Free Vendetta for the Saint. by Leslie Charteris Page A

too careful. You are not careful
enough. Per haps you do
not believe how powerful and vicious these people are, though I do not think that would make any difference to you. But I will help
you as much as I can. In return, I ask you to tell me ev erything you learn that concerns the Mafia.”
    “With
pleasure,” Simon said.
    He did not think it worth while to mention a
small mental reservation, that while he would be glad to share any facts he gleaned, he would
consider any substantial booty he stumbled upon to be a privateer’s legitimate perquisite.
    “You could start by telling me how much
you know about
Destamio,” he said.
    “Not much that is any use. It is all
guessing and association.
Everyone here is either a member of the Mafia or too frightened of them to
talk. But I am forced to
deduce, from the people he meets, and where he goes, and the money he can spend, and the awe that he inspires, that he must
be in the upper councils of the organization. The rest of his family does not seem to be involved, which is
un usual; but I keep an eye on
them.”
    “After seeing the niece, Gina, I can
understand about that eye
of yours. What others are there?”
    “His sister, Donna Maria, a real faccia
tosta. And an ancient
uncle well gone into senility. They have a
country house outside the town, an old baronial
mansion, very grim and run down.”
    “You
must tell me how to get there.”
    “You would like to see Gina again?”
Ponti asked, with a knowing Latin grin.
    “I might have better luck than
you,” said the Saint
brazenly. “And that seems the most logical place to start probing into
Al’s family background and
past life. Besides which, think how excited he’ll be when he hears I have been calling at his an cestral home and getting to know his folks.”
    Ponti
looked at him long and soberly.
    “One of us is mad, or perhaps
both,” he said. “But
I will draw you a map to show you how to get there.”

 
    III
     
    How
Simon Templar hired a Museum
    Piece,
and Gina Destamio became
    Available
     
     
    His
decision made, Simon Templar intended to pay his call on the Destamio manor with the
least possible delay—figuring that the faster he kept mov ing, the more he would keep Destamio off
balance, and thus gain
the more advantage for himself. But to make himself suitably presentable, his slashed jacket first had to be repaired.
    The cashier directed him to the nearest sartoria, where the
proprietor was just unlocking after the three-hour midday break. After much energetic and colorful discussion, a
price was agreed on that made
allowance for the unseemly speed demanded, yet was still a little less than the cost of
a new coat. Half an hour was finally set as the time for comple tion; and the Saint, knowing that he would be lucky to get it in three
times that period, proceeded in search of his
next requisite.
    The tailor directed him around the next
corner to where a
welcoming sign announced Servizio Eccellento di Autonoleggio. But for once in the history of advertising, the auto rental service may
truly have been so
excellent that all its cars had been taken. At
any rate, perhaps with some help from the
sheer numbers of seasonal tourists, the entire fleet of vehicles seemed to be gone. The only one left in sight was an antique and battered Fiat 500 that had been largely dismembered by
the single mechanic who crawled from
its oily entrails and wiped his hands
on a piece of cotton waste as Simon
approached.
    “You
have cars to rent?” said the Saint.
    “Sissignore.” The man’s sapient eye took in his patently un-Italian appearance. “I guess
mebbe you like-a rent-a one?”
    “I guess I would,” said the Saint,
patiently re signing himself
to haggling down a price that would
be automatically doubled now that the en trepreneur had identified him as a visiting
for eigner.
    “We got-a plenty cars, but all-a rent-a now, gahdam, except-a
dis sonovabitch.”
    It was evident that the mechanic’s English
had been