The Golden Keel / The Vivero Letter

by Desmond Bagley

  Harris looked up at me approvingly. ‘That’s a different matter, of course,’ he agreed. ‘For a while he did protection for a bookie, then he got into the numbers racket—first as protection for a collector, then as collector himself. He was on his way up in a small way. Then he went to England and got himself shot up. End of Niscemi.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Not by a hell of a long way,’ said Fallon abruptly.

  ‘Go on, Harris.’

  Harris moved in his chair and suddenly looked more relaxed. ‘There’s a thing you’ve got to remember about a guy like Niscemi—he has friends. Take a look at his record; reform school, petty assault and so on. Then suddenly, four years ago, no more police record. He was still a criminal and still small time, but he no longer got into trouble. He’d acquired friends.’

  ‘Who were…?’

  ‘Mr Wheale, you’re English and maybe you don’t have the problems we have in the States, so what I’m going to tell you now might seem extraordinary. You’ll just have to take my word for it. Okay?’

  I smiled. ‘After meeting Mr Fallon there’s very little I’ll find unbelievable.’

  ‘All right. I’m interested in the weapon with which Niscemi killed your brother. Can you describe it?’

  ‘It was a sawn-off shotgun,’ I said.

  ‘And the butt was cut down. Right?’ I nodded. ‘That was a lupara; it’s an Italian word and Niscemi was of Italian origin or, more precisely, Sicilian. About four years ago Niscemi was taken into the Organization. Organized crime is one of the worse facts of life in the United States, Mr Wheale; and it’s mostly run by Italian Americans. It goes under many names—the Organization, the Syndicate, Cosa Nostra, the Mafia—although Mafia should strictly be reserved for the parent organization in Sicily.’

  I looked at Harris uncertainly. ‘Are you trying to tell me that the Mafia—the Mafia, for God’s sake!—had my brother killed?’

  ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘I think Niscemi slipped up there. He certainly slipped up when he got himself killed. But I’d better describe what goes on with young punks like Niscemi when they’re recruited into the Organization. The first thing he’s told is to keep his nose clean—he keeps out of the way of the cops and he does what his capo—his boss—tells him, and nothing else. That’s important, and it explains why Niscemi suddenly stopped figuring on the police blotter.’ Harris pointed a finger at me. ‘But it works the other way round, too. If Niscemi was up to no good with regard to your brother it certainly meant that he was acting under orders. The Organization doesn’t stand for members who go in to bat on their own account.’

  ‘So he was sent?’

  ‘There’s a ninety-nine per cent probability that he was.’

  This was beyond me and I couldn’t quite believe it. I turned to Fallon. ‘I believe you said that Mr Harris is an employee of an oil company. What qualifications has he for assuming all this?’

  ‘Harris was in the F.B.I.,’ said Fallon.

  ‘For fifteen years,’ said Harris. ‘I thought you might find this extraordinary.’

  ‘I do,’ I said briefly, and thought about it. ‘Where did you get this information about Niscemi?’

  ‘From the Detroit police—that was his stamping-ground.’

  I said, ‘Scotland Yard is interested in this. Are the American police collaborating with them?’

  Harris smiled tolerantly. ‘In spite of all the sensational stuff about Interpol there’s not much that can be done in a case like this. Who are they going to nail for the job? The American law authorities are just glad to have got Niscemi out of their hair, and he was only small time, anyway.’ He grinned and came up with an unexpected and parodied quotation. ‘“It was in another country and, besides, the guy is dead.”’

  Fallon said, ‘It goes much further than this. Harris is not finished yet’

  ‘Okay,’ said Harris. ‘We now come to the questions: Who sent Niscemi to England—and why? Niscemi’s capo is Jack Gatt, but Jack might have been doing some other capo a favour. However, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Gatt!’ I blurted out ‘He was in England at the time of my brother’s death.’

  Harris shook his head. ‘No, he wasn’t. I checked him out on that. On the day your brother died he was in New York.’

  ‘But he wanted to buy something from Bob,’ I said. ‘He made an offer in the presence of witnesses. He was in England.’

  ‘Air travel is wonderful,’ said Harris. ‘You can leave London at nine a.m. and arrive in New York at eleven-thirty a.m.—local time. Gatt certainly didn’t kill your brother.’ He pursed his lips, then added, ‘Not personally.’

  ‘Who—and what—is he?’

  ‘Top of the heap in Detroit,’ said Harris promptly. ‘Covers Michigan and a big slice of Ohio. Original name, Giacomo Gattini—Americanized to Jack Gatt. He doesn’t stand very tall in the Organization, but he’s a capo and that makes him important.’

  ‘I think you’d better explain that.’

  ‘Well, the Organization controls crime, but it’s not a centralized business like, say, General Motors. It’s pretty loose, in fact; so loose that sometimes pieces of it conflict with each other. That’s called a gang war. But they’re bad for business, attract too much attention from the cops, so once in a while all the capos get together in a council, a sort of board meeting, to iron out their difficulties. They allocate territory, slap down the hotheads and decide when and how to enforce the rules.’

  This was the raw and primitive world that had intruded on Hay Tree Farm, so far away in Devon. I said, ‘How do they do that?’

  Harris shrugged. ‘Suppose a capo like Gatt decided to ignore the top bosses and go it on his own. Pretty soon a young punk like Niscemi would blow into town, knock off Gatt and scram. If he failed then another would try it and, sooner or later, one would succeed. Gatt knows that, so he doesn’t break the rules. But, while he keeps to the rules, he’s capo—king in his own territory.’

  ‘I see. But why should Gatt go to England?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Harris. ‘Now we’re coming to the meat of it. Let’s take a good look at Jack Gatt This is a third-generation American mafioso. He’s no newly arrived Siciliano peasant who can’t speak English, nor is he a half-educated tough bum like Capone. Jack’s got civilization; Jack’s got culture. His daughter is at finishing school in Switzerland; one son is at a good college in the east and the other runs his own business—a legitimate business. Jack goes to the opera and ballet; in fact I hear that he’s pretty near the sole support of one ballet group. He collects pictures, and when I say collects I don’t mean that he steals them. He puts up bids at the Parke-Bernet Gallery in New York like any other millionaire, and he does the same at Sotheby’s and Christie’s in England. He has a good-looking wife and a fine house, mixes in the best society and cuts a fine figure among the best people, none of whom know that he’s anything other than a legitimate businessman. He’s that, too, of course; I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t one of your biggest shareholders, Mr Fallon.’

  ‘I’ll check on it,’ said Fallon sourly. ‘And how does he derive his main income? The illegitimate part?’

  ‘Gambling, drugs, prostitution, extortion, protection,’ reeled off Harris glibly. ‘And any combination or permutation. Jack’s come up with some real dillies.’

  ‘My God!’ said Fallon.

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ I said. ‘But how did Niscemi suddenly pitch up at the farm? The photograph of the tray only appeared in the Press a few days before. How did Gatt get on to it so fast?’

  Harris hesitated and looked at Fallon enquiringly. Fallon said glumly, ‘You might as well have the whole story. I was upset at Halstead’s accusation that I stole the Vivero letter from him, so I put Harris on to checking it.’ He nodded to Harris.

  ‘Gatt had men following Mr Fallon and probably Halstead, too,’ said Harris. ‘This is how it came about.

  ‘Halstead did have the Vivero letter before Mr Fallon. He bought
it here in Mexico for $200. Then he took it home to the States—he lived in Virginia at the time—and his house was burgled. The letter was one of the things that were stolen.’ He put the tips of his fingers together and said. ‘The way I see it, the Vivero letter was taken by sheer chance. It was in a locked briefcase that was taken with the other stuff.’

  ‘What other stuff?’ I asked.

  ‘Household goods. TV set, radios, a watch, some clothing and a little money.’

  Fallon cocked a sardonic eye at me. ‘Can you see me interested in second-hand clothing?’

  ‘I think it was a job done by a small-time crook,’ said Harris. ‘The easily saleable stuff would be got rid of fast—there are plenty of unscrupulous dealers who’d take it. I daresay the thief was disappointed by the contents of the briefcase.’

  ‘But it got to the right man—Gerryson,’ I said. ‘How did he get hold of it?’

  ‘I wondered about that myself,’ said Harris. ‘And I gave Gerryson a thorough going-over. His reputation isn’t too good; the New York cops are pretty sure he’s a high-class fence. One curious thing turned up—he’s friendly with Jack Gatt. He stays at Jack’s house when he’s in Detroit.’

  He leaned forward. ‘Now, this is a purely hypothetical reconstruction. The burglar who did the Halstead residence found himself with the Vivero letter; it was no good to him because, even if he realized it had some value, he wouldn’t know how much and he wouldn’t know where to sell it safely. Well, there are ways and means. My guess is, it was passed along channels until it came to someone who recognized its value—and who would that be but Jack Gatt, the cultured hood who owns a little museum of his own. Now, I don’t know the contents of this letter, but my guess is that if Gatt was excited by it then he’d check back to the source—to Halstead.’

  ‘And what about Gerryson?’

  ‘Maybe that was Gatt’s way of getting a second opinion, said Harris blandly. ‘Mr Fallon and I have been talking about it, and we’ve come to some conclusions.’

  Fallon looked sheepish. ‘Er…it’s like this…I…er…I paid $2,000 to Gerryson for the letter.’

  ‘So what,’ I said.

  He avoided my eyes. ‘I knew the price was too low. It’s worth more than that.’

  I grinned. ‘You thought it might be…is the word hot, Mr Harris?’

  Harris winked. ‘That’s the word.’

  ‘No,’ said Fallon vehemently. ‘I thought Gerryson was making a mistake. If a dealer makes a mistake it’s his business—they take us collectors to the cleaners often enough. I thought I was taking Gerryson, for a change.’

  ‘But you’ve changed your mind since.’

  Harris said, ‘I think Mr Fallon got took. I think Gatt fed the letter to him through Gerryson just to see what he’d do about it. After all, he couldn’t rely on Halstead who is only another young and inexperienced archeologist. But if he gave the letter to Mr Fallon, who is the top man in the business, and then Mr Fallon started to run around in the same circles as Halstead, Gatt would be certain he was on the right track.’

  ‘Plausible, but bloody improbable,’ I said.

  ‘Is it? Jack Gatt is no dumb bunny,’ said Harris earnestly. ‘He’s highly intelligent and educated enough to see a profit in things that would be right over any other hood’s head. If there’s any dough in this Gatt will be after it.’

  I thought of the golden gutters of the roofs of Uaxuanoc and of the king’s palace plated with gold within and without. I thought of the mountain of gold and the burning sign of gold which Vivero had described. Harris could very well be right.

  He said, ‘I think that Halstead and Mr Fallon have been trailed wherever they’ve been. I think that Niscemi was one of the trailers, which is why he was on the spot when your golden tray was discovered. He tipped off Gatt, and Gatt flew across and made your brother an offer for it. I’ve investigated his movements at the time and it all checks out. When your brother turned him down flat he told Niscemi to get the tray the hard way. That wasn’t something that would worry Jack Gatt, but he made damned sure that he wasn’t even in the country when the job was pulled. And then Niscemi—and whoever else was with him—bungled it, and he got himself killed.’

  And Gatt was the man whom that simple Devonshire farmer, Hannaford, had liked so much. I said, ‘How can we get at the bastard?’

  ‘This is all theoretical,’ said Harris. ‘It wouldn’t stand up in a law court.’

  ‘Maybe it’s too theoretical,’ I said. ‘Maybe it didn’t happen like that at all.’

  Harris smiled thinly, and said, ‘Gatt has this house under observation right now—and Halstead’s house in the city. I can show you the guys who are watching you.’

  I came to attention at that and looked at Fallon, who nodded. ‘Harris is having the observers watched.’

  That put a different complexion on things. I said, ‘Are they Gatt’s men?’

  Harris frowned. ‘Now that’s hard to say. Let’s say that someone in Mexico is doing Gatt a favour—the Organization works like that; they swap favours all the time.’

  Fallon said, ‘I’ll have to do something about Gatt.’

  Harris asked curiously, ‘Such as?’

  ‘I swing a lot of weight,’ said Fallon. ‘A hundred million dollars’ worth.’ He smiled confidently. ‘I’ll just lean on him.’

  Harris looked alarmed. ‘I wouldn’t do that—not to Jack Gatt. You might be able to work that way with an ordinary business competitor, but not with him. He doesn’t like pressure.’

  ‘What could he do about it?’ asked Fallon contemptuously.

  ‘He could put you out of business—permanently. A bullet carries more weight than a hundred million dollars, Mr Fallon.’

  Fallon suddenly looked shrunken. For the first time he had run into a situation in which his wealth didn’t count, where he couldn’t buy what he wanted. I had given him a slight dose of the same medicine but that was nothing to the shock handed him by Harris. Fallon wasn’t a bad old stick but he’d had money for so long that he tended to handle it with a casual ruthlessness—a club to get what he wanted. And now he had come up against a man even more ruthless who didn’t give a damn for Fallon’s only weapon. It seemed to take the pith out of him.

  I felt sorry for him and, more out of pity than anything else, I made conversation with Harris in order to give him time to pull himself together. ‘I think it’s time you were told what’s at stake here,’ I said. ‘Then you might be able to guess what Gatt will do about it. But it’s a long story.’

  ‘I don’t know that I want to know,’ said Harris wryly. ‘If it’s big enough to get Jack Gatt out of Detroit it must be dynamite.’

  ‘Is he out of Detroit?’

  ‘He’s not only out of Detroit—he’s in Mexico City.’ Harris spread his hands. ‘He says he’s here for the Olympic Games—what else?’ he said cynically.

  FIVE

  As I dressed next morning I reflected on the strange turns a man’s life can take. Four weeks previously I had been a London accountant—one of the bowler hat brigade—and now I was in exotic Mexico and preparing to take a jump into even more exotic territory. From what I could gather from Fallon the mysteriously named Quintana Roo was something of a hell hole. And why was I going to Quintana Roo? To hunt for a lost city, for God’s sake! If, four weeks before, anyone had offered that as a serious prediction I would have considered him a candidate for the booby-hatch.

  I knotted my tie and looked consideringly at the man facing me in the mirror: Jemmy Wheale, New Elizabethan, adventurer at large—have gun, will travel. The thought made me smile, and the man in the mirror smiled back at me derisively. I didn’t have a gun and I doubted whether I could use one effectively, anyway. I suppose a James Bond type would have unpacked his portable helicopter and taken off after Jack Gatt long ago, bringing back his scalp and a couple of his choicest blondes. Hell, I didn’t even look like Sean Connery.

  So what was I supposed to do about Jack Gatt? From wha
t Pat Harris had said Gatt was in an unassailable position from the legal point even if he had given the word to Niscemi. There wasn’t a single charge to be brought against him that would stick. And for me to tackle Gatt on his own terms would be unthinkably stupid—the nearest analogy I could think of was Monaco declaring war on Russia and the United States.

  What the devil was I doing in Mexico, anyway? I looked back on the uncharacteristic actions of my recent past and decided that the barbed words of that silly little bitch, Sheila, had probably set me off. Many men have been murdered in the past, but their brothers haven’t run around the world thirsting for vengeance. Sheila’s casual words had stabbed me in the ego and everything I had done since then had been to prove to myself that what she had said wasn’t true. Which only went to show I was immature and probably a bit soft in the head.

  Yet I had taken those actions and now I was stuck with the consequences. If I quit now and went back to England, then I suppose I’d regret it for the rest of my life. There would always be the nagging suspicion that I had run out on life and somehow betrayed myself, and that was something I knew I couldn’t live with. I wondered how many other men did stupidly dangerous things because of a suspected assault on their self-respect.

  For a short period I had talked big. I had browbeaten a millionaire into doing what I wanted him to do, but that was only because I had a supreme bargaining counter—the Vivero mirror. Now Fallon had the mirror and its secret and I was thrown back on my own resources. I didn’t think he’d break his promises, but there wasn’t a thing I could do if he reneged.

  The grey little man was still around. He was dressed in some pretty gaudy and ill-fitting clothes and he wore his disguise with panache, but he wished to God he wore his conservative suit and his bowler hat and carried his rolled umbrella instead of this silly lance. I pulled a sour face at the man in the mirror; Jemmy Wheale—sheep in wolf’s clothing.

  My mood was uncertain and ambivalent as I left the room.

  I found Pat Harris downstairs wearing a stethoscope and carrying a little black box from which protruded a shiny telescopic antenna. He waggled his hand at me frantically and put his finger to his lips, elaborately miming that I should be quiet. He circled the room like a dog in a strange place, criss-crossing back and forwards, and gradually narrowed his attention to the big refectory table of massive Spanish oak.