It was ten minutes past eleven before I got rid of Carlotti and his mob of detectives who descended on my apartment, dusting everything for finger-prints, poking their noses in every nook and cranny, photographing the splintered door and generally raising all kinds of hell.
I had gone down to Gina, explained the situation and told her not to wait for me. She wanted to stay, but I wouldn’t let her. I had too much on my mind to have her around as well as the police.
She said she would call me in the morning, gave me a worried look, and then went away in a taxi.
Carlotti listened to my explanation about the camera. I showed him where I had put it, and he examined the broken lock of the drawer.
I’m not sure if he believed what I was telling him. His face was expressionless, but I had an idea he was only maintaining his usual polite calmness by an effort
“This is an odd coincidence, Signor Dawson,” he said. “You have the camera for only a few hours, then a thief breaks in and steals it.”
“Yeah?” I said sarcastically. “And he not only steals the camera, but also goes off with my goddamn clothes, my cigarettes, my booze and my spare cash. I don’t call that a coincidence.”
One of Carlotti’s men came over and murmured there were no finger-prints to be found except mine.
Carlotti gave me a thoughtful stare, then shrugged his shoulders.
“I shall have to report this to my chief,” he said.
“Report it to the President if you want to,” I returned. “Just so long as you get my clothes back.”
“The camera is a serious loss, signor.”
“I couldn’t care less about the camera. That’s your funeral. If you didn’t realize until now that
it was important to you, you can scarcely blame me that it’s been stolen. Grandi gave me the camera, and I signed a receipt for it. He told me neither you nor he wanted it. So don’t look at me as if I’ve cooked up this robbery just to get you into trouble.”
He said there was no need to get angry about such an unfortunate affair.
“Okay, so I’m not angry. Would you get your boys out of here so I can clear up and get some supper?”
It took them a further half-hour to satisfy themselves that there were positively no clues left by the burglar, then finally, and with the greatest reluctance, they went away.
Carlotti was the last to leave.
“This is an awkward situation,” he said as he paused in the doorway. “You should never have been given the camera.”
“I know. I can see that. My heart bleeds for you, but I was given the camera and you’ve got my receipt. You can’t blame me for what’s happened. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to lose any sleep about it.”
He started to say something, changed his mind, shrugged his shoulders and went away.
I had an idea at the back of my mind that for a couple of times, he would have accused me of staging the burglary myself just so he couldn’t lay his hands on the camera.
I wasn’t kidding myself. I was quite sure that, although most of my clothes, cigarettes, three bottles of Scotch and a few thousand lire were missing, the thief had broken in only for one purpose: to get the camera.
I did a little thinking while I hastily cleared up the mess in my bedroom and sitting-room. At the back of my mind I had the picture, of the broad-shouldered intruder I had seen creeping around the villa at Sorrento. I was willing to bet that he was the guy who had broken in here and had lifted the camera.
I had just finished tidying up my sitting-room when the front door bell rang.
I went into the hall, thinking Carlotti had come back with a flock of new questions. I slid back the bolt and opened the front door. Jack Maxwell stood outside.
“Hello,” he said. “I hear you have had a burglar.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Come on in.”
He looked at the broken lock on the front door with morbid interest, and then followed me into the sitting-room. “Lost much?”
“Just the usual things. I’m insured… so what do I care?” I went over to the liquor cabinet. “Have a drink?”
“I don’t mind having a brandy.” He dropped into a chair. “Was the old man pleased with the way I handled the write-up about Helen?”
“He seemed to be. Did you have much trouble?”
“One or two of the boys started to ask smart questions, but I told them they’d better talk to Chalmers. They said they’d rather kiss a smallpox case. That guy certainly is one of the best loved in this world.” He took the brandy I handed to him. “Has he gone yet or is he staying on?”
“He left on the three-forty plane from Naples.” I made myself a highball. “Hold everything for a moment. I want something to eat. I haven’t had a thing since lunch.”
“Well, come out. I’ll buy you something.”
“It’s too late now.” I picked up the telephone recover and called the hall porter. I told him to get me a chicken sandwich and bring it up pronto.
“Well, give us the dope,” Maxwell said, when I had hung up. “Did you find what she was doing in that place all alone? How did she die?”
I was careful what I told him, I said it looked as if there was a man in the background, that the police weren’t entirely satisfied that Helen’s death bad been accidental, and that Chalmers had told me to stick around and watch his interests. I didn’t tell him what June had said, nor that Helen had been pregnant.
He sat listening, sipping his brandy.
“So you’re not going home right away?”
“Not for a while.”
“I told you the old sonofabitch would want an investigation, didn’t I? Well, thank my stars,
I’m not involved.”
I said he was lucky.
“What’s biting the police? Why aren’t they satisfied?”
“Carlotti likes mysteries. He always turns molehills into mountains.”
“Does Chalmers think it was an accident?”
“He’s keeping an open mind about it.”
“Do you?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“This girl was a ripe little bitch. You don’t think her boy friend shoved her over the cliff, do you?”
“I hope not. Chalmers would love a set-up like that.”
“There’s bound to be a man in this, Ed. She wouldn’t have taken a villa in Sorrento if she hadn’t a man to share it with. Any idea who he could be?”
“Not the vaguest, but never mind that, Jack. Tell me something: who’s June Chalmers?”
He looked surprised, then grinned.
“She’s a pippin, isn’t she? But if you’ve got ideas about her, I’d forget them. You wouldn’t get to first base.”
“Nothing like that. I want to know who she is. Where does the come from? Do you know anything about her?”
“Not much. She used to be a torch singer at one of Menotti’s night spots.”
I stiffened. Menotti again.
“Is that how she and Helen met?”
“Could be: did they meet?”
“She told me she had known Helen for some years.”
“Did she now? I didn’t know that. I heard Chalmers met her at a party, took one look at her and practically married her on the spot. It was lucky for her that he did. The night club she was working at closed down when Menotti was knocked off. Although the certainly has a shape, she can’t sing for dimes.”
The night porter interrupted us by bringing my sandwich.
Maxwell got to his feet.
“Well, here are your victuals. I’ll be pushing along. When’s the inquest?”
“Monday.”
“You’ll go down, I suppose?”
“I guess so.”
“Rather you than me. Well, so long. Will you look in at the office to-morrow?”
“I might. I’m leaving you to handle that end. Officially, I’m still on vacation.”
“And having a wonderful time,” he said, grinned and went away.
I sat down and munched my sandwich. I did some heavy thinking at the same time. I had hoped to have found a list of telephone numbers or an address book among Helen’s papers that might give me a lead on her friends. If she had kept such a list, then someone had taken it. The only clue I had so far was Carlo’s telephone number. There was a girl I knew who worked on the Rome telephone exchange. She had once won a beauty competition, and I had given her a write-up. One thing had led to another, and for a couple of months we had been more than friendly. Then I lost sight of her. I decided I’d look her up in the morning and persuade her to get me Carlo’s address.
Apart from Carlo, who else was there.
I dug down into my mind to recall anything that Helen had said during our various meetings that would give me a lead on her other friends. It wasn’t until I was about to give up and go to bed that I suddenly remembered she had once mentioned Giuseppe Frenzi, who wrote a
political column for L’ltalia del Popolo and who was a good friend of mine.
When Frenzi wasn’t writing his column, he was going around with women. He claimed that an association with a beautiful woman was the only true meaning of life. Knowing Frenzi, I was pretty sure that he and Helen had been a lot more than just friends. Frenzi had a technique of his own, and if I was to believe Maxwell, Helen wasn’t the kind of girl to say no.
I thought Frenzi might be an important lead.
I looked at my watch. The time was twenty minutes to midnight: the beginning of a day for Frenzi, who never got up before eleven o’clock in the morning and never went to bed before four.
I picked up the telephone receiver and called his apartment. There was just a remote chance that he would still be there.
He answered immediately.
“Ed? Well, this is something,” he said. He prided himself on his American expressions. “I was about to call you. I’ve only just read the news about Helen. Is it true? Is she really dead?”
“She’s dead all right. I want to talk to you, Giuseppe. Can I come around?”
“Of course. I will wait for you.”
“I’ll be right over,” I said, and hung up.
I left the apartment and ran down the staircase to where I had left the Lincoln.
It was raining, as it will do suddenly and unexpectedly in Rome. I ducked into the car, set the windscreen wipers in motion; started the engine and backed out of the parking space.
Frenzi had an apartment on Via Claudia in the shadow of the Colosseum. It wasn’t more than a six-minute drive from my place to his.
There wasn’t much traffic and, as I accelerated, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a car that was parked nearby suddenly turn on its parking lights and, a moment later, it swung out into the road and came after me.
As it passed under the glare of a street light I saw it was the Renault.
It isn’t often that I lose my temper, but when I do, I have a field-day. The sight of the Renault gave me a rush of blood to my head.
I became determined to find out who the driver was, and what he was playing at. So long as the car was behind me, there wasn’t much I could do about it. Somehow I had to get him in front of me, then I could crowd him into the kerb, force him to stop and get a look at him. If he wanted to play it rough, I was in the mood to hang one on his jaw.
I drove around the Colosseum with the Renault fifty yards in the rear. When I reached a dark patch in the road, I slammed on my brakes, swung the car to the kerb and pulled up.
Taken by surprise, the driver of the Renault had no chance to stop. The car shot past me. It was too dark to see whether the driver was a man or a woman. The moment the car had passed me, I let in my clutch and went after it, sending me Lincoln forward with my foot squeezing the gas pedal to the board.
The driver of the Renault must have guessed what I planned to do. His reaction was quicker than I expected. In his torn, he trod on the gas, and the Renault surged forward. It went streaking down Via dei Fori Imperiali like a bullet from a gun.
For a moment I thought I was going to catch him. My front bumper was only a foot off his rear fender, and I was ready to swing the wheel over and hit him, but he began to pull away.
We were travelling now at around eighty miles an hour. I heard a shrill, indignant police whistle blasting somewhere in my rear. I saw beyond the speeding Renault the Piazza Venezia looming up. I saw the slow-moving traffic ahead, and my nerve faltered. I knew I couldn’t roar into the piazza at this speed without hitting a car or killing someone. My foot went down on the brake pedal and I slowed.
The Renault kept away from me. Its horn gave a long, warning blast, and men the car went screeching into the piazza, missing two cars by inches, and forcing another to skid to a standstill. Only slightly slackening it’s mad speed, the Renault; its horn blaring, stormed across the piazza, and disappeared into the darkness and towards the Tiber.
I heard the police whistle shrill again. Anxious not to have an argument with the law, and pretty certain I had been travelling too fast for any policeman in this light to have taken my number, I swung into the Via Cavour, slowed down to a respectable speed and took a long circular run back to the Colosseum.
I was rattled that the Renault had got away, but I would rather he escaped than for me to attempt to compete with his kind of driving. At least, I had the satisfaction of knowing I had given him a scare.
I arrived at Frenzi’s ground-floor apartment, parked the Lincoln outside and went up the steps to the front door.
Frenzi answered my ring immediately.
“Come in,” he said. “It is good to see you again.”
I followed him into his attractively furnished lounge.
“Will you have a drink?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so, thanks.”
I sat on the arm of a lounging chair and looked at him.
Frenzi was slightly built, under medium height, dark, handsome with intelligent, shrewd eyes. His usually bright face was grave and he wore a worried frown.
“You must have something to keep me company,” he said “Join me in a brandy.”
“Well, okay.”
While he was fixing the drinks, he went on, “This is a very bad business, Ed. The account only says she fell off a cliff. Have you any details? What was she doing in Sorrento?”
“She was on vacation there.”
He brought the drinks over and, giving me mine, he began to move restlessly about the room.
“It’s straightforward, isn’t it?” he asked, without looking at me. “I mean, it was an accident?”
This startled me.
“Confidentially, there is some doubt about it,” I said. “Chalmers thinks she was murdered.”
He hunched his shoulders, his frown deepening.
“And the police — what do they think?”
“They’re coming around to the same idea. Carlotti’s handling the case. At first, he was sure it was an accident; now he’s changing his mind,”
Frenzi looked at me.
“I’m willing to bet it was murder,” he said quietly.
I lit a cigarette and slid into a chair.
“What makes you say that, Giuseppe?”
“Sooner or later, someone was bound to get rid of her. She was asking for trouble.”
“What do you know about her then?”
He hesitated, then came over and sat opposite me.
“You and I are good friends, Ed. I need your advice. I was going to call you when you called me. Can we talk off the record?”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
“I met her at a party about five days after she had arrived in Rome. I was foolish enough to become friendly with her for four-or five days — or rather nights.” He looked at me and lifted his shoulders. “You know how it is with me. She seemed beautiful, exciting and everything a man could wish for. She was also alone. I made my offer and she accepted it, but…” He broke off and grimaced.
“But — what?”
“After we had spent four nights together, she asked me for money.”
I stared at him.
“You mean, she wanted to borrow money from you?”
“Well, no. She wanted money for services rendered: as sordid as that — quite a lot of money.”
“How much?”
“Four million lire.”
“For the love of mike! She must have been crazy! What did you do? Laugh at her?”
“She was serious. I had trouble in persuading her that I hadn’t such a sum. There was a very disagreeable scene. She said if she told her father, he would ruin me. He would get me dismissed from my paper.”
I felt a sudden chill crawl up my spine.
“Wait a minute. Are you telling me she tried to blackmail you?”
“That’s the technical name for it, I believe.”
“Well, what happened?”
“I compromised. I gave her a pair of diamond ear-rings.”
“You didn’t submit to blackmail, Giuseppe?”
He shrugged.
“It is easy to criticize, but I was in a very difficult position.
“Chalmers is powerful enough to get me removed from my paper. I like my job. I’m not good at anything else. It was her word against mine. I haven’t a very good reputation with women. I was pretty sure she was bluffing, but I couldn’t afford to take the risk. The ear-rings cost me thirty-four thousand lire, so I suppose I got off fairly lightly: much lighter than one of your colleagues.”
I was sitting forward now, staring at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t the only one, of course. There was another newspaper man — an American — who she tricked in the same way. Never mind who he is. We compared notes together later. He parted with a diamond collar that cost him most of his savings. Apparently, she specialized in newspaper men. Her father’s influence was more readily felt in that field.”
I felt suddenly sick. If what Frenzi had said was true, and I was sure it was true, then it was obvious that Helen had set a trap for me, and if she hadn’t fallen over the cliff, I also would have been taken for a blackmail ride.
I saw then that if this story of Frenzi’s got out, and the police discovered that I was the mysterious Mr. Sherrard, here was the obvious motive for her murder. They would say she had tried to blackmail me; I was unable to pay, and, to save my new job, I had pushed her off the cliff.
It was my turn now to wander around the room. Fortunately, Frenzi wasn’t looking at me. He remained in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.
“You see now why I think she could have been murdered,” he went on. “She might have tried this stunt once too often. I can’t believe she went to Sorrento alone. I’m sure there was a man with her. If she was murdered, all the police will have to do is to find him.”
I didn’t say anything.
“What do you think I should do? I’ve been trying to make up my mind ever since I read of her death. Should I go to the police and tell them how she had tried to blackmail me? If they really think she was murdered, it would give them the motive.”
By now I had got over my first shock. I returned to my chair and sat down.
“You’ll have to be careful,” I said. “If Carlotti passed on what you tell him to Chalmers, you’d still be in trouble.”
“Yes, I realize that.” He finished his brandy, got up and refilled his glass. “But do you think I should do it?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t. I think you should wait until the police are sure it murder. You don’t want to rush into this thing. You can’t afford to. You must wait and see how it develops.”
“But suppose they find out she and I were lovers. Suppose they think, because I had a motive, that I killed her?”
“Oh, talk sense, Giuseppe! You can prove you were nowhere near Sorrento when she died, can’t you?”
“Well, yes. I was right here in Rome.”
“Then for the love of mike, don’t be dramatic.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You are right. So you think I should say nothing to the police!”
“Not yet. Chalmers suspects there’s a man involved. He’s like a mad bull right now. If you came forward, he would jump to the conclusion that you were the man and he’d go for you. You may as well know the facts: Helen was pregnant.”
Frenzi’s brandy glass slipped out of his fingers and dropped to the floor. The brandy made a little pool on the carpet. I gaped at me, his eyes widening.
“Was she? I swear it wasn’t me,” he said. “My goodness I’m damned glad I didn’t go to the police before I talked to you He picked up his glass. “Look what I’ve done!” He went into the kitchen to find a cloth. While he was gone, I had time to do some thinking. If Carlotti believed and could prove that Helen was murdered, I knew he would make every effort to trace the mythological Sherrard. Had I covered my tracks well enough prevent him finding me?
Frenzi came back and mopped up the spilt brandy. Squatting on his heels, he practically voiced my thoughts by saying, “Carlotti is very thorough. I’ve never known him to fail on a murder case. He could get on to me, Ed.”
He could get on to me, too.
“You have an alibi he can’t upset, so relax,” I told him. “Chalmers has given me the job of finding the man who might have killed her. Maybe you can help me. Could he have been the American newspaper man you were telling me about?”
Frenzi shook his head.
“Not a chance. I was talking to him on the afternoon she died.”
“Then who else is there? Any ideas?”
“No,’ I’m afraid not.”
“There is a man she knew whose first name is Carlo. Do you happen to know anyone of that name?”
He thought for a moment, then shook his head.
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you ever see her with any man?”
He rubbed his jaw, looking steadily at me.
“I saw her with you.”
I sat very still.
“Did you? Where was that?”
“You were coming out of a movie together.”
“Chalmers wanted me to take her around,” I said. “I did take her out once or twice. Apart from me, is there anyone else you can remember?”
I knew he was too shrewd to be fooled by my attempt at casualness, but he was also too good a friend to embarrass me more than he had done already.
“I did see her with a big, dark fellow at Luigi’s once. I don’t know who he was.”
“How big?”
“He was impressively big: built like a prize-fighter.”
My mind jumped to the intruder I had seen in the villa. He too had been impressively big: he too had shoulders of a prizefighter.
“Can you give me a description of him?”
“I’m pretty sure he was an Italian. I should say he was around twenty-five or six; dark, blunt featured, good looking in an animal kind of way, if you know what I mean. He had a scar on his right cheek: a white, zigzag mark that could have been an old knife wound.”
“And you have no idea who he is?”
“None at all, but he’s easy to recognize if you ever see him.”
“Yes. No other ideas?”
He shrugged.
“This isn’t even an idea, Ed. This fellow was the only man, apart from you, I ever saw her with, but you can be sure, she was always going around with men. I wish I could be man helpful, but I can’t.”
I got to my feet
“You have been helpful,” I said. “Now look, relax, do nothing and say nothing. I’ll try to find this guy. He may be the one I’m looking for. Ill keep you informed. If Carlotti does happen to get on to you, you have a cast-iron alibi. Remember that and stop worrying.”
Frenzi smiled.
“Yes, you’re right. I rely on your judgment, Ed.”
I said it was the thing to do, shook hands with him and went down to where I parked the Lincoln.
As I drove back to my apartment, I felt I hadn’t wasted my time. It seemed to me I had now found the reason why Helen had died at the foot of the cliff. It wasn’t something I could explain to Chalmers, but at least, it gave me a clue: someone, as Frenzi had said, did not blackmail, easily and Helen had died.
My next obvious move was to find Carlo.
It took me until four o’clock the following afternoon before I could contact my ex-girl friend on the Rome exchange telephone.
She made the usual difficulties that a girl who has been dropped and now discovers you’re interested in her again will make, and I had to exercise a lot of patience and tact before I could get around to what I wanted to ask her.
When she understood I Wanted the name and address of a Rome telephone subscriber, she said promptly that it was strictly against regulations and by obliging me she could lose her job. After a lot of aimless talk which nearly drove me crazy, she finally suggested we might discuss the matter over a dinner.
I said I would meet her at Alfredo’s at eight o’clock and hung up. I knew there would be more to it than a dinner, so I bought a powder compact for seventeen thousand lire that looked showy enough to have cost three times that price as a make-weight if she raised further difficulties.
I hadn’t seen her for three years, and I didn’t recognize her when she entered Alfredo’s. I wondered how it had been possible for her ever to have won a prize in a beauty competition. Three years can make quite a dent in the shape and size of any Italian woman if she doesn’t watch her diet, and this girl, apparently, hadn’t watched anything since last I met her. She was really something to see.
After a lot of talk, hedging and wrangling, and not before I had slipped her the compact, she finally agreed to get me the name and address of the subscriber of the telephone number I had found scribbled on Helen’s lounge wall.
She promised to call me the following morning.
I had to wait until half-past eleven o’clock before the call came through. By then I was fit to strangle her.
There was a waspish note in her voice when she told me that the subscriber was a woman.
“Okay, so it’s a woman,” I said. “You don’t have to get worked up. It had to be either a man or a woman, hadn’t it? You wouldn’t expect it to be a dog, would you?”
“You don’t have to shout at me,” she said. “I have no business to give you this information.”
I counted up to five mentally before I could trust myself to speak, then I said, “Look, let’s have it. This is strictly business. How many times do I have to tell you?”
She said the subscriber lived at villa Palestra, viale Paolo Veronese, and her name was Myra Setti.
I wrote down the name and address.
“Thanks a lot,” I said, staring at the scribble on the pad. “Setti? S-e-t-t-i? Is that right?”
She said it was.
Then the nickle dropped.
Setti!
I remembered the New York police had believed that Frank Setti, Menotti’s gangster rival, had been responsible for Menotti’s death. Was Myra Setti connected in some way with him — his wife, his sister or even his daughter? Was there some hook up between this woman, Menotti’s murder, Frank Setti and Helen?
I became aware that my late girl-friend was talking. Her high-pitched voice slammed against my ear-drum, but I couldn’t be bothered to listen to what she was saying.
I dropped the receiver back on to its cradle, my heart bumping with excitement.
Setti!
This might be the clue I had been looking for. I remembered Maxwell had said that Helen was thought to be mixed up in the Menotti killing, and that was the reason why she had come to Rome.
If Setti had really engineered the killing…
I decided it might pay off to take a look at the villa Palestra.
The telephone bell rang. My late girl-friend was possibly wanting to know why I had hung up on her.
I settled further down in my chair and let the telephone bell ring.