James Chase - Mission to Siena

“You look more like your old self, bud,” the negro said.

“Now come and see the Doc. Don’t get snooty with him. He can be tricky if he doesn’t like you.”

He ambled down the corridor, rapped on the further door, turned the handle and pushed it open. He jerked his head at Don and stood aside.

Don walked into a large room that was equipped as an operating theatre. He could see at a glance that the equipment was up-to-date, extensive and expensive.

A tall, elderly man, wearing a white coat, sat at a desk. His lean grey face was lined and coldly impersonal. He looked up at Don and there was something in the washed-out blue eyes that sent a prickle crawling up Don’s spine.

“I am Dr Englemann,” the man in the white coat said and got to his feet. “The wound you have is superficial, but it should be dressed. Sit down, Mr Micklem.”

“No, thanks,” Don said. “I’ve fixed it. It is fine as it is.”

Englemann shrugged his shoulders.

“You must please yourself,” he said and his eyes travelled over Don. “Would you like me to give you something for your headache?”

“No, thanks,” Don said.

Englemann sat down at the desk.

“Then I won’t detain you, Mr Micklem. We shall be meeting again I understand; only next time you won’t be a voluntary patient.”

“What does that mean exactly?” Don asked.

“It will be explained to you’ Englemann said and waved his hand at Carlos who had moved into the room. “Take Mr Micklem away.”

Carlos touched Don’s arm.

“Come on, bud,"” he said.

Don went into the passage. Carlos followed and closed the door. The two wolf-hounds got to their feet, their ears pricked.

“The boss’ll see you now,” Carlos said. “Watch your step with him: he’s another guy who can get tricky if anyone treads on his toes.”

“What a fascinating bunch of crackpots you seem to house here,” Don said.

Carlos laughed.

“Boy! you never said a truer word.”

He led the way down the corridor. He paused outside a massive steel door, touched a rubber-headed button on the wall and waited. After a few moment’s delay the door swung open. Facing them was a flight of stone steps that led upwards.

Carlos stood aside.

“Go on up, bud.”

Don mounted the steps. He counted them as he climbed. When he reached the thirty-second step, he came to another steel door.

Carlos came up behind him, pressed on another rubber-headed button.

“I’ve got Micklem here, boss,” he said.

Don saw then the negro was speaking into a microphone let into the wall. A moment later the door swung inwards and Carlos gave him a little push forward. He walked into a large, airy, luxuriously furnished room. The sun came in through the big open casement windows. Beyond the open windows, Don could see the wide terrace and stretching away into the distance file ornamental garden with its flowering shrubs, conifers and cypress trees. It was a tempting sight, and for a very brief moment, he had to resist the urge to dart forward and through the casement windows to the garden below, but the dogs, as if anticipating such a move, brushed past him and went out on to the terrace where they lay down in the sun, blocking the exit. Simon Alsconi, wearing a fawn linen coat, sat in his padded chair. The Persian cat lay on his lap; its blue eyes stared at Don with inquisitive insolence. The sun caught the sparkle of a large diamond on Alsconi’s little finger as he waved his hand towards a chair opposite him.

“Come in, Mr Micklem,” he said. “This is a great and unexpected pleasure. Forgive me for not getting up. You see I am encumbered by Balthazar. We must, I feel, always show consideration to the feelings of animals. Please sit in that chair where we can see each other in comfort.”

Don crossed the room and sat down in the big lounging chair. He looked at Alsconi with interest. Was he the Tortoise?

he wondered. He looked harmless enough — or did he? There was something odd about his eyes perhaps. Don was puzzled for a moment why Alsconi’s eyes should strike him as odd, then he realized they were flat like the eyes of a snake: flat, glassy and as dark and as expressionless as pools of Indian ink. A door opened at the far end of the room and a short, stocky Italian in a white mess jacket came in carrying a tray. He set the tray down on a table between Alsconi and Don, poured out two cups of coffee and then silently left the room.

“You must need some coffee, Mr Micklem,” Alsconi said. “We have had rather a busy morning, and I am afraid we have neglected you. Help yourself to a cigarette too.”

Don wanted the coffee badly and he didn’t hesitate to accept the invitation.

Carlos was standing by the window, watching him, and Alsconi waved him away.

“I’ll ring when I want you, Carlos,” he said.

The negro went out on to the terrace. The two wolf-hounds edged forward. They stared through the open casement doors at Don, their eyes watchful and alert.

Don looked into the big hearth before the empty fireplace. His eyes alighted on a heavy steel poker. He would have.to get to his feet and take two quick steps forward to grab it. He would have time to do it before the dogs reached him. He had no doubt he could settle the dogs before they could do him much damage, but what then? How far away was Carlos? Were the four guards with their automatic rifles still in the garden? Even if he laid out the dogs, knocked this fat, smiling Italian over the head and reached the garden, he would still have over a thousand yards of lawn and shrubbery to negotiate before he reached the fifteen-foot high wall. There would be no Harry waiting for him to swing him to the top. By then the other two dogs would be after him. He reluctantly decided the chances of failure were too great.

Alsconi who had been watching him said, “Very sensible of you, Mr Micklem. For a moment I feared you were going to give way to an impulse. That poker is tempting. One of my other visitors attempted to make use of it. Jacopo who sits behind that tapestry on the wall — a really splendid example of the best Florentine work, don’t you think? — had no alternative but to shoot him.” The white fingers fondled the cat’s head. “Enjoy your coffee; have a cigarette, but please don’t do anything foolish.”

Don lit a cigarette. He looked over at the tapestry on the wall facing him. Then he shrugged.

“Are you the man who arranged Guido Ferenci’s death?” he asked quietly.

Alsconi smiled.

“I suppose you might say I was indirectly responsible. I have people who attend to the details of my organization.

Perhaps I had better introduce myself. My name is Simon Alsconi. I am the last surviving male member of the Vaga family. I understand you have been investigating our sad history.”

“The police are investigating it too,” Don said.

Alsconi chuckled.

“I have been disappointed that they have taken so long to discover the connection. No doubt you gave them the clue. I have never made any secret of my connection with the Vaga family. In actual fact this palazzo is built on the original site of the Vaga home. My mother was the last of the women Vagas. But your discovery is of no value either to you or to the police, Mr Micklem. There is no evidence to connect me to the organization I have built up nor can the money I have made from the organization be traced. The people I employ don’t know me: the few who do can disappear and reappear at a moment’s notice. Even if I admitted I was the Tortoise, there would be no evidence that would convince a jury.” “Most murderers are confident they can evade the police,” Don said.

“There’s always the give-away, the false move or the squealer. You’re just kidding yourself if you think you’re going to get away with this for much longer.” Alsconi laughed: he sounded genuinely amused. “My position of safety has had an interesting test this morning,” he said. “I have been hopefully waiting for such a test for the past two years. Until one’s plans and security measures are submitted to a worth-while test, there is always an element of doubt. This morning six police officers have been here, looking for you. You should be flattered. Rossi, who is the head of the Rome police and an extremely clever man, flew up here and conducted the search in person. He conducted it under considerable opposition from the Sienese authorities. I happen to be an important person in Siena. I am regarded by the authorities and the church not only as a benefactor, but also as a pillar of Society. When Rossi appeared at police headquarters with a search warrant, the authorities were horrified. The circumstances were, of course, fantastic. An Englishman in the lowly position of a chauffeur was complaining that I — one of the most influential as well as the most wealthy citizens of Siena — had kidnapped his master. Unbelievable and incredible. However, Rossi is a man who is not easily put off. He has been trying to break up my organization for the past three years. The arguments the authorities raised against disturbing me were brushed aside. He came here with three detectives from Rome and three from the Siena police.