James Chase - Mission to Siena

The bedroom, Don found himself looking at was skimpily furnished. A small padded chair stood before a walnut dressing-table on which stood triple mirrors. A walnut clothes closet stood against one of the walls. A pale blue fitted carpet covered the floor. Against the wall, facing the window, was a wide divan bed, covered with a pale blue bedspread.

It was this bed that held Don’s rigid attention.

Ed Shapiro lay across the bed in a dark puddle of blood, his lips drawn off his teeth in a wolfish snarl. His bloodstained fingers were curled round the wooden handle of a knife that had been driven with great violence to the hilt into his chest.

Don didn’t have to touch him to know he was dead.

Leaning over the banister rail, Don called softly, “Harry! Come up.”

Harry mounted the stairs, two at a time. The sight of Don’s set face brought him up short.

“Shapiro’s in there — he’s dead,” Don said. “Take a look at him.”

They went into the bedroom.

Harry touched the dead man’s hand.

“He’s been dead some time.”

“Look at the knife. It’s a copy of the one that killed Guido.” ,

“I bet his pals decided he wasn’t any further use to them, and they knocked him off,” Harry said, stepping away from the bed.

“Yes.” Don glanced around the room, then went out into the hall. He crossed over to the door on the left and opened it.

He looked into a small kitchen. On the table was a large stock of tinned food.

“Looks as if he had settled here until the police had given him up,” he said. “Let’s get out of here, Harry.”

They left the flat and went down the stairs. Rain was still falling steadily. Harry closed the street door and he and Don walked quickly down the alley to Peters Road.

“Are you going to report this to the police, sir?” Harry asked.

“I’m finding Gina first,” Don said. “Uccelli might know where I can find her.” He peered at his watch in the light of the street lamp. “It’s just two. Maybe he hasn’t gone to bed yet. Let’s see.”

Uccelli hadn’t gone to bed, and he answered Don’s knock himself.

“I’m trying to find Gina Pasero,” Don said after he had apologized for disturbing Uccelli. “Have you any idea where I can find her?”

“Come in,” Uccelli said. “How wet you are. Have you tried the club?”

Don and Harry followed the old man into his room.

“I saw her at the club. I made a date with her for one o’clock. She hasn’t shown up. Shapiro’s been murdered. I’m worried about the girl.”

Uccelli’s eyes widened. “She used to live in a flat in Peters Road, but I did hear she had moved…”

“I’ve been there. That’s where I found Shapiro.”

“Why do you think the girl’s in trouble?” the old man asked.

“I offered her fifty pounds for information. She said she would meet me later. She was anxious to have the money. She didn’t turn up.”

Uccelli pulled a little face.

“I don’t know where she could be unless she’s at the Miremare Hotel in Western Road. She often stayed there before she took the flat in Peters Road.”

“All right, I’ll try there.” Don turned to Harry. “Get the car, will you?”

When Harry had gone, Don went on, “This is getting complicated, Giorgio.” He sat on the edge of Uccelli’s desk.

“Shapiro was hiding in the flat. Whoever killed him gave him a dose of his own medicine. The knife was thrown at him with tremendous force. It went into his body up to the hilt.”

Uccelli lifted his shoulders.

“A good riddance. He was a bad and dangerous man.”

“I must tell the police,” Don said. “You understand?”

“Of course.”

“You have heard nothing about the red-headed woman yet?”

“Not yet. I nave already made one or two inquiries, but it may take time.”

Don heard the Bentley pull up outside.

“You can rely on me not to tell the police where I got my information from.”

“I know that,” Uccelli said. “The night clerk at the Miremare may help you. His name is Cavallino. Tell him you come from me.”

“Right,” Don said. “I’ll be in touch with you.”

He went out into the wet night and got into the Bentley. A few minutes’ fast driving brought them to Western Road.

“This is it,” Harry said, slowing down. “Doesn’t look much of a joint, does it?”

The entrance to the Miremare Hotel was sandwiched between a chemist shop and a petrol station. The name of the hotel was picked out in tarnished gold letters across two glass-panelled doors.

“Wait for me,” Don said and slid out into the rain. He ran up the six steps, pushed open the door and walked into the dingy reception hall furnished with four shabby leather armchairs, a bamboo table and a fern in a tarnished brass pot.

The reception desk faced him. A single light lit up a row of keys and a series of empty pigeon-holes at the back of the desk.

A white-faced, black-haired man sat behind the desk, yawning over a paper-backed novel. He looked up as Don crossed the hall, pushed aside his novel and stood up.

“Is Miss Pasero staying with you?” Don asked, coming to rest at the desk.

The clerk looked him over suspiciously.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that question at this time of night,” he said. “If you will call tomorrow morning…”

“You are Cavallino, aren’t you?” Don said. “Uceelli told me to come to you.”

Cavallino’s face brightened: the suspicion went away.

“Please excuse me. I didn’t know,” he said. “Uccelli is a good friend of mine. Yes, Miss Pasero is staying here.”

Don drew in a sharp breath of relief.

“I want to speak to her,” he said. “It’s most urgent.”

Cavallino spread his hands.

“If you would care to wait, sir, I don’t think she can be much longer.” He consulted his watch. “It is nearly half-past two.

She is not usually as late as this.”

“She’s not in then?” Don said, his voice sharpening.

“No, she went out soon after twelve-thirty when her friend called for her.”

“What friend?”

Cavallino frowned.

“Excuse me, sir, but you ask too many questions. It is not my business…”

“My reason is urgent,” Don broke in. “Gina Pasero is connected with Shapiro. He was murdered in her flat and I think she is in danger. Who was the friend who called for her?”

“I don’t know,” Cavallino said, staring at Don in alarm. “A girl: I haven’t seen her before. Miss Pasero returned from the club just after midnight. Someone called her on the telephone. At half-past twelve she came down from her room. I asked her if she were going out, but she acted as if she hadn’t heard me. She went out. I went to .the door. There was a car waiting. Miss Pasero was talking to this girl. They got into the car and drove away.”

Don hunched his shoulders against the chill that crawled up his spine.

“What was the girl like?” he asked, and the tone of his voice made Cavallino stiffen.

“I couldn’t see much of her, but I did notice her hair. It was an unusual colour: a Venetian red.”

Don stared at him for a loag moment.

“Let me have your telephone’,” he said curtly

Cavallino pushed the telephone towards him.

“There is something wrong then?” he asked anxiously.

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Don said and dialled Whitehall 1212.

Lorelli sat in the driver’s seat of the Humber, her hands over her ears, her eyes shut.

The old, battered car stood under the trees of the tow-path, a few yards from Risings Lock. It was dark, and the white, damp mist hid the river.

It had been too easy. She had traced Gina to the Miremare Hotel. Gina had recognized her at once, although it was now five years since they had met in Siena. She had accepted Lorelli’s tale that there was work for her again in Italy. Excited and unsuspicious, she had got into the car to discuss the details.