Assignment - Lili Lamaris Page 2

  "Small order," Durell said.

  "Well, you're in charge. You can have more people if you want."

  "Who's watching the Chinese and Mideast embassies in Austria and Switzerland?"

  "Tom Sweeney has a team working there.”

  "All right," Durell said. He stood up. He felt tired from the air flight to Rome and depressed by the weather. He didn't like the state of Shedlock's nerves. "I assume the Narcotics Bureau will cooperate fully?"

  "Naturally. Barring red tape, as usual."

  "To whom do I report?"

  "Colonel Powelton, at the Embassy here," Shedlock said. "When you nail Martin, of course. Keep the local authorities out of it, if you can."

  "Fine. Do you ride down with me tomorrow morning?"

  Shedlock shook his head. "I'll contact you in Eufemia. We'll work out the meeting with Lili then. I wish you luck, Sam. You'll need it."

  "With the girl?" Durell said, smiling slightly. "Or with Mitch Martin?"

  "Hard to tell which might be the most dangerous," Shedlock said.

  He reached for the bottle as Durell turned to the door.

  TWO

  Durell went abound to the American Express to change his currency and then found a garage and rented a small gray Fiat and drove it back to the Excelsior, leaving it parked in the hotel garage. It was still raining when he went up to his room.

  The door was still locked, but a man waited for him inside.

  The visitor had made himself comfortable in a wing chair near the tall windows, but he jumped to his feet as Durell came in, and his face gave an impression of great tension as he turned to Durell. He was a middle-aged man with iron-gray hair and a square, strong, aggressive face with hard brown eyes that winked with all the warmth of a blinker on a calculating machine. He put out a firm hand and said: "Signor Sam Durell?"

  Durell nodded, leaned back against the heavy, ornate door, and exhaled quietly. "Yes."

  "Forgive the intrusion, signor, but—"

  "How did you get in here?"

  The man waved a deprecatory hand. "The hotel clerk —he sent the manager to help me—"

  "How did you know I was occupying this room?"

  "The Embassy advised me, signor."

  "Who, in the Embassy?"

  "A Colonel Daniel Powelton, I believe. Look here, I-"

  "Your name?"

  The man stared as if in disbelief at not being recognized, and then smiled slowly, but without warmth. "Oh, I see. You were not expecting me. I am Dante Lamaris. I am Lili's father."

  Durell took off his raincoat and went to the stand where his suitcase rested and opened the grip and took out a carton of American cigarettes. He lit one and heard the man talking, in an apologetic tone that was merely a formality, and when he had his anger under control he turned back to Lamaris and said, "What do you want with me?"

  "The Embassy people said you were on this case."

  "What case?"

  "Oh, come now, Mr. Durell—"

  "What case?" Durell repeated.

  Lamaris shrugged. Some of the aggressive quality went out of his manner. "This matter that involves my daughter. I understand you have been placed in charge of the investigation."

  "Colonel Powelton told you all this?"

  "Of course. But no harm has been done. After all, it is my own daughter—I can be trusted—"

  "Powelton has a loose mouth," Durell said. "I haven't anything to say to you, Mr. Lamaris."

  Dante Lamaris stared unblinkingly for a moment. It was a strange look, not quite inimical, but not friendly. Durell felt as if he had been dissected, weighed, analyzed, and put together again. He could not tell if the results were satisfactory to Lamaris, or not.

  He knew a little about Lamaris. A naturalized American of Greek descent, he was a shipowner and merchant trader, a man who spent most of his time in Europe, on the Riviera or in offices in Athens, from where he directed the web of commerce that rated him as one of the ten wealthiest men in the world. No one knew much about Lamaris' family life.

  "You are angry, or simply annoyed," the man said, “because your cover identity was divulged to me. Pray forgive me. I am too deeply concerned in this matter of my daughter to be sensitive about a few broken eggs. I used what influence I have—something I am reluctant to apply, normally—to learn about you. You must not blame Colonel Powelton."

  "All right," Durell said. "What do you want of me?" "You have been put in charge of the case that involves my daughter, Lili. You must understand that I speak from a father's heart," Lamaris said. He paused, then continued. "My only concern is that my daughter be saved from these people you are hunting. From this Mitchell Martin you wish to capture.” "You've been well briefed."

  "Information is the key to successful resolution,” Lamaris said. He spoke English with a faint accent that was a blend of half a dozen different languages. "One cannot make proper judgments unless the facts are available. I know a great deal about you, Mr. Durell, and I trust you. I am here to plead for your compassion."

  "None is needed."

  "I refer to my daughter. I ask nothing for myself." "I do not judge your daughter."

  "But she is involved with desperate and dangerous people. All at once, despite much effort and attention on my part all through her life, she has escaped me." Lamaris opened his hands and spread his fingers wide, as if to exhibit something trickling through his grip. "I am not permitted to see her-I, her father. She will not talk to me or let me help her."

  "Have you tried?"

  "Of course. But she has turned away from me and refuses to see me at her villa."

  "Forgive a personal question, but whose money does she live on?"

  "It is her own. I made a substantial settlement on her some time ago. I have no power to control her life in that respect." Lamaris smiled sadly and ran his fingers through his gray hair, and settled himself more thoroughly in the red wing chair. He looked up at Durell from under thick brows. His eyes were intelligent and hard. "It is an irony that all my influential capacities in remote comers of the world should be useless in this matter which is closer to my heart than anything else could possibly be. I am a widower, and Lili is all I have. I know my reputation, Mr. Durell. I know I am considered a greedy, grasping, immoral man. Perhaps I am. But in this case of my daughter—well, I am helpless. I must beg for your indulgence."

  "Just what do you want me to do?"

  "I must ask you not to hurt Lili in any way."

  "How do you suggest it may be avoided?"

  "Spare your efforts in her direction. Concentrate on Mitch Martin, this man who has infatuated her and turned her life into a nightmare. You do not know my daughter, Mr. Durell. She was always a sensitive, gentle creature, almost detached from this harsh and ugly world. Now she is connected with this—this criminal, this Martin type. I want you to concentrate on him, rather than Lili. Leave her in her quiet exile in San Eufemia. She cannot possibly help you. But find Martin and—"

  Durell waited a moment and said curiously, "And what?"

  "I want you to kill him," Lamaris said flatly. "Destroy him. Stamp him into the earth."

  "We don't operate quite that way," Durell said.

  "It can be done easily and legally. I know that if Martin is captured, the ponderous mechanism of the law will provide him with a loophole for escape. He has done it before, even to the Senate. But for what he has done to my daughter, no escape can be permitted. I want him dead. I want to look down on his dead face and spit on him. I want you, personally, to kill him."

  "Just like that?"

  “You may accomplish it in any way you see fit. Just as long as I can view his body when the time comes." There was a deep hatred and malignancy in the man s voice that made his words shake and tremble in the quiet air of the hotel room. "I will pay you well. A personal expression of my thanks to you, when the job is finished. I will give you ten thousand dollars when you advise me that Martin is dead, and another ten when I see the body."

  Durell crushed out his cigarette. He said dryly, "You weren't briefed well enough on me, Mr. Lamaris."

  "The money is not enough?"

  "It could never be enough."

  "You may name your own figure."

  "Why are you so anxious that I leave your daughter alone?'

  "It is Martin who corrupted her. Martin is your objective, is he not? Is my request so unreasonable? I simply want to protect her—my own flesh and blood—my only daughter—"

  "She is a woman who apparently has made her own choice in her way of life."

  "Nonsense!" Lamaris lurched to his feet. His face was suddenly congested with angry blood. "What do you want of me? Name your own price, Mr. Durell. I know your capacities. Your reputation has been extolled to me in words that cannot be questioned. You are the man who can get Mitch Martin for me. You are the one I can trust."

  "I'll do this job my own way, as I see fit," Durell said. "It will not be your way, Mr. Lamaris."

  "You resent my interference? You think I ought to stand idly by and see my daughter ensnared in a dirty business that will scar her for the rest of her life?"

  "I don't care what you do," Durell said. "I have my own work to take care of. You don't belong in the picture. I don't like to be told how to handle my job."

  "I want Mitch Martin dead. Nothing more. As soon as possible."

  "Do you know where he is?" Durell asked suddenly.

  Lamaris walked to the window and stood with his thick, square hands clasped behind his back. He was silent for a long moment. Rain dripped solemnly from the ornate stone work that decorated the window casing. Traffic sounds came up from the Via Veneto in dim, murmurous waves.

  "No," Lamaris said finally. "I cannot help you find him. I do not know where Martin is hiding."

  "Have you hired men on your own initiative to find him?"

  "Yes, but they have been useless. Worse than useless, I fear. They have caused Martin to take alarm and vanish and their efforts have only added to my daughter's resentment of me. I cannot convince her that my motives spring only from a desire to see her happy and safe.” Lamaris looked at Durell. "Name your price," he said quietly. "Please. I will pay it."

  Durell picked up a dark fedora on the credenza near the doorway and held it out for the man. "I am not an assassin for hire."

  "But if in the course of your investigation you meet Martin and kill him—"

  "No," Durell said. "No deal."

  "I have more influence than you suspect. I could help you or hurt your career—"

  "Do as you please," Durell said. "But get out. Now."

  For a moment, the man's face reddened with anger again. Then he smiled. His mouth was full and sensual. There was no hint of what he was really thinking as he said goodbye.

  Durell closed the door after him softly and then exhaled a tired breath and went to the telephone.

  He reached the Embassy with no difficulty and asked to speak to Colonel Daniel Powelton. Colonel Powelton, in his assignment as military attache to the Ambassador, was liaison man for K Section and the diplomatic corps attached to State. He sounded slightly embarrassed when Durell identified himself.

  "Oh, I say. Has Lamaris been to see you?"

  "He was here," Durell said grimly. "Why did you break my cover?"

  "After all, Durell, a man like Dante Lamaris—"

  "I want to see you," Durell said abruptly. "Right now."

  "You were not supposed to contact us until I—"

  "Shut up and listen to me," Durell said. "I want to see you. Bring everything you've got on Lili Lamaris and any reports that Purdy Kent turned over to your files."

  "Really, now—"

  "Will you come here, or shall I call at the Embassy for you?"

  There was a moment's pause. "As a matter of fact, I was on my way to the local police headquarters. In reference to poor Purdy, you see. The Embassy must make arrangements about the body."

  "I'll meet you there, then."

  "Very well. I'd better tell you how to get there."

  "I know the way," Durell said. "I've been to the morgue in Rome before."

  THREE

  A MAN in a green Panizza hat was sitting in the lobby of the Excelsior when Durell came down. It was the same man he had seen hanging around the courtyard of the studio on the Via Margutta, at Shedlock's place. When Durell walked out into the street, the man in the Panizza hat folded his newspaper and followed.

  He left the Fiat in the garage and walked to the morgue, making no attempt to shake off the man who shadowed him. He thought wryly that a hat like that hardly made the job easier for the other man and marked him as a nonprofessional.

  Colonel Powelton was already there, talking to a plainclothes lieutenant of the Rome metropolitan police. The arrangements for shipping Purdy Kent's body home to the States were routine. The Italian cop was named Marusco, and he was a short, slim man in a dark blue suit, with a bald head and a huge black moustache. Marusco shook hands briefly with Durell when Powelton introduced them.

  "Mr. Durell is working with our intelligence people," Powelton said pompously. "Naturally, we're interested in getting all the facts in Kent's death, and we will co-operate in every way with your department."

  "It is a simple murder, signer." Marusco said. He eyed Durell competently and smiled slightly, as if recognizing Durell for what he was and feeling relief that he was not to deal entirely with Powelton. "The man's throat was cut. He was robbed. His wrist watch, his wallet, his identification was mostly missing. The killing was done with a stiletto." Marusco shrugged expressively. "There were no other clues."

  "Have no witnesses come forward?" Durell asked.

  "None, signor."

  "How was he found?"

  "It is a neighborhood of poor reputation, signor. He was killed in an alley. Or, at any rate, that is where he was dragged to die."

  "Then he wasn't killed instantly?"

  "The wound was mortal. He bled profusely. Perhaps he had two, or three, or five minutes of life left after the blow was struck," Marusco said. "It was raining, signor, and the rain washed much of the blood away. He could have been carried there but it could not have been from any great distance, considering the wound. There was enough blood in the alley to advise us that this was the spot where Kent actually died, where his heart stopped pumping. Yes, he could have been struck down elsewhere, but the neighborhood is an ancient one, signor, full of small streets and dark alleys and houses of evil note."

  "Is there any suggestion as to what Kent was doing there in the first place?"

  Marusco smiled. "I should think you would be better informed on that than I. On our reports it is a murder with robbery as a motive."

  "The knife wasn't found?"

  "No, signor."

  It was a dead end for Purdy Kent as well as Durell, and Marusco made it plain from his manner and speech that he washed his hands of anything that smacked of Embassy matters. Durell went down to look at Purdy Kent's body. There was nothing to be learned from the corpse. The cold flesh resembled Kent only superficially. Durell walked out of the morgue with Colonel Powelton and led the way to a nearby cafe. He saw that the rain had stopped, but the air felt cold and damp.

  The man in the green hat sat in a taxi nearby. Durell glimpsed a sharp, dark face beyond the taxi windows, a rather long nose, a bored mouth. The man's eyes swung and met Durell's and turned quickly away. The head went forward, ducking toward cupped hands and the man lit a cigarette. Durell walked on and chose a table near the rear of the cafe and sat with his back against the tiled wall. He ordered espresso and saw that most of the people at the small round tables were neighborhood people.

  Colonel Powelton ordered cognac. He wore his uniform and a chestful of World War II theater ribbons and the French Legion of Honor. He looked like an armchair colonel to Durell, and he acted Like one. His manners were phony English, and he was too eager to please.

  "You understand, Durell, that you're in charge of the field operations on this one. Of course, I only come into it when you make your report to me, and I simply relay it to the proper people in Washington."

  "Why did you send Lamaris to me?"

  "The man insisted, and I decided he should not be antagonized."

  "Why not? You could get someone killed with your loose mouth," Durell said flatly.

  Powelton flushed. His pale, manicured hands clenched for a moment on the marble table top, and then he laughed softly. "You're quite touchy. I’ve heard about you and your work, Durell. They call you the Cajun, don t they?"

  "You saw what happened to Purdy Kent. Was it your fault? Did your loose mouth tell someone he was coming in to contact Shedlock?"

  "Now, really, old man, I don t have to sit here and listen—"

  "Yes, you do. Sit down," Durell said, when Powelton started to rise from the chair. "I don't know if Lamaris paid you anything to tell him about me, or not. It's water over the dam. If I offend your sensibilities, I can't help it because I'm somewhat upset about Purdy Kent and being called on by Dante Lamaris. And a few other things. Kent wasn't killed by any chance street mugger. He wasn't killed by an amateur, either. He was too good at his job to be taken by surprise, except by an expert. You understand that, don't you?"

  Powelton drank his cognac with one gulp. His eyes shifted to the street. His pale hands trembled slightly.

  "So he was followed back to Rome from San Eufemia," Durell went on. "He was watching the girl, Lili Lamaris, there. He was followed by an expert, a professional, and killed professionally. That means the cover job and the stakeout on the girl are blown full of holes—like my own cover, and like Shedlock's.''

  "I'm sorry, I have no idea how it happened," Powelton muttered.

  "You're sure of that?"

  "I swear it!"

  "It means that Shedlock and Purdy Kent's work goes up in smoke. The girl is being protected by someone who knows his business."

  "Mitch Martin, perhaps."

  Durell started to speak angrily, then checked himself. "Maybe. But it isn't likely. I told you that the people who killed Kent weren't just hoodlums in the narcotics racket. They were experts. Nobody else could have killed Purdy Kent that way."