In Over Her Head by Elsie Russell - Parnasse.com

Sandro nodded tersely, unwrapping his chocolate dipped
walnut.
"Hell, I'm sorry. After all you went through, amigo, I bet you
dream in it. So, anyway, back to the matters at hand, eh? La délation
was adopted wholeheartedly and abused to no end by the French
royalty before the revolution, as lettres de cachet, signed and sealed by
the king and his ministers, to apprehend enemies, especially tax
evaders... they were deep in the hole, after all, and to get rid of
undesirables, get them locked up or exiled to the colonies. (Thirty
seconds of hacking followed.) The revolution abolished the practice,
but Napoleon resuscitated it and the tradition has thrived ever since in
some form or other as a tried and true method of exposing Les Grand
Scandales in France. After World War One, there was a famous
incident involving a series of anonymous letters accusing prominent
citizens of illicit love affairs. Great movie material, right? Le Corbeau,
quintessential filme noir of 1943, scathing, misanthropic, thoroughly
modern in its murky ambiguities, was blacklisted in '44 for these very
qualities, that defied the official postwar policy of optimistic escapism.
But then, when this movie was made, during World War II, this
underhand and efficient method was again being used against both the
Jews and the Resistance, so, well, no wonder! And it's used today, yeah!
Actually just recently, to bring down respected politicians, and even
ordinary thieves and kidnappers!" Pete sat back and took a breath that
catapulted him into a series of retches and gasps and another of his
timely fits.
"I dunno, this sounds like a very dishonorable way of seeking
justice."
"Yeah, granted, but it has a excellent track record - at least in
France. If you can fight fire with fire then maybe the way to fight dirt is
with—more dirt!! Or in your case shit with more shit!"
"Haha, touché! O.K. This is the first good news I have heard.
Call his guy, Mario, he is my friend, he will take care of everything and
get you a good doctor." Sandro listened carefully but after a while
couldn't take the coughing, and he had a train to catch.
Why was he on the Orient Express to Venice instead of on a
plane? This was a sleeper train! Now, as he strained with the memory of
them squirming under the overly starched sheets in the upper bunk of
the Palatino, he wondered if this had been a good idea after all. He
staggered to the end of the car for some air and lit a crumpled cigarette
from the bottom of his jacket pocket. That window was jammed too,
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