1954 - Mission to Venice (2 page)

She made an effort, touched her eyes with her handkerchief and turned to face him.

“John’s missing, Mr. Micklem. A month ago he went to Vienna. I haven’t heard from him since he arrived He - he’s vanished, and I’m so worried . . .”

“Vienna? Have you reported this to the police?”

“They won’t help.” Her pale face was bitter. “I can’t understand it. They are utterly indifferent. I’ve been to the Foreign Office. They won’t help me either. It’s as if they don’t care what’s happened to John.” She clenched her fists. “There’s something very wrong. I wanted to go to Vienna. I sent my passport in to be renewed, and it hasn’t been returned. They say it’s mislaid. They’re watching me, too. I was even followed here.”

Don had a sudden uneasy thought that this pale, scared looking girl might be a lunatic. She was quick to see what was going through his mind by his sudden wary expression.

“I’m not mad, Mr. Micklem,” she said quietly, “but I sometimes feel I shall be if someone doesn’t help me.” She opened her handbag and took out some papers and a photograph. “Please look at these. They should convince you I am John’s wife.”

Don glanced at the marriage certificate she had given him and then at the photograph. He recognized Tregarth immediately. He was with his wife, his arm around her: a puny man with a jutting chin and solemn, steady eyes.

“Thanks,” Don said, and gave her back the papers. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The time was five minutes to eleven. He was supposed to be at the airport at twelve.

It didn’t take him long to decide that Hilda Tregarth interested him a lot more than catching a plane. After all there were other planes and other days. He couldn’t turn this girl out without first hearing her story. “What makes you think I can be of any help, Mrs. Tregarth?”

“I don’t know if you can help, but John seems to think you can,” she returned quietly. “I received this yesterday.” She took from her handbag a highly coloured picture postcard.

He took it, frowning.

It was a picture of the Bridge of Sighs, Venice: a typical tourist’s postcard. He turned it over, examined the Italian stamp and saw the postcard had been posted three days ago. The card was addressed to Mr. Alec Howard, 133, Westbrook Drive, West Acton. Written in a small, neat handwriting was the message:
Find it very hot here. Unable to get away as planned. Remember me to Don Micklem. S. O. Saville
.

Don looked up, his face bewildered.

“But this isn’t from your husband. It’s not even addressed to you.”

“If s in John’s handwriting,” Hilda said, her voice unsteady. “Alec Howard is John’s factory manager. He recognized John’s handwriting and brought the card to me. Saville was John’s mother’s maiden name. Read the message again, Mr. Micklem. Don’t you see the hidden meaning in it? People who crossed the Bridge of Sighs were condemned. He’s trying to tell me he’s in trouble. That’s why he sent the picture. He ends his message with S.O.S. Don’t you see? He is calling for your help.”

Don drew in a long, deep breath He stared at the card for a few moments. He experienced a sudden chill that crawled up his spine: a prickly, feathery sensation he used to feel during the war when he knew he was running into danger. He got to his feet.

“Wait a moment, Mrs. Tregarth. I want to hear all about this from the beginning. Please excuse me for a minute.”

He went out of the room just as Cherry came down the stairs with the last of the luggage. “I’m going to the airport now, sir,” Cherry said mournfully. He gave Don a hurt, grieved look. “We have only an hour before the plane leaves.”

Marian came to the study door.

“Don, please. . .” she began.

“Take all that junk upstairs again,” Don said curtly, waving at the luggage. “We’re not going. Marian, please cancel the tickets. Something has cropped up that I’ve got to look into.

See if you can get reservations for tomorrow. I may be able to get away, by then.”

He turned and went back into the lounge.

Marian threw up her hands.

“One of these days, I’m going to . . .” She stopped short as she remembered she was setting a bad example to Cherry. “Oh well, there it is,” she went on, more calmly. “You had better tell Harry.”

“Yes, miss,” Cherry said, in a tight, strangled voice.

She returned to the study and shut the door with an ominous click.

Cherry stood for a long moment staring at the luggage. Then he looked furtively up and down the hall and passage to make sure no one was watching. He drew back a long, bulky leg and kicked one of the handbags viciously.

D
on settled himself in an easy chair and nodded at Hilda Tregarth encouragingly.

“Now, let’s get at it,” he said. “Tell me about your husband. Take your time. There’s no rush. All I know about him is that he was a saboteur during the war. The last time I saw him was when he jumped from my kite into the darkness over Rome to organize the Resistance movement at the beginning of the crack-up. What happened to him?”

“I don’t know, except that he survived,” Hilda said quietly. “He never talks about himself or about his war experiences. He remained in Italy a year after the war, then he came home and settled down. His father owned a small glass factory. John joined him in the business, and when his father died, John took charge. He spends three months of each year travelling on the Continent, visiting the important glass-making centres for new ideas. He always travels alone, although I would like to go with him. He left for Vienna on August 1st: nearly five weeks ago. I had a letter from him on August 6th, saying he had arrived and was staying at his usual hotel. Since then I’ve heard nothing from him.”

“There was no hint in the letter that he was in trouble?” Don asked.

She shook her head.

“No. It was a perfectly ordinary letter. He seemed happy and eager to get to work. He said he expected to stay in Vienna a month before going on to Paris. When he didn’t write the following week I was surprised, but not worried. I thought he must be very busy. My second letter to him was returned marked ‘Gone away. Forwarding address not known.’ Then I did begin to worry. I wrote to the Paris hotel he usually stays at, but my letter was returned. I telephoned the hotel and was told John wasn’t expected there and had made no reservations. By this time, I was getting pretty frantic. I decided to fly to Vienna and make inquiries. I haven’t been abroad for some time, and my passport needed renewing. I sent it in, and after waiting, I called to inquire. I was told it had been mislaid. They were very curt with me, but I didn’t see anything sinister about it as I do now. I didn’t know what to do. You see, Mr. Micklem, John and I are very much in love. He always writes when he is away. I began to think he might have had an accident. I went to the police.”

“The local police or Scotland Yard?” Don asked.

“Oh, the local police. John is a member of the Hampden Cricket Club and the Inspector plays for the club. John and he are friendly, and the Inspector has met me and knows me. He promised to make immediate inquiries.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “He was very kind. When I left I felt a lot less worried. I was sure he would do something, but he didn’t. I heard nothing for two days so I went to see what was happening. The sergeant told me the Inspector was out. The atmosphere had completely changed. When I first went to the station, they were all friendly and kind. But this time I was treated like a stranger. The sergeant was almost rude. He said they had no information for me, but if they heard anything they would communicate with me.”

Don crushed out his cigarette and rubbed his jaw.

“When was this?”

“Four days ago. I telephoned the Inspector the next morning, but he wouldn’t speak to me. The sergeant told me it was no use worrying them. If they heard anything they would let me know. It was horrible!” She bit her lip and looked away. After a moment, she went on, her voice unsteady: “I knew then they didn’t intend to do anything. So I went to Scotland Yard.”

“Haven’t you anyone - a relation or friend - who could have helped you?” Don asked sympathetically.

“I suppose I could have gone to my friends,” she said quietly, “but I felt this was my business and no one else’s. I saw someone in the Special Branch. He was very polite and distant.

He told me the matter had been reported to him and inquiries were being made. He - he was almost hostile: it was the way he looked at me more than what he said. I asked him pointblank if John was in trouble with the authorities, but it was like talking to a brick wall. He said he had no information to give me, but if he heard, he would let me know. I knew I wasn’t going to hear anything. I was nearly out of my mind. I went to the Foreign Office. At first they wouldn’t even see me, but I refused to leave. Then some junior secretary appeared and he was hostile, too. He said it was a police matter and nothing to do with the Ministry. I was desperate by then. I made a scene. I said if I didn’t get some satisfaction I intended to go to the Daily Gazette offices and tell them the whole story.”

“Good for you,” Don said, immensely impressed by this tired, frightened girl’s courage. “What did they say to that?”

“I might have exploded a bomb in the place. The secretary went away to consult someone, and after a long delay, I was taken to Sir Robert Graham’s office. I spoke to his personal secretary. He was brutally curt. He said no one could stop me going to the Gazette, but if I did, I would be sorry. He was almost threatening. He said any publicity about John’s disappearance would only react back on John. He told me to go home and wait. It would be dangerous to make further inquiries and I must be patient. I was so frightened I allowed him to overawe me. I wandered about the streets for some time, wondering what I was to do. Then I became aware that I was being followed I didn’t see who was following me, but I knew instinctively that I was being followed. I took a taxi to Kensington and a black car followed me. I have its number.” She paused to open her handbag and gave Don a slip of paper. “That’s the number. I don’t know if it can be traced.”

“It’s possible,” Don said, taking the paper and slipping it into his pocket. “I’ll see what I can do. Then what happened?”

“I left the taxi at the underground station and went home. I was followed all the way. I did see the man then. He looked like a policeman, but of course but I can’t be sure of that. Later, Mr. Howard, John’s manager, came to see me. He brought the postcard you’ve seen. He didn’t know what to make of it. I didn’t tell him what had happened. He isn’t the kind of man you can confide in. He’s a very good manager, but that’s all. I said John must be pulling his leg. He didn’t seem to think it was much of a joke, as, of course, it wasn’t. He asked if I had heard from

John. I - I said I was expecting to hear from him that day, but I’m sure he didn’t believe me. Then last night I read in the paper that you were going to Venice. I thought you might make some inquiries. I know it’s asking a lot, but I am sure John is also asking for your help. I’ve got to know what’s happened to him.” She again clenched her fists, fighting back her tears. “I’ve got to know, Mr. Micklem!”

“Sure,” Don said quietly. “Don’t worry. I’ll make some inquiries. There is one question I want to ask. Have you yourself any explanation why your husband has disappeared?”

She looked at him startled.

“Why, of course not.”

“Not even a guess ? “

“No.”

“Forgive me asking this, you are quite sure he hasn’t gone off with some woman?”

Her tired, grey eyes looked fearlessly at him.

“I know he hasn’t. John isn’t like that. We live for each other. It’s not one of those things either of us could fake.”

“Fine,” Don said and lit another cigarette before asking, “Have you any reason to believe your husband is still working for MI5? Putting it bluntly, do you think he is an agent, or spy if you like, when he goes to the Continent?”

“I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “I’m beginning to think it might be possible. He would never let me go with him, and now these people are acting so strangely about him. If a spy is caught, the country employing him usually washes their hands of him, don’t they?”

Don shrugged.

“That seems to be the general idea, but we don’t know for certain. Now look, go home and try not to worry. Leave this to me. I have a great deal of admiration for your husband. I’ll do everything I can to find him. I happen to know Sir Robert Graham pretty well. I’ll see him right away. If he can’t or won’t tell me anything, I’ll try Chief Superintendent Dicks of the Special Branch. He is also a good friend of mine. I’ll find something out for you by tonight. Give me your address. I’ll either telephone or come and see you.”

She suddenly put her hands to her face and began to cry.

Don got up and touched her shoulder lightly.

“Don’t let it get you down. It’s a tough break, but if it depends on me, it’s going to be all right. That’s a promise.”

“I’m sorry,” she said shakily, and touched her eyes with her handkerchief. “I don’t know how to thank you. These last days have been horrible. I’m all right now.”

“Go home and take it easy. I’ll try not to keep you waiting any longer than I can help.” He smiled at her and with an effort she smiled back. “You’re not alone on this anymore. Now let me have your address.”

After she had gone, Don stood staring at the opposite wall, his eyes thoughtful. It looked as if Tregarth had got himself into a pretty bad mess. With the Foreign Office and the police hostile, he would have to move cautiously. He grimaced, shrugged and went quickly from the room, calling to Cherry to get the car.

* * *

Sir Robert Graham moved creakily across the hushed, somber lounge of the Sportsman’s Club to his favourite armchair in the bay window, overlooking St. James’s Park.

He was tall and angular. His yellowish, thin face with its white drooping moustache, deepset, shrewd blue eyes and lantern jaw, his morning coat and high winged collar made him an impressive figure. He lowered himself carefully into the chair, stretched out his long, thin legs and nodded to the waiter who set down a glass of port on the coffee table at his side.

Across the lounge, Don waited patiently for the old man to settle himself. Sir Robert had lunched well, Don hoped he would be in a receptive mood. He waited until Sir Robert had sipped his port, then he left his chair and went over to him.

“Hello,” Don said breezily. “May I join you?”

Sir Robert looked up sharply. His keen blue eyes brightened when he saw Don.

“Why, yes,” he said, waving to a chair at his side. “How are you? I thought you were in Venice.”

“With any luck I should be there tomorrow.”

“Flying, of course. Well, well, I suppose it’s all right. I must admit I don’t feel safe in an aircraft. I’ve only been once. Didn’t like it. These days everyone is trying to save time.”

Don took out his cigar case.

“Try one of these. I think you’ll find it better than ordinary.”

Thin, yellow fingers took the offered cigar and carried it to the hooked, aristocratic nose.

“For a young man you have an uncommonly good taste in cigars,” Sir Robert said. “Have a port?”

“I guess not, thank you,” Don said as he lit his own cigar and blew a cloud of smoke luxuriously towards the ceiling.

“How’s life treating you?”

“So-so. Not as spry as I used to be. Hope to get away in a week or so for some shooting. Lord Heddisford’s place. You wouldn’t care to come?”

“I don’t reckon to get back to London until December. I’m going to New York after Venice.”

“You’re going to Venice for the festival, I suppose? I hear they are doing La Cenerentola. Pretty thing. I heard it last year at Glyndebourne.”

They talked opera for a few minutes, then Don said, “There’s something you may be able to help me with, Sir Robert.”

The thick, bushy eyebrows lifted.

“What is it?”

“I’m interested in John Tregarth.”

Don was watching Sir Robert’s face, but it told him nothing. The old man pulled at his cigar, removed it from his lips and regarded the glowing end approvingly.

“Tregarth, eh? Hmm, why should he interest you?”

“I worked with him during the war. I was his pilot when he dropped into Rome in 1942,” Don said. “He had lots of guts. I understand he’s disappeared.”

“So I hear,” Sir Robert said. He reached for his port, drank a little, then shook his head. “This stuff’s not what it was. In my father’s day . . .”

“What’s happened to him?” Don interrupted firmly.

Sir Robert blinked.

“What’s that? Happened to whom?”

Don grinned at him.

“You’re not going to get away with that absentminded act, Sir Robert. Tregarth’s disappeared. I want to know what’s happened to him.”

“I have no idea, my boy,” Sir Robert returned, setting his glass down regretfully. “No idea at all. Well, I suppose I must get back to the grindstone. If I don’t make a move, I won’t be home before seven. Promised the wife I’d take her to the theatre tonight. Some rubbishy thing I have no doubt, but women like anything these days.”

“Is he in trouble?” Don said.

Sir Robert sighed.

“What a persistent young man you are,” he said. “He may be. I don’t know, and quite frankly, I don’t very much care.”

He began to pull his thin frame creakily out of the chair.

Don put his hand on his arm.

“Just a moment,” he said. “I’m not going to apologize for being a damned nuisance. Tregarth’s a good guy. He did a terrific job during the war. If you won’t give me any information, I’ll have to dig it up from somewhere else.”

Sir Robert began to look a little frosty.

“Now look, my boy, let me give you some advice. This is something that doesn’t concern you. Go off to Venice and enjoy yourself.”

A muscle under the Z-shaped scar on Don’s face twitched. It was a sign that he was getting angry.

“I intend to find Tregarth. You can either help me or I’ll look elsewhere,” he said, a slight rasp in his voice.

Sir Robert studied the set, determined face and saw Don meant what he said.

“I can’t help you,” he said quietly. “All I can tell you is that Tregarth has made a fool of himself, and no one can do anything for him. I might add he is not worth bothering about, anyway. I’m being frank with you, Micklem. I am anxious that you shouldn’t go stirring things up. This is a matter of State. I can’t say any more than that. I ask you not to interfere. I don’t think I can put it plainer than that, can I?”

Don looked at him.

“No, but I’m not satisfied, A man who has a fine record suddenly disappears, and you don’t give a damn. You’ve said so. I think that’s pretty horrible. I have to think of Tregarth’s wife. I’ll be frank with you too. I think your department and the police have treated her disgracefully.”

“Scarcely our fault, my boy,” Sir Robert said, getting to his feet. “Tregarth should have thought of his wife before doing what he did. Good afternoon to you.”

He went away, slowly and creakily, nodding his baldhead as he passed to someone he knew.

Don sank back into his chair.

At least he had satisfied himself that the Foreign Office knew of Tregarth’s disappearance. Sir Robert had admitted it was a State matter. No one can do anything for him. That was a pretty damning thing, coming from the Foreign Office. If they can’t do anything, that doesn’t mean I can’t, Don said to himself.

The next move would be to see Dicks of the Special Branch. It would most certainly be a waste of time, but in a case like this, every scrap of information, any unguarded word might be of assistance.

He left the club and drove over to Scotland Yard, Chief Superintendent Tom Dicks sat behind his desk, his red, jovial face placidly contented as he puffed at his pipe.

“Thought you were in Venice, Mr. Micklem,” he said “Didn’t I see something in the evening papers?”

“I got held up, but I hope to get off tomorrow,” Don told him. “I haven’t come up here to be sociable, Super. I want you to do me a favour.”

“Only too pleased. What can I do?”

Don took the slip of paper Hilda Tregarth had given him from his pocket and pushed it across the desk.

“I want this car number traced.”

Dicks looked at the slip, his eyebrows lifted and he glanced sharply at Don.

“This is one of ours. What’s the idea?”

“One of your patrol cars?”

“One of the Special Branch cars.”

“I see.” Don had rather suspected he would hear this. “Why are your people shadowing Mrs. Tregarth?”

Dicks’ face became expressionless. He removed his pipe and rubbed the hot bowl against his fleshy nose.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Micklem, I don’t think that is any concern of yours.”

“I think it is,” Don said mildly. “Where’s Tregarth?”

Dicks laid his pipe regretfully in the ash bowl on his desk.

“Why are you interested in him?”

“I worked with him during the war. His wife has been to see me. Apparently she has been here and hasn’t been too well treated. I thought I might be more successful if I saw you.”

Dicks shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Micklem, I can’t help you. If you want any information about Tregarth, you’ll have to talk to Sir Robert Graham. He’s handling the matter, I believe. It’s nothing to do with us.”

“I see.” Don tilted back his chair, his face hardening. “And yet the Ministry told Mrs. Tregarth that it was a police matter.”

Dicks lifted his heavy shoulders. He looked irritatingly placid.

“He’s not our pigeon, sir. You know I’d help you if I could, but he’s not our pigeon.”

“But aren’t you looking for him?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Why are your people shadowing Mrs. Tregarth if Tregarth isn’t your pigeon?”

“Are we? I don’t know everything that goes on here. I have quite enough to do without checking up on what my colleagues are up to.”

Don remembered what Hilda Tregarth had said. It was like talking to a brick wall.

“Can’t you tell me anything about Tregarth off the record, Super?” he asked persuasively. “Come on; you must know something. I want to find this guy.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Micklem. I’ve nothing to tell you. But I’ll give you a bit of advice. Keep clear of this business. It’s no concern of yours, and I’m sure Sir Robert would appreciate it if you didn’t take it further.”

“I’m sure he would,” Don said dryly and got to his feet. “Okay, sorry to have taken up your time.”

“Always glad to see you, Mr. Micklem,” Dicks said, rising and shaking hands. “Hope you have a nice trip.”

Don drove back to 25A Upper Brook Mews, his mind busy. He had learned very little, but what he had learned intrigued him. According to Sir Robert, Tregarth had made a fool of himself and was in a mess. Sir Robert should know, but Don remembered Tregarth and doubted if he was the type to make a fool of himself. He decided to keep an open mind on this angle and wait for more information. Why were the police shadowing Mrs. Tregarth? They knew she couldn’t leave the country. Did they imagine Tregarth would return and try to see her?

Don remembered the wording of Tregarth’s postcard:
Find
it very hot here. Unable to get away as planned.
Was he in some mess with the Italians? It sounded as if he were in hiding or even in prison.

Again Don felt that cold, feathery chill crawl up his spine. I’m going to find him, he thought. This is right up my alley. I’ve been sitting around doing nothing for too long. It’s time

I exerted myself and went into action. He pulled up outside his house and went in. Marian met him in the hall.

“Now, don’t nag me,” he said hastily. “I’ve one or two things to do before I get down to work. I won’t be long.”

“Captain Hennessey is waiting to see you,” Marian said with ominous restraint. “I told him you were out, but he insisted on waiting for you.”

“What does he want? Okay. I’ll see him. Where is he?”

Marian motioned towards the lounge. Don crossed the hall, opened the door and went in.

Captain Ed. Hennessey of the U.S. Army Intelligence, a big, sandy-haired man with a red, freckled face, was sitting in an armchair, glancing through the morning paper. He got to his feet and grinned when he saw Don.

“Hi, Don,” he said, offering a big, hairy hand. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” Don said, shaking hands. “What do you want? I haven’t seen you in months.”

“This is an official visit. Why couldn’t you have gone to Venice today instead of stirring up trouble?”

“Is that what I’ve done?” Don asked casually. “Have a drink?”

“That’s a good idea. I never drink before six, but I guess my watch is slow.”

As Don mixed two highballs, he said, “An official visit? What does that mean?”

“You’re getting yourself mixed up in something that doesn’t concern you or the United States. I’ve been told to warn you off.”

Don gave Hennessey one of the tall, frosted glasses, then taking the other to an easy chair, he sat down.

“Is that right? Who told you to come?”

“The old man himself .”

Don’s eyebrows lifted.

“You mean the Ambassador?”

“Yeah. The Foreign Office has been on him. They imagine you’re going to be a nuisance. They want you to layoff.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” Don asked, a rasp in his voice.

Hennessey, who knew Don well, recognized the danger signs.

“Now, don’t start blowing your top. We can’t stop you from interfering, but we’re asking you not to. This set-up could be tricky. We don’t want to annoy the Foreign Office. This business is at a pretty high level.”

“What are you talking about?” Don asked with a deceptive look of bewilderment on his face. “What business?”

Hennessey blinked.

“Don’t you know?”

“I know a guy I once met in 1942 has disappeared and his wife has been to me to ask me to find him. What he’s got to do with the Foreign Office or with the old man I wouldn’t know,”

Don said shortly.

Hennessey scratched the back of his neck while he stared uneasily at Don.

“Sir Robert did explain to the old man, but I wasn’t included in his confidence,” he said. “But from what the old man told me I can make a fair guess at what’s happened. This is confidential, but you might behave yourself if you know how serious it could be. It looks as if Tregarth’s skipped. He’s gone behind the Iron Curtain.”