The bar steward appeared. He conveyed to me by his hurt look that this was no time to disturb him.
I ordered a double whisky, carried the drink to a corner table and sat down. I took the whisky neat. It did something to blot out my trapped feeling, but it didn’t take away my fear.
I read the twenty-odd pages of carefully typed script. It contained a list of fifteen names: most of them were familiar to me. Giuseppe Frenzi’s name headed the list. Mine came halfway down. There were dates when Helen spent the night with Frenzi, when he called on her at her apartment, when she spent nights with other men. These I skipped through. I studied the details concerning my own activities with Helen. Sarti hadn’t been lying when he had told me that Veroni and his men had never let Helen out of their sight. Every meeting I had had with her was carefully logged. Every word that she and I had ever said to each other over the telephone was there to read. There were details of other telephone conversations between her and other men, and it was so obvious now, after reading the report, that I was just another of her prospective blackmail victims.
Three days!
Could I possibly pin Helen’s murder on Carlo before then? Would it be wiser to go to Carlotti and tell him the whole truth and let him get after Carlo? But why should he? He had only to listen to my story to be convinced that I had killed Helen. No… that wasn’t the way to handle it.
Then a sudden thought struck me. There was not one mention of Carlo or Myra Setti in Veroni’s report. Helen must have telephoned either one or the other at least once. The fact that Myra’s telephone number had been scribbled on Helen’s wall proved that. Then why wasn’t Carlo or Myra in the report?
There was a chance that Veroni had only noted down the conversations Helen had had with her blackmail victims, but surely she must have said something to Carlo or Myra over the telephone at one time that was worth recording in the report?
I sat thinking about this for several minutes. Then I asked the bar steward to get me the Rome telephone book. He handed h to me as if he were doing me a favour and asked if I would like another drink. I said not at this moment.
I nicked through the pages of the book, looking for Veroni’s name, but it didn’t show. This didn’t mean much. He probably ran his agency under a fancy name.
I crossed over to the telephone booth near the bar and called Jim Matthews.
It took me a little time to wake him up and get him out of bed.
“For the love of mike!” he exclaimed when he came on the line. “Don’t you know it’s Sunday, you crazy lug? I didn’t get to bed until four this morning.”
“Quit beefing,” I said. “I want some information. Have you ever heard of Veroni, a private detective who handles special cases and is very expensive?”
“No, I haven’t,” Matthews said. “You’ve got the name wrong. I know all the private dicks in this city. Veroni isn’t one of them.”
“He couldn’t be someone you’ve missed?”
“I’m damn sure he isn’t. You’ve got the name wrong.”
“Thanks, Jim. Sorry to have got you out of bed,” I said, and before he could start cursing me, I hung up.
I told the bar steward that I had changed my mind about a drink, carried the whisky back to my table and went through the report again.
Out of the fifteen men whom Helen had blackmailed, I was the only one, according to the report, who not only had the motive, but the opportunity of killing her.
I spent another five minutes turning the set-up over in my mind, then I finished my drink, and, feeling a little high, I went back to the coffee bar.
Sarti still sat where I had left him, twiddling his hat and looking sad. He rose to his feet as I came across to join him and sat down when I did.
“Thanks for letting me read this,” I said, and offered him the sheaf of papers.
He recoiled from it as if I had waved a black mamba in his face.
“It is for you, signer. I wouldn’t wish to keep it.”
“Yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking.” I folded the papers and put them in my inside pocket. “Il Signor Veroni has copies of these papers?”
The corners of Sarti’s mouth turned down.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I lit a cigarette and stretched my legs. I wasn’t feeling scared any more. I now had the idea what was behind this set-up.
“Is il Signor Veroni wealthy?” I asked.
Sarti raised his black, bloodshot eyes and looked inquiringly at me.
“A private detective is never wealthy, signor,” he said. “For a month you work, then for three months, perhaps, you wait. I wouldn’t say il Signor Veroni is well off.”
“Do you think we might make a deal with him?”
Sarti appeared to consider this. He scratched the top of his scruffy head and frowned down at the bronze ashtray that stood on the table by him.
“In what way — a deal, signor?”
“Suppose I offered to buy these reports from him,” I said. “You must have read them.”
“Yes, signor. I have read them.”
“If Carlotti got hold of them, he might jump to the conclusion that I was responsible for la signorina’s death.”
Sarti looked as if he were going to burst into tears.
“That was the unfortunate impression that I got, signor. That was the only reason why I begged il Signor Veroni not to do anything for three days.”
“Do you imagine Veroni’s high sense of duty would prevent him from making a deal with me?”
Sarti shrugged his fat shoulders.
“In my work, signor, one always looks ahead. It is a good thing to be prepared for every contingency. I thought it was possible that you would wish to keep these reports from Lieutenant Carlotti. I mentioned the fact to il Signor Veroni. He is a difficult man: his sense of duty is over-developed, but I have been friends with him for a long time and it is possible for me to put my cards on the table. I know his ambition is to buy a vineyard in Tuscany. It is possible that he could be persuaded.”
“Would you undertake to persuade him?”
Sarti appeared to hesitate.
“You are my client, signor. When I accept a client, I give him my whole support. It is how I built up my business. This is difficult and dangerous. I could be prosecuted, but, nevertheless if you wish it, I would be prepared to take the risk to give satisfaction.”
“Your motives are as impressive as il Signor Veroni’s,” I .said.
He smiled mournfully.
“I am here to serve,” he said.
“What do you imagine a vineyard in Tuscany would cost?” I asked, looking directly at him. “Did you think to ask him?”
He met my eyes without any effort.
“I did touch on the subject. Il Signor Veroni isn’t entirely without means, signor. It would seem he is lacking half the required sum: ten million lire.”
Ten million lire!
That would clean me right out. During my fifteen years as a newspaper man I had managed to save just that amount.
“And for that sum he would be prepared to hand over all the copies of this report and say nothing to the police?”
“I don’t know, signor, but I could ask him. I believe I might be able to persuade him.”
“Would you need any encouragement to do that? I mean would there be a fee for the work?” I asked. “Frankly, ten million lire would leave me flat. If there was to be a rakeoff for you, you would have to get it from Veroni.”
“That could be arranged if it were necessary, signor,” Sarti said simply. “After all, I shall be paid for my work
