You Find Him – I'll Fix Him

  My driver went along this road as if it were as flat and as straight as a foot rule. He kept hi3 hand on his horn and his headlights gave warning of his coming, but there were moments when I thought my last hour had arrived. It was pure luck that we didn't meet the hourly local bus, otherwise we couldn't have avoided a smash.

  Once on the autostrada to Naples it was plain sailing, and I could relax a little. At this hour there wasn't much traffic, and the taxi kept up a roaring, snarling eighty-five miles an hour for a little more than half an hour.

  We got into the outskirts of Naples at five minutes to eleven. This was the crucial moment of the drive, for the traffic of Naples at all times is notoriously heavy and slow. It was then that my driver proved to me that he wasn't only a dangerous and mad driver, but he was also completely indifferent to human life and limb.

  He cut through the traffic the way a hot knife slices through butter. The fact that other Italian drivers were intimidated underlined his ferocious ruthlessness. No Italian driver will ever give way willingly to another driver, but in this case, they seemed glad to give way, and the whole route to the station was punctuated with the screaming of tortured tyres as cars braked violently,

the honking of horns and the yells of fury.

  I was surprised the police didn't take action. Maybe it was because the taxi was out of sight before they could get their whistles to their mouths.

  We arrived at the station at five minutes after eleven, and as the driver slammed on his brakes and came to a skidding standstill he turned around to grin at me.

  I had my hat pulled well down over my eyes and the interior of the cab was dark. I knew he wouldn't recognize me again.

  "How's that, signor?" he asked, obviously delighted with himself.

  "Terrific," I said breathlessly, as I shoved a handful of dirty thousand lire notes into his hand, "Well done, and thanks."

  I grabbed my suitcase, left the taxi and sprinted across the sidewalk into the station. I bought a ticket and legged it along the platform to where the train was waiting.

  Four minutes later, alone in a dirty third-class carriage, I watched the lights of Naples fade in the distance.

  I was on my way to Rome!

II

  Gina's large blue eyes opened to their fullest extent when she saw me standing in the doorway.

  "Why, Ed!"

  "Hello."

  I closed the door and came over to sit on the edge of her desk. It was a relief to be back on my home ground. There was a feeling of security in this neat, well-ordered office.

  I had spent a horrible six hours sweating it out in my apartment. Being alone with Helen's death on my mind had been bad.

  "Is there anything wrong?" she asked sharply.

I wish I could have told her just how wrong things were.

  "Why, no: there's nothing wrong," I said. "I couldn't get a room in Venice. I called the Travel Association and they said I hadn't a dog's chance of getting in anywhere at short notice, so I decided to let Venice go. Then I thought I might put a little work in on my novel. I got so engrossed with my own cleverness I didn't stop working until three o'clock this morning."

  "But you're supposed to be on vacation," Gina said. There was a worried, puzzled expression in her eyes that warned me she wasn't sure if I were telling her the truth. "If you're not going to Venice, where are you going?"

  "Don't bully me," I said. I found it difficult to use a bantering tone and I realized that perhaps it was a mistake to see Gina so soon after Helen's death. I've said before that Gina had a knack of knowing to a certain extent what was going on in my mind. I could see as she stared up at me that she suspected something was badly wrong. "I thought I might take the car and go to Monte Carlo. You have my passport somewhere, haven't you? I can't find it in the apartment."

  At this moment the door opened and Maxwell came in. He paused in the doorway and gave me a curious stare. His eyes became hostile.

  "Why, hello," he said, then moved into the room, closing the door behind him. "Can't you keep away from this joint or don't you think I can handle the job?"

  I was in no mood to take anything from him.

  "You wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could handle it," I said curtly. "I've looked in for my passport. I tried to get fixed up in Venice, but all the hotels are full."

  He relaxed a little, but I could see he didn't like my being here.

  "You've taken enough time to find that out, haven't you? You want to get organized. What were you up to all day yesterday, for the love of mike?"

  "Working on my novel," I said, lighting a cigarette and smiling at him.

  His face hardened.

  "Don't tell me you're writing a novel."

  "Certainly, I am. Every newspaper man is supposed to have a good book in him. I'm hoping to make a fortune out of it. You should try: I'm not scared of competition."

  "I've better things to do with my spare time," he said shortly. "Well, I've got work to do. Have you got your passport?"