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&039;Ciao, Tom You have escaped from Penelope, then?&039;

It was Marcello, the Italian reporter as always hanging around, who&039;d been at the airport when Count Kernassy and as-her-nae Irish dead girl saw the Count being murdered

&039;Other way round, old fellow&039;

Marcello looked drained too, but had no obvious bites His cheeks were sunken The reflective lenses of his dark glasses suggested the empty eye sockets of a skull

&039;You look as if you&039;ve had a bad night of it,&039; Toue with that Daarette and lit up, exhaling eary anger

&039;I have been to Hell and back,&039; the Italian announced

&039;I didn&039;t ladly exchange you Signorina Churchward for Signorina Reed&039;

&039;Little Irish corpse?&039;

It took Marcello a rip, that one Will not let go We went to I Cessati Spiriti&039;

Tom whistled

&039;I don&039;t suppose either of you chaps could lend a hand,&039; said a deep, bone-tired voice

It was a dead man, in a suit that had suffered He&039;d plainly been in a fight Several fights Wounds in his clothes looked like bullet holes, and one sleeve was skinned away co in coirl too&039;

He took a few steps out of the dark and collapsed

Marcello looked at Toed