by Pierre Rey
‘I released a car in the street They piled up into it"
"Did you tell Babe?" . "Hell, no! We're not supposed to bother him, just pro tect him."
"You crazy? So he can bit me again?"
"Leave him alone. We're big enough to handle this ourselves. I know how we can get one of the mothers right now."
"Is he here in the hotel?' Bellinzona asked, an excited look in his eyes.
"Uh-huh. So's the other." "Are they Swiss?"
"Shit. They came out of New York on the same plane we were on."
Pietro ran a hungry tongue over his lower lip, sudden ly a thousand miles away from his recent mishap.
"Cops?"
"I don't know. I don't think they know each other. But that's just a hunch."
"What d'you wanna do?"
"Handle the first one first He's here on this same floor, the other side of the hall, room 647." "You got an idea?"
"Yeah, and a good one. Here's what you have to do..."
Italo Volpone was so beside himself when he got into his hotel suite that he started smashing things: what Genco used to call "kid stuff." He couldn't use his rod to fire at anything, and the wallop he'd given Bellinzona was far from having assuaged his urge to kill.
He dialed his home number in New York. After six rings his wife came on to the line.
"Angela?"
- Her voice was so clear, she might have been in the next room. "Italo..." "Whatcha doin?” "Sleeping."
He could see her, rolled in a ball in their king-size bed, lying on the edge in one of those long granny night gowns she liked. Warm, soft, smooth, defenseless, alone. In America, day hadn't dawned yet
"Italo?" she asked in an anxious tone.
"Yes?"
"About Genco?"
Volpone swallowed and said, "Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
He knew she was trying to keep from crying. Less perhaps over the brother-in-law she had-known for only six months or so than for Rate's sorrow. After a long silence, she murmured, "Non posso crederlo. ... ter-ribile...:'
"You better tell Franeesca."
"Yes."
"Tell her I'm taking care of everything." "Okay."
He could hear her sobbing, and he thought he could taste the salt of her tears on the tip of his tongue. His own tears were dimming his eyes. "I’ll call you back during the day."
"Italo?"
"Yes?"
Nothing."
He put the phone back on its cradle, dried his eyes with the back of his hand, and -dialed again. As soon as he heard Moshe Yudelman's voice, he said, "It's me."
If he had been calling the president of the United States, he would have opened the conversation the same way. Italo always identified himself by saying, "It’s me." Let the other person figure out who it was.
"Genco?" Moshe immediately asked, and Italo ap preciated it
But he couldn't answer; he was afraid to get himself started again.
"Genco?" Yudelman asked once more. "Yes," Italo finally said.
"Oh, God! God!..." Moshe stammered. "The body?" "Not yet"
"Any chance that... ?’
"None. Don't ask me why. I just feel it I know it That's all."
"What are you going to do?" "I’m taking over."
Silence ensued, and Italo thought they had been cut off.
"Moshe. Can you hear me?" ,"Yes. Yes." "I said I'm taking over." "I heard."
Yudelman's voice sounded forced.
‘You got something against that?" "No, no."
"You don't sound overjoyed." "Yes,' yes, of course I am. Just, things have been happening so fast..."
"I've been to the bank." "What?"
"I said, I was just at the bank. Are you deaf? There's a snag."
"What kind of snag, Italo?" Moshe asked in alarm. "That crook of a banker says he never heard of our account."
Back in New York, despite his apprehension over .Italo's violent reaction to things, Yudelman protested, "You shouldn't have! If Gabelotti finds out about it, he'll think—that is, hell imagine..."
"What’ll he imagine?"
"I don't know. But you're rushing things. Try not to louse everything up." "Moshe." "Yes."
"Are you with me or against me?"
"Just listen, Italo. Try to understand—"
"With me or against me?" Volpone cut him off.
"If I were against you, I'd let you foul things up any way you wanted,"Yudelman came back. "Do you really think a Swiss banker win answer your questions when you don't even know the number of the account?"
"Fuck the number!" Italo stormed. "I gave him until noon tomorrow to carry out my orders."
"My God!" Moshe moaned.
"It's our bread, ain't it? My brother died for it, didn't he? And you want me to shut up?" "But you can't do this!" "Who's gonna stop me?"
"Italo, please listen to me. I beg you. This is too serious a matter! Don't do a thing until I get there. I’ll charter a plane right away."
"You think I'm a kid?" Volpone barked.
"Italo, I know how to handle this kind of business. I’m used to it."
"So am I."
"Italo. Let me come over.’’ "KI need you, ni whistle.’’ "I’m coming anyway."
"Set foot in Zurich without my okay and I promise yon, it's curtains!"
"Italo—we're heading for a catastrophe.’’ "Then keep out of it."
"At least let me fill Gabelotti in. He's gonna think we're trying to double-cross him."
"Forget that fat pile of shit! When I get done with the banker, I’ll take care of him. I don't work slow and easy, the way Genco did."
"Italo, one last time—’’—
"Shut your goddamned trap!"
"Don't hang up, Italo. Let me make one suggestion. You trust me, don't you? I have a friend in Zurich, a very good friend. He's done a lot of things for Genco in the past His name is Karl Deutsch. We used him any number of times. For the sake of your brother's memory, let me call him. He knows the banker very well. Let him handle it m ask him to contact the guy right away—"
"Send the Pope if you want, I don't give a fuck. But if I don't get what I asked for by tomorrow noon, I’ll handle this my own way."
"It's bad—bad, Italo," said Yudelman. "You won't get anywhere with violence."
"Is that all you have to tell me?" Italo sneered.
"No. What about O'Brion?" ' "Nothing."
"He's the only one who can—oh, Italo, those Swiss, they're stubborn as mules. You'll louse it all up." "Moshe—"
"You have to handle them with care."
"Moshe..."
"Yes?"
"You're bustin' my balls."
Italo hung up, furious once .again. His eyes darted around the room, looking for what he could destroy next And then the phone rang.
In room 647 at Sordi's Hotel Dave Cavanaugh threw his jacket on a chair, went into the bathroom, turned the faucet on full force in the sink, and doused his face with water. He was sore as hell at having lost track of Vol pone because some nameless idiot hadn't set his hand brake. By miracle, as be had come through the hotel lob by, his eyes had connected with those of Pat Mahoney, who pretended to be absorbed in a magazine. One blink was enough to inform him that the bird had flown back to the nest
That was reassuring. At least they hadn't lost him. Still, there was that gap in the minute-by-minute report. In the half hour Dave had been going through the streets of Zurich looking for him, the bastard certainly hadn't been in church. Where had he gone? What had he done? Whom had he met? Captain Kirkpatrick hated such unanswered questions, and Cavanaugh didn't like having to admit to them.
During the few hours they had been in Switzerland, Cavanaugh had been in touch with Mahoney only twice, by fleeting visual signals, so when the phone rang, Dave naturally thought Pat had found some way to call him from the lobby.
"Yes?"
To his surprise, he heard an excited voice stumbling over its words: "The concierge, h
ere. . . . Hurry up, sir. . . .Open your window and look down. . . . Something terrible has just happened!"
Mahoney, he thought Dave rushed to the window, unlocked it, and leaned out Six stories down, the terrace over the Sordi's marquee kept him from seeing what was going on below. The tulle curtain, blown by the wind, flew over his face, and at the same moment he had the feeling there was someone behind him. Right on top of him. As he tried to move the curtain away, he had the aw ful sensation of being grabbed by the ankles. He attempted to lock his large knotty hands around the window's con crete railing, but it was no use. Despite his desperate ef fort to resist, all two hundred pounds of him swung over the handrail as his center of gravity moved forward, his legs rising inexorably into the air. He wildly tried to kick, scratching the stone with his bleeding hands, but nothing stopped the deadly thrust that was propelling him out headfirst In a series of disjointed images he visualized the dive ahead of him, tried to utter Mahoney's name, saw his wife with their youngest girl in her arms, and remembered Kirkpatrick's laugh when he said, "Cavanaugh, when you become a cop, you knew you wouldn't just be twiddling your thumbs!"
When he realized that he "was dropping like dead weight down the front of the hotel in a nightmare fall that nothing could stop, his last thought was a question that like so many others, would never be answered: Am I going to be sick?
Without letting a second go by, Folco Mori made the sign of the cross, an old Catholic habit he never failed to observe when he dispatched one of his fellow humans ad patres. Without giving himself a chance to enjoy the results of his work, he came away from the window and quickly frisked his victim's jacket. There was a wallet in it and the first card he took out of it told him what he wanted to know: David Cavanaugh, NYPD.
Okay—he had just offed a cop. -Not the first time. . Or the last, he hoped with a vicious grin. He put the wallet back into the jacket pocket and gave an admiring expert's look to the Government Model lying on the bed—but ab stained from touching it He looked cautiously out into the corridor. Still empty, except for a cart loaded with bed linens, brooms, and cleaning fluids, standing outside room 609. He quietly closed the door behind him, covered the twenty yards that separated him from 609, and peeked in. The chambermaid had her back to him and was , vacuuming. He calmly took the passkey he had swiped a few moments before and slipped it back into the lock of 609.
A short way off, from his half-open door, Pietro Bellinzona was watching. Folco nodded and Bellinzona gave him a thumbs-up "well done." For all that Pietro might seem like a dope, he had handled his telephone impersonation of the concierge very adroitly. But that didn't mean he was through. Folco had told him to keep on watching after the murder; the cop might have a part ner lurking around who would unquestionably surface as soon as word of the "accident" got out Which meant any minute now.
Folco Mori slipped into his own room, directly oppo site Italo Volpone's. He was wondering if everything was the way he had it figured.
"Homer, you're hardly eating," Chimene Kloppe re proached. "Don't you like the soufflé?
"Yes, it's fine, dear. But I'm just not very hungry," Kloppe replied.
"Don't worry, mother," Renata soothed. "If s spring time getting to him. If s making dad's sap rise!"
"Renata, you should be ashamed."
"Why? It’s happening to me, too, isn't it? That's why I'm marrying Kurt."
It was the usual family noontime meal. Only one thing was different: Kloppe's life had been threatened, and there was little he could do about it Certainly he could not alert the police. As an extreme measure, he could ar range for Volpone's deportation as an undesirable alien, but for now, he resolved, he would not tell that little tramp a thing. As long as Genco Volpone or Mortimer O'Brion did not put in an appearance, the two billion dollars would keep on accruing interest If Genco Volpone were really dead, as his brother insisted, Homer could only turn the money over to O'Brion, or to someone who knew the identifying code name of the account And if O'Brion failed to collect and Italo Volpone sued, Homer could tie him up in the courts for years.
"Papa, if you tell me truly what you're thinking, I’ll give you a kiss."
'I’m thinking of a leg," Kloppe answered innocent ly.
"Aha!" Renata gloated. "I was right! Your sap is ris ing with spring."
"On second thought Chimene, I will have some more souffle'."
Chimene was in seventh heaven. When Homer enjoyed the food, all was right in her world.
"Ottavio," the voice said. "It's me," Italo answered.
Ottavio Giacomassi was the Volpone family's capo regime in charge of the European side of the Mediterranean basin. He had residences in Rome, Naples, and Milan, but he was never in any of them, although at any given moment his bosses could be informed of his where abouts. Genco Volpone had spun a web of intelligence so fine that he could be filled in almost instantly on any dan ger to his interests throughout the world. Such an or ganization cost a bundle, but that was a drop in the bucket to what it brought in.
"We found your guy," said Ottavio.
Italo shivered with enjoyment "Alive?"
"Very much so."
"Where is he?"
"He's not alone."
"What the fuck da I care? Where is he?"
"With Orlando Baretto. Go to the corner of Universitatstrasse and Waldenbachstrasse. That can't be far from where you are. Can you go right away?"
"Yes."
"Then go to Number 7 Universitatstrasse, third floor.. There's only one door. Hell be waiting for you there." "Ottavio?" "Yes?" “Thanks."
Italo Volpone.hung up and rubbed his hands with a demented look of glee. Now he'd find out what actually happened to his brother, he'd get the number of the Swiss account that kept those two billion dollars out of circula tion; and, mainly, he'd settle the hash of that fucking O'Brion. He'd do it with his own hands, too, as soon as he had made the little turd talk.
He phoned Bellinzona's room. "Pietro, get a hold of Folco. Get your asses downstairs on the double. We're on our way!"
Pat Mahoney had seen the doorman running toward him and everybody on the porch raising their heads. He got half up, his newspaper—which by now he knew by heart—crumpling in his hand. There were shouts outside. The doorman passed him again, running even faster, and started up the stairway in huge leaps. Without thinking, Mahoney fell in with him, unaware of what made him do it when his main assignment was to remain inconspicu ous. However, when his muscles began to operate independently of his conscious will, it usually turned out to be important. A kind of animal instinct shared by both cops and crooks who succeed in their callings.
He got up to the mezzanine, where the bar, the ball room, a small restaurant public lavatories, and phone booths were located. He saw the doorman stop still and bring his hand to his mouth in a gesture of revulsion. The heads of all the bystanders turned toward him in one sweep. Mahoney caught up with him, looked out at the terrace atop the marquee, and felt like vomiting. His partner, big Dave, lay in a pool of blood between two large tubs of greenery, bits of brain soiling his white shirt He was not wearing a jacket. Strangely, one of his shoes was near his smashed head, which was at an abnormal angle with his neck; Dave's body was lying on its stomach, but his wide-open lifeless eyes were facing the sky.
Mahoney’s professional reflexes returned. Dave Cava naugh was not one to fall out of a window. Mahoney raced toward an open elevator, got into it and pressed the 6 button as his Python 357 came out in his hand.
Goddamn it! This was Switzerland. He put his gun back in his pocket fury in his heart. There was nothing he could do for Dave, but he might still have a small chance to get his hands on the bastards who had thrown him to his death. How could Dave ever have let himself be taken by surprise like that? Mahoney jumped out of the eleva tor and raced down the length of the corridor, noting that the door to 647 was locked. He called a chambermaid whom he had rushed by on his way. She' was eyeing him curiously.
"Do you have a passkey? There's
been an accident Let me into 647."
She left her cart and did as she was told. The room was empty. Dave's holster and gun still lay on the bed spread and his coat was on the back of the chair. Mahoney ran his fingers through the inside pocket and felt the wallet The window was open. The curtains, blown by the wind, were streaming into the room like bridal veils.