‘Why?’
I didn’t bother to answer. In the last ten seconds the bedroom door had been gently opening behind him and I had seen part of a face which I recognized. The door now went back with a bang and Francois Paulet was in the room. I sat comfortably where I was and watched. Not long ago Paulet had said to me that, although he was without much up top he had a strong body and could be useful in an emergency. His demonstration of it was a joy to watch. He wasn’t handicapped in any way by the fact that my philosophical friend was as big as he was.
He smacked the man on the back of the neck and the gun jumped out of his hand and skittered across to my feet. I took my time picking it up. It was a .380 pistolet automatique, MAB breveté, model F, I discovered later. But at that moment I only had eyes for Paulet as he grabbed the man, jerked him to his feet and slammed a big right fist in his face and followed it with the left in his stomach. After that he went through a simple routine of throwing the man against one wall and then another, bouncing him once or twice on the floor and finally slinging him like a roll of limp carpet into a chair.
He stood over him and began to interrogate him in Italian, too fast for my limited knowledge of the language to give me any help. At first the man was reluctant in his replies. Paulet encouraged him with short jabs of his right fist and eventually they had a conversation which seemed to be satisfying Paulet. Paulet rounded it off by suddenly slipping his own gun out of his pocket and cracking the man above the left ear with the butt. My friend went out like a light.
Paulet turned and grinned to me.
CI did well, no?’
‘It was a pleasure to watch. Have a drink.’
I held out the bottle. He drank without benefit of glass but with the thirst of a man conscious that he has done a good job and merits refreshment.
He nodded at the man. ‘This canaille—your word for that escapes me at the moment—’
‘Scum might do.’
‘Yes, scum. Well, he is a professional killer who comes up from Rome today. Employed by a man here in Florence whose name he does not give. This I did not press because he had ethics like us and—’
‘I know who the man is. And I think we ought to go right now and have a chat with him.’
‘It will be a pleasure,’ said Paulet. Then, rubbing the tip of his big nose with one finger, he looked down at the man. ‘But first we must dispose of this. You think there is any more useful information to be had from him?’
‘I doubt it. He was just trying to do a job.’
‘You would like to hand him over to the police?’
‘Don’t be crazy. I wouldn’t get out of this town for days with all their enquiries and processes.’
‘In that case, we just get rid of him.’
He bent down, lifted the man and threw him over his shoulder. It sounds easy, but you try it. The man must have weighed over two hundred pounds. Paulet almost did it one-handed.
I followed him out of the room into the corridor. At the lift he rang. It came up and the doors opened. Paulet slung the man inside, reached round the corner of the lift and pressed one of the buttons, and jerked his arm back as the doors began to close.
‘We,’ he said, ‘will walk down, while he goes up to the top floor. When he is able to, he can make his own explanations.’
We went down the stairs and there was a spring in Paulet’s step. He was pleased with himself, pleased that he had given a demonstration of his potential usefulness to me.
I said, ‘Thank you for getting me out of that.’
‘A pleasure, Monsieur Carvay.’
I said, ‘My room door was locked automatically when I went in with our friend. How did you get in?’
‘I have, over the years, acquired a very large collection of hotel pass keys. Maybe it was a touch of vanity, but I wanted to come in and surprise you, to impress you. Perhaps because I sensed that there was a little reluctance in you to accept my minor services.’
‘How did you know I was in Florence at this hotel?’
‘I telephone your London office and tell the lady there that I have important news about Freeman for you and must get in contact. She gave me your address.’
I didn’t tell him that I would check that. I did the next day, and Mrs Burtenshaw confirmed it. In my book Paulet was beginning to win his spurs but I still had a lingering doubt, probably unworthy, about which horse he was intending to ride.
We took a gentle stroll through the night, over the Arno to the Piazza Santo Spirito.
Repeated banging of David’s bottom on Pelegrina’s door brought no response.
I looked at Paulet. ‘It’s a very thick door.’
‘We try the keys first.’
From his jacket pocket he brought out a bunch that was so big it would have made any ordinary man walk lopsided. He bent down, examined the keyhole, and tried one or two keys experimentally.
He half turned and smiled up at me. ‘Locks, too, I have studied. This is a Continental variation of the English lever lock which your great Jeremiah Chubb invented in 1818. The important thing is not to lift the detector lever too high by using the wrong key.’ He examined his bunch, selected a key and began fiddling with the lock. A few moments and two keys later, the door was open. He waved me in, beaming, his narrow-set eyes sparkling with frank vanity.
Leon Pelegrina was not there. He had packed and gone, and obviously taken his time about it. In the bedroom, which was off to
