crushing punch on the side of his jaw.
Don came up in time to see the man in the white hat drop like a sack of coal on to the paving stones.
“Nice work, Joe,” he said, bending over the inert body.
“You see, signore, it is as I say. I go boom! and he is no more,” Giuseppe said proudly and he blew on his fist. “He will sleep a long time now.”
Don was going swiftly through the unconscious man’s pockets. He found a short stabbing knife, but little else to interest him. There was no clue on the man to tell Don who he was.
He took out his lighter and holding the flame close to the dark, hawk-like face, he said, “Ever seen him before, Giuseppe?”
“No, signore. He is a stranger to me.”
Don straightened up.
“Okay; take me to Calle Mondello fast,” he said.
A few minutes quick walking brought them to the Rialto Bridge. Here Don paused.
He remembered Louisa Peccati’s warning to be very careful. There might be more than one man watching him. Before he went to this place, he had to be certain no one else was following him.
“You go on ahead,” he said. “Go slowly and make a noise as you walk. Don’t go immediately to this Calle. I want to be sure no one else is watching us. Do you understand?”
Giuseppe nodded. This was far more interesting and exciting than rowing a gondola.
“You will be all right, signore, alone?”
There were times when Giuseppe irritated Don and this was one of them.
“Get going!” he said sharply.
Giuseppe went on ahead, crossed the bridge and disappeared into the darkness.
Don remained in the shadows. He gave Giuseppe a few moments’ start, then he went after him. He could hear Giuseppe’s heavy boots clumping on the paving stones. As he came onto the bridge, Don darted into one of the dark arches. There he waited, listening. Nothing happened, no one appeared. He could now see Giuseppe on the far bank of the Canale, moving along the quay.
Still Don waited, listening. Then he heard a soft footfall. He flattened himself against the wall of the arch, knowing he would be invisible in his dark clothes. Very cautiously he peered around the arch. He saw nothing for some moments, then he caught sight of the short, thickset man in black moving on to the bridge.
So he wasn’t, after all, just a hold-up man, Don thought. It looked as if he and the man in the white hat worked together. The thickset man seemed uneasy. He stood in the shadow of the bridge, looking across it. Don guessed he was puzzled as to why he could only hear one set of footfalls. He probably suspected a trap. Apparently he decided he couldn’t just stand and stare, and cautiously he moved forward, making no sound.
He passed the arch where Don was standing and went on until he reached the middle of the bridge. He looked back uneasily, then entered one of the arches to stare across at the farside quay.
Don left his hiding place and ran silently up to the arch where the thickset man stood. The man’s squat, broad back was turned to him. Like a ghost, Don crept up to him and tapped him sharply on his shoulder.
The thickset man must have had nerves like steel. He didn’t even start. He spun around and his fist struck upwards, but this time Don was ready for him. He hadn’t held a brown judo belt for five years for nothing. He had hoped the thickset man would throw a punch, and he caught his flying wrist, twisted around and pulled down hard.
With a grunt of alarm, the man sailed over Don’s head and landed with a sickening thud on the paving stones. His head cracked against the low kerb and he went limp. Don bent over him and went through his pockets. He found his own wallet stuffed in the thickset man’s hip pocket and he relieved him of it. Apart from a similar stabbing knife to the one the man in the white hat carried, there was nothing else of interest in the man’s pockets.
Don left him lying in the shadow of the arches and ran swiftly across the bridge, down on to the quay and into the
Don came up in time to see the man in the white hat drop like a sack of coal on to the paving stones.
“Nice work, Joe,” he said, bending over the inert body.
“You see, signore, it is as I say. I go boom! and he is no more,” Giuseppe said proudly and he blew on his fist. “He will sleep a long time now.”
Don was going swiftly through the unconscious man’s pockets. He found a short stabbing knife, but little else to interest him. There was no clue on the man to tell Don who he was.
He took out his lighter and holding the flame close to the dark, hawk-like face, he said, “Ever seen him before, Giuseppe?”
“No, signore. He is a stranger to me.”
Don straightened up.
“Okay; take me to Calle Mondello fast,” he said.
A few minutes quick walking brought them to the Rialto Bridge. Here Don paused.
He remembered Louisa Peccati’s warning to be very careful. There might be more than one man watching him. Before he went to this place, he had to be certain no one else was following him.
“You go on ahead,” he said. “Go slowly and make a noise as you walk. Don’t go immediately to this Calle. I want to be sure no one else is watching us. Do you understand?”
Giuseppe nodded. This was far more interesting and exciting than rowing a gondola.
“You will be all right, signore, alone?”
There were times when Giuseppe irritated Don and this was one of them.
“Get going!” he said sharply.
Giuseppe went on ahead, crossed the bridge and disappeared into the darkness.
Don remained in the shadows. He gave Giuseppe a few moments’ start, then he went after him. He could hear Giuseppe’s heavy boots clumping on the paving stones. As he came onto the bridge, Don darted into one of the dark arches. There he waited, listening. Nothing happened, no one appeared. He could now see Giuseppe on the far bank of the Canale, moving along the quay.
Still Don waited, listening. Then he heard a soft footfall. He flattened himself against the wall of the arch, knowing he would be invisible in his dark clothes. Very cautiously he peered around the arch. He saw nothing for some moments, then he caught sight of the short, thickset man in black moving on to the bridge.
So he wasn’t, after all, just a hold-up man, Don thought. It looked as if he and the man in the white hat worked together. The thickset man seemed uneasy. He stood in the shadow of the bridge, looking across it. Don guessed he was puzzled as to why he could only hear one set of footfalls. He probably suspected a trap. Apparently he decided he couldn’t just stand and stare, and cautiously he moved forward, making no sound.
He passed the arch where Don was standing and went on until he reached the middle of the bridge. He looked back uneasily, then entered one of the arches to stare across at the farside quay.
Don left his hiding place and ran silently up to the arch where the thickset man stood. The man’s squat, broad back was turned to him. Like a ghost, Don crept up to him and tapped him sharply on his shoulder.
The thickset man must have had nerves like steel. He didn’t even start. He spun around and his fist struck upwards, but this time Don was ready for him. He hadn’t held a brown judo belt for five years for nothing. He had hoped the thickset man would throw a punch, and he caught his flying wrist, twisted around and pulled down hard.
With a grunt of alarm, the man sailed over Don’s head and landed with a sickening thud on the paving stones. His head cracked against the low kerb and he went limp. Don bent over him and went through his pockets. He found his own wallet stuffed in the thickset man’s hip pocket and he relieved him of it. Apart from a similar stabbing knife to the one the man in the white hat carried, there was nothing else of interest in the man’s pockets.
Don left him lying in the shadow of the arches and ran swiftly across the bridge, down on to the quay and into the
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