by Pierre Rey
Italo seemed to be coming up from a deep dream. Bellinzona repeated, "Champagne?" "No," Italo grumbled.
Moshe Yudelman's doubts had finally gotten to him, and he was sure now that O'Brion was out to double-cross them. He decided he'd put the screws to the fucker
real good before rubbing him out. O’Brien had never shown him any respect The only one Babe could vent his fury on was that tub of lard Bellinzona, but he couldn't do a thing right now. He'd have to put up with Pietro's unpleasant company for several hours.
"Bellinzona!"
"Yes, boss."
"Go take a leak."
"Huh?"
"I said, go take a leak." "But boss, I just did."
"Shut up! Go on back to the toilet in the rear and tell me what Folco's up to."
From the rear of the first-class cabin Rico Gatto and Pat Mahoney both watched Pietro Bellinzona get up and lumber back toward the tourist section. Pat Mahoney was enjoying his luck. While big -Dave Cavanaugh sat in tourist like a stuck pig, Pat had a roomy armchair and the attentions of the pert hostess who was hanging over him with a bottle of champagne. Mahoney wasn't used tor his kind of luxury. Most of his assignments led him up a deadly path. He could boast of shooting a moving target fifty yards away in the velvet darkness of night But the men who had been his targets were far from his mind at this moment Mahoney's thoughts were with his wife, Mary. She was probably putting the kids to bed while he sat suspended above the earth debating between the prime ribs and the coq au vin.
A yoice came over the PA system: "Passengers are requested to stay in their seats. Dinner is about to be served. Our cruising altitude is now thirty-five thousand feet. We will be landing in Zurich in five hours.
5
Three hours before Volpone's Boeing left New York, Zaza Finney and Mortimer O'Brion had taken off from Nassau. Their conversation on the flight consisted of one long argument.
"After Zurich, where?" Zaza pressed.
"Leave it to me. It'll be a wonderful surprise."
She had a sneaking suspicion that something had come up to disturb her lover's usual assurance. When they boarded the plane in Nassau, he announced a detour by way of Switzerland. His sweaty face signaled trouble, al though he refused to answer her pleas for explanation. She was beginning to regret this escapade. How could she be sure all the mystery he was creating wasn't just a screen for some dirty work that might backfire on her? When they got to Zurich, she wouldn't let him out of her sight. But they were hardly through passport control and customs in Zurich when he asked her to wait for him at the bar.
"Hell, no! I've had my fill of waiting at airports!"
"Would you rather I took you to a hotel? I'll be busy for two or three hours."
"As if I was some whore you picked up? No, thanks. I'm going with you."
"Zaza, listen, be reasonable. I've got a business meet ing."
"What kind of business? That's what I want to know." "Just wait and be patient one more day.’’
‘‘I’ve waited long enough. Now I want to know what
you're dragging me into."
He shrugged, discouraged. "You don't trust me." "I sure as hell don't Why couldn't you clue me in on
what’ s going on?"
"Listen, Zaza. I have to go to a bank to pick up
some money. As soon as the bank opens, I’ll be done in
five minutes."
"I'm going with you."
He shook his head with resignation. The’ night flight had not made him look any better. In the postdawn light she could see circles under his eyes and nervous tics that darted across his face as he watched every passing shad ow.
"You'd have been better off waiting at the hotel," he said.
She panicked, wondering if he'd changed his mind about her and was planning to dump her in this foreign city. She tried to smile and took solid hold of his arm.
"Oh, can't I go with you, Mortimer?"
"I guess so."
"Where are we going after that?’' Thoughtlessly he answered, "I don't know." She looked at him and pursed her lips. "You don’t know?"
"Of course I know. But I may have to make one more detour."
In order to better cover his tracks after this awful, dangerous stopover in Switzerland, he decided that as soon as he had straightened out that goddamned Kloppe, they'd take the first plane out—for anywhere. Three or four zigzags over different continents would make it that much easier for him to reach his final destination without a hitch. He could feel the weight of Zaza's agile body dragging on his arm.
As they got to the taxi stand, she overcame her feel ings and with an affected sweetness whispered in his ear, "Mortimer, the things I do for you, ‘I’ve never done for any other man."
He felt ten inches taller.
When the doorbell rang, Orlando Baretto already had his topcoat on. He slipped a hand under his jacket, where his holster was, and looked through the peephole. It was Inez. He released the security bolt and let her in.
"Boy, you've been a long time coming. I was just go ing to leave."
A whiff of perfume had come into the flat with her. She was wrapped in a caramel wild mink coat that came down to her ankles.
"I’m not used to being routed out of bed at 7:00 a.m.," she said, suppressing a yawn.
"You'll have to get used to it!"
"What's up?"
"What’s the name of that banker of yours?" She winced. 'Why?"
"Don't worry about that What’s his name?" "Kloppe. Homer Kloppe." "Zurich Trade Bank?" "That’s the one. But why?" He patted her firm buttocks.
"Oh, I just may be wanting to make some invest ments. Is it a reliable outfit?"
Inez's face twisted in amusement as she thought of the steel coffin, the strongbox room where she made love once a week to her austere pink-and-russet banker on a bed of international currency.
"Very, very solid."
"What kind of guy is this Kloppe?"
"Pasteurized. Immaculate. Fiftyish. Magnificent teeth for a little white man."
"False?"
"No, his very own. I've pulled on them to see." Lando opened his wide mouth. "What are my teeth? Dogshit?'
"They're all right for a little white man."
"Okay, cover my face with black shoe polish and you'll see how much brighter they shine!"
He slipped his hand under the mink with possessive authority and gruffly grabbed her by the mound. 'I’m splitting."
"Was that all you wanted?"
"For now, yes."
"Will I see yon tonight?"
"Don’t know. Stay home. You'll see whether I come by. And now, princess, you beat it first No need for the jerks in this stupid building to see us go out together."
See her tonight—that was a good one! When Lan do was on call for duty, his time was not his own. He got an unusual stipend so that he would be available when ever needed, and his boss, Zu Genco Volpone, the don, was generous. Any work well done was rewarded with fine bonuses over and above his salary, though not neces sarily in cash. Genco Volpone was the most thoughtful of men. During his recent stopover in Zurich, Don Genco had honored Lando by treating him to a drink. More im portant he had given Lando his dream car, a glisten ing P9 Beauty Ghost convertible, the prestige model of the International Motor Cars line. Simply because Lan do had looked longingly at one—a fact that Zu had duly noted—when they went by a show window.
"You like it?" he had asked. "If s yours." And Genco Volpone, taking care of the purchase on the spot despite Lando's embarrassed protestations, had handed him the keys of the P9.
"That way," Genco said, "you'll be able to drive me to the station."
Overwhelmed with gratitude and respect, Lando had stammered as he kissed the Don's hand. "But padrone, why? Perchè?"
"We're well satisfied with you, Orlando. And this gift is to express our personal friendliness."
"I've done nothing to deserve it, padrone!"
"Don't worry. You'll earn it one way or another."
' When the don left him with a last affectionate wave of his hand, Orlando had felt as if it was his own fa ther going away. Two days later, at three in the morning, he'd had a phone call from Milan.
"Orlando, you know OBrion? Mortimer 0’Brion, the lawyer?"
"I know who he is."
"Did you ever see him?''
"Once."
‘Think you could recognize him?'‘
"Yes."
The voice had gone on (the same voice that so many times before had given him his orders): "He may be coming your way. Look out for him."
"Where’ll he be coming?"
"He's going to a bank, the Zurich Trade Bank. Know it?’
"I can find it."
"He's not allowed in that bank. You understand?" "Yes."
"Be there before it opens its doors today. And' stay there."
"Okay."
"When you see him, grab him."
"What am I supposed to do with him?"
"Put him in a safe place and call me."
"Okay. But what kind of a safe place?"
"That’s for you to figure out!"
It was quite a coincidence; he was being asked to keep watch on the bank that belonged to none other than his own mistress's prize weekly trick. Five minutes after Inez left, he went down to the garage, unable to resist us ing his gleaming P9 for this assignment
The boss's lieutenants didn't have to worry. O'Brien had no more chance of getting into the Zurich Trade Bank than an excommunicate into the private quarters of the Holy Father.
The 747 deployed all of its braking panels in a wild shrieking of reversing jet engines.
"We have just landed at Zurich. We hope you en joyed your flight, and that you will fly with us again soon."
Italo Volpone was looking at the flushed face of his bodyguard. Pietro Bellinzona was snoring the innocent sleep of the cutthroat
Moshe Yudelman had made his instructions crystal clear: "As soon as you set foot on Swiss soil, even before you call your wife, get over to the morgue and see that leg. You can be just about sure you'll be tailed, but Folco Mori will take care of relieving you of the shadow."
Italo remembered these words as he loosened his safety belt He was irritated at not being able to phone
Angela. By superstition or ancient family tradition, the wife of a capo was to be informed immediately that her man was safe, even though she was never to know the reasons for his travels or the nature of his business.
"Wake up, you fat slob! We're here."
Bellinzona shook himself, a stupid self-satisfied smile on his lips. He said pastfiy, "My mouth's so dry..."
He had fallen asleep two hours after takeoff, tight on the two bottles of champagne he had guzzled.
Italo snarled at him. "Where the hell you think you are? In a dormitory? I didn't bring you along just to get loaded."
"Sorry, boss. Sorry. I was having a dream—" "Shit!"
Under the watchful eyes of Pat Mahoney, Bellinzona awkwardly stretched his large carcass. Upon arrival in Zurich, Mahoney was supposed to temporarily turn the 'job over to Dave Cavanaugh, who would become Babe Volpone's tail. That was the way Kirkpatrick had decided it should be. Mahoney grabbed his briefcase, discreetly took out his weapon, and put it in his holster. At JFK he and his buddy had been passed through without the weap ons check. Mahoney donned his overcoat and walked out the front exit of the plane without another look at Vol pone or Bellinzona.
In the meantime, at the rear, Dave Cavanaugh was maneuvering to be among the first off the 747. His eager ness did not escape the notice of Folco Mori, who was slowly buttoning his jacket in order to let the bony fair-haired guy get a few yards ahead of him.
As the line of passengers headed for the air-terminal buildings, Mori, who had fallen completely to the rear, also noticed a man in a black trench coat Something about the way this man took in everything without apparently looking at anyone signaled that his presence in Zurich was somehow connected with Folco's own purpose.
Unaware that he himself was being watched, Rico Gatto was secretly amused to find that his prey, Italo Volpone, was being stalked, even before he landed in Switzerland, by some kind of shadow—probably the fuzz. Dave Cavanaugh stood head and shoulders above most of the passengers, and it was all he could do to keep from letting his eyes rest on Volpone's back. Rico Gatto, who had a good sense of humor, felt that the tall guy wouldn't be around long if Italo or his bodyguard spotted him. Gatto himself, however, was only here to keep score and to report on it to Ettore Gabelotti. At least for now.
When Babe Volpone and the gargantuan Bellinzona hopped into a taxi, the setup was as follows: Dave Cavanaugh was tailing Volpone and Pietro Bellinzona. They were all being watched by an amused Rico Gatto, who himself was being spied on by Folco Mori at the end of the file. Mori walked side by side with Patrick Mahoney, but neither of them suspected that they were both in Zurich for the same purpose!
'To the morgue!" Italo Volpone told the taxi driver.
That establishment, in the next few hours, was to be more crowded than the local museum.
Orlando Baretto was pacing back and forth on Stampfenbachstrasse, keeping a close watch on the front door of the Zurich Trade Bank. Twice he had gone by the building, which was not yet open for business, dawdling be fore the window of an underwater-hunting shop, pretend ing to be fascinated by the compressed-gas harpoons, the bright red diving outfits, the strange shapes of the shiny daggers in their black rubber sheaths. It was five minutes to nine.
He walked past a little Italian cafe again and had a terrible yearning for a cup of strong coffee, but he couldn't go in without losing sight of the bank door. The fleeting reflection of a head of blond hair caught his eye. The girl's back was to him, and all he could see was the golden hair, a tan traveling coat, and her long delicate hand, with two fingers through the handle of the coffee cup. The man facing her seemed to be vehemently explaining something to her, leaning across the table to make his point. He had the face of a loser, a worried little weasel's head with prying eyes.
Porca madonna! Lando exclaimed inwardly.
His heart beating wildly, Lando recognized Mortimer O’Brion. He quickly retraced his steps and took up a stance in a doorway recess where there was a tiny showcase display of assorted watches. A fine kettle of fish! The guys in Milano hadn't told him the legal eagle would be with a broad! What if she intended to go into the bank with him? Lando kicked himself for having come alone. But he couldn't phone for further instructions without running the risk of losing O'Brion and the girl He didn't know what to do. There wasn't a chance in a thousand that O'Brion, whom he had seen only once two years before in New York, would remember him. Couldn't he just go into the cafe, discreetly stick his Mauser in O'Brion's belly, and lead him away?
The noise of a door slamming made him turn. O'Brion had just come out and was heading for the bank. Lando fell in beside him, speeding up a little to get ahead of him. There was no more time for wondering. Lando was five yards ahead of O'Brion when he got to the three steps leading up to the main door of the bank. Its two heavy bronze panels were still closed. Lando glanced at his watch. Nine sharp. A shadow appeared behind the ground-glass pane and there was the click of keys inside a lock. Lando turned around: Mortimer O'Brion was al ready up two of the steps.
"O'Brion?"
"Huh?"
The little man stepped back.
‘I’m a friend, Mr. O'Brion. Please come with me."
"What is this? Who are you? Let me through!"
Before Lando could raise his little finger, the lawyer had turned around, livid, and started running as fast as he could toward the cafe1. A rush of adrenaline came into Landb's mouth. In his racket, success meant survival; fail ure was a one-way ticket to the morgue. With the wild-animal agility that in his professional-soccer days had made his reputation, in three long strides he caught up to O'Brion. One or two passersby turned around. You don't see a respectable man running through the street in Zurich, any more than in
Lausanne or Geneva. And surely not two—one chasing the other.
Lando tripped O'Brion so deftly that not one of the witnesses could see what made the smaller man fall. The lawyer seemed to fly into the air, come down on the sidewalk, slide about a yard, and then come to a dead stop, his forehead against the concrete, his eyes closed. Lando knelt and grabbed him by the armpits, giving a re assuring smile to the people who had stopped to take in the scene, even twisting the end of his nose to indicate that his poor friend had himself a snoutful. Then, picking him up like a straw man, he rapidly dragged him toward the Beau ty Ghost, which was parked around the corner.