1954 - Mission to Venice Read Free

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.

     

Two: Your Own Personal Funeral

    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