grin.
“I know where the punk lives,” he said. “He and I have done a couple of jobs together. He loves me. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me.”
I gave up, and for the rest of the reckless drive I said nothing.
We pulled up outside an apartment block off via Flaminia Nuova. Carlo got out, crossed the sidewalk, pushed open the entrance door and walked up the stairs, three at a time. He paused outside a shabby door on which was tacked one of Sarti’s business cards. He dug his thumb into the bell-push and kept it there.
There was a six seconds pause, then the door opened cautiously. I had a glimpse of Sarti’s fat, unshaven face before he tried to slam the door shut.
Carlo was ready for this move. His knee came up and smashed into the door panel, slamming the door into Sarti who went over with a little yelp of fear and pain. He sat down on the floor of the hall. Carlo walked in, let me pass, then kicked the door shut.
He reached out and hauled Sarti to his feet by his necktie. The tie tightened around Sarti’s fat throat and his face turned purple. He hit Carlo feebly in the face, his small fat hands making as much impression on Carlo as a rubber hammer would make on a lump of rock.
Carlo suddenly let go of the tie and gave Sarti a violent shove. Sarti went reeling back through a door into a small sitting-room. He cannoned into a table set for a meal, and he and the table went over on the floor.
I stood aside and watched.
Carlo wandered into the room, his hands in his trousers pockets, whistling under his breath.
Sarti sat in the wreckage of his lunch, his face the colour of a ripe Camembert cheese, his bloodshot eyes bolting out of his head.
Carlo wandered over to the window and sat on the sill. He smiled at Sarti.
“Listen, fatso, this guy’s my pal.” He jerked his thumb at me. “If anyone is going to put the bite on him, it’ll be me. I won’t tell you a second time. Do you get it?”
Sarti nodded. He licked his lips, tried to say something but he couldn’t get the words out.
“You’ve got a lot of written stuff about him, haven’t you?” Carlo went on. “Bring it around to my place to- morrow morning: all of it. Get it?”
Again Sarti nodded.
“If any of it gets in the hands of the cops, then someone will tip them off about that little job you did in Florence. Get that?” Carlo went on.
Sard nodded. Sweat began to run down his face.
Carlo looked at me.
“Is that okay, pally? This bum won’t worry you again. I guarantee it.”
I said it was okay with me.
Carlo grinned.
“Fine. Anything for a pal. You play with me and I’ll play with you. You get off and enjoy yourself. Me and fatso are going to have a little session together.”
Sarti’s eyes bulged until I thought they were going to drop out of his head. He waved his fat, dirty hands at me.
“Don’t leave me, signor,” he implored in a voice that chilled me. “Don’t leave me alone with him.”
I had no pity for him.
“So long,” I said to Carlo. “I’ll be seeing you.”
As I went down the stairs I heard a sound like the scream of a frightened rabbit.
I was sweating by the time I reached the street.
PART ELEVEN
I
It was only as I was driving back to my apartment I realized I still didn’t know the name of Sarti’s client who had hired him to watch Helen. This was something I had to know.
I wondered if I should go back to Sarti’s apartment and get Carlo to squeeze the information out of him, but I decided against this. There was no point in giving Carlo any more information than I could help.
I happened to be near the offices of the International Investigation Agency. I wondered if I should risk trying to get the information for myself. It would mean breaking into the place. At least at this hour of three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon it should be fairly safe. I decided to do it.
I left my car down a side street, took from the boot a tyre lever and a screw driver and, concealing them in the pccket of my raincoat, I walked quickly to the block of offices where the agency was housed.
The front entrance was shut and locked. I went around to the back of the building to the janitor’s entrance and found the door open. I walked into a lobby full of dustbins and empty milk bottles, paused to listen, then, hearing nothing, I made my way quietly up the stairs to the first floor.
I found the International Investigation Agency at the far end of a corridor. It consisted of six rooms, and no light showed through the frosted panels of the doors. I went from door to door, rapping each and waiting, but no one answered my knock.
With a heavily beating heart I took out my tyre lever, inserted it in between one of the doors and the doorpost and put a little pressure on it. The lock broke without any alarming noise and the door swung open. I entered an empty office, closed the door and looked around.
This office belonged to one of the executives. I went through the communicating door into the second office. It wasn’t until I reached the fourth office that I found what I was looking for. Along the wail was a row of filing cabinets. I selected the file marked “C', and with the aid of my screw driver and tyre lever I managed to force the lock and get the file open.
I spent ten minutes going through the mass of folders in the file, but I didn’t find one with Helen’s name on it. I stood back foxed. There were so many files in the drawers that it would have been impossible to have gone through them all. It then occurred to me that there was a chance that Sarti had kept Helen’s file away from the rest. I went into the fifth office.
There were three desks in this room: one of them was Sarti’s. I knew that by the notes in the In-tray addressed to him.
I sat down at the desk and went through the drawers. The third one down on the right was locked. I made short work of it with my tyre lever, pulled it open and felt a surge of relief run through me. The only thing in the drawer was the file I was looking for.
I took it from the drawer and laid it on the desk and opened it. For about a minute I examined it then I shoved back the chair, reached for a cigarette and lit it. I knew now who had instructed Sarti to watch Helen, and I was completely taken out of my stride.
Sarti’s file began:
June Chalmers!
So she was at the back of this! I flicked through the reports until I came to one headed with my name. There were ten pages given up to my association with Helen. At the top of the page was the following:
Copy of report sent to la Signorina Chalmers, Ritz Hotel, Paris, August 24th.
The report contained all the details of Helen’s plan to rent a villa in Sorrento, of her suggestion to me that we should go there as Mr. and Mrs. Sherrard, that she should arrive at Sorrento on the 28th and I would join her on the 29th.
I sat back, feeling sweat on my forehead. It was obvious that at some time Sarti had planted a microphone
