Vendetta for the Saint. (6 page)

Yet the Saint seemed even more casual and
indif
ferent than his
host, and the hand holding his
cigarette
was so steady that the smoke rose in an unwavering column through the still
air. He answered truthfully as well, having decided a little
while ago that that would be the most un
complicated and productive policy. Also he
wanted Destamio’s reaction when a certain name was men
tioned again.

“I’m still wondering,” he said,
“what happened
to Dino
Cartelli.”

II

How Alessandro Destamio made a Bid,

and Marco Ponti told Stories

If
the Saint had expected some pyrotechnically dra
matic response, he would have been
disappointed.
Either the
name meant nothing to Destamio, or he
had been waiting for the question and knew in ad
vance how he would field it. The racketeer
only
grunted and
shook his head.

“Cartelli? Don’t know him. Why ask me?
What
makes you so nosey about me, anyhow?
All the
time I get reports how you’re asking
questions
about me. A man in my
position don’t like that.
Lotta
people would like to see me in trouble, and I
gotta take precautions.”

“Like having my clothes cut up?” Simon in
quired icily.

Destamio grunted again—a porcine reflex that
seemed to be his opening gambit to all
conversation.

“Maybe. Somg guys get too nosey, they get
worse than that cut up. You
ain’t answered my
question:
why should I know about this Cartelli?”

“Because
that’s what a man called you at the
Arcate the other night. He seemed certain that you
were Dino Cartelli. I heard him.”

Simon waited for the grunt, and it was more
ex
plosive than ever.

“Is that all you got on your mind? The
guy was
nuts. The
world’s full of nuts.” Destamio snapped
his fingers and squinted at the Saint.
“Say—now I
recognize
you! You were the guy at the next table
who gave Rocco the squeeze. I didn’t
recognize
you till now. I
pulled out because I try to stay outa
trouble
here. I got enough trouble.” He sat back
and
chewed the black and dreadful stump of his cigar, staring at the Saint with
piggy eyes. “You
swear that’s
all the interest you got in my affairs?
Because some nut calls me by a wrong name?”

“That’s all,” Simon told him
calmly. “Because
this
nut, as you call him, was murdered that night.
So he may have known something that would
make a lot more trouble for you.”

For a long silent moment Destamio rolled the
cigar between his fingers,
glaring coldly at the
Saint.

“And you think I bumped him to shut him
up,”
he said
finally. He flicked ashes over the balcony
rail, towards the sea far below, and suddenly
laughed. “Hell, is that all? You know,
Saint, I be
lieve you.
Maybe I’m nuts, but I believe you. So
you thought you had to do something to get justice
for that poor dope! What’s your first name—
Simon? Call me Al, Simon—all my friends call
me
Al. And pour us another
drink.”

He was relaxed now, almost genial in a crude
way.

“Then your name never was Dino Cartelli?”
Simon persisted, obviously unimpressed by the
other’s abrupt change of manner.

“Never was and never will be. And I
didn’t
knock that nut
off, neither. You let coincidence
make a sucker outa you. Here, let me show you
something.”

Destamio heaved himself up and led the way
back into the living room. He pointed to what at
first appeared to be a decorative panel on the
wall.

“Lotta bums go to the States change
their names
and don’t
care, because their names never meant
nothing. But I’m Alessandro Leonardo Destamio
and I’m proud of it. My family goes as far
back as
they ever had
names, and I think the old king was
an eighty-second cousin or something. Look for
yourself!”

Simon realized that the panel was a
genealogical
chart complete with coats of arms
and many branchings and linkings. The scrolls of names climbed and intertwined
like cognominal foliage
on a flowering tree
of which the final fruit bore the
glorious
label of Lorenzo Michele Destamio.

“That was my papa. He was always proud
of the
family. And there’s my birth
certificate.”

Destamio stabbed a thick thumb at another
frame which held a beribboned and
sealing-waxed
document which
proclaimed that the offspring of
Lorenzo
Michele Destamio would go through life
hailed as Alessandro Leonardo. It looked
authen
tic enough—as
a document.

“And you’ve no idea why this man, what
was his
name—William
Charing-Cross—should have been
killed?”
Simon asked.

“No idea,” Destamio said blandly.
“I never saw
him before.
Wouldn’t have known his name unless
you told me. But if you’re worried about him, I can
ask a few questions around. Find out if anyone
knows anything. Anything to make you happy …
Hey!” He snapped his fingers as he was reminded
of something else. “I was forgetting what the
boys
did. Be right back.”

He walked into an adjoining room, and after
a
while Simon heard the
unmistakable thunk of a
safe
door closing. Destamio came back with a thick
wad of currency in his hand.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “Some guys
working here get too enthusiastic. That wasn’t my
idea, all they did to your stuff. So
take this and buy
some more. If it
ain’t enough, let me know.”

Simon took the offering. On top of the stack
was
an American hundred-dollar bill, and
when he
flicked his finger across the edges
other hundreds
flashed by in a
twinkling parade of zeros.

“Thank you,” he said without shame,
and put
the money in his pocket.

Destamio smiled benevolently, and chewed an
other half-inch from his mangled cigar.

“Let’s eat,” he said, waving a
pudgy hand to
wards a table
already decked with silver and crystal
in another alcove. “And we can talk
about things.
A guy can go
crazy here with no one to talk to.”

He sat down and shook a small hand bell
noisily,
and the
service began even before the ornamental
Lily arrived to join them.

Al Destamio did most of the talking, and
Simon
Templar was
quite content to listen. Whatever
Lily’s other talents might have been, aside from her
hair-raising ways with a car, they were
obviously not conversational. She applied herself to the food
with a ravenous concentration which proved that
her svelte figure could only be a metabolic
miracle;
and Simon had to summon some self-control not
to emulate her, for in spite of his grossness
Destamio employed an exceptional cook.

There was only one topic of conversation, or
monologue to describe it
more accurately, and that was the depravity of the US Department of Justice and
its vicious persecution of innocent immigrants who succeeded in rising above
the status of com
mon
laborers. But about all that Destamio re
vealed of himself was his remarkable mastery
of
the ramifications of the
income tax laws, which
seemed
a trifle inconsistent with his claim to have
only violated them through well-meaning ig
norance. Simon was not called upon to do
more
than eat,
drink, and occasionally make some lifelike sounds to show that he was paying
attention,
since the
oracle was clearly entranced enough with
the gargled splendor of his own voice.

Hence the Saint was able to disguise an occa
sional unfocusing of the eyes, when his mind
wan
dered
underneath the monotonous discourse, grop
ing for another missing item of information
which
he felt might
provide a key to some of the riddles of
the past two days, but which kept eluding him
as
exasperatingly as an itch
that could not be
scratched.

At last the coffee wound up the repast, and
Destamio yawned and belched and announced his
readiness for a siesta. Simon took this as his
cue for
an exit, and was given no
argument.

“Glad I could get to know you,
Saint,”
Destamio said,
pumping his hand with the heart
iness
of a professional politician. “You have any
more problems, you come to me. Don’t try to
be a
big shot by yourself.”

The incredibly discreet Lily appeared once
more in the role of chauffeuse, now wearing a cashmere
sweater and Capri pants so tight that if she
had
been tattooed
the mark would have shown
through.
Simon was delighted to observe that she
was not tattooed.

As she resumed her attempts to make the
Alfa-Romeo behave like a scared mountain goat, he felt
that he had to make one parting effort to
discover
whether she ever talked at all.

“Do you live here or are you just
visiting?” he
queried
chattily.

“Yes.”

He gazed at her for quite a long time,
figuring this out, but what could be seen of her face gave
him no help. He decided to try again.

“Do
you ever get away?”

“Sometimes.”

That was a little better. Perhaps it only
required
perseverance.

“I
hope I’ll see you again somewhere.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to know what your face looks
like.
Would 1
recognize you without glasses?”

“No.”

Always the same pulse-stirring voice,
vibrantly
disinterested
in everything.

“Is
Al a jealous type?”

“I
don’t know.”

The Saint sighed. Perhaps after all his
charm was
not absolutely
irresistible. It was a solemn thought.
At any rate, she was evidently capable of holding
out for the duration of the short ride to the
heliport. But he had to keep on talking, because
the
other haunting hint of knowledge
that he had been
seeking had suddenly
given up its evasive tactics
and
dropped out of the recess where it had been
hiding.

“Do you know why he was called
‘Gopher’?” he
asked.

“No.”

“Well, I won’t burden your mind with
it. When
you go back
just tell him that I know. I suddenly
remembered.
Will you do that?”

“Yes.”

They were at the heliport, and a flight was
about to leave, the vanes of the ‘copter swishing lazily
around. But the Saint wanted to be sure that
his
message would
get through. As he levered himself
out of the bucket seat, he stopped with the door
still open and pulled out the sheaf of crisp
greenery
that Destamio
had given him, fanning the leaves
under her nose while he ostentatiously peeled off
one of them.

“Tell him, I liked these samples. The
only thing
wrong is,
there weren’t enough of them. Show him
this so he knows what you’re talking about. Tell him it’s going to
cost a lot more now, because of
the
‘Gopher’ business. Do you think you’ll get that straight?”

She
nodded placidly.

“Congratulations,”
said the Saint.

He shut the car door, and leaned over it.
There
was one final
touch he could not forego, vain as it
might seem. Although it should certainly help to
make his point.