He said he would do his best, suggested I might like to pay the usual retaining fee of seventeen thousand lire, took my cheque, assured me that he would have something for me before long, and bowed himself out of the apartment.
I opened another window, and then left the apartment myself to keep my date with Matthews.
I found him drinking Scotch and crushed ice at Harry's bar: a tall, thin, hard-faced man with grey, steady eyes, a hooked nose and a jutting jaw.
We had a couple of drinks, and then went into the restaurant. We began our meal with bottarga, which is a kind of caviar made of mullet roes, followed by polo in padella or chicken cut up and cooked with ham, garlic, marjoram, tomatoes and wine. We talked of this and that and enjoyed the meal. It wasn't until we were eating the famous Roman cheese, ricoita, sprinkled with cinnamon, that I got down to business.
"I want some information from you, Jim," I said.
He grinned at me.
"I'm not such a mug as to think you bought this meal for me because you love me," he returned. "Go ahead - what is it?"
"Does the name of Myra Setti mean anything to you?"
His reaction was immediate. The pleased, relaxed expression on his face slipped away. His eyes became intent.
"Hello, hello," he said. "Now this could be interesting. What makes you ask that?"
"Sorry, Jim, I'm not giving reasons. Who is she?"
"Frank Setti's daughter, of course. You should know that."
"The gangster?"
"Oh, come on, you're not all that wet behind the ears."
"Don't be superior. I know something about Setti, but not much. Where is he right now?"
"That's something I'd like to know myself. He's somewhere in Italy, but just where he's holed up I don't know and the police don't know either. He left New York about three months ago. He arrived by boat at Naples, and registered with the police, giving the hotel Vesuvius as an address. Then he vanished, and the police haven't been able to trace him since. All we know is that he hasn't left Italy, but just where he's got to, no one knows."
"Not even his daughter?"
"She probably does, but she isn't talking. I've had a word with her. She's lived in Rome for the past five years, and she says her father hasn't made contact with her; not even written to her."
"Tell me something about Setti, Jim."
Matthews leaned back in his chair.
"You wouldn't like to buy me a brandy, would you? Seems a pity not to finish such a good meal correctly."
I signalled to the waiter, ordered two large Stocks, and when they arrived, I offered Matthews a cigar I had been keeping on ice for such an occasion.
He examined it dubiously, bit off the end and set light to it. We both watched it burn a little anxiously. When he had satisfied himself that I hadn't sold him a pup, he said, "There's not much I know that you don't know about Setti. He was boss of the Bakers' and Waiters' Union. He's a tough and dangerous thug who stops at nothing to get his own way. He and Menotti were sworn enemies, both of them wanting to be the head man. You probably know that Menotti had a load of heroin planted in Setti's apartment. He then tipped off the Narcotic Squad, who moved in, grabbed the load and arrested Setti. But it was a clumsy job, and Setti's attorney didn't have much trouble in shooting holes in the D.A.'s case. Setti was found not guilty, but there was such a yell from the press, who were gunning for him, that he was later charged as an undesirable alien and deported. He had always kept his Italian nationality, so the Italian authorities couldn't stop him from landing here. They were busy trying to find some excuse to get rid of him when he vanished."
"I hear the police think he engineered Menotti's killing."
"That's more or less certain. Before he left, he warned Menotti he would fix him. Two months later, Menotti was killed. You can bet your last buck that Setti arranged it."
"How did it happen? Didn't Menotti take the threat seriously?"
"He certainly did. He never moved a yard without a bunch of gunmen surrounding-him, but Setti's killer got him in the end. Menotti made a fatal mistake. He used to go to an apartment once a week regularly to spend the night with his girlfriend. He thought he was safe in there. His boys took him there; they searched the apartment. They waited until the girl arrived, then, after Menotti had bolted himself in, they went home. In the morning, they arrived outside the door, identified themselves and escorted Menotti back to his home. On this particular night, they went through the usual routine, but when they came to collect Menotti the following morning, they found the door open and Menotti dead."
"What about the girl? Who was she?"
Matthews shrugged.
"No one seems to know. There was no sign of her when they found Menotti and no one has seen her since. She didn't live at the apartment. She was there waiting for Menotti when he and his boys arrived. None of them ever got a look at her. She would stand looking out of the window while they searched the apartment. All they can say is that she was a blonde with a good shape. The police couldn't trace her. They thought she must have let the killer in, because the door wasn't forced. I think it's pretty certain she sold Menotti out."
I brooded over this for a moment, then asked, "Do you know a big, broad-shouldered Italian, with a white zigzag scar on his face whose first name is Carlo?"
Matthews shook his head.
"He's a new one on me. Where does he fit in?"
"I don't know, but I want to find out. If you ever get a line on him, Jim, will you let me know?"
"Oh, sure." He tapped the ash off his cigar. "Look, tell me, what is all this sudden interest in Setti about?"
"I can't go into that right now, but if I turn up anything that you can use, I'll let you know. Sorry, but that's as far as I can go at this stage."
He pulled a face.
"I hate a guy going secretive on me," he said, then shrugged. "Well, okay, after all, the lunch wasn't so bad." He pushed back his chair. "If you haven't any work to do this afternoon, I have. Anything else you want to know before I get back to the treadmill?"
"I don't think so, but if I do think of anything, I'll call you."
"That's the idea. Don't be scared to pick my brains." He got to his feet. "You don't happen to know where Setti's hiding, do you?"
"If I did, I'd tell you."
He shook his head sadly.
"Yeah, I know: like I'd tell my wife my secretary has a chest like Jane Russell. Well, so long, handsome. If I don't see you before then, I'll be at your funeral."
I watched him go, then for the next ten minutes, I turned over in my mind what he had told me. I hadn't learned a great deal, but what there was of it had been worth the money I had paid out on the lunch.
II
By the time I had got back to my apartment, I had mapped out in my mind what I was going to tell Chalmers. My best plan I told myself, anyway for the moment, was to be as noncommittal as I could: there were angles to this business that had to be investigated before I could even think of giving Chalmers a glimmer of the truth.