James Chase - Mission to Siena

Cherry snorted. He came and stood over the unconscious form of Jacopo and gave him a poke with his sword.

“Hey, steady on,” Harry said. “That sticker’s dangerous.”

“I wish I’d caught him,” Cherry said darkly. “I’d have given him something to remember me by.”

Harry hoisted Jacopo up and slung him over bis broad shoulder. “I bet you would, but I want this bird to talk. Come on.

Let’s get back and bring him round. Maybe he’ll be able to tell us how we can get in to Mr Micklem.”

“If he doesn’t, he’ll be sorry,” Cherry said, who was obviously thirsting for blood.

Harry marched off to the villa where Marian was standing on the steps watching for him. Her eyes grew wide when she saw the unconscious body hanging over his shoulder, and Cherry, his sword flashing in the dying rays of the sun, marching behind.

“I’ve got him,” Harry said a little unnecessarily as he came up the veranda steps. He dumped Jacopo down on the boards. “A bucket of water might fit the bill, Cherry.”

“I’ll get it,” Cherry said, and hurried off.

“Will he be all right, Harry?” Marian asked, looking down at Jacopo’s slack, white face.

“Right as ninepence, miss,” Harry said cheerfully. “I only just squeezed him a bit. Scared the life out of him, but no real damage done.”

Cherry came back with a bucket of water and without waiting for instructions, emptied the bucket over Jacopo’s head and shoulders.

Seconds later, spluttering and gasping, Jacopo was sitting up, his back resting against the veranda rail.

Harry knelt beside him.

“Listen, Joe,” he said in a slow distinct tone, “can you understand English?”

Jacopo nodded, his eyes bulging.

“Right,” Harry said. “I want to know how we can get to Mr Micklem. I have an idea you can tell me.” He brought up his fist and touched Jacopo’s nose with it. “You can either tell me willingly or I can force it out of you. That’s up to you, but you’ll tell me sooner or later, don’t make any mistake about that.”

Jacopo looked into the cold, grey eyes and what he saw there made him shudder.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, signore” he said hurriedly.

“That’s the boy,” Harry said approvingly. He unfastened the cord around Jacopo’s ankles and then caught hold of his sopping shirt front and hauled him to his feet. “Come on inside and tell me all about it.” He led him into the lounge.

“Perhaps you’ll take down what he’s going to say, miss?” he went on to Marian as he shoved Jacopo on to a straightback chair. “I know where Mr Micklem is,” he went on to Jacopo. “I’ve talked to him within the past half-hour on the telephone, so be careful what you say. The first lie you tell me I’ll punch you in the right eye. Understand?”

Cringing back, Jacopo said he understood.

Alsconi was mixing himself a whisky and soda when Menotto came in through the casement windows.

Alsconi paused, the ice tongs in his hand while he stared at Menotto.

“What do you want?” he asked softly. “I didn’t call you.”

Menotto’s fat, swarthy face was pale, and sweat glistened on his forehead. His dark curls lay limp; his wide, dark eyes were frightened.

“They’ve got Jacopo,” he stammered.

Alsconi selected a cube of ice and placed it in the glass.

“Who has got Jacopo?” he asked, moving to his chair. He sat down.

“The people at the villa. I went down there to take over. I saw one of them carry Jacopo into the house,” Menotto said.

“About ten minutes later, two cars arrived. In them were six men, Italians. They didn’t look as if they were from the police.”

Alsconi drank half the whisky, then he put down the glass and scratched the side of his nose.

“I see,” he said. “I see.”

Menotto watched him fearfully as he stared blankly at the opposite wall.

Alsconi realized immediately that this was his end in Siena. He realized too that he had made a final mistake in sending Jacopo to watch the villa. Willie would never have been caught; he had been a professional. Jacopo was nothing better than an amateur and he would talk. He knew too much. He knew where Micklem was. He knew of Alsconi’s activities.

He was the proof the police wanted: yes, a fatal mistake.

Alsconi looked at Menotto.

“You and I will leave here in half an hour,” he said. “Bring the car to the side entrance. You will find in my office five wooden boxes. Put them in the car. There is a handbag in my bedroom, ready packed, put that in the car too. Pack a bag for yourself. We shall not be coming back.”

“Yes, signore” Menotto said and went quickly from the room.

Alsconi got to his feet and carrying his half-empty glass to the liquor cabinet, he poured more whisky into the glass.

He had made preparations for this situation more than a year ago. He had rented a villa in Palermo, and in the villa he had installed a strong-room that now held the bulk of his fortune. He would fly down there that night. His yacht was ready in the harbour. The money would be transferred to the yacht and he would sail for some out-of-the-way port in North Africa. It was as simple as that. Then he remembered Crantor, and he frowned. Grantor was bringing with him fifteen thousand pounds sterling in five-pound notes, and Alsconi was short of English currency.

Crantor was coming by air-taxi. He would take off from a field near Rye where no prying customs official would inquire into the luggage he was carrying. He would land on a disused American Air Force landing strip forty miles from Siena.

Alsconi decided he would have to meet the aircraft. He was certainly not going to make a present of fifteen thousand pounds to Crantor. The obvious thing to do was to take the air-taxi and land somewhere in Palermo under the cover of darkness. But the air-taxi presented difficulties. There was room for only one passenger. Crantor would have to take Alsconi’s car and drive to Palermo. Menotto? Alsconi shook his head. He couldn’t trust Menotto out of his sight. It was a pity for Menotto was a first-class cook, but he

would have to be wiped out. It would be fatal to let him fall into the hands of the police.

It would also be fatal to let Englemann and Carlos be caught by the police. Englemann would talk. Alsconi scratched the side of his nose. He was fond of Carlos, and yet the huge negro was too conspicuous. He couldn’t keep him with him any longer. Carlos would be instantly recognized wherever he was, and his recognition would lead the police to Alsconi. No, Carlos would have to go too.

Alsconi prided himself on being able to make quick and ruthless decisions. Felix and Lorelli must be wiped out.

Englemann and Carlos must go with them. Micklem, of course, must also die. It was convenient that the five of them were underground. They could be wiped out without difficulty.

He left the room. Moving quickly for a man of his bulk, he made his way to the boiler-room at the rear of the house. In the boiler-room were the fuse boxes that controlled the whole of the elaborate electrical system of the underground quarters. He snapped down the four switches that would put the control room out of operation, then he returned to the lounge. He went to the casement windows and looked out.

Menotto was loading the Cadillac with the five wooden boxes he had taken from Alsconi’s office.

Alsconi walked over to his desk and picked up the telephone receiver.

“Yes, boss?” Carlos said instantly.

“Connect me with Felix,” Alsconi said. “He’s with Miss Lorelli I believe. When I have talked to him, I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, boss,” Carlos said. “Hold on a moment.”

It took a few seconds before Felix’s voice came on the line.