Mission To Siena Part 8

"It doesn't look as if she's coming," he said. "I don't like it, Harry. She may have run into trouble."

"Do you know where she lives, sir?"

"No, but we should be able to find out. There's no point in hanging around here any longer. We'll go to the Florida Club. They may know where we can find her."

Stepping out into the rain, they hurried over to Firth Street.

The Florida's neon sign still blazed into the dark night, making a red pool on the wet pavement.

"Wait here," Don said. "I'll see what I can find out."

He went down the steps to where the doorman sat in his cubby hole.

The doorman looked up and scowled at him.

"We're shut," he growled. "The last lot are coming out now."

"Is Gina around?" Don asked.

"She's gone home."

"I have a date with her, but I 've mislaid her address," Don said, taking out a pound note and letting the doorman see it.

"Can you give it to me?"

The doorman eyed the pound note, rubbed his jaw, then lifted his heavy shoulders.

"I could," he said and pulled a well-thumbed notebook out of a drawer, flicked through the pages, found an entry and scowled at it. "I 'ave an idea she's moved from the address I've 'ere. If she 'as, then you've 'ad it. Want to try it, mister?"

"Sure," Don said.

"2a, Peters Road: know where it is?"

"That's off Charing Cross Road, isn't it?" Don said and slid the pound note through the window of the gla.s.s part.i.tion.

"That's right." The doorman snapped up the note. "Twenty yards past Cambridge Circus on the left."

Don nodded and climbing the steps, walked out into the rain again.

Harry joined him.

"We may be out of luck," Don said. "I have an address, but she may have moved. Let's go and see."

Five minutes' brisk walking brought them to Peters Road: a dingy street lined on either side by shabby warehouses, small factories and two or three Greek restaurants. No. 2 turned out to be the address of a firm dealing in bathroom fitments. A narrow alley ran down the side of the building. Harry threw the beam of his flashlight into the darkness.

"This is it: No. 2a," he said and moved into the alley.

Don joined him.

Shielding the light with his fingers, Harry let the beam play over the door. He put his hand on the cracked, shabby door panel and pushed, but the door was locked.

Don stepped back and looked up at the building. There were two windows; one on the first floor and another on the second. No lights showed: the lower window was without curtains.

"Let's see if we can raise anyone " he said.

Harry dug his thumb into the bell push. They could hear the bell ringing somewhere in the house.

They waited for a minute or so while the rain fell steadily on them.

"Doesn't look as if anyone's at home," Harry said. "What do we do now?"

"Let's see if we can get in. I want to be sure this is her place."

Harry examined the lock of the door.

"Nothing to it, sir, I've a bit of wire that'll fix it." He handed the flashlight to Don and inserted a piece of wire into the lock. He fiddled for a few seconds then twisted sharply. The lock clicked back.

Don turned the handle and pushed the door open.

They stepped into a musty-smelling pa.s.sage and Harry closed the door. The beam of Don's flashlight lit up a flight of stairs leading to the upper landing.

Moving silently and followed by Harry, Don went up the stairs. His flashlight showed a door at the head of the stairs, a short pa.s.sage and another flight of stairs.

Across the door was painted in white letters: The Acme Manufacturing Co.

"Stay here, Harry," Don said. "If she's anywhere, she'll be on the next landing."

He went along the pa.s.sage and began to mount the second flight of stairs. These, he noticed, were covered with a dusty, threadbare stair runner that looked as if it hadn't been swept in months.

At the head of the stairs was a red-painted front door; its bra.s.s fitments tarnished. The cardholder screwed to the door was empty.

Don listened outside the door. He stood listening for some moments, but no sound came to him. Turning the door handle, he pushed, expecting to find the door locked, but to his surprise it swung inwards.

Holding the door open, and not moving, he swung the beam of his flashlight around the small hall. Facing him was a large gilt framed mirror. Below it a carved wood chest on which stood a vase of dead zinnias. Dust lay thick on the chest and obscured the mirror. On either side of the mirror was a door.

Don moved into the hall, leaving the front door open. He crossed to the door on the right, turned the handle and opened it.

Darkness and silence came out of the room. He groped for the light switch, found it and pressed it down. A shaded lamp in the centre of the room sprang alight.

The bedroom, Don found himself looking at was skimpily furnished. A small padded chair stood before a walnut dressing table on which stood triple mirrors. A walnut clothes closet stood against one of the walls. A pale blue fitted carpet covered the floor. Against the wall, facing the window, was a wide divan bed, covered with a pale blue bedspread.

It was this bed that held Don's rigid attention.

Ed Shapiro lay across the bed in a dark puddle of blood, his lips drawn off his teeth in a wolfish snarl. His bloodstained fingers were curled round the wooden handle of a knife that had been driven with great violence to the hilt into his chest.

Don didn't have to touch him to know he was dead.

Leaning over the banister rail, Don called softly, "Harry! Come up."

Harry mounted the stairs, two at a time. The sight of Don's set face brought him up short.

"Shapiro's in there - he's dead," Don said. "Take a look at him."

They went into the bedroom.

Harry touched the dead man's hand.

"He's been dead some time."

"Look at the knife. It's a copy of the one that killed Guido."

"I bet his pals decided he wasn't any further use to them, and they knocked him off," Harry said, stepping away from the bed.

"Yes." Don glanced around the room, then went out into the hall. He crossed over to the door on the left and opened it.

He looked into a small kitchen. On the table was a large stock of tinned food.

"Looks as if he had settled here until the police had given him up," he said. "Let's get out of here, Harry."

They left the flat and went down the stairs. Rain was still falling steadily. Harry closed the street door and he and Don walked quickly down the alley to Peters Road.

"Are you going to report this to the police, sir?" Harry asked.

"I'm finding Gina first," Don said. "Uccelli might know where I can find her." He peered at his watch in the light of the street lamp. "It's just two. Maybe he hasn't gone to bed yet. Let's see."

Uccelli hadn't gone to bed, and he answered Don's knock himself.

"I'm trying to find Gina Pasero," Don said after he had apologized for disturbing Uccelli. "Have you any idea where I can find her?"

"Come in," Uccelli said. "How wet you are. Have you tried the club?"

Don and Harry followed the old man into his room.

"I saw her at the club. I made a date with her for one o'clock. She hasn't shown up. Shapiro's been murdered. I'm worried about the girl."

Uccelli's eyes widened. "She used to live in a flat in Peters Road, but I did hear she had moved..."

"I've been there. That's where I found Shapiro."

"Why do you think the girl's in trouble?" the old man asked.

"I offered her fifty pounds for information. She said she would meet me later. She was anxious to have the money. She didn't turn up."

Uccelli pulled a little face.

"I don't know where she could be unless she's at the Miremare Hotel in Western Road. She often stayed there before she took the flat in Peters Road."

"All right, I'll try there." Don turned to Harry. "Get the car, will you?"

When Harry had gone, Don went on, "This is getting complicated, Giorgio." He sat on the edge of Uccelli's desk.

"Shapiro was hiding in the flat. Whoever killed him gave him a dose of his own medicine. The knife was thrown at him with tremendous force. It went into his body up to the hilt."

Uccelli lifted his shoulders.

"A good riddance. He was a bad and dangerous man."

"I must tell the police," Don said. "You understand?"

"Of course."

"You have heard nothing about the redheaded woman yet?"

"Not yet. I have already made one or two inquiries, but it may take time."

Don heard the Bentley pull up outside.

"You can rely on me not to tell the police where I got my information from."

"I know that," Uccelli said. "The night clerk at the Miremare may help you. His name is Cavallino. Tell him you come from me."

"Right," Don said. "I'll be in touch with you."

He went out into the wet night and got into the Bentley. A few minutes' fast driving brought them to Western Road.

"This is it," Harry said, slowing down. "Doesn't look much of a joint, does it?"

The entrance to the Miremare Hotel was sandwiched between a chemist shop and a petrol station. The name of the hotel was picked out in tarnished gold letters across two gla.s.s-panelled doors.

"Wait for me," Don said and slid out into the rain. He ran up the six steps, pushed open the door and walked into the dingy reception hall furnished with four shabby leather armchairs, a bamboo table and a fern in a tarnished bra.s.s pot.

The reception desk faced him. A single light lit up a row of keys and a series of empty pigeonholes at the back of the desk.

A white-faced, black-haired man sat behind the desk, yawning over a paper-backed novel. He looked up as Don crossed the hall, pushed aside his novel and stood up.

"Is Miss Pasero staying with you?" Don asked, coming to rest at the desk.

The clerk looked him over suspiciously.

"I'm sorry, but I can't answer that question at this time of night," he said. "If you will call tomorrow morning..."

"You are Cavallino, aren't you?" Don said. "Uccelli told me to come to you."

Cavallino's face brightened: the suspicion went away.

"Please excuse me. I didn't know," he said. "Uccelli is a good friend of mine. Yes, Miss Pasero is staying here."

Don drew in a sharp breath of relief.