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 red-headed woman yet?'
'Not yet. I nave 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 glass-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 brass pot.
The reception desk faced him. A single light lit up a row of keys and a series of empty pigeon-holes 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. 'Uceelli 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.
'I want to speak to her,' he said. 'It's most urgent.'
Cavallino spread his hands.
'If you would care to wait, sir, I don't think she can be much longer.' He consulted his watch. 'It is nearly half-past two.
She is not usually as late as this.'
'She's not in then?' Don said, his voice sharpening.
'No, she went out soon after twelve-thirty when her friend called for her.'
'What friend?'
Cavallino frowned.
'Excuse me, sir, but you ask too many questions. It is not my business...'
'My reason is urgent,' Don broke in. 'Gina Pasero is connected with Shapiro. He was murdered in her flat and I think she is in danger. Who was the friend who called for her?'
'I don't know,' Cavallino said, staring at Don in alarm. 'A girl: I haven't seen her before. Miss Pasero returned from the club just after midnight. Someone called her on the telephone. At half-past twelve she came down from
