I went to my hotel and got the file that held my photographs. It was a big file in a special case, and I’d gone over two hundred photos the night before. I did another fifty and then quit. In the fingers of my right hand I held the likeness of my scarred one. The scar was missing, and the big one was wearing his hair differently. But he was my man. I turned the photo over and read:
Anthony (Tony) Senna. Chicago, September 1926. Jackie Marks’ bodyguard until Marks was machine gunned out, in March 1927. Murder suspect. Indicted three times — no convictions. Beer. Mixed up in Spencer Tracy kill. Not indicted. Dropped out of sight for year in early 1928. Turned up in Los Angeles on gambling barge in June, 1930, after standing trial for murder of copper in Chicago in February, 1929. Al Fess murdered on barge three months later. Senna stood trial for murder. No conviction. Used plenty of money to get clear. No record after this.
There was a description of the scarred one that did the trick. I guessed that he’d got heavier, was wearing his hair differently and was only using that Senna tag when he was forced to. He knew that there was the carte d’identité business, probably, and that the local police would have his name from the hotel. I decided that his passport was all right, but that he hadn’t wanted Senna to get into Monte Carlo records. He’d played safe at the Grand, fearing the police, in event of any sort of accident, might check his passport.
Well, I knew who he was. And I remembered that Al Fess had been a big shot in Chicago, but had been driven out by Capone and had followed Horace Greeley’s advice to go West. He’d worked the big gambling barge beyond the three mile limit, and then things had started to go wrong. I remembered that the barge had been blown up once, and set fire another time. And not long after that Fess had been shot to death. My scarred one had been indicted and tried. No conviction. That trial would have taken place along in September or October, I figured. About a year ago.
I shoved the photo back in its proper file and smoked a couple of cigarets. The wind was cutting up now, but I didn’t mind it. The screens in my room’s three windows rattled, and something loose on a cornice somewhere made a pounding noise at intervals. I thought of the room Senna had selected and smiled a little grimly.
The theory I liked best was that Senna had murdered Al Fess, a year ago. He’d kept out of sight for awhile after his trial. Fess had been pretty big. Perhaps Senna had tried to move around a bit in the States. But it had been too tough. So he’d come across and had landed at Genoa. But he was still worried. He liked rooms with thick walls and without other rooms next to them. He liked them on the top floor. He was lonely and in a strange country, but he was afraid of strangers. In other words, Tony Senna must be a hunted man.
After a little while I had a swim in a sea that was getting rough by the minute. The waves were three and four feet high and, in the manner of the Mediterranean, they pounded to shore very close to each other. When I got back to the hotel after my swim the mistral was still picking up force. I changed into light flannels and slipped a Colt automatic into a deep hip pocket of the trousers. I couldn’t quite make up my mind about what I wanted to do with Senna. That is, whether I wanted to talk with him, or try to talk with him. Just out of curiosity — for he wasn’t wanted.
A chasseur brought in another telegram. After he’d taken my franc tip and had gone, I read it. It was coded simply — from the Paris office. I was to forget about Schmidt for the time. A client in Paris was very anxious to locate one Anthony Senna, who it was thought had landed in Genoa the day before. There was a description of Senna in code, and it included the scar. I was to locate Senna and wire the office. That was all. Except that there were the letters V.I., which meant “very important.”
I smoked another cigaret and smiled at the break putting Remmings on the Conte Grande had got me. And I felt a little sorry for Senna. My hunch was that Senna hadn’t come far enough away, or that he’d come to the wrong place. In any case, business was business. I went to the French telegraph and sent a coded wire to Paris. It was to the effect that one Anthony Senna who answered the required description was staying at the Grand Hotel at Cannes, France.
When I thought of the surprise this speed would cause, in Paris, I decided I rated a drink or two. So I drove against a rising wind and parked near the Chatham. Senna wasn’t there. It was after seven and the bar was crowded. The pajamas the women wore were as colorful as usual but had long ceased to startle me. I went outside, having trouble getting the door opened against the mistral wind, and went inside the Miramar.
At first I didn’t see my man. This bar was larger and noisier and more crowded. I went toward a small table in a far, dark corner. And then I saw Tony Senna. He was slouched low in one of the big lounging chairs. His big body was slumped, his arms were at his sides. From where he sat he had a view of the whole bar and of the entrance. On the table before him was a glass of beer. His face was twisted; he looked miserable.
When he caught sight of me he straightened a little. He started to smile. I waved a hand carelessly and watched the hard expression come into his eyes. But it went away, and he sort of grinned. He hesitated, then said thickly—
“Alone — have a drink?”
I hesitated. Being an agency man has its Judas moments. This was one of them. I’d sold this man out, and he was asking me to drink with him.
I said—
“All right — sure.”
I dropped into the lounge chair across the table from him, leaned forward.
“My name’s Benn,” I said, lying because I knew he would lie. And he did.
“Mine’s Burke,” he replied. “Tom Burke. Thanks for that tip at the Casino. I was kinda worried in there, and maybe I didn’t act right with you.”
I waved that off. A gust of the mistral wind made things sing and rattle outside. The big one shivered.
“Mistral,” I said pleasantly. “Just getting into action.”
He swore.
“Hate wind. Gets me. Mistral, eh? What in hell’s that?”
I ordered a whisky sour.
“Just wind,” I told him. “If it’s a real mistral it’ll last three days, or six — or nine. The nines are pretty rare.”
He sat up straight and blinked at me.
“Like this — for nine days!” he muttered. “Lord — I’d go crazy.”
I nodded.
“Some people do,” I said. “There’s a sort of unwritten French law — it applies to men and women living together. If one of them murders the other along about the eighth or ninth day, it doesn’t count.”
Senna stared at me.
“No kiddin’?” he muttered.
“That’s what they say — pretty hard to convict in such a case. The wind gets at you after four or five days. I’ve never seen a nine day affair, but I’ve been around for a couple of the six day sessions.”
He muttered something I didn’t catch and sipped his beer. Every few seconds he’d look toward the entrance, and his dark eyes were sharp. No one came in unless he saw him. I thought of the wire I’d just sent, and felt strange about it. The agency game can give you lousy moments.
When the waiter came with my whisky sour I lifted it slowly and said cheerfully—
“Here’s to crime!”
He grinned at that and raised his beer glass. I frowned at it.