty pounds, perhaps. If she knows where Shapiro is, she will tell you.”