1954 - Mission to Venice (3 page)

Don stared at him.

“Rubbish,” he said curtly. “Tregarth is the owner of a small glass factory. He doesn’t know anything that could possibly interest the Russians. Why should he go behind the Iron Curtain?”

“You may be surprised to know Tregarth was and probably still is about the smartest agent MI5 have got. He knows every trick in the box. He knows the names of all the agents operating in Europe and where they are. The Russians would love to have him. Now perhaps you’ll appreciate why Sir Robert is laying an egg.”

Don was so startled he got to his feet and began to pace up and down.

“You wouldn’t be kidding?”

“No, but you’ve damn well got to keep this to yourself,” Hennessey said.

“What makes them think he’s on the other side of the Iron Curtain?”

“I’m not saying he is,” Hennessey said cautiously. “It’s my guess he is.”

“He could have been caught’“

“Yeah, but from what the old man said I had an idea he’s gone over to the other side. The old man was plenty rattled. A guy with Tregarth s experience wouldn’t have been caught alive. From what I gather he is alive and talking.”

Don thought of the postcard from Venice It was on the tip of his tongue to say he knew where Tregarth was and he was certainly not behind the Iron Curtain, but an instinctive caution stopped him. He wanted more information before he gave away Tregarth’s position.

“Now I’ve let the cat half out of the bag,” Hennessey went on, “can I tell the old man you’ll mind your own business?”

Don shook his head.

“No. I might not be able to keep out of it. I’ve promised his wife to find him.”

“But that was before you knew what the set-up is,” Hennessey said. “This is a tricky business, Don. We could get tough with you if we wanted to.”

Don smiled.

“How tough?”

“We could take your passport away.” Hennessey stood up. “It’s not worth it, Don. Forget it, will you?”

“At least I’ll think about it.”

“Are you going to Venice for certain?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow without fail.”

“Well, that’s okay then. Well take damn good care you don’t get a visa for Germany. You stick to Venice and the old man will be satisfied.”

Don didn’t say anything.

“Sir Robert’s convinced Tregarth is behind the Iron Curtain,” Hennessey went on, “so if I tell the old man you’re only going to Venice he can pass on the good word. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“I’d better get back. Thanks for the drink. Have a good trip.”

“So long, Ed.”

“Just one other point,” Hennessey said, pausing at the door. “If you get tempted and stick your neck out, don’t go running to the Consul for protection. We’re not getting mixed up in this, and if you do, it’s your own personal funeral. Understand?”

“Sure,” Don said indifferently. “So long”

He watched Hennessey walk along the mews towards the Embassy, then he picked up a cigarette. There was a faraway look in his eyes as he scratched the match alight.

* * *

A few minutes after six o’clock, Don stopped the Bentley outside a small villa in Newton Avenue, Hampden. A hundred yards down the road was parked a black car in which two men were sitting. One of them half turned to watch Don cross the pavement and open the gate that led to the villa.

Don ignored him, walked up the path and rang the bell. Hilda Tregarth opened the door immediately. She looked anxiously at him as she stood aside.

“I have some news for you,” Don said gently. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“Please come in here,” she said, opening a door that led into a small sitting room. Don glanced around. Although it was modestly furnished, the room was comfortable and homely.

They sat down, facing each other.

“I’ve seen both Sir Robert and Superintendent Dicks,” he told her. “I’ve been wondering how much to tell you, Mrs. Tregarth. I think it’s only fair to tell you the truth You have plenty of courage, and I’m afraid you’ll need it.”

She sat, tense and white-faced.

“Then John is in trouble?”

“I think so. From what I’ve discovered, he is an agent working for MI5.”

She closed her eyes and her hands turned into fists. Just for a moment she remained like that, then she stiffened, opened her eyes and looked at him.

“I had a feeling that was what he was doing. Has he been caught, do you think?”

Don hesitated.

“It’s doubtful,” he said, deciding she must be told the truth. “If he had been caught he wouldn’t have sent that postcard, would he? But we mustn’t overlook the fact that the postcard might be a forgery or he might have been forced to write it to put us off the track. But presuming the postcard isn’t a forgery, then I think he must be still at large, probably in hiding.”

“I see.” She looked down at her hands. “And they’re not going to do anything for him?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She looked up then.

“There’s something more, isn’t there? Why should they be watching me? They think he’s gone over to the other side, don’t they?”

Don nodded.

“Yes. You know him better than anyone. Has he ever shown a sympathetic attitude towards them?”

“Never!” Her eyes flashed. “He would never go over to them!”

“From what I know of him, I’m sure you’re right.”

“But why do they think he has, Mr. Micklem? What proof have they got?”

“I don’t know. They were pretty cagey about telling me anything. They must have a reason, of course, but only Sir Robert seems to know, and he’s not talking. Frankly, I don’t think I’m going to find out anything more here. My only hope of getting more information is in Venice. I leave tomorrow. I’ll make inquiries as soon as I get there. Did your husband ever go to Venice on his travels?”

“Yes, he went every year. Venice is an important glass-making centre.”

“Who are his contacts there? Do you know? Has he any friends who would help look for him there?”

“I don’t know. He told me so little about his work. I know Manrico Rossi who owns a glass shop near the San Marco did business with him. There must be others, but he didn’t mention them to me.”

“Manrico Rossi?” Don made a note of the name. “Where did your husband usually stay?”

“At the Moderno. It’s near the Rialto bridge.”

“Have you a good photograph of him?”

“I’ll get it.” She left the room and in a few moments she returned with a quarter-plate photograph which she gave to Don. He examined it. Tregarth looked older in the picture than Don had imagined him to be. There were white streaks in his hair, but his eyes had the same steady determination that had impressed Don when he had met him. He put the photograph in his wallet. He realized the difficulty of his task. He had little information to go on. A photograph, the name of a glass seller and the name of a hotel. Hunting for a man in a tourist-packed city like Venice was taking on an almost impossible task, but he didn’t say so to Hilda Tregarth.

“All right,” he said. “There’s just one more thing. Would you care to write a letter to your husband? If I find him, he might welcome a word from you.”

For a moment he thought she was going to break down, but she quickly controlled herself.

“You are very kind, Mr. Micklem,” she said, her eyes bright with tears. “You think of everything. Of course I’ll write to him. Can you wait?”

“Go ahead,” Don said, admiring her courage. “I’m in no rush. He may need encouragement, and you’re the best person to give it to him.”

She left the room. It was some twenty minutes later before she returned. She gave him a sealed envelope.

“Fine,” he said, putting it in his wallet. “I’ll do my best to get it to him. Now don’t worry too much. You must be patient. I think it’s almost certain the police will watch your mail. I’m not risking writing to you. If I have anything important to tell you I’ll either fly back or get one of my friends to bring a letter to you.”

“I understand,” she said unsteadily.

As Don drove back to the West End, he wondered if Tregarth was thinking of his wife. He wondered, too, what Tregarth was doing at this very moment. Sir Robert had said:
No one can do anything for him. He should have thought of his wife before doing what he did
.

What had Tregarth done?

Don shook his head.

He was going to find out, and he was going to find Tregarth: not for Tregarth’s sake, but for the sake of his wife. Neither Sir Robert, the police nor Ed. Hennessey would stop him now.

T
he late evening sun was beginning to sink behind the dome of San Maria della Salute, tingeing the oily-green water of the Grand Canal a soft rose pink as Don Micklem crossed over to the window to look down on the busy scene below.

“There’s no other city in the world to touch this, Cherry,” he said. “Look at that sunset. I’ve seen it dozens of times, but I always get a bang out of it.”

“Very impressive, sir,” Cherry said. “The Duke had a very fine Canaletto of this very scene. I never thought I should be so fortunate to see the original scene for myself. Most impressive.”

“I guess that about describes it,” Don said, picking up his cigar case, keys and wallet and putting them in his pockets. “I won’t be in for dinner. If you want to go out, go out. I may be late.”

“Thank you, sir,” Cherry said, then coughed. “I would remind you there are several letters and invitations requiring your attention.”

Don grinned.

“They can wait. I’ve things to do.”

He left the room and went down the wide marble staircase that led to the hall.

Four years ago, Don had come to Venice for the first time and had immediately fallen in love with the floating city. He hadn’t rested until he had found and bought a small Veneto—Byzantine house, known as the Palazzo della Toletta. It faced the Grand Canal with a magnificent view of the Isle of San Giorgio, and was a mere two hundred yards from Sansovino’s masterpiece, the Liberia Vecchia.

Don had arrived in Venice two hours before, and now, having changed and bathed, met his Italian staff and had a word with Giuseppe, his gondolier, he was ready to begin his hunt for Tregarth.

He decided to see Manrico Rossi first in the hope that Rossi might have news of Tregarth. Failing him, he would try the Moderno Hotel.

He made his way along the crowded quay towards the Piazza San Marco, his eyes absorbing the bustling activities of the gondolas, the vaporeto steaming away towards the Lido, the barges, laden with melons and vegetables, and the palazzo front of marble and inlay, with their striped mooring poles.

The Piazza San Marco was packed with people, sitting at the tables of the cafes, shop-window gazing, feeding the pigeons or clustered in groups before the magnificent facade of the basilica with its four gilded bronze horses and its rich mosaics.

Don cut through the Calledei Fabbri. Manrico Rossi’s glass shop was down a narrow alley, near the Rialto Bridge. It took Don a little time to make his way there. The shop was at that moment recovering from an invasion of a group of tourists. They came out of the shop, sweating and tired, but determined to see everything there was to see, and Don stood aside until the last of them had gone.

He entered the long, narrow shop, and it seemed to him he had stepped into a softly lit cave with sparkling chandeliers roofing the ceiling and the walls furnished with miracles of glittering crystal.

At the far end of the shop was a long bench at which three girls were sitting. Before each girl was a powerful gas burner that threw a three-inch flame. The girls were holding long slender

rods of coloured glass in the heat of the flame. Working with fascinating speed, they fashioned little animals by softening the tubes and bending them to shape.

Don paused to watch them work. One of the girls, a dark, thin-faced little creature, glanced up and her big eyes met his for a moment before she continued to turn the strip of white glass into a miniature, prancing horse.

He watched her set the horse aside to cool, and again she looked up at him, and he half imagined she gave him a signal; the quick lift of her eyebrows and the sudden flash that came into her eyes held his attention. Her eyes shifted back to the row of various coloured glass rods that lay before her. She took one, ran it quickly up and down in the flame, then with amazingly expert fingers she bent the rod, twisted it, bent it again and to Don’s astonishment she laid before him a queer little pattern of bent glass. Looking down at it, he saw it was an intertwined monogram she had devised, and he saw the initials that stood out against the pattern she had designed were J.T.

He had scarcely time to read these initials before she had whisked up the design and had passed it through the flame, and in a moment, it had become the hind legs of yet another prancing horse.

Had he imagined it? he wondered, looking down at the sleek dark hair of the girl as she bent over her work. J.T. - John Tregarth?

Had he imagined it?

“Ah, signore, I see you are interested in our work,” a voice said, and turning sharply he found a tall, fat man in a grey lounge suit standing by him. The big, fat, sleepy-eyed face was typically Italian, and the smile, revealing some gold-capped teeth, was as professional as it was insincere.

“That’s right,” Don returned.

“It is a great honour to have you here, Signor Micklem. Four years now you have been coming to Venice, and this is the first time you have honoured my shop.”

“Well, I’m here now,” Don said, smiling. He had become used to the Venetians recognizing him as soon as they saw him. You can’t remain an American millionaire with a palazzo on the Grand Canal without every trader in Venice becoming aware of the fact.

“May I show you some of my treasures, signore?”

“A friend of mine wants a chandelier. I promised to look at some.”

“Ah, a chandelier! Please come to my office. I can show you many beautiful designs. Your friend would be more satisfied if he selected a special design and we made it for him. If he cares, he would be most welcome to see some of it made at our factory in Murano.”

Don followed the fat man down a passage and into a small, well-furnished office. He sat down while the fat man began to look through a large portfolio full of various drawings.

“You are Manrico Rossi?” Don asked quietly.

“Yes, signore. You have been recommended to me perhaps?”

“A good friend of mine told me to come to you. A friend of yours, too, I believe.”

Rossi smiled. He faced Don, a sheaf of designs in his hand.

“And his name, signore?”

“John Tregarth,” Don said, his eyes on Rossi’s face.

The fat man flinched. His smile became a fixed grimace. The designs slipped out of his fingers and fell to the floor. He immediately bent down to pick them up and Don lost sight of his face. Had that sudden fixed smile and that flinching look in the sleepy eyes been fear? he wondered, startled.

When Rossi straightened up, the look had gone out of his eyes, although his fat face had taken on a yellowish tinge.

“Ah, il signor Tregarth,” he said. “A very good friend of ours. Yes, it seems a long time since we saw him. A year perhaps or even longer.”

By the way his eyes shifted, Don was certain he was lying, and he felt that feathery chill creep up his spine.

He said, “I was wondering if he happened to be in Venice. You haven’t seen him then?”

“Oh no, signore.” The black eyes stared at Don, then quickly shifted. The thick lips tightened. “Il signor Tregarth is not in Venice. He comes to see us always in July.”

Don lifted his shoulders, then accepting the designs Rossi handed to him, he listened to Rossi eulogize their merits. He finally selected three of the more simple ones and asked Rossi to send them to Terry Ratcliffe. After Rossi had noted down the address, Don got to his feet.

“But isn’t there anything I can show you for yourself, signore?” Rossi asked hopefully.

“Not right now. I’m staying a month or so. I’ll be in again.”

“Certainly, signore. We will always be pleased to see you.”

Don walked over to the door. He paused and asked, “Has il signor Tregarth any friends in Venice, do you know?”

“Friends? Why, surely. Il signor Tregarth must have many friends here.”

“Would you know any of them?”

Rossi lifted his fat shoulders regretfully.

“No, signore. Il signor Tregarth did business with me in my office. We did not meet outside.”

Don nodded. As he moved along the passage with Rossi behind him, he said, “If he happens to turn up, tell him I’m here, won’t you? It’s a long time since we met.”

“I will tell him, but I fear he won’t come. Always in July he comes; never in September. Next year perhaps.”

They moved into the shop and Don glanced at the thin, dark girl behind the bench who was hastily making yet another prancing horse. She didn’t look up, but just for a moment her fingers faltered, and she had to discard the rod of glass she was working with.

Don paused near her.

“You work late hours here?” he said to Rossi.

“We have to, signore. The tourists expect to buy at night. We don’t close until eleven-thirty.”

“That’s late. At that time I shall be enjoying a brandy at Florian’s,” Don said, pitching his voice so the girl could hear.

“Well, I’ll be in again.”

Without looking up the girl gave a quick little nod of her head. It could have meant something or nothing. Don nodded to Rossi and walked out into the still, hot air of the Calle.

He hadn’t learned a great deal, but he was far from being discouraged. He had made contact. Rossi knew more than he said: that much was obvious. The girl also seemed to know something, and she was trying to be cooperative. Her mysterious secrecy bothered Don. Was Rossi in the opposite camp, if there was an opposite camp? It looked like it. Well, he had told her where she could find him and she had appeared to understand.

In a little over three hours he would go to the Piazza San Marco and wait for her. He decided now to call on the Moderno Hotel and see if they had any news of Tregarth. As he walked slowly away from the glass shop, he failed to notice Rossi who was standing in his shop doorway, signal to a short, thickset man in a black suit and black hat who lolled in a shop doorway.

The thickset man immediately went after Don.

On the fondamenta, in sight of the Rialto Bridge, a tall, thin man in a white suit and white hat was staring aimlessly across the Canal. As the thickset man passed him he jerked his thumb towards Don and nodded. The tall, thin man moved casually after Don, fifty yards or so in the rear.

Unaware that he was being followed, Don headed towards the Moderno Hotel.

* * *

At eleven thirty, Don found an empty table outside Florian’s cafe and sat down.

The Piazza San Marco was still crowded. Across the way, under the shadow of the Procuratie Vecchie a band was playing Verdi’s march of the Long Trumpets, and its robust, stirring rhythm set Don’s foot tapping. Nearly every table in the vast square was taken. Groups of tourists stood about, watching the perspiring orchestra or staring up at the rich midnight blue sky, pinpointed with glittering stars.

Don ordered a brandy, lit a cigarette and stretched out his long legs. He was no further forward in his quest. The manager at the Moderno Hotel had no information to give him about Tregarth.

“Il signor Tregarth never comes to Venice in September,” he had told Don. “Always in July. This year he does not come. Next year perhaps.”

And yet Tregarth was in Venice, Don said to himself, unless the postcard was a fake, but he doubted this. If it had been a fake, why hadn’t it been sent direct to Hilda Tregarth, and why had it been signed in the name of Saville?

Everything now depended on the girl from the glass shop. If she failed him, he had a problem on his hands. He looked over the teeming piazza. He couldn’t hope to find her in this crush. She would have to find him. He had told her he would be outside Florian’s. He would have to be patient and hope she would come.

A fat man sitting at a table a few yards from him, beckoned to a waiter, paid his bill and moved away towards the basilica. The man in the white hat came out of the shadows of the arcade and sat down at the vacant table. He ordered a brandy and opening an evening paper, he glanced casually at it.

Don remembered seeing this man as he had left the Moderno Hotel. He remembered suddenly that he had also seen him soon after he had left Rossi’s shop. Now here he was again. Don’s mind alerted. He turned his chair slightly so he could examine the man without being too obvious.

The man was swarthy, with a hooked nose, a thin mouth and deepset, glittering eyes. Although he was thin, Don guessed he could be immensely strong. Steel and whalebone, Don thought, glancing at the thin brown wrists that protruded beyond the slightly frayed cuffs of the white coat.

A nasty customer, Don said to himself: vicious, and as quick as a lizard. He didn’t look Italian: he was probably Egyptian. As the man in the white hat turned his head, Don saw he was wearing gold rings in his ears. Again Don glanced over the crowded piazza, then looked at his wristwatch. It was now twenty minutes to twelve. It would take the girl at least ten minutes to reach the piazza from the Calle Formosa. He couldn’t expect her much before midnight.

The man in the white hat hadn’t once looked in Don’s direction. He seemed completely absorbed in his newspaper, and Don began to wonder if the faint suspicion that had hold of him was a false alarm. He happened to have seen this man three times during the evening. Did that mean anything? Probably not, but there was no harm in keeping an eye on this swarthy-looking cutthroat.

As the two bronze giants on top of the clock tower began to hammer out twelve ringing blows on the hanging bell, Don signaled to the waiter, paid his bill and casually stood up.

The man in the white hat took no notice of him. He waved his empty glass at the waiter, calling for another brandy.

Don edged his way free of the tables and took up a position outside Florian’s brightly-lit window.

The man in the white hat didn’t even look to see where Don had gone, and Don’s suspicions subsided.

Leaning against one of the arches on the arcade was the short, thickset man in black. He watched Don furtively.

Don was now searching the moving mass of people in the piazza as they passed and repassed beneath the long row of lantern-shaped lamps.

Then he saw her.

She was looking towards him from across the piazza as she stood in a lighted shop doorway. She was still wearing her black working dress, and over her head she wore a long black shawl that half hid her face, but Don was sure it was the girl from the glass shop.

He began to move slowly across the piazza towards her, elbowing his way through the crush. He paused once to look back at the man in the white hat who still sat at his table, half-hidden by his newspaper. He appeared to be taking no interest in Don’s movements.

The short, thickset man had also seen the girl, and he moved around the arcade, taking the longer way round, but moving faster than Don as the arcade was less crowded. The girl waited a moment or so, then when Don was within forty yards or so of her, she turned and walked through the arch under the clock tower and into the Merceria.

Don went after her.

The short, thickset man sidled just behind him. As soon as Don had passed under the arch and out of sight, the man in the white hat got to his feet, paid the waiter and went towards the clock tower with long, twisting strides that took him quickly through the crowd.

Don could see the girl ahead of him. She kept on, not looking back, and he made no attempt to overtake her. He decided if she wanted him to catch up with her, she would have waited for him. She kept on until she left the lighted shopping quarter and then she turned down a dimly lit Calle. Don followed her. Halfway down, he looked back over his shoulder, but the short, thickset man was far too great an expert in following people to be caught with his back against a light. He was waiting just out of sight, listening to Don’s retreating footfalls. The man in the white hat came up to him.

“Get around to the back of them,” the short, thickset man muttered. “Quickly!”

The man in the white hat ran down the Calle. His long legs covered the ground silently. He darted down the Calle that ran parallel to the one Don had just gone down. Seeing only the empty Calle stretching back to the lighted intersection and satisfied that no one was taking an interest in what he was doing, Don quickened his pace as the girl turned a corner. He also turned the comer, and a few yards ahead of him, he saw her waiting for him.

“Excuse me, signore,” she said as Don came up to her. “You are il signor Micklem?”

“That’s right,” Don said. “Who are you?”

“I am Louisa Peccati,” she said breathlessly. “There is no one following you, signore?”

Don remembered the man in the white hat.

“I don’t think so,” he said cautiously “Those were Tregarth’s initials you showed me in the shop, weren’t they?”

“Yes.” She looked fearfully up and down the dark Calle. “He is in very great danger. They are hunting for him. You must be very careful. . .”

“Who are watching him?” Don asked sharply.

She caught hold of his wrist.

“Listen!”

Don heard quick light footfalls coming down the adjacent Calle.

“Someone’s coming!” she whispered.

“It’s all right,” Don said quietly. “No one’s going to hurt you. Where’s Tregarth?”

“Go to 39, Calle Mondello. . .” she began, then broke off as a thickset, short man came rapidly down the Calle towards them. Don felt the girl’s fingers tighten on his wrist and she crouched back. He also moved back, stepping slightly in front of her to give the approaching man room to pass. As the man came upon them, he paused abruptly.

“Excuse me, signore,” he said and waved an unlighted cigarette at Don. “May I trouble you for a light?”

“Sure,” Don said, anxious to get rid of the man. He groped in his pocket for his lighter.

The short, thickset man stepped closer. Suddenly his right fist shot up with the speed of a striking snake and slammed with paralysing force into Don’s stomach.

If Don hadn’t sensed the blow and tightened his stomach muscles at the moment of impact, the blow would have maimed him. As it was, the force of the punch brought him forward in helpless agony, but instinctively, he twisted sideways, avoiding the thickset man’s left that whistled up towards his jaw.

Gasping, Don threw a wild, short arm punch that caught the thickset man under the heart, making him grunt and step back. But the punch Don had taken had been too damaging. He felt his knees buckle. He took another punch in the body and he jackknifed forward, dimly aware that the girl had slipped past him and was running down the Calle.

He groped forward, trying to keep his balance. The thickset man hit him a crushing punch on the side of his jaw. The punch didn’t travel more than three inches but its impact was devastating.

A dazzling light exploded before Don’s eyes. He fell face forward on to the greasy paving stones of the Calle.

A girl’s voice said anxiously, “He’s not dead, is he?”

Don became aware that gentle hands were touching him and he moved, shaking his head.

“No just knocked out,” a man said.

Don opened his eyes. He could see a man bending over him: a man in evening dress.

“Don’t move for a moment,” the man said. “You may have broken bones.”

“I’m okay,” Don said. He sat up, touching his aching jaw. He could feel a slight swelling and he grimaced. “At least, I think I am.” There was a dull ache in his stomach and he was thankful his hard, well-developed muscles had stood up to that vicious punch. “Give me a hand up, will you?”

He got stiffly to his feet, and for a moment, he leaned against the man in evening dress. He felt his strength flowing back and, making an effort, he stepped away.

“I’m fine,” he said, his eyes looking up and down the Calle.

Apart from the man in evening dress and the shadowy outline of a girl in a white dinner gown, the Calle was deserted. “Did you see anyone?”

“No. We’ve lost our way and came down here hoping to get to the Rialto. We nearly fell over you,” the man said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, thanks,” Don said.

He put his hand inside his coat. His wallet was missing. A cold, ferocious fury gripped him, but he didn’t show it. What had happened to Louisa Peccati? Had she got away? What a fool he had been! He had certainly asked for it. What a sucker to have fallen for that old ‘light for my cigarette’ gag.

“Have you been robbed?” the man asked.

“I guess I have.” Don was now taking more notice of the speaker. He had a slight guttural accent although his English was fluent enough. Don couldn’t see much of him in the dim light, but he could see he was tall, slightly built and he appeared young.

“These damned Italians!” the man said angrily. “Let’s get out of here. I’m sure you could use a drink. We’re staying at the Gritti. This is my sister, Maria. I’m Carl Natzka. If you feel like taking us back to the hotel I’ll offer you a good brandy.”

“Oh, Carl, he must be feeling terrible,” the girl said anxiously. “Don’t you think he should rest a little first?”

“That’s okay,” Don said and he gave the girl a little bow. “Don’t worry about me. I’m all right now. I’ll show you where the hotel is, but please excuse me joining you. I’m in a mess and I’d rather go back to my own place. I’m Don Micklem.”

“I thought I recognized you,” the girl said. “You have a palazzo somewhere, haven’t you?”

Don attempted a grin.

“It sounds grander than it is,” he said. He wanted to be rid of these two. All he could think of at the moment was Louisa Peccati. What had happened to her? “I’ll put you on your way.”

He set off down the Calle, and in a few moments, brought them to the lighted shopping quarter.

“You know your way now?” he said. “Straight ahead will bring you to the San Marco.” He was now able to see these two clearly, and he looked at them. They were a handsome couple: Carl Natzka had a strong, friendly face, deeply tanned and his brown hair was bleached golden by the sun. Don liked the look of him. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-four or five.

His sister, Maria, was probably a year or so older than her brother. She was tall and lovely, with a determined, firm mouth, large, black sparkling eyes, thick black hair that fell to her shoulders, and her white evening dress sparkled with glittering sequins. Don had met many lovely women in his time, but Maria Natzka had more than loveliness: she was warm, alive and exciting.

“Are you sure you won’t come back to the hotel?” Natzka asked.

“No, thank you. I’ll get home. Thanks for finding me.”

“Perhaps we will see something of you?” Natzka said, offering his hand. “I don’t like to be curious, but I must say I would like to know what happened. We won’t keep you now, but please tell us some time.”

“I’ll tell you,” Don said, shaking hands. He looked at Maria and smiled. “You will excuse me now?”

“You must be very strong and very tough, Mr. Micklem,” she said, and he noticed she spoke English without a trace of an accent. “You have a bad bruise.”

He grinned ruefully.

“I’m just putting on an act. As soon as I get home, I’ll burst into tears. Good night.”

He left them and walked quickly across the piazza towards the Palazzo della Toletta. He went immediately to his room, stripped off his soiled clothes, and put on a pair of dark blue linen trousers, a matching shirt and a black zip windbreaker. He changed his shoes for a pair of light, rubber-soled sneakers. From a drawer he took a small, flat flashlight and a leather case containing a burglar’s outfit. He put these two articles in his hip pockets. Then he took a roll of Italian currency from a despatch case and stowed it away in one of the pockets of the windbreaker.