You Find Him – I'll Fix Him

  "You've got more guts than I thought you had, Mac," he said, and ruefully rubbed the side of his head. "I haven't been hit so hard for years. You didn't really think I'd be such a sucker as to carry that note around, did you?"

  "It was worth a try," I said.

  "What is all this?" Myra demanded impatiently. "Who's your playmate?" She didn't lower the gun nor did she take her eyes off me.

  "This is Dawson – the guy I was telling you about. He's taking the stuff to Nice on Friday," Carlo said. He touched his head again and grimaced.

  "Look at the mess you two apes have made. Get out of here!" she said. "Go on, clear out, both of you!"

  "Aw, skip it!" Carlo said. "You're always beefing about something. I want to talk to you." He turned to me. "Go on, Mac, scram. Don't try that dodge again. Next time I'll get tough too."

  I looked dejected again.

  "I'm on my way," I said, and slouched towards the door.

  Myra gave me a contemptuous look and turned her back on me. As I passed her, I grabbed the gun out of her hand, gave her a shove with my shoulder that sent her reeling into one of the lounging chairs, spun around and covered Carlo.

  "Okay," I said. "Let's have that wallet!"

  For a long moment he stood transfixed, then he threw back his head and gave a burst of raucous laughter that rattled the windows.

  "Gee! You'll kill me!" he bellowed, slapping his thigh. "Talk about crust!"

  "Give me that wallet!" I said, and there was something in my voice that made him stiffen.

,

"Listen, dope, it's not on me," he said, his face hardening.

"If you don't want a slug in the leg, you'll chuck the wallet right here!"

  We stared at each other. He saw I wasn't fooling. He suddenly grinned, took the wallet from his hip-pocket and tossed it at my feet.

  I kept him covered, bent, picked it up, backed against the wall and went through the wallet. It was stuffed with ten thousand lire notes, but there was no other paper in it.

  Myra was glaring at me, her eyes smouldering.

  "Some kid, isn't he?" Carlo said to her. "Nearly as tough as I am. But we've got him hamstrung. He's got to do what he's told. Haven't you, pally?"

I tossed him the wallet.

"Looks like it," I said. "But watch out: it won't be all that easy."

I put the gun on the table and walked out.

Carlo's loud explosive laughter followed me.

  It was still raining as I walked down the steps to the drive. Near the front door was the dark green Renault. Behind it stood the Cadillac.

  I broke into a run, reached the street, and kept on running until I reached my car. I drove fast to my apartment, left the car outside, bolted up the stairs into my lounge. Without taking off my soaked raincoat I called the International Investigating Agency and asked for Sarti. I hadn't much hope of finding him in as it was now getting on for half-past ten, but he came on the line almost at once.

  "The Renault I was talking about is standing in the drive of the villa Palestra on viale Paolo Veronese," I said. "Get some men to cover it right away. I want to know where the driver goes when he leaves. Watch out: he'll probably be on the lookout for a tail."

  Sarti said he would take care of it at once. I heard him speaking to someone, giving instructions to get men out to Myra's villa.

  When he was through, I asked, "Any news for me?"

  "I will have something for you by to-morrow morning, signor."

  "I don't want you to come here." The fact that Carlo had known that Carlotti had been to see me that afternoon warned me that my apartment was being watched. I told him to meet me at ten o'clock at the Press Club. He said he would do that.

  I stripped off my raincoat, took it into the bathroom, then I came back to the lounge and poured myself a big shot of whisky. I sat down. My jaw ached and I was feeling pretty sick, with myself. I was in a jam, and there was no one to get me out of it except myself.

  To-morrow was Sunday. On Monday I would have to fly down to Naples to attend the inquest. Friday morning I would have to leave for Nice unless I could pin Helen's killing on to Carlo. It didn't leave me a lot of time.

  I was sure he had killed her, but I couldn't think why he had done it.

  I couldn't believe he had killed her to get a hold-on me. That idea had come after he had killed her, and probably after he had found the note I had left for her. Then why had he killed her?

  She was spending money with him. He had her where he wanted her. A drug pedlar always has his victims where he wants them ... unless, of course, the victim happens to find out something about the pedlar that gives her a bigger hold on him than he has on her.

  Helen was a blackmailer. Had she been crazy enough to try to blackmail Carlo? She wouldn't have attempted it unless what she had found out was sheer dynamite: something, she must have been sure, that was so dangerous to Carlo that he would have to toe the line. Had she found some evidence that really put Carlo on the spot? If she had, she would have lodged it somewhere under lock and key before she dared to put the squeeze on Carlo.