1954 - Mission to Venice (6 page)

It would be easy enough to find out if Tregarth was at the Chatham Hotel. What if he were? Don didn’t relish a journey to Paris, but he had Hilda Tregarth’s letter to deliver and if Tregarth was in Paris, he would have to make the journey. But was he? If he had left Venice as Maria said he had, why all the excitement the previous night? Why had Don been followed? Why had Louisa Peccati been murdered? The only explanation Don could think of was that Tregarth had found he had to drop out of sight. He had told Maria and Carl he was going to Paris and had taken them with him to guard against attack. He had boarded the train, but had got off at the next station, returned to Venice and had hidden himself in that broken down house in Calle Mondello. In this way, he had hoped to shake off his watchers - probably the thickset man and the man in the white hat. But they hadn’t been fooled. They had found out Louisa Peccati knew where he was, tortured her until she told them, and then had gone to 39 Calle Mondello. Had they found him or had he escaped again? Was that the explanation?

“Will you come back to the hotel and lunch with us?” Maria asked, breaking in on his thoughts.

As much as Don would have liked to accept the invitation, he knew he couldn’t waste any more time. He had a lead and he had to follow it up. Besides, it was probable Giuseppe had news for him.

“I’d like to very much, but unfortunately I have a lunch date.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I’ll have to get back now, if I’m not going to be late.”

“Perhaps tomorrow, then?” she said. “I’ve so enjoyed my morning.”

“I’ll give you a call at the hotel,” Don said, knowing it was unlikely he would have the time to keep a date with her. They walked together to the Gritti Palazzo.

“Thank you, Don, for giving me such an interesting morning,” Maria said as they paused outside the hotel. “I will recommend you to all my friends as a learned and expert guide.”

Don grinned.

“I have no intention of recommending you to my friends as an enchanting and lovely companion. Competition must be keen enough without advertising.”

She gave him her slim, cool hand, then smiling she went into the hotel.

As Don moved towards the Palazzo della Toletta, he found himself regretting parting with her, but as soon as he saw Giuseppe waiting for him on the steps of the palazzo, he dismissed her from his mind.

“Come in,” he said to Giuseppe and led the way to his study. He poured a glass of wine for Giuseppe, then asked, “Any news? Did you find out anything about the girl?”

“Yes, signore,” Giuseppe said gravely. “Did you know she was murdered last night?”

Don nodded.

“Yes. Did you find out where she lives?”

“She lives with her father on the Fondamente Nuove. They have a little house next to Luigi’s restaurant.”

“Does her father know yet that she is dead?”

“Yes signore. It has been a very great shock to him. He is old and ill. At one time he used to be a guide, but he had an accident and lost both legs. The girl kept him and herself on what she made at Rossi’s glass shop. You know Rossi’s glass shop, signore?”

Again Don nodded.

“The police have seen the old man?”

“They were there this morning.”

“Okay. You say he lives next door to Luigi’s restaurant? Where exactly is that?”

“By the Rio di Panada. If you wish to go there, signore, I will take you.”

Don looked at his watch. The time was a few minutes after one o’clock.

“Be here at half past two. We’ll go together.”

“Yes signore.”

When Giuseppe had gone, Don rang for Cherry.

Cherry entered, his pink and white face displaying frosty dignity. “You rang, sir?”

“I want lunch in twenty minutes. Bring me a large dry martini, and stop looking as if you’ve swallowed a fish hook,” Don said, grinning.

Cherry lifted his eyebrows and refused to come off his high horse. He had been thwarted and he was determined to underline the fact.

“Very good, sir,” he said and walked out, his back as stiff as a ramrod.

Cherry’s airs and graces never had any effect on Don, but Cherry never gave up trying.

Don reached for the telephone and lifted the receiver.

“Get me the Chatham Hotel, Paris, right away,” he said to the operator.

“I will call you back, signore.”

Don hung up, lit a cigarette and began to pace slowly up and down. He scarcely noticed Cherry enter and place the cocktail on the desk.

“Excuse me, sir,” Cherry said stiffly. “Lady Denning telephoned. She is giving a small dinner after the opera tonight and hopes you will join her.”

“Call her up and say I have a previous appointment,” Don said. “I thought I told you I’m not accepting any invitations this trip?”

Cherry stiffened.

“May I remind you, sir, you have a duty to your friends? This house, sir, up to now, has played an important part in the success of the season. I may say our dinner parties are famous. . .”

“I’m sorry, Cherry, but there are more important things to do this trip than throw parties. Now be a good guy and don’t worry me,” Don said.

“Very good, sir,” Cherry said, his pink chins trembling.

He walked majestically to the door, closing it with an ominous little click.

Don shrugged, drank half the cocktail, then set the glass down hurriedly as the telephone bell rang.

“Your call to Paris, signore.”

“Thank you. Hello, is that the Chatham Hotel?” Don asked.

“Yes, monsieur. The reception desk here,” a smooth voice said in English.

“Have you a Mr. Tregarth staying with you? Mr. John Tregarth?”

“If you will hold on a moment, please.”

Don stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and drummed on the desk with impatient fingertips.

“Hello, monsieur? Yes, Mr. Tregarth is staying with us.”

Don drew in a long, slow breath. He realized then that he hadn’t believed Maria’s story that Tregarth had left Venice. He had expected the reception clerk to tell him Tregarth was not known at the hotel.

“Is he in?”

“I believe so, monsieur. Shall I inquire?”

“This is Mr. Don Micklem calling. Will you put me through to his room?”

“One moment, monsieur.”

There was a long pause, then Don heard a sharp click on the line and a voice said, “Hello? This is John Tregarth speaking.”

It was nearly thirteen years since Don had met and talked with Tregarth, and most of their conversation had been carried on against the roar of four aircraft engines as they flew from a Middle East airfield towards Rome. He had no hope of remembering what Tregarth’s voice sounded like. This thin, far away voice he was listening to now could have been Tregarth’s voice; it could have been anyone’s voice.

“This is Don Micklem,” Don said. “Do you remember me, John?”

There was a pause, then the voice said, “Yes, I remember you.”

Don found himself pressing the receiver close to his ear so as not to miss any word or inflexion that might come over the line.

“How are you, John? It’s a long time since we met, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is. Time doesn’t mean much to me,” the voice said. “Where are you?”

There was something about the voice that made Don uneasy; it didn’t sound quite human. It was as if he were listening to a lifeless, spirit voice; a voice that had no body.

“I’m in Venice,” he said. “John, I have a letter for you from your wife. She’s worried about you.”

“Worried? Why?”

The flat, mechanical voice began to get on Don’s nerves.

“My dear man,” he said sharply, “she hasn’t heard from you for six weeks. Of course she’s worried. What have you been up to?”

There was a long, empty pause. Don listened to the faint hum that came over the line. He wondered if he were imagining the sound of quick breathing that seemed to beat against his ear.

“Hello? Are you there, John?”

“Yes,” the flat, lifeless voice said. “What were you saying?”

“Your wife hasn’t heard from you for six weeks. What have you been up to?” Don repeated, raising his voice.

“Six weeks?” The voice went up a note. “It can’t be as long as that. I wrote to her. I know I did.”

“She has had only one letter from you and that was six weeks ago,” Don said. “What have you been up to, John?”

“Six weeks . . .”

The voice died away and there was silence on the line, then as Don was about to speak he heard a faint sound that sent a chill crawling up his spine: the strangled sound of a man weeping.

“John!” Don said sharply. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

Again there was a long pause, then the voice said tonelessly, “I don’t know. I think I must be going mad. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know what I’m doing. For God’s sake, Micklem, come and help me.”

“Take it easy,” Don said, shocked. “I’ll come right away. Stay where you are. I’ll get a plane from the Lido and I’ll fly straight to Paris. I’ll be with you in four or five hours at the latest. Just stay where you are, and take it easy.”

“Hurry . . .” the voice moaned. “Please hurry . . .”

It was just a shade overdone. Just enough to make Don suddenly suspicious.

“I’m coming now,” Don said, his eyes alert, his mouth a hard line. “Just take it easy. So long for now.”

He flicked his fingernail sharply against the mouthpiece of the telephone in the hope that the man at the other end of the line would think he was hearing the connection breaking. Don continued to hold the receiver against his ear while he listened, straining every nerve to catch the slightest sound.

The ruse worked.

He heard a faint laugh. A faraway voice of a man speaking as if he were some feet from the telephone said: “He swallowed it hook, line and sinker.”

Another man’s voice snapped: “Shut up, you damned fool. . .” and the line went dead.

F
or a long moment Don sat staring at the opposite wall, his mind busy. He wasn’t often angry, but now his temper was at boiling-point. He had very nearly been made a fool of, and that hurt his pride. If the man at the end of the line hadn’t slightly overplayed his part, Don would have rushed off to Paris. Now that he knew it was a trick, he saw clearly that whoever was behind Tregarth’s disappearance was anxious to get him out of Venice.

What annoyed him even more was being taken in by Maria Natzka.

You certainly fell for her, he thought, banging his fist on his desk She and her brother must be mixed up in this and you should have suspected her the moment she claimed to know Tregarth. Okay, it was smoothly done, but you should have been suspicious. That’s what comes of falling for a pair of sparkling eyes. At least, he consoled himself, he hadn’t given anything away. He had merely claimed to be an old friend of Tregarth’s.

Cherry came in at this moment

“Lunch is served, sir,” he said coldly.

Don went into the dining room and sat down at the table. He made a hurried meal scandalizing Cherry by refusing most of the courses. While he was eating, his mind was busy and by the time he had finished he had a plan of action ready.

“Go and have your lunch,” he said to Cherry as he pushed back his chair and stood up. “Then come and see me. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Cherry raised his eyebrows. If Mr. Micklem thought he could talk him into accepting a partyless season at the palazzo, he was making a grave mistake, he told himself.

“Very good, sir,” he said stiffly.

“And hurry: don’t be longer than ten minutes. This is urgent,” Don said and went back to his study.

He picked up the telephone and called the Gritti Palazzo.

“May I speak to la signorina Natzka?” he said when he got through to the reception desk. “This is Mr. Micklem calling.”

“If you will hold on a moment, please, signore.”

There was a little delay, then Maria’s voice came over the line.

“Hello, Don. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I was in the restaurant.”

“I hope I haven’t interrupted your lunch,” Don said, “but I wanted to speak to you. When I got back here, I called the Chatham Hotel and spoke to Tregarth. I had a very disturbing conversation with him. He asked me to go and see him right away.”

“Isn’t he well?” she asked anxiously, and if Don hadn’t been sure she was in the plot to get him to leave Venice, he would have been completely taken in by the alarm in her voice.

“I don’t think he can be. I couldn’t get much out of him, but it looks as if he’s gone a little crazy. He’s certainly in the middle of a nervous breakdown. He was crying and hysterical and didn’t seem to know what he was doing.”

“This is dreadful!” Maria exclaimed. “Hasn’t he anyone to look after him?”

“He seems to be quite alone. He begged me to go to him, and I’m going. I’ll charter an air-taxi from the Lido. I should reach Paris in about four or five hours. I was wondering if you would like to come with me. A woman’s sympathy would be helpful as he is so hysterical.”

There was a slight pause, and Don showed his teeth in a hard, mirthless smile. What excuse would she make? he wondered. If he hadn’t been sure she would refuse to go with him, he wouldn’t have asked her.

“I’m afraid I can’t possibly get away today,” she said at last. “I don’t think I can get away tomorrow either. You see, Carl is giving an important business party and I have to be his hostess.”

“Sure, I thought maybe you’d be tied up, but if you had been able to get away, I think it would have been a good idea for you to see him. I’ll talk to him, and if he is as bad as I think he is, I’ll take him home. I’ll be out here again by the end of the week.”

“I think it is very good of you to break up your holiday like this,” she said. “I only wish I could do something. I’ll tell Carl at once. If he thinks he can get away earlier, shall we come to Paris? Would you like us to?”

“Unless you can come today, I don’t think it matters,” Don said. “If he really is bad I intend to fly him home tonight.”

“Perhaps that would be the best thing. Please let me know what happens. We will be here for another four days, and after that we shall be at the Chatham Hotel.”

“I should be back here within two or three days. I’ll see you before you leave for Paris. I must hurry. I have some packing to do and then I’ve got to get to the airport. Goodbye now.”

“Goodbye, Don.” The inflexion in her voice was well done. “I do think it is splendid of you.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Don said. “I’ll be seeing you soon,” and he hung up.

You’ll be seeing me a damn sight sooner than you expect, my clever little schemer, he thought, and that also goes for your handsome brother.

Cherry rapped on the door and entered.

“Come in, Cherry, I have a job for you,” Don said. “Shut the door and sit down.”

“I beg your pardon, sir!” Cherry said, scandalized.

“Oh, sit down!” Don snapped impatiently. “This is no time to stand on ceremony. I’ve a lot to say to you and you’ve got to conserve your energies. Sit down, man!”

Slowly and frostily, Cherry lowered his bulk to rest on the edge of the most uncomfortable chair in the room. He somehow managed to give the impression that he was still standing. Rapidly, Don gave him a brief account of Hilda Tregarth’s visit, her request for help, his meeting with Sir Robert Graham and Superintendent Dicks. As he talked Cherry began to relax, and his forbidding expression faded to one of interest. By the time Don had told him of his meeting with Rossi, his encounters with the thickset man and the man in the white hat and the finding of Louisa Peccati’s body, Cherry’s eyes were popping and he had completely forgotten that Don had thwarted him and he was supposed to be on his dignity. Always a keen reader of shockers in his spare time, what Don was telling him was meat and drink to him. When Don described his telephone conversation with the man at the Chatham Hotel, Cherry could scarcely contain his excitement.

“Well, that’s the story,” Don concluded. “I want your help, Cherry. Do you want to get mixed up in this business? I warn you, you may run into trouble. These people appear to stick at nothing. What’s it to be?”

“You bet I want. . .” Cherry began, checked himself hastily as he remembered his position and dignity, coughed, and went on, “Certainly, sir, anything I can do I shall only be too pleased.”

Don grinned at him.

“I thought you’d say that. That’s fine. You’re going to Paris right away. You’ll go to the Chatham Hotel and ask for Tregarth. I’m pretty sure he will have gone by the time you get there, but just in case he is still there, make sure he is Tregarth. I’m willing to bet my last buck he’s an impostor, but I must be sure.” He took from his desk drawer the photograph of Tregarth Hilda had given him. “This is a good likeness of Tregarth. Take it and check it against this man who says he is Tregarth. If he isn’t Tregarth, don’t let on you know he is an impostor. Tell him I have been called back to London on most urgent business and that I suggest he returns with you and comes to Upper Brook Mews where we can talk I don’t think you will have to do this for a moment. I’m sure our man won’t be there. If he isn’t, show the photograph to the reception clerk and see if he recognizes Tregarth. Here again, I’m sure he won’t be able to. Now can you do all that?”

Cherry moistened his lips and his bright blue eyes gleamed with excitement. This was much more interesting than organizing a string of society parties.

“Certainly, sir. I should behave like an inquiry agent, I take it? What is popularly known as a private eye, I believe.”

“That’s the idea,” Don said, concealing a grin “But watch out, Cherry. These people are dangerous.”

“I shall take every precaution,” Cherry returned gravely. “My late master, the Duke, presented me as a parting gift with a sword stick. I have acquired a certain amount of skill with it and any assassin will find I am not easily disposed of, that I can assure you.”

Don gaped. The idea of fat Cherry defending himself with a sword struck him as so funny he had difficulty in controlling his features.

“In the meantime, sir,” Cherry went on, “what do you intend to do? I take it your plan is to mislead these people into thinking you have gone to Paris when in reality you will remain here?”

“That’s the idea,” Don said, startled that Cherry should take so easily to this situation. “As soon as we’re ready, we’ll get Giuseppe to run us over to the Lido airport in the motorboat. I’ll fix it with Jack Pleydell to have a plane waiting. We’ll fly first to Padua and there I’ll leave the plane and return to Venice by train. Jack will take you on to Paris. I’m hoping I’ve convinced la signorina Natzka that I am going to Paris, but there may be someone at the Paris airport to see if I do arrive. I will tell Jack to go on to London as soon as you have left the plane. I want Jack to pick up Harry and bring him back to Venice. I have an idea I might need him.”

Cherry looked relieved.

“I was going to suggest you should send for him, sir. Mason may be a little unruly and there are times when he is an extremely dangerous driver, but he is to be relied on. I’m glad you are having him with you.”

“That’s settled then. Keep in touch with me through Giuseppe. You know where he lives and he will know at all times where I am.” He looked at his watch. “He should be waiting for me now. I said I would see Louisa Peccati’s father this afternoon, but that’ll have to wait. Go and pack, Cherry, while I fix the plane.”

“Yes, sir.”

Moving with surprising speed for a man of his age and bulk, Cherry left the room.

* * *

A tall, bearded man, wearing a dark blue corduroy suit and a black slouch hat walked down to the embankment from the railway station. He waited with a crowd of newly—arrived tourists while the vaporetto edged towards the landing stage. Hitching up his rucksack, he moved forward as the barrier was let down and took his place against the outer rail with a small group of young Americans who were seeing Venice for the first time.

Not even Don’s closest friends would have recognized him now. Arriving at Padua he had gone to a theatrical shop he had dealt with when he had once staged a costume ball at his palazzo and there, swearing Benvenuto, the owner of the shop, to secrecy, he had put himself in Benvenuto’s hands to alter his appearance. Benvenuto had turned him into a hard-up American artist on a walking tour, and he had excelled himself.

The beard was necessary to hide the Z-shaped scar on Don’s cheek, and it bothered him, but he knew he had to put up with it. The clothes, the hat and the heavy walking shoes made him look bigger and heavier than he was, and he was confident no one would recognize him.

He left the boat at the San Zaccaria landing-stage, and walking slowly, he made his way across the Piazzetta, past the San Marco basilica and through the shopping quarter towards Giuseppe’s modest lodging close to San Maria Formosa.

As he turned the corner of the Calle he had to make a sharp effort not to check his stride. Just ahead of him, walking slowly, was the man in the white hat. There was no mistaking the tall, lean figure. He walked leisurely, his hands in his pockets, his white hat at the back of his head, the sun glinting on his gold earrings.

Don slightly slowed his pace, wondering if this man’s presence so close to Giuseppe’s lodgings meant anything. The man in the white hat glanced over his shoulder. He looked directly at Don who stared at him indifferently, then he looked away and Don breathed again.

At the end of the Calle was a wine shop, and the man in the white hat went in and sat at a table near the door. Don paused outside the shop, hesitated as any tourist might hesitate, and then entered.

The man in the white hat glanced at him, then glanced away.

Don sat down.

A girl came over to him.

“Vino rose,” Don said loudly. “You understand?”

The girl looked at him indifferently, nodded and went over to the man in the white hat who ordered a bottle of white chianti.

Don lit a cigarette and stared through the open door.

The girl brought him a carafe of very indifferent red wine and a glass. She charged him twice as much as the wine was worth, and then she went over to the man in the white hat and served him with the chianti.

“Have you seen il signor Busso this morning?” the man in the white hat asked. “I’m expecting him.”

“No, Signor Curizo, I haven’t seen him this morning.”

The man in the white hat grunted and lighting a cigarette, stretched out his long legs and stared gloomily down at the soiled table top.

Don drank some of his wine, then opening his rucksack, he took out a copy of the Continental Daily Mail and glanced at it.

The man in the white hat whom the girl had called Signor Curizo had drunk half his wine before a shadow suddenly darkened the doorway and the short, thickset man came in.

“I know I’m late,” he said, sitting down at Curizo’s table, “but my head is very bad. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Forget your damned head,” Curizo snarled. “It was your own fault. I’ve been waiting twenty minutes for you.”

The thickset man whose name Don guessed was Busso, showed his teeth in a vicious snarl.

“The next time . . .”

“Yes; it is always the next time. There won’t be a next time. He’s gone to Paris.”

“But he will be back.”

“By then we won’t be here.” Curizo got up. “Come on; there are things to do.”

Busso grunted as he got to his feet.

“Don’t I have time for a drink?”

“No. We’re late already. Come on.”

They left the wine shop and Don watched them walk down the Calle and out of sight. He got up quickly and went after them. He caught sight of them as he turned the corner of the Calle. They were crossing a campo, and as Don watched them, keeping just out of sight, he saw Curizo pause outside a tall, flat fronted house, take a key from his pocket and open the shabby, black-painted front door.

Both men entered and shut the door behind them.

Don made a mental note of the number of the house and the name of the campo, then feeling it would be unwise to venture into the campo in case he was seen from one of the windows of the house, he retraced his steps, passed the wine shop and in a few moments was rapping on the door of Giuseppe’s lodgings.

Giuseppe himself opened the door.

“Good evening,” Don said gruffly. “I understand a gondolier lives here who claims to be the best oarsman in Venice. Is that so?”

Giuseppe drew himself up to his full height and his fierce black eyes flashed.

“I am the best oarsman in Venice,” he said loudly. “Who are you and what do you want?”

Don grinned at him.

“Don’t you know me, Joe?”

Giuseppe stared, blinked, stared again, then stood aside.

“I did not know you, signore. It is a very fine disguise.”

Don entered a large room, sparsely furnished, but clean and orderly.

“I’m without a home at the moment,” he said. “Can I make this room my headquarters? I shall only be here a few hours for some sleep, and it won’t be for more than a couple of days.”

“Certainly, signore,” Giuseppe said, his face lighting up. “Consider everything here for what it is as your own.”

“Thanks, Joe,” Don said. “Now listen, those two fellows we ran into last night have just gone to 22A, Campo de Salizo. They may live there; they may not. I want the house watched, day and night. Do you know anyone we can trust to do this? I shall want a report on who goes in and comes out. There is a cafe almost opposite. It shouldn’t be difficult.”

“That can be arranged,” Giuseppe said. “I know the girl who works at the cafe. She will watch the house until midnight then I will take over. There will be perhaps a little money for her?”

“Pay her what you think,” Don said, taking out a roll of Italian currency. He gave Giuseppe a ten thousand lira note. “This should take care of the use of this room and what you pay her. Okay?”

Giuseppe’s dark face beamed.

“Yes, signore.”

“These two men have seen us together. They mustn’t see us together again,” Don went on. “I have no immediate job for you, but there will be one before long. Go to this cafe right away and warn the girl to watch the house. I am going to talk to il signor Peccati. I’ll see you back here in about two hours or so.”

“I shall be here, signore.”

The two men left the room. Giuseppe hurried away to the Campo del Salizo, while Don made his way towards the Fondamente Nuove.

Stefano Peccati sat in a wheeled chair in a small, gloomy room that boasted only of two chairs, a table and a shabby rug. Peccati’s yellow, wrinkled face was set in a cold, stony agony of grief. His legless torso was upright, and he regarded Don with bright, hard, unblinking eyes.

“I cannot see you today, signore,” he said. “I have just lost my daughter. An old man is entitled to share his sorrow with no one.”

“Yes,” Don said gently, “but I know something about the way your daughter died. I feel you should know about it.”

The old man’s face tightened.

“Who are you? What do you know about my daughter?”

“I am Don Micklem. Perhaps your daughter has mentioned my name?”

“I have seen il signore. You are nothing like him. Please go away.”

“You have noticed the Z-shaped scar on the right side of Micklem’s face?” Don said. “Look, see for yourself,” and he carefully parted the false hair that Benvenuto had gummed to his face and leaned forward. “Do you see it?”

Peccati stared at him suspiciously.

“I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps you will if you will listen to me,” Don said. “Does the name John Tregarth mean anything to you?”

By the change of expression in the old man’s eyes, Don’s question was answered.

“The name is familiar,” Peccati said quietly. “What of it?”

“He is a friend of mine and he has disappeared,” Don said. “I am looking for him. Two men named Curizo and Busso have some connection with his disappearance. I was told by Tregarth’s wife to contact Manrico Rossi who is a business associate of Tregarth. I went to his shop. Your daughter recognized me. She made from a piece of glass Tregarth’s initials. It was done in such a way that only I saw it. This action told me she didn’t want me to speak to her then. I saw her later. She gave an address to go to after I had told her I was looking for Tregarth. Before she could tell me anything further, Busso surprised and knocked me out. When I recovered, I went immediately to 39 Calle Mondello, the address she gave me. It was obviously Tregarth’s hiding place, but he wasn’t there. I found your daughter: she had been tortured and murdered.”

The old man closed his fists and lowered his head.

Don lit a cigarette and walked over to the window to give the old man time to recover. He turned only when, after a few moments, Peccati said, “Go on, signore, you have more to tell me?”

“Very little more. Since then, every move I have made has been watched. An effort has been made to get me to leave Venice. I decided if I am to solve this mystery I must have freedom of movement. I left Venice, disguised myself as you see and returned. I want as many facts as I can get. I not only want to avenge your daughter, I want also to find Tregarth. Can you help me?”

“How can I help you? I am a helpless cripple,” Peccati said bitterly. “If I could, I would. It is not possible.”

Don sat down.

“You can help me perhaps by giving me some information. Did you know your daughter and Tregarth knew each other?”

The old man nodded.

“Il signor Tregarth is a very good friend of ours,” he said. “He saved the life of my son during the war. My son was an active leader of the resistance movement in Milan. If il signore hadn’t supplied arms and money the movement would have failed.”

“Where is your son now?” Don asked.

The old man lifted his shoulders.

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard or seen him for six years. The last I heard of him he was in Rome.”

“Is Tregarth in Venice now?” Don asked.

“I think he must be,” the old man returned. “He may have got away, but I think it is unlikely.”

“Will you tell me what happened? Did he come to see you?”

“Yes, he came.”

“When was this?”

“Seven days ago. We had gone to bed. About two o’clock in the morning I woke to hear someone knocking on the door. Louisa came into my room. I told her not to answer the door, but she said it was someone who knew the old signal we used during the war: a sign that help was needed. I didn’t like her going to the door. As you see, signore, I am old and helpless. There was nothing I could do to protect her, but she insisted on going. It was il signor Tregarth. He was ill and exhausted. Before he collapsed he managed to tell her someone was after him and that he might have been seen coming here. Louisa locked and bolted the door. She dragged il signore into the back room and made him as comfortable as she could. He had been shot: a bad flesh wound across his ribs. It wasn’t a new wound: perhaps a fortnight or three weeks old, but it was infected and very painful. He was feverish too. While she dressed the wound, I sat by the windows of the front room in the darkness and watched. I saw two men: a tall man and a short man come along the Fondamente. They passed the house, then after a little while, they returned and went the other way.”

“One of these men wore a white hat?” Don asked.

The old man nodded.

“Those two men murdered your daughter,” Don said quietly.

“I guessed it,” Peccati said. “They must be punished, signore.”

“They will be.” Don got up and began to move about the room while he considered the information the old man had given him. “How long did Tregarth stay with you?”

“For one day only. He recovered a little of his strength after Louisa had dressed his wound and had given him a meal. I don’t know what he told her; not much, I think. I spent most of the time at the window of the front room, keeping watch. She told me a ‘little of what was said when he had gone. He was in bad trouble. He had been followed all the way from Vienna, and twice attempts had been made on his life. He managed to reach Venice, but by then they were close on his heels. They nearly caught him, but he remembered Louisa lived close by and he got under cover just in time.”

“Did he say who these people were who are hunting him?”

The old man shook his head.

“We didn’t ask. We have learned that no mouth is to be relied on not to talk under pressure. Some talk under little pressure; some talk under great pressure, but sooner or later, they all talk.”

“There are exceptions,” Don said quietly. “He remained with you for the whole of the next day? Then what happened?”