During the war, Harry had served in a Commando unit, and he hadn't forgotten his training. One of his specialities had been the knifing of German sentries. Many a time he and other members of his unit had been landed on the sand dunes of France. Harry had gone forward alone, moving soundlessly, until he had located the sentry. He had reached the unsuspecting man and had driven his knife into his neck and the sentry had died without knowing who had struck the blow.
Jacopo wouldn't have relaxed as he munched his apple if he had known that Harry was moving silently in his direction.
As it was, he flicked the core of the apple away and turned his thoughts to Willie. He wondered what information Willie had that he was so excited about. Jacopo wrinkled his nose in disgust. He had no time for Willie: all the man could think of was money, women and cars.
Jacopo's one interest in life was singing. He had a natural tenor voice, and if he hadn't been so hopelessly lazy he might have become a second-rate tenor in some third-rate opera company. He hummed a snatch of La donna i mobile under his breath which was a mistake for Harry was within forty yards of him. Harry hadn't seen him, but his shaip ears caught the hummed tune and his blunt-featured, pugnacious face lit up with a grin.
Jacopo felt in his pocket for another apple. He wished now he had thought of bringing a bottle of wine along with him.
It would be another two hours before Menotto relieved him. Menotto was another of Alsconi's watchers. He and Jacopo got on well together. They were both lazy, both unambitious and both disliked violence. He found the apple, rubbed it on his sleeve and looked at it with a contented expression on his thin, swarthy face.
As he was about to bite into it, Harry who was by now within three yards of him seemed to Jacopo to rise out of the ground and drop on him.
Jacopo nearly died of fright as Harry's hands closed around his throat. He felt steel-like fingers that bruised his flesh tighten unbearably on each side of his neck. He had one brief, horrible moment as he realized he was being killed, then a red light flashed before his terrified eyes and he plunged down into darkness.
Harry got to his feet. Cupping his mouth with his hands, he bawled at the top of his voice, "Hey, Cherry!"
He then took from his pocket two lengths of cord he had purposely brought with him and set about tying Jacopo's wrists and ankles together.
Puffing and panting, Cherry came lumbering up the drive, the sword drawn and flashing in the sun.
Harry waved to him.
"I've got him all right," he said. "I didn't want you to get sunstroke standing out in the open."
Cherry snorted. He came and stood over the unconscious form of Jacopo and gave him a poke with his sword.
"Hey, steady on," Harry said. "That sticker's dangerous."
"I wish I'd caught him," Cherry said darkly. "I'd have given him something to remember me by."
Harry hoisted Jacopo up and slung him over bis broad shoulder. "I bet you would, but I want this bird to talk. Come on.
Let's get back and bring him round. Maybe he'll be able to tell us how we can get in to Mr Micklem."
"If he doesn't, he'll be sorry," Cherry said, who was obviously thirsting for blood.
Harry marched off to the villa where Marian was standing on the steps watching for him. Her eyes grew wide when she saw the unconscious body hanging over his shoulder, and Cherry, his sword flashing in the dying rays of the sun, marching behind.
"I've got him," Harry said a little unnecessarily as he came up the veranda steps. He dumped Jacopo down on the boards. "A bucket of water might fit the bill, Cherry."
"I'll get it," Cherry said, and hurried off.
"Will he be all right, Harry?" Marian asked, looking down at Jacopo's slack, white face.
"Right as ninepence, miss," Harry said cheerfully. "I only just squeezed him a bit. Scared the life out of him, but no real damage done."
Cherry came back with a bucket of water and without waiting for instructions, emptied the bucket over Jacopo's head and shoulders.
Seconds later, spluttering and gasping, Jacopo was sitting up, his back resting against the veranda rail.
Harry knelt beside him.
"Listen, Joe," he said in a slow distinct tone, "can you understand English?"
Jacopo nodded, his eyes bulging.
"Right," Harry said. "I want to know how we can get to Mr Micklem. I have an idea you can tell me." He brought up his fist and touched Jacopo's nose with it. "You can either tell me willingly or I can force it out of you. That's up to you, but you'll tell me sooner or later, don't make any mistake about that."
Jacopo looked into the cold, grey eyes and what he saw there made him shudder.
"I'll tell you whatever you want to know, signore" he said hurriedly.
"That's the boy," Harry said approvingly. He unfastened the cord around Jacopo's ankles and then caught hold of his sopping shirt front and hauled him to his feet. "Come on inside and tell me all about it." He led him into the lounge.
"Perhaps you'll take down what he's going to say, miss?" he went on to Marian as he shoved Jacopo on to a straightback chair. "I know where Mr Micklem is," he went on to Jacopo. "I've talked to him within the past half-hour on the telephone, so be careful what you say. The first lie you tell me I'll punch you in the right eye. Understand?"
Cringing back, Jacopo said he understood.
Alsconi was mixing himself a whisky and soda when Menotto came in through the casement windows.
Alsconi paused, the ice tongs in his hand while he stared at Menotto.
"What do you want?" he asked softly. "I didn't call you."
Menotto's fat, swarthy face was pale, and sweat glistened on his forehead. His dark curls lay limp; his wide, dark eyes were frightened.
"They've got Jacopo," he stammered.
Alsconi selected a cube of ice and placed it in the glass.
"Who has got Jacopo?" he asked, moving to his chair. He sat down.
"The people at the villa. I went down there to take over. I saw one of them carry Jacopo into the house," Menotto said.
"About ten minutes later, two cars arrived. In them were six men, Italians. They didn't look as if they were from the police."
Alsconi drank half the whisky, then he put down the glass and scratched the side of his nose.
"I see," he said. "I see."
Menotto watched him fearfully as he stared blankly at the opposite wall.
Alsconi realized immediately that this was his end in Siena. He realized too that he had made a final mistake in sending Jacopo to watch the villa. Willie would never have been caught; he had been a professional. Jacopo was nothing better than an amateur and he would talk. He knew too much. He knew where Micklem was. He knew of Alsconi's activities.
He was the proof the police wanted: yes, a fatal mistake.
Alsconi looked at Menotto.
"You and I will leave here in half an hour," he said. "Bring the car to the side entrance. You will find in my office five wooden boxes. Put them in the car. There is a handbag in my bedroom, ready packed, put that in the car too. Pack a bag for yourself. We shall not be coming back."
"Yes, signore" Menotto said and went quickly from the room.
Alsconi got to his feet and carrying his half-empty glass to the liquor cabinet, he poured more whisky into the glass.
He had made preparations for this situation more than a year ago. He had rented a villa in Palermo, and in the villa he had installed a strong-room that now held the bulk of his fortune. He would fly down there that night. His yacht was ready in the harbour. The money would be transferred to the yacht and he would sail for some out-of-the-way port in North Africa. It was as simple as that. Then he remembered Crantor, and he frowned. Grantor was bringing with him fifteen thousand pounds sterling in five-pound notes, and Alsconi was short of English currency.
Crantor was coming by air-taxi. He would take off from a field near Rye where no prying customs official would inquire into the luggage he was carrying. He would land on a disused American Air Force landing strip forty miles from Siena.