by Thomas Swan
LaConte spoke to the operator in fluent Italian. And a moment later he issued a stream of instructions in perfect French. “It is done. I will return tomorrow, and after you have confirmed that a deposit has been made to your account, I will take the drawing.”
He put on the white cap and started for the door and as he did so, the briefcase slipped from his hand and the papers scattered. “You are clumsy, LaConte,” he scolded himself. He reached down to retrieve the papers.
A van pulled off the road by the unused gate high over Il Diodario. The doors opened and nine men leaped out, each dressed in green-andmustard yellow combat uniforms. The leader pointed to the top of the wall and barked a brief command. One of the men held a length of thick rope, a grapnel attached to an end. He threw the hook over the wall, then pulled the rope taut. In turn, each man scrambled up the rope, then dropped onto the other side. The last over pulled up the rope and let it fall to the ground, where another coiled and concealed it in the brush.
They huddled around their leader. Three carried Pietro Beretta BM59 Alpine rifles, the others had sidearms. Below them was Il Diodario ; they looked down to the tiled roof, the hill so steep that in descending it, one feared falling on top of the mansion. Instructions were reviewed: five headed north, the others south toward the docks. They began a slow descent through the thick brambles.
A motor launch moved leisurely along the lake’s edge. Two men dressed in white stood on the small afterdeck. One held a microphone and once each minute announced the ship’s position. Above them a blue-and-white pennant fluttered in the mild breeze. They were flanked by two smaller craft that looked very much like pleasure boats. When they were directly abeam of Il Diodario, the man with the microphone gave instructions. One boat continued to a point a hundred yards offshore in front of the boathouses and anchored. A man appeared with a fishing pole and threw his line in the water. The launch took position off the dock, and the third boat cruised slowly in a wide-sweeping figure-eight pattern.
The hovercraft that normally rushed directly up the center of the lake came into view and sped past the villa to disappear beyond the Torno landing. It made a wide turn, slowed, then dropped into the water, where it bobbed in its own wake. The commuters and tourists had been replaced by men in white and blue uniforms.
A pontooned helicopter sat in the harbor at Cernobbio, its engine idling, the rotors moving imperceptibly. The pilot watched the second hand on his chronometer reach the top of the dial. He accelerated, then lazily the copter lifted, its nose tilted over, the blades clawing the warm air.
The distinctive sound of the helicopter grew louder. Eleanor tried picking it out of the sky. It was directly in front of the villa before she saw it coming in low over the water.
“Something’s going on out there. Come look.”
Stiehl joined her at the window. She pointed to the dock. “Two boats are tied up and two more just sitting out there. Another is running in circles, and now a helicopter has joined in.”
“Who came in the second boat?”
“Two men. I’ve seen one of them before. He wears black and has gold buttons.”
“They beefed up security,” Stiehl said. “I counted five yesterday. One was still in his police uniform. Now you know why you can’t go shopping.”
“I’m no threat to anyone if I’m off buying panty hose or having my hair done.”
“Jonas thinks you’d be a threat as soon as you leave Il Diodario.”
“Why? What am I supposed to know?”
Stiehl took hold of her hands. “It’s what Jonas thinks you know. I’m going to find a way to get you away from here. But you can’t ask questions.” He repeated in an almost threatening voice, “Is that clear? No questions.”
“It’s clear that I’m a part of whatever’s going on. I spent all those months finding paper and formulating inks and, if you won’t tell me what you’re doing, I’m damned well going to get it out of Jonas.”
She was genuinely angered, her face flushed and her eyes wide. Stiehl was sure she was also frightened. “Be careful what you ask Jonas.”
“I have a right to know. You tell me!”
He shook his head. “Understand this once and for all. You’re not to know.” He kissed her.
“That helped. I’m frightened and it’s an awful feeling.” She put her arms around him, hugging tightly. She slowly pulled away. “That’s better.” She looked up at him. “I didn’t have any breakfast and I’m starved. I’ll fix lunch.”
“Great idea. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be down to help.”
Walter Deats sat next to the pilot. Brassi gave him the choice of the comandante’s launch or the helicopter. “This is your show,” Deats had answered. “I want the best seat and that’s in the air.”
Pavasi’s guards came together after their patrol. “Who is with Luciano?”
“They went through the door before I could see.”
“The other one? The little man with the odd hat?”
“Someone to see Signore Kalem.”
“But the boats”—a finger pointed to the motor launch—“especially that one.”
“Dio! The comandante’s pennant is flying from it!”
Before either said another word, arms reached under their chins and tightened against their necks. Their eyes bulged like little balloons. Then, breath spent, they sagged. “Tie them up. Carmine stays with them. The rest take your positions.”
“Scusi, Signore Kalem. I did not know you had a guest.” Pavasi reached the entrance to the solarium just as LaConte put the last of his papers in the briefcase.
“Our business is over. Mr. LaConte was just leaving.”
LaConte patted his briefcase. “Thank you again.” He tipped his cap and scurried past Pavasi and the man who had come with him.
“What’s so damned important with the guards?” Jonas was clearly irritated. “And you didn’t tell me you would bring a guest.”
Brassi, who was wearing a business suit, forced a smile. “Forgive us, signore. Luciano is not responsible that I am here. I insisted on joining him.”
“That is true,” Pavasi said apologetically.
“Then why are you here?” Jonas demanded.
“I am Bruno Brassi, comandante of police for the province of Como.”
Tony stepped back. He felt as he had in London when the police cars, their sirens wailing, flashed past him on Fleet Street. He edged toward the door.
“Luciano will talk with you about the guards. I am here regarding Giorgio Burri’s death. I am told he visited here often.”
“Several times,” Jonas answered.
“What had you heard concerning his death?”
“A tragic accident. He drowned.”
Brassi looked past Jonas to Tony, who stood by the door leading to the long hall beyond. “I am sorry, but I have not met the other gentleman.”
Jonas turned. “This is Mr. Habershon, my assistant.”
Brassi stepped toward Tony, his hand extended. “Welcome to Como, signore.”
Tony put a hand forward. Brassi glanced down to the back of the hand gripping his. “It’s a pleasure to be here,” Tony replied dryly.
“The circumstances of Professor Burri’s death are puzzling,” Brassi continued. “He was not a young man, but strong, and from all signs, in excellent health. The autopsy revealed that he died from a heart attack, and yet he was found with his upper body out of the water and a rope twisted around one leg. We can perhaps understand the heart attack, it can happen at any age, at any time. But the rope ...” His voice trailed off. “Forgive me, my mind was talking.”
“I’ll miss him,” Jonas added. “He was good company.”
“What exactly was your relationship?”
“We were friends.”
“And you last saw him?”
“Monday. In his home. He was proud of his wife’s cooking.”
“Not since then?”
“I flew to London on Thursday. Luciano met me when I re
turned on Sunday.”
“Sì, Bruno is aware of that,” Pavasi said.
“Luciano tore himself away from the gambling tables so he could meet you,” Brassi said scornfully.
The chatter from the helicopter grew louder, and as it passed over the villa, all conversation ceased. Jonas showed irritation at the invasion of his privacy, but Brassi knew differently. It was a signal.
“Signore Habershon, when did you last see Giorgio Burri?”
“On Monday. I was with Mr. Kalem.”
“Not since?”
“No.”
“Where were you on Friday morning?”
“Here, in the villa.”
“You have witnesses?”
“See here, I don’t like this silly questioning at all.” Tony masked his own angry fear with Habershon’s effete indignation.
“It is my responsibility to ask ‘silly questions.’ Are there witnesses?”
“Of course. Others saw me. I don’t know who. I don’t keep lists of the people I run into each morning ”
“Signore Kalem, is there a young woman here named Eleanor Shepard?”
“Yes.”
“And a Curtis Stiehl?”
“They are guests.”
“And Anthony Waters?” Brassi’s eyes were on Tony when he asked the question. When Jonas failed to answer, Brassi turned back to him. “Anthony Waters, signore. Is he among you?”
“I no longer employ Mr. Waters.” Jonas had composed himself and stood at his desk, sorting through papers as if he were about to go about his usual business and the comandante’s presence was an unnecessary intrusion.
Brassi moved to the front of the desk and positioned himself so that Tony was on a line directly behind Jonas. “I am not concerned if you employ him, only if he has been here in your Il Diodario.”
“There are four of us,” Jonas replied firmly. “And you have an accurate identification of each one.”
“Mr. Habershon,” Brassi called out the name in a loud voice. “I must ask to see your passport.”
Tony bolted from the solarium like a shell shot from a rifle. He knew every turn in the old building—every door, the hidden rooms, the corridors behind walls. He raced to the pantry beyond the dining hall.
Brassi broke for the door leading outside and ordered his men into the villa, singling out one to remain with Jonas. Suddenly the room was empty, save for Jonas and a young man standing with his right arm across his chest. He was holding a pistol.
There in the doorway through which the others had disappeared stood the strangely dressed little figure who thirty minutes earlier had scampered away with his briefcase tucked tightly under his arm. He touched the visor of his cap as if in salute to the surprised guard and proceeded past him. Jonas had retreated to his command chair, his arms resting on the fat pillows on each side of him, his eyes staring blankly through the thick lenses.
“I realize this is a very distressing time for you,” LaConte said “The tranquillity of your Il Diodario has been rudely interrupted and you have been left in the company of this young man who holds what I am certain is a fully loaded M51 pistol.” He smiled. “I failed to present you with three sheets of paper which will fully explain why I have returned.”
“First you should know that my full name is John LaConte Oxby. I am by profession a member of the Arts and Antiques Squad, S01, Scotland Yard.” Oxby showed his identification to Jonas, then to the young guard.
Jonas was breathing heavily, his white skin shining.
From an envelope Oxby removed three documents and placed one on Jonas’s lap. “I am authorized to serve this arrest warrant for the sale of purportedly authentic works of art, and which you are accused of causing to be created by persons whom you have employed for that purpose.” The paper slid to the floor.
“Filthy nonsense!” Jonas cried out. “The drawings are genuine as attested to by experts at Collyer’s and a provenance researched by a Leonardo scholar.”
“You refer to Giorgio Burri, whose death is being investigated this very moment. A very timely tragedy,” Oxby replied.
“Police departments don’t authenticate works of art.”
“Mine does,” Oxby replied.
“But you can’t arrest me. I’m an American and we are in Italy.”
“Your facts regarding nationality and geography are correct, but before dealing with them, I must serve a second warrant for your arrest. This time for complicity in the murder of Sarah Evans, who, when killed, was serving on special assignment for my section. We police people don’t take kindly to having one of our own killed.” Oxby placed a second sheet of paper on Jonas’s lap. Jonas brushed it away and it fell beside the first on the floor.
“That’s as ridiculous as your first ill-founded charge. I’ve never known such a person. I repeat, I am an American citizen and we are in Italy.”
“My, but you are being difficult, Mr. Kalem.” Oxby sighed “That is why I have a third piece of paper. This last one has been issued by the Italian government. It authorizes me to arrest you in compliance with Italian law. You will be retained by the local authorities until all the extradition procedures can be smoothed over. You may retain counsel.”
Oxby allowed the third sheet to fall to the floor on top of the others.
Eleanor put the finishing touch to the lunch. She searched for a flower to place on each tray and smiled at her success. She went to the refrigerator for cold drinks. Loud voices came from other rooms, then Tony burst through the door into the pantry.
“Fix your own. These are spoken for,” she said innocently. He grasped her arm and dropped to the floor, taking her with him. He ran his palms over the wood floor as if feeling for a lost coin. She twisted free, and as she tried getting to her feet he pulled her back.
“Stop it!” she shouted. “You can’t—”
The palm of his hand swept across her cheek. It stung, but she was more frightened by the anger in his face.
His hands rubbed the floor, then, magically, a square section of the floor opened. He wrapped an arm around her waist. “We’re going for a ride.” He pushed her to the opening.
“There’s a ladder inside. Climb down or I’ll push you down.”
She fought to free herself. “Curtis! Someone!” He covered her mouth and forced her into the opening. Her legs swung wildly, groping for the ladder. The pantry door opened. Stiehl had come to help with the lunch.
“What in Christ are you doing?” He leaped at Tony, who turned and sent a heel directly into Stiehl’s stomach. Eleanor, suddenly released from Tony’s grip, fell screaming into the black hole. She dropped a dozen feet onto soft dirt, too frightened to know if she was hurt.
Stiehl charged again, but Tony turned gracefully and kicked a leg high into his shoulder, spinning him backward. Like a mole escaping from a cat, Tony disappeared into the hole, and as he did so, the door slid back into place. Stiehl pawed at the smooth floor, searching for a way to open the trapdoor. Dowels held the lengths of wood together. One was larger than the others and set slightly below the surface. He pressed on it. The trap raised a half inch. He pulled it open. Then he lowered a foot to the ladder and climbed down. He thought he was in a cave; it smelled of damp and moldy earth. The trapdoor had automatically closed and heavy footsteps paraded over the floor above. The noise ceased as quickly as it had come.
He reached his hands into the darkness and touched the wet stones that lined the wall. He felt a draft and faced into it. As he stepped ahead the air moved faster. He was in a tunnel, another gift from the Italian army.
He moved faster. After fifty feet the tunnel gradually turned. There was light ahead reflecting dimly off the wet walls. Another fifty feet. Now he could see the end of the tunnel, a rectangle of brilliant light. He began to run.
Tony had half carried, half pulled Eleanor through the tunnel. They emerged at the first row of boathouses where the speedboat was moored. He forced her into the boat.
“Don’t do this! Let me go!” she
cried.
He slapped her hard on the cheek and she lashed out, her nails cutting into his arm. He struck her again. Then a third time with more of a fist than an open hand. She put her hand to her head. “Don’t hit me,” she said with a voice tight with terror. “Please, don’t hit me.” Her body was trembling.
Tony glanced at the fuel gauge. He always filled the tanks after a run over the lake and had enough to reach the Swiss end of the lake. He opened a locker and took out a German rifle. It was heavy but accurate and took a thirty-round clip. He put a 9mm pistol under his belt.
He flipped the key to start the engines, and heard a noise behind him. He turned to see Stiehl jump into the boat. He reached for his gun but Stiehl was on him before he could pull it free. Stiehl grabbed him around the neck and pulled him onto the deck of the boat. “Get out!” he shouted to Eleanor. For an instant she was frozen, then she extricated herself and jumped to the dock.
“Run! Get the hell out of here,” Stiehl yelled.
Tony rolled over and onto his feet. As he straightened, his hand found the grip of the automatic. Stiehl faced the wrong end of the gun.
“I don’t want to kill you, Stiehl, but I need one of you with me . . .”
There was a loud report, then another. Bullets tore into the spot where Eleanor had been standing seconds before. The shots came from one of Brassi’s men. Stiehl lunged at Tony. Another shot was fired. Then another that was louder than the others. It came from Tony’s revolver. Stiehl spun and fell. His right side was on fire. He put his hands where he had been hit, and felt the warm, sticky blood.
Tony brought the engines alive. He poked the nose of the boat away from its berth. There was more rifle fire, deadly shots kicked up water sprays and tore into the dashboard. He thrust to full power, turning south. Then in a zigzag course, he turned the wheel and aimed north. Two patrol boats were waiting and vectored on him. Tony saw the maneuver but maintained course until it seemed he would collide with one of them. At the last instant he swerved, and as he ran by he aimed his rifle at the stern of the patrol boat. At least one of the rounds he pulled off struck home. The back of the boat exploded. For a harrowing few seconds half a boat floated on the water, then sank.