1954 - Mission to Venice (8 page)

Well, at least he was inside the house, Don thought as he blew on his smarting knuckles while his eyes took in the layout of the ground floor.

A steep flight of stairs faced him. There was a door to his right and another door at the far end of the passage. He stood listening for a moment. A murmur of men’s voices came from the door at the far end of the passage, but he could hear no other sounds.

He decided to go up the stairs in the hope of joining forces with Harry. But as he moved forward, he heard the sound of a door opening on the upper landing, and he quickly ducked back into the shadow of the staircase.

Footfalls thudded across the landing.

“Busso? Who was it?”

Peering through the banister rail, Don caught a glimpse of Curizo as he stood at the head of the stairs.

Don waited, his muscles tense.

Curizo began to descend the stairs. Halfway down he caught sight of Busso lying in the shadows. He stopped abruptly, leaned forward and peered at Busso.

Don heard him curse softly, then Curizo came down the rest of the stairs with a rush. He bent over Busso, but not long enough for Don to reach him. He turned with the quickness of a striking snake as Don slid out of his hiding place.

For a split second the two men looked at each other, then Curizo’s hand flashed behind him and Don jumped forward. He anticipated Curizo’s body swerve to the left, and his questing hand grabbed Curizo by the throat while his left hand slammed a punch to Curizo’s jaw. But Curizo wasn’t so easily caught. He threw up his arm and just managed to block the punch, and countered with a raking left that drove Don back a step.

As Don’s fingers slid off Curizo’s throat, he grabbed him by his coat front, leaned back and jerked hard.

Curizo lost his balance. Stepping to one side, Don kicked Curizo’s ankle and brought him heavily to the floor.

“Hans!” Curizo yelled as he drove his foot into Don’s chest, sending him staggering back. “Hans!”

The door at the end of the passage jerked open and a big, swarthy man who Don guessed would be Hans sprang into the passage. He was followed by a big, blond man who tried to shove Hans out of his way to get at Don. The two men hampered each other in the narrow passage, giving Don a chance to gain the stairs. He had one foot on the third stair when Curizo, still on the floor, heaved himself forward and grabbed at Don’s ankle, bringing him face down on the stairs.

Don kicked back savagely and the heel of his shoe caught Curizo’s shoulder, flinging him back.

By now Hans had reached the foot of the stairs. He jumped over Curizo, his brutal heavy face vicious. He reached out to grab Don who ducked under the questing hands, straightened up and slammed home a punch to Hans’ heart that brought him down on hands and knees.

Don turned and scrambled up three more stairs before the blond man who was crouching against the other side of the banisters suddenly straightened, reached over the banisters and caught Don’s wrist and yanked him against the banisters. The blond man’s grip was paralysing and Don couldn’t break free.

Hans got off his knees and looked up at Don, his lips off his teeth. He came up the stairs swinging a fist the size of a melon and aimed a blow that would have taken Don’s head off if it had landed, but Don just managed to duck in time. Cursing, Hans started another crushing punch, but before the blow could land, Harry appeared on the upper landing, saw what was happening and launched himself down the stairs, feet first.

His feet crashed into Hans, swept him down the stairs with Harry on top of him. They landed in the passage with a crash that shook the house.

Don put his free hand on the banister rail and vaulted over it, landing on top of the blond man and they went down in a heap. The blond man’s great hands fastened on Don’s throat and nipped his breath off. Don rammed his thumbs into the blond man’s eyes. The agonizing grip on his throat fell away and the blond man snatched at Don’s wrists, yelling with pain.

Harry had tossed Hans over his head and Hans crashed against the door at the end of the passage. As Harry turned to go after him, Curizo closed with him. To get to close quarters with Harry was like getting to close quarters with a buzzsaw. A shower of half-arm punches slammed into Curizo’s stomach and under his heart, punches that felt like the blows of a sledge hammer. Curizo’s knees buckled, he tried to break away, then he saw a fist flash up and he took a punch on the jaw that flattened him.

Don was still struggling with the blond man.

Harry gave the two men a quick glance, saw Don was more than holding his own, jumped over their struggling bodies to close with Hans who was now staggering to his feet. Then Busso suddenly came to life. He got up on hands and knees. He saw Don kneeling on top of the blond man, choking the life out of him. He saw Harry, his head buried on Hans’ chest, his arms working like pistons, and the look of agony on Hans’ face as his ribs bent under the crushing blows.

Busso pulled a knife, got to his feet and crept towards Don. At this moment the front door burst open and Giuseppe stormed in. Busso spun around, slashed at Giuseppe as Giuseppe bounded towards him. Giuseppe dodged and closing his great fist he slammed it down on top of Busso’s head. Busso dropped like a poleaxed bull.

Don had finished off the blond man and he staggered to his feet. He looked quickly to see how Harry was getting on. Harry was enjoying himself. He was kneeling on Hans while he methodically choked the breath out of him. There was a sudden flurry of kicking, a gasping rattle and Hans went limp.

Harry sat back on his heels and surveyed the limp body with professional interest. “He’ll be quiet for the next twenty minutes,” he said and got to his feet.

Don leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He looked around the battlefield with satisfaction.

“Pretty nice work,” he panted.

The blond man, Busso and Curizo lay in limp attitudes on the floor.

“You all right, boss?” Harry asked, unmindful of a trickle of blood that ran down his own face and an eye that was beginning to puff.

“I’m fine,” Don said. “Phew! I guess I must be a little out of training. That was quite warm while it lasted. We’d better tie these guys up before they start trouble again. While you two are taking care of them, I’ll look around.”

He stepped over Hans’ body and looked into the room at the end of the passage. There was no one in it. Turning, he picked his way over the other bodies to look into the room on the right of the front door. That room, too, was empty. If Tregarth were anywhere, he’d be upstairs, Don told himself, and went up the stairs three at the time. The two rooms on the next floor were also empty, and he went on up the next flight of stairs. Facing him was a door which was bolted on the outside and he paused outside it.

As he pulled back the bolt on the outside, he became aware that his heart was beating rapidly. With any luck Tregarth was in this room, and he had succeeded in less time than he had thought possible in finding him.

He pushed open the door.

The room was small. Two candles, stuck in bottles, their flames flickering, made a shadowy light. The only article of furniture in the room was a camp bed, and on the bed lay a man, naked to the waist. He lay in the semi-darkness and he didn’t move as Don crossed quickly to the mantelpiece and picked up one of the candles.

Don held the light above his head and stepped to the bed.

Although he hadn’t seen John Tregarth for so many years, he immediately recognized him. Although he was emaciated and the sides of his dark hair were now grey, there was no mistaking the firm, determined face. He lay motionless, his eyes closed, and his face was so white that for a moment Don thought he was dead. Then he saw a slight movement of his chest as he breathed, and he saw something else, too: something that made him feel a little sick and turned him cold.

All over Tregarth’s naked chest were small brown burns: the same kind of burns Don had seen covering Louisa Peccati’s right hand: cigarette burns. On the left side of Tregarth’s chest was a dirty, bloodstained pad strapped to his emaciated ribs by two broad strips of adhesive tape. Don bent forward and gently touched Tregarth’s arm.

“John! Can you hear me?”

Tregarth didn’t move nor did he give any sign that he had heard. The slight, irregular lift of his chest as he breathed was the only sign that he was alive.

Harry came into the room.

“Have you found him, boss?”

“Yes, he’s here,” Don said. “He’s bad. The swine have been torturing him.”

Harry joined him at the bed. He sucked in his breath sharply when he saw the burns.

“He looks pretty far gone,” Don went on, “but we’ve got to get him out of here.”

Harry took Tregarth’s wrist in his fingers and felt his pulse.

“Yes, he’s bad all right. He could die on us.”

Don went to the door and called down to Giuseppe to come up.

“We’ll wrap him in the blanket and Giuseppe can carry him,” he said to Harry. “We’ll get him to the gondola.”

Giuseppe entered the room.

“We want to get him to the boat, Joe,” Don said, waving to Tregarth. “You can carry him, can’t you?”

Giuseppe stared down at Tregarth ‘Yes, signore. There’s no weight there. Is he alive?”

“Just about.”

Harry was wrapping the blanket around Tregarth, then he stood aside while Giuseppe bent and scooped Tregarth gently off the bed, holding him in his arms.

“Can you manage?” Don asked.

“It is nothing, signore.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Don said and led the way out of the room and down the stairs.

The four men, now securely trussed with rope, were still unconscious, and, after a quick look at them, Don stepped to the front door, opened it and looked out on to the deserted campo. The only light that showed came from the cafe opposite.

“All clear at the moment,” he said, and went down the steps, followed by Giuseppe carrying Tregarth and by Harry who shut the front door after him.

The three of them crossed the campo and went down the dark Calle that led to the molo where the gondola had been left.

Harry paused to look back. His keen eyes searched the dark doorway and the mouths of two dark Calle on the far side of the campo. Out of one of the Calle came two men. They saw Harry at the same time as he saw them. One of them turned swiftly and disappeared. The other came to an abrupt standstill.

“Let’s move, boss,” Harry said, catching up with Don. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

O
ut of the silence and the darkness of the night, there came a loud, shrill whistle.

“As fast as you can, Joe,” Don said, falling back. “Get him to the boat.”

He turned to join Harry who was standing in a doorway, looking back down the dark Calle.

“There were two of them, boss,” Harry said softly. “But it sounds as if there’re more coming now.”

Don listened to the sound of footfalls, and nodded.

“Some of them are going down the next Calle. They’ll head Joe off if he isn’t quick. We’d better go with him, Harry. Come on.”

He broke into a run, and followed by Harry, he pelted down the Calle, catching up with Giuseppe as he trotted into the darkness. He slid past him and went on in front while Harry kept just behind Giuseppe. Harry could hear the soft pad-pad of footfalls in his rear. Whoever was following him made no effort to overtake him, and Harry guessed he was there merely to block a retreat.

Don was the first to see the three men lurking in the shadows by the boat. He had reached the mouth of the Calle and he pulled up short, stopping Giuseppe.

“Wait!” he whispered and peered cautiously around the corner, looking at the three men who hadn’t yet seen him, although they were staring in his direction. “Harry and I will take them on. Your job is to get il signore to your boat. Don’t wait for us. Take him to your place.”

Giuseppe, breathing hard, nodded.

Harry slid up.

“There’s a bloke behind us, boss,” he warned. “Three of them are guarding the gondola,” Don said. “Joe’s going on ahead. We’ll handle these three.”

“When you’re ready, boss.”

“Let’s go.”

Both of them shot out of the dark mouth of the Calle as if they had been propelled by a gun. The three men saw them coming. They wavered before the determined rush, opened out, each trying to avoid the first clash. Knives gleamed in the darkness as Don, reaching the first man, swerved from a knife thrust, bent, caught the man’s ankle and heaved. The man went over backwards and landed on his head, stiffened and stretched out.

Harry was at grips with the second man. The force of his rush brought them both to the cobblestones. They grappled for each other’s throats. For a few furious moments the four men struggled, punched and cursed each other. Then as Don was getting the upper hand of his man, a fourth man appeared and dropped on Don’s back. Fingers like steel closed around Don’s throat. The man he was kneeling on got one hand free and smashed his fist into Don’s face, stunning him.

Don tried to break the hold on his throat, but he was too stunned to do more than grope at the hooked fingers that sank into his flesh. Blood began to pound in his head, and he felt himself blacking out. He got another punch in the face, and desperately he heaved himself up and threw himself sideways. He rolled off the molo into the cold waters of the rio. He took with him the man who was choking him. The steel fingers left his throat and he heaved himself upwards, his head breaking clear of the water. His opponent came to the surface at the same time, spluttering and cursing in Italian, The shock of the cold water brought Don to his senses. He took in a great gasp of air, then let himself sink. He reached out, his hands caught hold of his opponent’s coat and he dragged him down. One of Don’s pet sports was water polo, and what he didn’t know about underwater tackling wasn’t worth knowing. He had his opponent helpless in a head lock, his legs around the other’s waist. His fingers shifted to the man’s throat, found the main artery and squeezed. With a frantic spasm the man blacked out Don released him and bobbed to the surface.

“You there, boss?” Harry’s voice asked cheerfully out of the darkness.

“Here,” Don said, shaking the water out of his eyes. He took two powerful strokes forward and joined Harry who was treading water in the middle of the rio.

“Blimey! There were dozens of the perishers,” Harry said softly. “It got too hot for me. I dived in when I saw you go in. They’re along the bank, waiting for us.”

“What about Joe?”

“He’s taken the boat and hooked it.”

“Come on. Don’t make too much noise. I don’t think they can see us.”

They began to swim silently down the rio, keeping in its dark centre, but as soon as they moved they heard the pad-pad of footfalls along the molo, keeping pace with them.

“Still got company, boss,” Harry whispered.

Don glanced over his shoulder. His sharp ears had heard a faint swishing sound not far off.

“There’s a gondola coming,” he said. “Watch out, Harry. If they’re after us, they may take a smack at your head with the oar as they pass.”

“That’s nice,” Harry muttered. “That’s very nice.”

“Tread water and face about,” Don whispered. “Dive as soon as you see the boat.”

A big black gondola, without lights, suddenly appeared out of the darkness. It was moving fast, and it was on them before Don had finished speaking. Don dropped his legs and went down like a stone. Where his head had been a moment before, he heard a dull, violent splash. He had guessed right: the gondolier had struck at his head with the oar and had only just missed.

Don gave a kick and came to the surface. He caught sight of Harry’s head bobbing within a few feet of him, and both men looked for the gondola. It had stopped. They could just make out the gondolier against the dark background of the houses, furiously reversing the boat.

“Let’s have him in,” Don muttered. “One each side of him. Don’t let him catch you with the oar.”

“I’ll take his attention, boss. You grab his legs.”

The gondola was nearly on them now. Harry bobbed out of the water and waved. The gondolier lifted and swung his oar. Don took two strokes forward, reached the stern of the boat, heaved himself up and made a grab at the gondolier’s legs. He caught at a trouser cuff, hung on and heaved backwards. The gondolier, off balance as he swung the oar, gave an earsplitting yell, dropped his oar and belly-flopped into the water.

Harry swam over to him, and, as he came to the surface, Harry shot out his fist, catching the gondolier between the eyes. He went down with a great rush of bubbles, and without waiting to see if he was coming up again, Harry swam over to the floating oar.

The gondola, out of control, swung half round. Don caught hold of the stern, pulled himself up and got on board. Harry grabbed the floating oar, swam to the side of the gondola, handed up the oar, then pulled himself on board.

“Can you handle her, boss?” he asked, squatting on the floor of the gondola.

“Sure,” Don said, fitting the oar into the rowlock. “Joe thinks he’s the best oarsman in Venice; watch me”

He straightened the gondola, keeping it in mid-stream, then he began to row. He sent the big black boat shooting into the darkness, and, in a few moments, the sound of running feet on the molo faded away, as the gondola sped out into the open canale where it couldn’t be followed.

The two bronze giants on top of Coducci’s clock tower were striking midnight as Don and Harry moved silently down the dark, deserted Calle that led to Giuseppe’s lodgings.

They had left the gondola moored to the landing stage of the San Zaccaria vaporetti station, and, after taking precautions to make sure they weren’t being followed, they went with all speed to rejoin Giuseppe.

Both of them were dripping water, but the night was warm, and neither of them felt cold.

“Here we are,” Don said, pausing outside Giuseppe’s house. “Will I be glad to get rid of these wet whiskers!”

“They suit you, boss,” Harry said, grinning in the darkness. “I wish Miss Rigby could see you now.”

Don rapped on the door.

After a moment’s delay, Giuseppe asked, “Who is it?” He didn’t open the door.

“He’s learning fast,” Don said to Harry, then raising his voice, he called, “Okay, Joe, let us in.”

The door opened, and Giuseppe, his eyes gleaming with excitement, stood aside.

“How is he?” Don asked, crossing the passage and entering Giuseppe’s room.

“Just the same, signore. He hasn’t moved or opened his eyes. I have been very careful with him.”

Don went over to where Tregarth lay on the bed, still wrapped in the blanket. He looked at him, took his pulse, then shook his head.

“You’d better get out of those wet things, boss,” Harry said, already stripping off his clothes. “I’ve got a change here for you.” He went over to his suitcase and tossed a shirt, sweater and a pair of flannel trousers in Don’s direction. “They’ll be a tight fit, but they’ll be better than those wet things.”

While Don stripped off and rubbed himself dry with a rough towel Giuseppe gave him, Giuseppe brewed up three large mugs of black coffee.

Changed and dry again, Don removed the false beard, grimacing as he stripped the gummed canvas from his face.

“Phew! That’s better,” he said, rubbing his sore face. “Are you all right, Harry?”

Harry was examining his black eye in the small mirror above the fireplace.

“I’m fine, boss. I’ve got a nice shiner, but what’s a shiner between friends?” He looked over at Tregarth. “What are we going to do with him?”

“Take him home,” Don said. “I’ll get Pleydell to organize a plane and we’ll fly him back.”

“We’ve got to get him to the airfield first,” Harry said. “I have an idea those perishers won’t let us do exactly what we like.”

“We’ll take the motorboat. So long as they don’t find us here. I don’t see how they can stop us once we’re in the motorboat.”

Giuseppe handed round mugs of steaming coffee.

Don drank some of the coffee, lit a cigarette, then went over to Tregarth. He bent over him. The thin emaciated face was the colour of old ivory; the slack lips were a bluish tinge, the deep sunk eyes were still hidden by dark, heavy eyelids.

“He worries me,” Don said. “I think we should get a doctor to look at him.” He straightened and turned to Giuseppe. “Do you know a doctor we can trust, Joe?”

Giuseppe nodded.

“Dr. Vergellesi is a good man, signore. He lives not far from here. Shall I get him?”

Don hesitated. He felt Tregarth’s pulse, then alarmed at the feeble response, he nodded. “You’d better, Joe. He’s nearly done.”

Giuseppe went quickly from the room.

Harry came over and stood looking down at Tregarth.

“He does look bad,” he said. “Do you know what it’s all about, boss?”

“I haven’t an idea,” Don said, pulling up a chair and sitting down close to Tregarth. “I’ve been asking myself what the mess is he’s got himself into. What’s been happening to him? Why have they been torturing him like this?”

As if in answer to his questions, Tregarth’s eyes suddenly opened. He looked fixedly at Don, and Don felt a little chill creep up his spine. The eyes were already dead: glazed and expressionless and lifeless. Tregarth’s lips twitched and his head moved.

“John!” Don said sharply. “It’s Micklem. Can you hear me? It’s Don Micklem.”

Very slowly the head turned in his direction. The lifeless eyes stared past his face as he leaned forward.

“John! You’re safe!” he said, raising his voice. “It’s Micklem. Don’t you know me?”

Tregarth shuddered. His eyes suddenly came alive and he stared up at Don.

Don picked up the lamp on the table and held it so Tregarth could see him clearly.

“You’re safe, fella,” he said. “Just take it easy. Don’t try to talk.”

“He could do with a drink, boss,” Harry said. “A little wine and water won’t hurt him.”

He went across to where Giuseppe kept a carafe of water and a couple of bottles of wine and quickly mixed the drink and brought it over.

While Don lifted Tregarth’s head, Harry gave him the drink.

Tregarth took some of the wine and water. He closed his eyes and Don let him down gently on the pillow again. Both men looked anxiously at the white, twitching face. For a long moment Tregarth remained motionless, then he opened his eyes and looked searchingly at Don. He looked from Don to Harry and back to Don again.

“It’s all right,” Don said, guessing Tregarth was worried by Harry’s presence. “He’s one of us. He works for me. He and I got you out.”

Tregarth’s lips moved. He muttered something that Don couldn’t hear.

“Don’t try to talk,” Don said. “Just take it easy.”

Again Tregarth’s lips moved. Bending low over him, Don just managed to catch the muttered words.

“Dei Fabori. . . Shrine. . .”

The effort of speaking was too much for Tregarth. His eyelids dropped and he drifted into unconsciousness.

Don straightened up.

“He was trying to tell me something,” he said as Harry looked questioningly at him. “What did he mean? Dei Fabori, and then the word shrine? There’s a Calle dei Fabori.” He suddenly snapped his fingers. “That’s right. In the Calle dei Fabori there is a wall shrine to the Virgin Mother. Now, what was he driving at?”

They heard the street door open, and both of them stepped quickly to the door, Harry sliding behind it while Don opened it.

Giuseppe, followed by a tall, elderly man in black, had just entered the passage.

“This is Dr. Vergellesi,” Giuseppe said.