by Peter Leslie
"He's a short man but very tough. He looks like a walnut on legs."
"Not by any chance with a great jaw jutting out? A huge blue chin?"
"That's the one! Why—do you know him?"
"He tried to persuade me to come for a ride… and he wasn't going to charge me anything at all," Solo said grimly.
"His name is Bartoluzzi. He's a Corsican—and he used to be on the poids lourds, the long-distance heavyweight trucks. He was doing it for twenty-five years, with a break during the war; that's why he knows the European road network like the back of your foot..."
"The back of your hand, Illya."
"He's very interesting about the organization, Napoleon. But, oh dear! It's become such a bore."
"What do you mean?"
"He thinks he's tremendously tough. He probably is. But you see—the man I'm impersonating is very tough too. So Bartoluzzi feels he has to spend the whole time boasting about just how tough, how ruthless, how crafty he is. And to keep in character, I have to try to go one better, boast even more, act even more unscrupulous."
"Well?"
"You know I am not a violent man," the Russian said plaintively. "Also there is the matter of the cold food and always eating cooped up in some confined space."
"I'm afraid I don't quite follow."
"That and the continual effort to speak in a snarl or a growl or with a deep voice––it's giving me indigestion!"
Solo laughed. "It'll broaden your horizons," he said. "But I'm glad your friend is talkative. Maybe you can get him to Tell All about the other members of the organization."
"That would be impossible, Napoleon."
"I don't see why. I mean, if he has already told you—"
"It would be impossible because there isn't any organization."
"You're out of your mind! You just told me... you just said..."
"No—that's literally true. There's no organization. And our friends can hear no talk, no underworld gossip about the deal, because there is nobody to talk; incredible as it seems, Bartoluzzi is in it alone."
"You can't mean…?"
"The truth of the matter is, it's a one-man show!"
Chapter 14
The Retreat Of Illya
NAPOLEON SOLO'S characteristic low whistle of astonishment filtered clearly through the gauze of the miniature speaker. Holding the baton in the gloom of the old truck, Kuryakin raised a blond eyebrow in amusement.
"But that's unbelievable!" Solo's voice exclaimed. "Unbelievable!"
"True, nevertheless," the Russian replied soberly. "He's explained it all to me in the greatest detail, boasted about it. And although it seems incredible at first, you'll see when you think about it that it's the only sensible way to do the job, given the limitation that, necessarily, only a single job can be done at one time."
"Yes, but... it can't be true, Illya! I mean there are masses of other people involved. I know there are. Even in the few cases we know of. Take Waverly, for instance—there was the driver of the taxi, there was the ferryman, there were the three men in leather coats, to say nothing of the mysterious Willem and the missing crew member of his boat. Or take your own case; besides your driver, there are at least two—no, three!—others involved. The girl, the night watchman, and the genuine driver of the furniture van. There must have been a minimum of three men on Mathieu's dust cart to make the crew convincing. And there was the pilot of the plane to Corsica, too. So how can you say—"
"I said there's no organization as such," Kuryakin interrupted. "I said the organization, the network itself, was a one-man show. I didn't say nobody ever helped him."
"Then...?"
"But he never uses professional underworld help. There's no recognized gang. That's why there's no underworld gossip, as I said. He recruits his help from all over... and the extraordinary thing is, they have no idea what they are doing! None of them knows he is part of an escape organization carrying international crooks beyond the reach of justice!"
"How can that be?"
"He has invented clever and often involved reasons. He has painstakingly built up elaborate covers to account for the presence of the escapees. And the helpers never realize who they are!... The proprietors of the junkyards, for example, mostly think they are turning a blind eye to some minor racket involving the reregistering of stolen cars; those whose yards are near frontiers think they are being paid to help with the smuggling of a few bottles of liquor or a few cases of cigarettes in an untraceable vehicle; the helpers on each side of the Iron Curtain believe they are assisting political refugees. The plane to Corsica would have been no problem because Bartoluzzi himself is a Corsican, and so was Mathieu."
"And Waverly's little lot? If I remember rightly, they spoke of a series of people using that route. Doesn't that sound professional?"
"It is professional. But they still don't know. Bartoluzzi was using an existing network there. The Minerva was probably his own, but the rest of the routine belonged to an ultraright-wing group that occupies itself with clandestinely returning ex-Nazis to Germany, using a few of the more venal Dutch for additional staff on the way. I expect he offered to contribute handsomely to their funds if they would allow him to use their facilities this once. From Denmark, it was very convenient, you see."
"Remarkable!" Solo said admiringly. "I suppose it's just possible. If he planned very carefully and spaced out his clients right, choosing only those he knew he could handle, he could dodge around doing one after the other, rather like a tramp steamer taking cargo from port to port as it goes along."
"Exactly. And as an ex-haulage man, he's known to a lot of the people along the route anyway. Half the customs and immigration personnel at the frontiers seem to be old friends for a start!"
"And this, no doubt, is why nobody knew how to get in touch with the organization in the underworld, why nobody ever knew if they were acceptable as clients until he contacted them—there was nobody to contact unless he himself happened to be in the area; and he'd make contact only if he thought the case was worthwhile and if it worked in with his other commitments geographically."
"Exactly," Illya said again, peering through the crack he bad left between the rusty back doors of the truck. "Napoleon, I have to go now—I can see Bartoluzzi through the trees. He's coming back with the food."
"Okay," Solo's voice said cheerfully. "I'll listen again around nine. In the meantime... bon appetit!"
Bartoluzzi had produced—from heaven knew what secret source!—a large, round peasant loaf, a carton of hot sauerkraut with four huge wursts, a great wedge of Emmenthaler cheese, and two bottles of Schluck.
As he poured the wine, he told Illya of what he had discovered at the back doors of the little town—speaking in the bragger's third person so often adopted by monomaniacs. "Bartoluzzi saw," he said, "in the local newspaper that they have suspected your getaway from Paris. He has been cunning enough to have got you thus far without them once seeing you. But he has to be careful. Bartoluzzi must use all his skills, for the paper says that they suspect you are heading southwest. They suspect!" He laughed contemptuously. "They will need more than suspicion to match the guile of Bartoluzzi!"
In his turn, Illya laughed too. He elbowed the door open and spat realistically into the night. "I'd like to see the frontier guards who could stop me getting through once I'd made my mind up!" he rasped.
"Fortunately, the question will not arise. Bartoluzzi has arranged all so that no guard will see you."
"Bartoluzzi arranges things well; he has a talent for it," Illya said in a conciliatory tone. (The style of speech was catching!) "But tell me—such things cannot be arranged in a day. It takes time to organize. Bartoluzzi could not do all this without planning. Even I could not. Tell me... how did this thing begin?"
Over the outthrust of the huge chin, eyes gleamed in the dusk. "To many, I would say, 'Mind your business.' But you are a man. You have done things such as a man might do…" He paused, swallowed the remainder of a mouthful of sa
usage, and shot the Russian a glance before he continued.
"I will tell you. I was born in a small village near Venaco, right in the center of Corsica. My family was very poor. They never took vacations or left the village. But sometimes, once every two or three years, I was asked by the local curé to go with other children to the coast, to see the sea. We would get in an old bus and go for the day to Aleria, to Folelli, or even perhaps to Corso, near the Capo Russo—the red cape. It was very beautiful. And all the time I was a child I wanted nothing more than to be near the sea all the time.
"I would have liked to be a fisherman or to work on the boats that went from Bastia and Ajaccio to Nice and Marseille. But for people like us it was impossible. One had to work all day long on the land to get enough to eat. And so as a young man I became just another peasant in the mountains. But I never forgot the sea. Always in my heart I wanted to live beside it—to see the sun rise over the horizon, to watch how the colors changed all the day long, to listen to the fury of the waves in the wintertime. And then, when my parents died, I went to the coast, but I could get no work. And so I stowed away on a boat and I got to Marseille. But still I could not get work on the sea—I had no experience, I did not know the right people. All I could manage was to work as a mate on the poids lourds, the huge transport trucks that went between Marseille and the north.
"By and by I became a driver, and then I had my own trucks and I made a little money. And I saved. But still I could not find what I wanted. It is not much, you would think, for a man to want. I did not desire riches. All I wanted was a cottage from which I could regard the sea, a place to retire.
"But the sea has become a preserve for the rich. Every inch of coast is parceled out, each stone has its price—and the price is too high for people such as us. But I determined, nevertheless, that I too would have my rich man's morsel. I swore that I would get my cottage on a cliff."
Bartoluzzi stopped talking and stared unseeingly into the tenor of the dark truck. He drained the enamel mug beside him and poured more wine.
"Three years ago," he went on slowly, "I found the piece of land I wanted. It was secluded, it was covered in olive trees, it looked out to sea. It was on the Corniche d'Or. There was already a cabanon there where I could live—but I could also build more if I wished. It was of course very expensive––unbelievably expensive. I put down every penny I had saved, and that only bought me an option.
"And then I realized that however hard I saved, however hard I worked, I would never be able to raise enough to complete the purchase. Or if I could persuade them to wait, I would be too old to enjoy the place by the time I could take possession of it. And so I decided—quite suddenly—to find other means. If a man's work was not enough to gain him the small thing he wanted out of life, then life must be maneuvered and manipulated in such a way that the thing could be done."
"What made you decide to do... this?" Kuryakin asked in a curiously gentle tone.
The determined jaw swung around toward him like the prow of a ship. "It seemed right that I should help others, the less fortunate ones, such as I had been," Bartoluzzi said simply. "It was right that my own salvation should be through the salvation of others. Also, through my experience in transport, I already had the knowledge and the means to carry it out."
"You were not worried about the law?"
"The law?" The nut-faced little man spat scorn. "The law is an abstraction! Which side of the law you are on is a matter of chance. If you are on the right side, you cheat and lie and steal and they call you a smart businessman. If you do the same things and you are on the wrong side, they call you an embezzler and they put you in prison. If you are on the right side and you kill, they give you medals; if, like yourself, you are on the wrong—then again they execute you or they shut you up forever. Don't speak to me of the law…"
"Yes, a curse on it. Let a man take what be needs—and the devil take those who would thwart him!" Illya growled, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be a bank robber and a killer. He changed the subject. "And have succeeded this way in... raising... the necessary capital?" he asked.
"Not yet," Bartoluzzi replied. "Two years have passed since I made my decision; fifteen months since I did the first job—for I had to spend a great deal of time planning and making contacts. But if I kept up a flow of operations like yours, my friend"—he glanced at the briefcase lying by Illya's feet—"I could probably make it in another three or four years."
"So long? At the prices you charge? It must be expensive land indeed!"
"It is. And do not forget, a fortune has to be dispensed to those helping me. They may not comprehend exactly what they are doing, but they know well enough that it is against the law. And silence comes expensive!"
"True. It is a long time, even so."
"It would have been twenty years, had I not started in this business. But do not worry on my account. If things go well in certain directions I shall in fact not even have to wait the three or four years."
"But you said…"
"I said it would take three or four years with cases like yours. In the case of people paying more, much more, evidently it would take less."
"Impossible! Nobody would pay more than I have! No one!"
"No one, perhaps," Bartoluzzi agreed craftily. "But an organization might—an organization that was all-powerful."
"An... organization?" Kuryakin repeated, trying to mask his interest.
"Certainly. An organization with an interest in helping such unfortunates avoid the spitefulness and malice of the fellowmen. An organization that might have an interest in contacting certain clients and making use of their talents, furthering their careers instead of just removing them from danger temporarily. Such people would pay more."
"And such an organization has already contacted you? On those lines?"
"Ach... it is better not to speak of these things," Bartoluzzi said, becoming suddenly evasive. "Come—it is time we were on our way..."
Kuryakin tried once more to draw the little man out on the subject of whoever was trying to buy into his organization. "One would be interested to hear more of such a group," he said, "if it existed; particularly if it was, as you said, all-powerful
"You don't want to bother yourself about that, friend," Bartoluzzi said. "A man like you. What need does a strong man have for others?"
"True," the Russian said hoarsely. "I manage my own affairs at that. And I'd like to see the organization that can stop me!" He climbed back into the van and pulled the doors shut. Bartoluzzi returned to the drivers' cab—and a moment later they were winding up the hill past the Gasthof toward the main road leading to Munich and the west.
Three hours later, the Corsican pulled up in a deserted parking area not far from Wangen. There were several rolls of carpet and linoleum in the van, and they had decided that Illya was to travel through the tunnel incarcerated in one of these. According to a spurious bill of lading, they were consigned to a decorator in Zurich. This last stop before the frontier was to enable him to get properly lost inside one of the rolls!
As soon as the engine cut out, he was aware that the weather had changed for the worse. There was a regular pattering on the top and sides of the vehicle, and every now and then it lurched in a gust of wind. When Bartoluzzi came around to open the doors, the Russian saw that the night was full of driving sleet.
Turning up his collar, he helped the Corsican manhandle the heavy rolls into a suitable position in the back of the van. It didn't take them long, but by the time they had finished, Illya was drenched from head to foot. Grasping his jacket by the lapels, he shook the material violently in an attempt to get rid of some of the moisture. At the same time he tossed his head to clear his face of the streams of water running down from his hair.
A heavy truck rumbled past, the beams of its headlamp, brightly illuminating the driving sleet, the parked van, and the two men standing by the open doors. In the vivid light Bartoluzzi's face, with its staring eyes and jutting
chin, was abruptly changed into a mask of murderous hate!
Before he realized what was happening, Kuryakin found himself hurled backward into the body of the van as the Corsican shoulder charged him with brutal force. The doors of the vehicle slammed, and a bar dropped into place. A moment later, they roared out onto the main road.
Astonished, the Russian drew the transceiver from his pocket and tried to call up Solo. But either his teammate was otherwise occupied, or he was calling a little too early. There was no answer to his signal.
Not long afterward, the van shuddered to a halt. He could hear running footsteps, voices shouting commands.
Light flooded into the dark interior as the doors were jerked open. Facing him by a roadside police post were half a dozen German militiamen with leveled rifles. Behind them, he could dimly see an officer and Bartoluzzi, waving his arms.
"There you are!" the Corsican was shouting. "Stowing away in my van, he was! There he is. That's Kurim Cernic, the murderer who escaped from Prague… I'd know that face anywhere. Arrest him! Take him away! He was trying to get across the border in my van!"
Keeping out of the line of fire of the rifles, the officer motioned Kuryakin to descend. Cold steel embraced his wrists as handcuffs clicked shut.
Still stupefied with astonishment, the Russian allowed himself to be led into the guardroom. What had happened? What had given him away? For if Bartoluzzi had denounced him as the killer Cernic, it could only be for one reason—because he had in fact discovered that Kuryakin was an imposter!
At that moment he caught sight of himself in a mirror hanging over an old-fashioned mantelpiece behind the duty officer's desk. And at once he realized what had betrayed him to the Corsican.
Soaked by the storm of sleet, the dye that had darkened his blond hair to Cernic's color had run—and now his face was grotesque, streaked from one side to the other with the stain!
Chapter 15
Ambush In The East!