Sherwin Chalmers and his wife arrived at the Vesuvius hotel on the afternoon of the Friday before the inquest.
He and I had a two-hour session together. I told him the story of Helen’s past and her life in Rome. I let him read some of Sarti’s reports, having taken the report concerning myself out of the file. I told him Carlo Manchini was the man known as Douglas Sherrard.
Chalmers listened and read the reports, a cigar between his teeth, his face expressionless. When I was through, he tossed Sarti’s file on the table, got to his feet and walked over to the window.
“You’ve done a good job, Dawson,” he said. “This has been a shock to me, as you can imagine. I had no idea I had a daughter who could behave like this. She got what was coming to her. The thing to do now is to try to keep it out of the papers.”
I knew how hopeless that was, but I didn’t tell him so. “I’ll go along and talk to this coroner fella,” Chalmers went on. “He can play it down. I’ll also talk to the chief of police. Burn those reports. You’ve done your job here. Will you be ready to come to New York with me after the inquest?”
“I’ll have a few things to tidy up first, Mr. Chalmers,” I said. “I can be in New York by Monday week.”
“Do that.” He came away from the window. “I’m pleased with you, Dawson. It’s better for the punk to have died. I’m going to see this coroner fella now.”
I didn’t offer to go with him. I went downstairs with him to where the Rolls was waiting and saw him drive off, then I crossed over to the reception desk and asked the clerk to send my name up to Mrs. Chalmers. He made the call and told me to go on up.
June Chalmers was sitting by the window, looking out over the harbour. She turned her head as I entered the small sitting-room and her eyes looked steadily at me.
“Mr. Chalmers has just told me he is pleased with me,” I said, closing the door and moving over to join her at the window. “He wants me back in New York as quickly as possible to take the foreign desk.”
“My congratulations, Mr. Dawson,” she said. “But why tell me?”
“Because I need your approval.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Why should I approve?”
“For the obvious reason that, if you don’t approve, you could prevent me taking the job.”
She looked away, opened her bag, took out a cigarette and before I could get out my lighter she had flicked her own alight.
“I don’t understand, Mr. Dawson. I don’t have anything to do with my husband’s business affairs.”
“Since you know I am the man called Douglas Sherrard, I’m anxious to know if you intend to tell your husband.”
I saw her hands turn into fists.
“I mind my own business, Mr. Dawson. Helen meant nothing to me. I have no interest in her lovers.”
“I wasn’t her lover. Does that mean you are not going to tell him?”
“Yes.”
I took the carton of film out of my pocket.
“You will want to destroy this.”
She turned quickly. Her face drained of colour.
“What do you mean? Why should I want to destroy it?”
“If you don’t, then I will. Carlo asked me to get rid of it, but I thought it would be more satisfactory to you if you did it yourself.”
She drew in a deep breath.
“So the little devil did take another film.” She got to her feet and began to move around the room. “Have you seen what is on it?”
“Yes. Carlo told me to look at it.”
She turned, her face the colour of old ivory, but she managed to smile.
“So we now know something about each other, Mr. Dawson. I’m not going to give you away. What are you going to do about me?”
I again offered her the film.
“You’ll have trouble in destroying it. It doesn’t burn easily. I’d cut it in pieces and flush it down a drain.”
She took the carton.
“Thank-you. I’m very grateful to you.” She sat down. “My husband tells me Carlo confessed
to killing Helen.”
“That’s right.”
“No one killed her. He only said that to keep me police from investigating further. I suppose you have guessed that we were lovers?” She looked at me. “I want you to know about this. I believe I was the only person in the world that he treated decently. We knew each other in New York when I was a singer at the Palm Grove Club. I had known him long before I met my husband. I know he was crude, brutal and dangerous, but he did have his decent side. He meant a lot to me. I was crazy about him. I wrote him stupid letters which he kept. You remember Menotti got rid of Setti? Carlo told me he would have to go back to Rome with Setti. I didn’t think I would ever see him again. Sherwin Chalmers fell in love with me. I married him because I was sick of singing in a cheap night club and of always being short of money. I’ve regretted it ever since, but that’s my affair, and it doesn’t come into this.” She smiled bitterly, “As they say, the job’s rotten, but the pay’s good’. I’m one of those weak, wretched people who can’t be happy without a lot of money, so at the moment my husband is important to me.” She paused, then asked, “I hope this doesn’t make you feel sick? It does me often.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You know Helen was Menotti’s mistress,” she went on. “Carlo found out she was on drugs. He told Setti that he could get at Menotti through Helen. Setti sent him back to New York. Foolishly, I couldn’t keep away from him. Helen saw us together. When Carlo approached her to sell Menotti out, she agreed. She went to Carlo’s apartment while she was negotiating her price. I don’t know how she did it, but she got hold of four of my letters to him. We only found this out much later. For two thousand dollars she let Carlo into Menotti’s apartment. I want you to believe that I didn’t know anything about this until I met Carlo weeks later on the cliff head where Helen died. It was she who told me.”
“You don’t have to go into all this, Mrs. Chalmers,” I said. “All I want to know is how Helen died.”
“It doesn’t make sense without the dirty details,” she returned. “Helen began to blackmail me. She told me she had four of my letters to Carlo, and if I didn’t give her a hundred dollars a week, she would hand them to her father. I could afford a hundred dollars a week, so I paid up. I was sure Helen was leading a rotten life, and it occurred to me that if I could get something on her, I could force her to return the letters to me. When she went to Rome, I instructed an inquiry agency to watch her and report back to me. When I learned that she had taken a villa in the name of Mrs. Douglas Sherrard, and was going to live there with some man, I decided this was my chance. I planned to go there, confront her and threaten to tell her father if she didn’t give me my letters. I told my husband I wanted to do some shopping in Paris. He loathes shopping and, besides, he was very busy. He said he would join me later. I went to Paris, then on to Sorrento. I went to the villa, but Helen wasn’t there. While I waited for her, I took a walk along the cliff head and I ran into Carlo. Helen must have been up there too, out of sight, with her camera. She must have taken pictures of our meeting. Is that what this film contains?”
“There’s a twenty seconds’ shot of you two meeting,” I said. “As this shot is on the last few feet of film, it’s my guess she went back to the villa, put in a new film, dropped the completed film into the mail box that is outside the villa, then returned to the cliff head in the hope of getting more shots of you.”
“Yes, that is what must have happened. Carlo heard the motor of the camera running. He caught Helen. There was a dreadful scene. She told me that Carlo had shot Menotti. She threatened to tell the police. She said she had taken pictures of Setti on the terrace of the villa below, and he would have to pay for the film if he didn’t want her to hand it to the police. She seemed half out of her mind, screaming and raving. Carlo slapped her face. He was trying to stop her screams. She dropped the camera. She turned and ran. It was horrible. She kept running until she went over the cliff. She didn’t kill herself. She just didn’t see where she was going. She was half out of her mind. Carlo didn’t kill her. You must believe that.”
I ran my fingers through my hair.
