Sarti pulled a little face.
“It is illegal, signor,” he said without any hope.
“Thanks for telling me. Any idea how I can get in?”
I was looking at the wine-shop opposite. There was a side entrance that obviously led to the apartment over the shop.
“The lock isn’t complicated,” Sarti said, fumbled in his pocket and pressed into my hand a bunch of skeleton keys.
“These are strictly illegal too,” I said and grinned at him.
He looked depressed.
“Yes, signor. Not everyone would want my job.”
I crossed the road, paused to look up and down the deserted street, took out my flashlight and examined the lock. As Sarti bad said, it didn’t look complicated. I tried three of the keys before I turned the lock. I pushed open the door. Moving into darkness, I closed the door, once more turned on my flashlight and went quickly up the steep, narrow stairs that faced me.
There was a stale smell of wine and sweat on the landing, also the smell of cigar smoke. Three doors invited inspection.
I opened one and glanced into a small, dirty kitchen. In the sink was an accumulation of dirty pots and two frying pans around which flies buzzed busily. The remains of a meal of bread and salame lay on a greasy paper on the table.
I moved down the passage, looked into a small bedroom that contained a double bed, unmade and with grimy sheets and a greasy pillow. Clothes were scattered on the floor. A dirty shirt hung from an electric light bracket. The floor was spotted with tobacco ash and the smell in the room nearly choked me.
I backed out and entered the sitting-room. This too looked as if a pig had lived in it for some time. There was a big settee under the window and two lounging chairs by the fireplace. All three pieces looked grimy and dark with grease. On a small table stood six bottles of wine, three of them empty. A vase of dead carnations stood on the dusty overmantel. There were grease marks on the walls, and the floor was spotted with tobacco ash.
On one of the arms of the chairs was a big ash-tray loaded with cigarette butts and three cheroot butts. I picked up one of these butts and examined it. It seemed to me to be the exact fellow of the butt I had found on top of the cliff head. I put it in my pocket, leaving the other two.
Against one of the walls stood a battered desk on which were piled old, yellowing newspapers, movie magazines and pictures of pin-up girls.
I opened the desk drawers, one after the other. Most of them were crammed with junk that a man will accumulate who has never had a clear out, but in one of the lower drawers I found a new T.W.A. travelling bag that is given to passengers to keep their overnight kit in. I took it from the drawer, zipped it open and looked inside.
It was empty except for a screwed-up ball of paper. I smoothed this out and found it to be the duplicate of a return ticket from Rome to New York, dated four months ago and made out in Carlo Manchini’s name.
I stood looking at the ticket for several seconds, my mind busy.
Here was proof that Carlo had been in New York before Helen had left for Rome. Did it mean anything? Had they met in New York?
I slipped the paper in my wallet, then returned the bag to the drawer.
Although I spent another half-hour in the apartment, I found nothing else to interest me, nor did I find my note to Helen.
I was glad to get out into the rain and the fresh air once more.
Sarti was very uneasy when I joined him.
“I was getting nervous,” he said. “You stayed there too long.”
I had too much on my mind to bother about his nerves. I told him I’d be at the Press Club at ten the following morning and left him.
When I got back to my apartment I sent the following cable to Jack Martin, Western Telegram’s New York crime reporter:
Supply all dope you can find on Carlo Manchini: dark, blunt-featured, broad, tall with white zigzag scar on chin. Will telephone Sunday. Urgent. Dawson.
Martin was an expert at his job. If there was an angle to Carlo’s visit to New York, he would know it.
PART TEN
I
At ten the following morning, I entered the Press Club and asked the steward if there was anyone waiting for me.
The steward said there was a gentleman in the coffee bar. From the tone of his voice he indicated that he was using the word “gentleman” as a matter of courtesy.
I found Sarti sitting in a corner, twiddling his hat and staring blankly at the opposite wall.
I took him over to a more comfortable chair and sat him down. He was clutching a leather portfolio which he rested on his fat knees. The garlic on his breath was enough to strip the barnacles off a ship’s keel.
“Well? What have you got?” I said.
“Following your instructions, signor,” he said, undoing the straps on his case, “I have set ten of my best men to work on la Signorina Chalmers’s background. I am still waiting for their reports, but in the meantime I have been able to gain a considerable amount of information from another source.” He scratched the tip of his ear, wriggling uncomfortably in his chair, then went on, “It is always possible that in making such a searching investigation unpleasant facts may come to light. I suggest that to prepare you for what is in my report, I should give you a brief resume of what I have discovered.”
From what I had already found out about Helen’s background, I wasn’t surprised that he and his men had made similar discoveries.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I know more or less what you are going to tell me. I warned you this was a confidential business. La signorina was the daughter of a very powerful man, and we’ve got to be careful.”
“I am aware of that, signor.” Sarti looked even more miserable. “You must realize Lieutenant Carlotti is also working along the same lines as we, and it will not be long before he will have the same information as I have here.” He tapped his portfolio. “To be more exact, he will have the information in three days’ time.”
I stared at him. “How do you know that?”
“Perhaps you know that la signorina was a drug addict?” Sarti said. “Her father made her a very small allowance. She needed considerable sums of money to buy drugs. I regret to tell you, signor, that to raise the money she blackmailed a number of men with whom she had been intimate.”
I suddenly wondered if he had found out that I had been a prospective victim of hers.
“I had more or less gathered that,” I said. “You didn’t answer my question. How do you know Carlotti… ?”
“If you will excuse me, signor,” Sarti broke in. “I will come to that in a moment. In this folder I have a list of names and addresses of the men from whom la signorina obtained money. I will leave the list for you to study.” He gave me a long, slow stare that brought me out into a sudden sweat. I was sure now that my name was on the list.
“How did you get hold of this information?” I asked, bringing out my packet of cigarettes and offering it to him.
“No, thank you. I don’t care for American cigarettes,” Sarti said, bowing. “If I may be allowed…” He fished out the usual Italian cigarette and lit it. “I obtained the list from il Signor Veroni, a private detective who once worked for the police. He only undertakes special cases and is very expensive. I have been able to help him from time to time with my much larger organization. Knowing you wanted information urgently, I approached him. He immediately produced all this information I have here from his files.”
“How did he get it?” I asked, leaning forward and staring at Sarti.
“He had been instructed to watch la signorina on her arrival in Rome. He and two of his men, taking it in turns, never let her out of their sight during the time she was in Rome.”