You Find Him – I'll Fix Him

  He sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair while I went over to the open window and sat on the sill. I felt in need of a circulation of fresh air.

  'I want some information and I want it fast,' I told him. 'The cost doesn't matter. I'd be glad if your agency would put on as many men as they think necessary.'

  His black, blood-shot eyes opened a trifle and he showed me several gold-capped teeth in what he imagined was a smile. It looked to me like the kind of spasm you see on someone's face when they have a sudden stomach cramp.

  'The information I want and the fact I am your client must be regarded as strictly confidential,' I went on. 'You may as well know the police are also investigating the affair, and you'll have to watch out that you don't tread on their toes.'

  His so-called smile faded and his eyelids narrowed.

  'We are good friends of the police,' he said. 'We wouldn't want to do anything to annoy them.'

  'You won't do that,' I assured him. 'This is what I want you to do: I want you to find out who were the men friends of an American girl who stayed in Rome for the past fourteen weeks. Her name is Helen Chalmers. I can give you some photographs of her. She stayed at the Excelsior hotel for bout days and then moved to an apartment.' I handed him a number of photographs I had got Gina to send over from our files, as well as the address of Helen's apartment. 'She had a number of men friends. I want all their names and where I can find them. I also want to know what she did with herself during the time she was in Rome.'

  'La signorina died accidentally at Sorrento, I believe?' Sarti asked, looking at me. 'She is the daughter of il Signor Sherwin Chalmers, the American newspaper owner?'

  In spite of his unimpressive looks, at least he appeared to keep abreast with the news.

  'Yes,' I said.

  The gold teeth flashed. Obviously he now realized he was in with the big money and that pleased him. He produced a note book and a stub of pencil and made a few notes.

  'I will begin immediately, signor,' he said.

  'That's the first job. I also want to find out who owns a dark green Renault with this registration number.'

I handed him a slip of paper on which I had jotted down the Renault's number.

  'The police tell me there is no such number registered. Your only hope is to watch out for the car and if you spot it either follow it or get a look at the driver.'

  He made more notes, and then he closed his notebook. He looked up and asked, 'The death of la signorina was not perhaps accidental, signor?'

  'We don't know. You needn't bother your brains about that. Get me this information fast and leave the other angle to the police to handle.' I stood up. 'Call me here as soon as you have anything. Don't wait to give me a written report. I want this job cleared up in a hurry.'

  He said he would do his best, suggested I might like to pay the usual retaining fee of seventeen thousand lire, took my cheque, assured me that he would have something for me before long, and bowed himself out of the apartment.

  I opened another window, and then left the apartment myself to keep my date with Matthews.

  I found him drinking Scotch and crushed ice at Harry's bar: a tall, thin, hard-faced man with grey, steady eyes, a hooked nose and a jutting jaw.

  We had a couple of drinks, and then went into the restaurant. We began our meal with bottarga, which is a kind of caviar made of mullet roes, followed by polo in padella or chicken cut up and cooked with ham, garlic, marjoram, tomatoes and wine. We talked of this and that and enjoyed the meal. It wasn't until we were eating the famous Roman cheese, ricoita, sprinkled with cinnamon, that I got down to business.

  'I want some information from you, Jim,' I said.

  He grinned at me.

  'I'm not such a mug as to think you bought this meal for me because you love me,' he returned. 'Go ahead - what is it?'

  'Does the name of Myra Setti mean anything to you?'

  His reaction was immediate. The pleased, relaxed expression on his face slipped away. His eyes became intent.

  'Hello, hello,' he said. 'Now this could be interesting. What makes you ask that?'

'Sorry, Jim, I'm not giving reasons. Who is she?'

'Frank Setti's daughter, of course. You should know that.'

'The gangster?'

'Oh, come on, you're not all that wet behind the ears.'

'Don't be superior. I know something about Setti, but not much. Where is he right now?'

  'That's something I'd like to know myself. He's somewhere in Italy, but just where he's holed up I don't know and the police don't know either. He left New York about three months ago. He arrived by boat at Naples, and registered with the police, giving the hotel Vesuvius as an address. Then he vanished, and the police haven't been able to trace him since. All we know is that he hasn't left Italy, but just where he's got to, no one knows.'

  'Not even his daughter?'

  'She probably does, but she isn't talking. I've had a word with her. She's lived in Rome for the past five years, and she says her father hasn't made contact with her; not even written to her.'

  'Tell me something about Setti, Jim.'

  Matthews leaned back in his chair.

  'You wouldn't like to buy me a brandy, would you? Seems a pity not to finish such a good meal correctly.'

  I signalled to the waiter, ordered two large Stocks, and when they arrived, I offered Matthews a cigar I had been keeping on ice for such an occasion.

  He examined it dubiously, bit off the end and set light to it. We both watched it burn a little anxiously. When he had satisfied himself that I hadn't sold him a pup, he said, 'There's not much I know that you don't know about Setti. He was boss of the Bakers' and Waiters' Union. He's a tough and dangerous thug who stops at nothing to get his own way. He and Menotti were sworn enemies, both of them wanting to be the head man. You probably know that Menotti had a load of heroin planted in Setti's apartment. He then tipped off the Narcotic Squad, who moved in, grabbed the load and arrested Setti. But it was a clumsy job, and Setti's attorney didn't have much trouble in shooting holes in the D.A.'s case. Setti was found not guilty, but there was such a yell from the press, who were gunning for him, that he was later charged as an undesirable alien and deported. He had always kept his Italian nationality, so the Italian authorities couldn't stop him from landing here. They were busy trying to find some excuse to get rid of him when he vanished.'

  'I hear the police think he engineered Menotti's killing.'