by Pierre Rey
Lando, without any transition, stopped laughing; his lips returned to their hard set thin and mean. He took the phone from the hook and said, "You’ll know in a few seconds."
When they were in New York, Moshe Yudelman had taken Folco Mori aside and whispered instructions to him.
"Italo is an impulsive, nervous man. Someone may try to follow him. He won't even notice it But don't let any one spy on him. If you smell the least off-color thing, elimi nate it"
"Ehminate it?’
"Do I have to draw you a picture?"
Now, sitting in a rented car a hundred yards from the morgue in Zurich, Folco Mori felt a slight tingle in his spinal column when he recognized the tall, bony, light-haired fellow he had spotted at the airport. The guy had tailed Italo by cab without realizing that Falco was tailing him. Now he was pretending interest in the shop windows on the street while his driver read the newspaper La Suisse behind the wheel of the taxi. And Pietro Bel linzona, whom Italo had angrily forbidden to come into the morgue, did not seem to notice that he was being watched. Italo had barely gone in when fat Pietro rushed into a nearby pastry shop and came out with a hefty paper bag of cakes that he was gobbling up as if there were no tomor row.
Folco realized that he would have to figure out how to quietly get rid of the tall intruder. Then, if Italo's visit to the morgue was a matter of any significance, the guy wouldn't be able to inform anyone about it. Folco scratched his back and felt the reassuring presence of the knife that was placed, blade upward, in a sheath between his shoul der blades. All he had to do to get the knife out was slip his hand down the back of his shirt collar, and he could throw it straight at its target in a fraction of a second. But this was broad daylight in Zurich, a city so clean and well kept that he hesitated to spit on the ground. You couldn't commit an obvious murder here without running into the worst kind of troubles. If he could pull the thing off, he'd have to make it look like an accident
Folco considered various methods. He got out of his car, letting his improvisational sense take over. Non chalantly he went toward the spot where the taxi was standing, hoping that Bellinzona would not greet him if and when he saw him. The slightest this cue and the tall blond character watching Pietro would be tipped off. Be fore Folco reached Bellinzona, he warned his partner in a low but perfectly clear voice, "Pietro, this is Folco. Don't turn around. Don't pay any attention to me."
Bellinzona reacted so perfectly that Mori was afraid he had not heard. He went right on consuming his pastries as if nothing had happened. When Folco went past him, he crumpled the bag and put it in his pocket, never looking at Folco. For a second, considering the difficulty, Folco felt like simply walking up to the guy and stabbing him, just like that, but that was out of the question.
As he walked on, he desperately tried to think of a way to get rid of this unwanted surveillance. No one must be informed of what Italo was up to. He glanced toward another parked car and caught the glint of a diamond in a signet ring on a hand resting on the steering wheel. He immediately recognized the man in black he had noticed getting off the plane. Was this guy working with the tall blond? Were they a team? Cops? Hoods? The guy was surely too far away to have understood that Folco had whispered something to Bellinzona. Folco knitted his brow; now he had to take care of two interlopers. In order to keep in countenance, he went into a florist shop, selected a bunch of anemones, and handed it to the salesgirl, all the while keeping an eye on the street through the window. When the girl had wrapped the bouquet, he tossed his money on the counter, nodded a thank-you to her, and without waiting for his change, went back out toward his own car.
Bellinzona was still leaning against the wall outside the morgue, distractedly picking his teeth with a toothpick. He paid no more attention to Folco than he had before, and Folco mentally congratulated him. They were on a one-way street that slanted slightly down. Not much traf fic. Cars were parked on both sides, so there was not too much room for driving. At one point there was a recess in the sidewalk, and four cars were parked there on an angle. Hidden from the others by a bend in the street, Folco tried opening their doors. The first, a Ford, was locked. So was the second, a green Renault. The third, a Mercedes, opened easily. No one was around, and Folco quickly got behind the wheel, released the hand brake, and noted with satisfaction that the Mercedes began to roll backward. He smiled slightly, set the brake again, and went back up the street a few feet to see whether anything had changed. After a minute or so he saw Italo Volpone come rushing out of the morgue, speak sharply to Pietro Bellinzona, push him into their rented Ford, then hop in himself. The rest happened in a trice.
In three strides Folco was behind the wheel of the Mercedes. Leaving its door open, he released the hand brake while keeping his foot on the brake pedal. A few seconds later, the Ford passed him with a grinding of its mistreated gears and he just had time to see Italo Vol pone tensed over the steering wheel, his face livid and hard as stone. Without waiting, Folco Mori took his foot off the brake and jumped from the Mercedes. It started rolling slowly, gaining speed as it crossed the street, until its ton and a half of metal slammed into the right-hand door of a Volkswagen parked on the other side. At the same mo ment, Folco rushed into the opening of a porte cochère that led to a hallway, and with a screech of brakes the taxi carrying the tall blond guy crashed into.the Merce des, almost immediately followed by the second car tele scoping into the taxi's trunk. While the taxi driver got out, swearing, to see what the damage was, Folco went in to the hallway, at the end of which he could see another door that opened onto the next block.
Now he had only to return to his own car and quietly go back to his hotel. At least he had knocked those two off Volpone's trail temporarily. He'd have to find more radical means to get rid of them permanently. Until now, any man he fixed his sights on was as good as dead. His honor required that neither of them should see the sun rise the next. day.
He was still holding the bunch of anemones. He re leased his grip and they fell into the gutter.
Folco Mori couldn't stand flowers—except as an offering on the coffin of one of his enemies.
6
"Do you have an appointment?" "No."
"I don't know whether Mr. Kloppe is in."
The man in the black suit stared at her, not saying a word. Embarrassed, the secretary added hurriedly, "Would you please tell me your name again, sir?"
"Volpone," he said without taking his eyes off her.
Blushing, she disappeared, not unhappy to get away from this strange, upsetting man. He had a kind of ruthless look, and twitches of pain spasmodically twisted his lips into a disquieting artificial smile. In his black suit, shoes and tie, he made her think of the angel of death.
"Sir, someone to see you."
"Who is it, Marjorie?"
"He said his name is Volpone."
Kloppe raised his head, intrigued. He was expecting O'Brion, and now here again was Volpone, instead. Yet the lying lawyer had assured him that Volpone had gone back to the States. Maybe now the matter would be cleared up at last!
'Tell Mr. Volpone I can see him. Show him in in a minute or so."
He made a slight face, part relief, part disappoint ment He would be able to let Genco Volpone know what O'Brion had been trying to pull, and now he was doubly glad that he hadn't complied with the attorney's request On the other hand, he had hoped that the funds temporar ily deposited with him might work a bit longer at Schaan, with his friend Eugene Schmeelbling, the "bankers' bank er." Mentally he checked back over his figures: in three full business days, his personal profit came to three times $109,588, or a total of $328,764. Not to mention the bank's service charge for the two billion dollar trans action amounting to two and a half million dollars. "Hal lelujah!" he whispered to himself.
"Mr. Volpone," Marjorie announced.
Homer rose to greet the man who three days earlier had given him the abbraccio, in the Sicilian mafiosi tradi tion. Holding out his hand, both by way of welcome and to fore
stall another embrace, Kloppe walked around his desk to meet Volpone.
To his amazement he saw a stranger. That stupid Marjorie had already closed the heavy leather-armored door; it was too late to turn the man away.
"Mr. Homer Kloppe?" the visitor asked as the bank er's hand dropped to his side.
"In person," said Kloppe coldly. "But there must be some mistake. My secretary seems to have gotten your name wrong."
"No, it's Volpone, all right I’m Italo Volpone, Genco Volpone's younger brother." He thrust his hand into his inside pocket. "Here, you can see, on my passport."
The banker took it and checked his identity.
"Right?" Italo asked.
"Please sit down, Mr. Volpone."
But Italo remained standing.
"I suppose you are aware of the awful news."
Homer raised an eyebrow, went back to his desk, sat down in his chair, and looked at Italo with polite attention. Volpone's Adam's apple was rising and falling in his neck as if he were unable to swallow his spit Making a supreme effort, he blurted, "My brother is dead."
Kloppe hardened imperceptibly. "He's been murdered!" Italo spat "Have you seen O'Brion in the last three days?" "O'Brion?" Kloppe echoed.
"Yes, Mortimer O'Brion. Has he been in touch in any way? Has he tried to see you?'
Kloppe bit his lip and toyed with his fountain pen.
"Well, has he?" Volpone demanded.
"How did this tragedy happen to your brother?" Kloppe asked.
"You read the papers?"
"Well—mostly just the business pages."
"Three days ago, after Genco was here to see you, on the cowcatcher of a railroad engine that came into Zurich..."
The Adam's apple started bobbing again, and in the corners of Volpone's eyes Kloppe thought he detected a film that looked like tears.
". . . there was a leg. Torn off. My brother's right leg."
Kloppe gulped, in his turn. "How awful! His leg?" ‘’Yes."
"But then, Mr. Volpone, if you haven't seen the rest of the body, there's still a chance that your brother..."
His face stolid, Volpone shook his head.
"Mr. Volpone," Kloppe went on, "how can you be sure—?’
"I’ve just been at the morgue," Italo cut him off. "I swear it! I am sure my brother is dead! I am sure he was murdered! And I know O'Brion was the one who did it!"
Kloppe almost shuddered.
"Listen, Mr. Kloppe. My brother cabled me per sonally in New York telling me he had turned the money over to you. In the meantime, my brother's been knocked off and O'Brion has dropped out of sight. It adds up, doesn't it?"
His eyes downcast Kloppe went back to toying with his pen.
Volpone inhaled deeply. "Don't you worry, we'll find the little bastard. It's just a matter of hours. In the mean time, I'm taking over. As far as you're concerned, nothing has changed. You will please now complete the transfer of the funds just as my brother instructed."
Homer Kloppe coughed. Then, looking up at his visitor, he said, "What funds are you talking about, Mr. Volpone?"
Italo could not believe what he had heard. "I beg your pardon?"
Looking him straight in the eye, Kloppe repeated with the utmost calm, "I said, what funds do you mean, sir?"
For a second Italo couldn't even react He looked at the banker as if he were a Martian.
"What do you mean, what funds? Our funds, our money! The two billion dollars my brother left with you for transfer."
The pen in Kloppe's hands stopped moving. In a per fectly colorless voice, without blinking, he said, "I don't know what you're talking about"
"You don't know what?" Volpone roared. "Three days ago my brother Genco and that slob O'Brion were here, weren't they?"
"Yes, I did see those two gentlemen."
"Well, then?' Italo crowed. "All I'm telling you to do is move on those two billion dollars!"
Kloppe spread his hands slightly, to show the quan dary he was in.
"I still don't know what you mean."
"What?" gasped Italo.
"I just can't make out what you're referring to."
Italo took a step toward the desk. Homer stood up, his lips pressed tightly together.
"Say that again!" Volpone said in a menacing tone.
"I don't know what you are talking about" Kloppe hammered out
"What the fuck are you trying to pull?" Italo snapped, his face in complete disarray by now.
"Mr. Volpone, I feel for your loss. But I cannot in any way countenance such discourtesy."
Italo's eyes went to the spot on Kloppe's neck where he would like to dig his thumbs and squeeze, squeeze, in order to get out of this nightmare and back into reality so he could feel the ground under his feet again. His every fiber united in one impulse: to kill!
"I’m asking you for the last time. Where's our dough?"
"You will please leave my office, sir." Italo stared at the plumpish little man who was daring to defy the Syndicate. "Do you know who you're talking to?" he stammered.
Homer Kloppe did not move so much as an eyelash. "Get out!" he hissed.
Tiny black and purple filaments started dancing in front of Volpone's eyes.
"Look," said Italo. 'Listen to me. I don't know what your game is, but I'm giving you a solemn warning. You have until tomorrow noon to transfer our two billion dollars. If it's not done by then, you're offed."
"One more word and I will have you immediately deported!"
"That won't bring you back to life!"
Weaving like a drunk, Volpone took two steps to ward the door, then turned back. "You'll be beyond help, believe me. Remember, tomorrow noon is the dead line."
As he went out, he turned and pointed his finger at Kloppe, and, his voice trembling with fury, spat out, "You're beginning to stink already!"
Pietro Bellinzona rubbed his cheek in disbelief. "This was the first time anybody ever slapped me."
"There's gotta be a first time for everything," said FolcoMori
"Beat the shit out of me, shoot at me, okay. But this! It's—it's—"
"Humiliating," Mori filled in for him.
"That's right Humiliating! Would you have let him get away with it?"
"Nobody's ever slapped me," Mori said softly, look ing away. He was lying full-length on the bed, dressed in his well-tailored black suit his tie impeccably knotted, his expensive loafers on the immaculate white pillow.
"I shoulda slugged him!" Bellinzona said.
"Why didn't your
"Because he's a Volpone!"
"Why the hell did he slap you, anyway?" Folco asked blandly.
"I wish I knew! Does that make you laugh?"
"Not laugh. Just smile."
"In my place, what would you have done?"
"Turned the other cheek."
"What's he got against me?"
"Go ask him."
"Shit!" Bellinzona swore as his fist pounded into the palm of his left hand.
In the three hours they had been in Zurich, Pietro Bellinzona had been the butt of his boss's murderous mood. When Italo came out of the bank, he had headed for the hotel without-a word. Bellinzona had followed him into the elevator and down the hall, standing there while Volpone took out his key. Only men did Italo seem to see that his bodyguard was with him.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
Pietro didn't know what to answer.
"Well? What the fuck are you here for?"
Impressed by his pallor, the wild gleam in his eyes, and the ugly twitches distorting his face, Bellinzona had stammered, "Well, Moshe told me—"
Before he could finish, the slap had resounded on his diode’
"Get the fuck out!"
"But, boss—what’d I do?’
"You stick out like a sore thumb!" And he had slammed the door in Pietro's face.
"So, you see, Folco, I don't go for that. It makes me sick."
"Forget it!" Mori advised him. !’While you were wait ing outside t
he morgue, did you notice anything?"
"Yeah, all that cockamamie business you were doing. What the hell was that for?"
"There were two guys tailing you."
"Shit!"
"The kicker is, they weren't together." "How far'd they tail us?" "They didn't. Just to the morgue." "How'd you stop them?"