by Pierre Rey
He had described Genco, giving them the name of the hotel he would stop at and his schedule. The rest was up to them. Mortimer did not want to know how they did it. On the plane back to New York after the meeting with Kloppe, a moment of lucidity made him see—too late!— that his impossible bluff would never work. He began fer vently hoping that Katz's friends would let him down, but he had barely arrived in Nassau when he got the evidence to the contrary: '"please call back. Judith." The tele graphic code that meant that Zu Genco Volpone was dead. Willy-nilly, he had to go along with the implacable unfold ing of the details of his plan. The lie he was about to tell upset him more than the murder he had paid for.
Before going to the .meeting Italo Volpone had set up in Nassau for the capi and consiglieri of the two families, O'Brion had made his report to Don Ettore Gabelotti.
"The number?" Ettore had demanded after a per functory greeting.
"21877."
Gabelotti immediately wrote it down and asked the code name. "God.'‘ "Very good."
Mortimer was beside himself: for the first time in his brilliant legal career, he had failed to tell a client the truth. The real number and code name were etched in his mind: 828384—Mamma mia.
Genco Volpone's body was somewhere near Zurich. And Gabelotti had no reason whatsoever to doubt O'Brion, so his lie could not be given away by anyone. Gabelotti would never again talk to Genco Volpone. Nor to the Zurich Trade Bank. By his nature and calling, Homer Kloppe would remain as silent as the tomb if Gabelotti
—whose name he didn't even know—were to ask him any thing. Especially using the phony number and code name.
All Mortimer needed to do was close the account and disappear with Zaza.
He looked warmly at the nape of her neck as they drove along in the P9. The cowardice she had shown toward him came as no surprise. She was weak, calcu lating, venal cold, stupid, and selfish. But he loved her. Up to this moment, for all the rebuffs she gave him, she was still the only woman who had ever made him really feel like a man. Was she going to get killed too? Italo had no proof that O'Brion had had Genco knocked off. Could . Volpone take the senseless risk of killing him before he found out how to get the two billion bucks? As of now, Mortimer was the only key that could possibly open the bank, and the Zurich Trade Bank would never release the dough if the proper legal conditions were not met
No one in the world would ever convince Homer Kloppe to cough it up without hearing the account num ber and code.
A sharp turn into a side road threw Mortimer against Pietro Bellinzona. With a grumble the big guy shoved him back to the other corner.
When it wasn't hidden around a bend, Folco Mori could see the tail of the dark blue Fiat bouncing along the road. It had been rented that morning by the cop who had taken the dive, and now his buddy was driving it Folco felt glad that he wasn't that cop. That one wasn't going to see the sun set tonight either, so he'd never be able to report to his superiors—that bastard Kirkpatrick, probably—that Italo Volpone had taken O'Brion and his pussy for a one-way drive into the rugged Swiss country side. Folco wondered if the cop had time to advise his New York bosses about what happened to his partner.
When Volpone and Bellinzona left Sordi's Hotel, Mori had stayed as a rear guard, watching from his Volks wagen, hidden behind a row of prickly shrubs. He had seen the copper take off after Italo and Pietro, and he had hoped that the other unidentified shadow would al so show up. Unfortunately, there'd been no sign of him.
Too bad. Folco was dying to know who he was before making it a lucky threesome of corpses.
When they left the airport, after arriving from New York, there had been three guys tailing Volpone: Two were cops—a team, though they pretended not to know each other. The first one was dead; the second, in his blue Fiat, was in Folco's sight Only the third guy remained an unknown quantity. Either an operative of another government agency or a torpedo for a rival family. Et tore Gabelotti would be the only one big enough to dare keep a tail on Volpone.
As for cop number two, no need for Folco to knock himself out trying to pass his death off as an accident
The wild countryside they were traversing provided every opportunity for disposing of a body. By the time it was found, a lot of snow would have melted in that val ley, and Folco Mori would be far away.
At the next bend in the road, Folco had a panoram ic view of the whole horizon. Far ahead, he could see the P9, followed by Volpone's Ford, majestically climb ing the side of the mountain. Three hundred yards be hind came the cop's Fiat
"Enjoy yourself, bastard!" Folco said aloud. "En joy! You won't have a chance much longer!"
The grade suddenly became so steep that Folco had to shift back into low in order to climb.
"I am Mr. Volpone's secretary," Rico Gatto said. "Indeed," said the unflappable morgue attendant "You know—the man who was here this morning. He asked me to come and see if he lost something here." "Here? What kind of thing?" "A watch." "Where?"
"If you don't mind, ‘I’d like to look around." "But where?"
"Wherever my boss went this morning." "I'm sorry, you're not allowed in." "Why?"
"Because only family are admitted. Hell have to come back himself."
"Mr. Volpone is terribly busy," Rico Gatto said, tak ing several American bills out of his pocket.
The attendant did not seem to notice. Back home, that bait would have sent his counterpart off like a flash to bring in ten coffins, with or without occupants. But this was Switzerland.
"Here!" Rico said, offering him the money.
The man looked appalled. "For me? Why?"
"For your trouble."
"What trouble? This is what I get paid for."
"Well, then, show me in," Rico said impatiently.
"I told you, no visitors are allowed in the morgue."
"What do I have to do to get in?"
"Like anyone else. Wait until some relative of yours dies, and then make a written request"
Rico gladly would have taken a shot at the guy.
On the phone, Ettore Gabelotti had been speechless with rage when Rico hadn't been able to tell him whose body Volpone had seen in the morgue.
"Didn't Mr. Volpone drop his watch in the coffin?" Rico asked, trying a new tack.
"Well, I don't know," the man said. "When I closed it, I didn't see a thing."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. I certainly wouldn't have missed it with just a leg in there."
"What do you mean, just a leg?' The man looked at Rico questioningly. "Well, yes— the leg."
Rico was so taken aback that he gave himself away.
"You mean Mr. Volpone just came in to see a leg?" He paused. "Whose was it?"
"What did you say your name was again?' the man asked, now fully on the defensive.
"Listen," Rico pleaded. "Check it again, will you? I’ll come back before closing time."
Pat Mahoney was sure that Cavanaugh had been murdered. As he followed the P9 and Volpone's Ford up the mountain trails, he noticed a Volkswagen hot on his own track. He kicked himself for not having considered that one of Volpone's men might have stayed behind to keep an eye on him. They had surely lured Dave to the window and thrown him down. With a chill of ferocious pleasure Mahoney realized they were preparing the same kind of thing for him. He felt the butt of his Magnum. They were hunting him, but he was going to kill the hunt er.
For a moment he forgot he was a cop with an as signment Later he'd be able to find a thousand ways to justify the carnage. One was enough: self-defense.
First he'd try to get that guy tailing him to talk. As soon as he got him to confess, he'd do away with him and, depending on what the guy told him, fire at the rest of them until the terrible fury splitting his temples had been satisfied.
The trail began to wind in and out under a high arch of huge firs and larches that hid the road from the light of day. Their bluish shadow gave a metallic tone to the patches of snow that lay here and there along the way. The
closer they got toward the summit the heavier was the snow, protected by the mantle of the trees and de void of any tracks except for those of the two cars that had gone before. The road became rough, and it was full of potholes hidden under the snow. The Fiat had trouble getting up one especially steep rise, and no sooner was it at the top of the bump than it flew down a' breakneck descent for some thirty yards. Taken by surprise, Ma honey jammed on his brakes. AH its wheels locked, the car turned slightly sideways and started to skid, sliding all the way to the bottom of the drop where the forest road made a turn, as if to get a better start up toward the next crest
Mahoney knew that here, and nowhere else, was where it would happen. Momentarily giving up the chase, he jumped out of the Fiat which was now across the road, and rolled behind some bushes. Crouching, he climbed a few yards up the hill, bent over, his Police Python 357 at the ready, and hid behind a tree trunk. He waited, panting. The guy in the car on his heels was going to skid at the top of that bump and come down the same way he had. He grinned viciously as he heard the sound of an engine. First he saw the two front wheels of the Volkswagen skate along the top, then its rounded hood come hurtling down. The driver quickly went into a lower gear to brake his drop, and when he saw the Fiat across his path, it was too late to do anything. In three strides, Mahoney was at the door of the VW. He tore it open and with his free left-hand he grabbed the man from the wheel and threw him to the ground.
Folco Mori saw the black hole of the Python an inch from his right eye. He was going to raise his head when he was struck by a wrist across his Adam's apple. Gasping, he raised his hands to his throat and rolled over in the snow. Mahoney quickly frisked him, and grabbed his wallet, and took a couple of steps away, his weapon still covering Folco, who was softly moaning as he spat out a mixture of saliva and bile.
'What are you trying to sell up here?" Mahoney de manded.
Folco took a good look at Mahoney. Huge and bony, he was inspecting Folco's passport, which listed him as a traveling salesman. By the way the cop had frisked him, by his tone and his manner, Folco had no doubt: the flatfoot was going to blow his brains out.
In that case, this was the end of the road. Every body had to pay the price. He wasn't really so sorry to die, just sad not'to be living-anymore; to be out rotting someplace while other guys were still having fun, fucking, laying in the sun. He had often idly wondered where it would happen to him. Now he knew. In a forest that smelled good, on a patch of snow, in April.
"How did you kill my partner?" Mahoney demanded.
His accent told Folco they had both grown up in the same part of the Bronx.
"You know what I mean," Mahoney shouted, his face fierce with rage.
Mori painfully got up, leaning on his hands, unable to get his breath to come in a regular rhythm. The en gine of the Volks, which he hadn't had a chance to shut off, was still purring and spitting. Why should he bother to answer?
"I'll give you three seconds," Mahoney said. "How did you kill my partner?"
Mori could see the cop's finger turn white on the trigger of the Magnum. He shook his head and stepped away. "What the fuck difference does it make?"
That was as good a confession as any. Mahoney raised the muzzle of the Python. He was about to shoot when Folco Mori started to put his hands down toward his pants.
"Hands behind your head!" Mahoney ordered by professional reflex, as he had done a thousand times when he collared city troublemakers.
Mori did as he was told. The two men were fac ing each other, ten yards apart, Folco Mori with his hands knotted behind his head, Mahoney with his gun at his hip.
Then a truly strange thing happened. Mahoney saw Mori throw one arm out in his direction and roll over on the ground in a desperate hedgehog movement. What did the bum think? That this would keep a bullet from hitting him? Mahoney wanted to laugh, but he felt a luke warm liquid spurt into his mouth with the strength of a geyser, and he saw three or four Folco Moris jumping in different directions while the trees seemed to be dancing a jig above him and the sky turned alternately black and purple. As he lowered his head, he was amazed to see that he had dropped his Magnum. He wondered what the hell he was doing there, lying on the ground, which was the only solid thing in the dizzily whirling landscape. Then he raised his heavy hand to his throat to find a gap ing hole hugging a long blade that went straight through in a flood of blood. He thought, If only my jugular wasn't cut...
8
At 4:00 p.m. Marjorie ushered Karl Deutsch into Homer Kloppe's office. The banker rose to greet the
"Doktor." After a few courteous remarks, they cot to the heart of the matter..
'T hope you won't mind my having barged in," said Deutsch.
Homer magnanimously waved this scruple away.
I’d also appreciate your forgetting my call the minute I leave here."
"Would you like a drink?" asked Kloppe, taking out his giant bottle of Waterman's ink.
They had known each other for nearly ten years and were full of mutual esteem. Karl Deutsch, an Austrian by birth, had had a hard time getting Zurich financial cir cles to forget his national origin; despite the use of the same language, they did not look on him as "one of ours." His gifts as a conciliator and his innate sense of helpful ness, not to mention his highly placed international con nections, had finally won him acceptance among the local upper bourgeoisie. Even the highest bank officials often came to ask his opinion with respect to new customers. As if by magic, Karl Deutsch always had information handy, and gratis; he had never been known to be wrong about anyone. It was almost enough to make them forgive his lack of devotion in the practice of the Protestant religion he professed.
They also had the greatest respect for the unparalleled regularity with which he ushered foreign capital in to the country, for he made a habit of spreading such sums among the various institutions of Zurich, Geneva, and Lausanne that had won his favor. There was no business deal he was ever unaware of, no secret he couldn't fathom, no social circle, however closed, he could not penetrate. Wealthy individuals, foreign banks, and mul tinational corporations, as well as some governments that needed fresh supplies of money or lucrative short-term investments, all made use of his services. Deutsch specu lated in currency exchange, knowing before anyone else the exact day on which any country's money was going to be devalued or revalued. He could obtain the address of a dealer who had Tiger tanks, M-l rifles, or Sten light machine guns on hand in quantity. He had ways known only to him of transferring money to shelter it from voracious American or European taxes. Naturally, Deutsch collected his percentage on each transfer. Naturally, the value of such a talent had not escaped the notice of the Syndicate. On several occasions Deutsch had been able to launder huge sums, the source of which he did not ques tion. He enjoyed his ability to outsmart the all-powerful American IRS. He had even succeeded on occasion in get ting high government officials to take on directorships at fancy salaries, so that, by poetic justice, the ill-gotten gains of the mob were used to remunerate the very people who had been in charge of fighting it. Karl Deutsch, af fable, loyal, always ready to do a favor or bring together those who could do one another some good, pulled all the strings of the huge skein he had woven.
"To your health!" Kloppe said, raising his glass.
"Prosit?' replied Deutsch, draining his.
Homer poured him another.
"Wen, now," said Deutsch after taking a deep breath, "I have the greatest respect and esteem for you, Mr. Kloppe. So I suggest that you make no reply to what I am going to tell you. And after I've gone, you can do as you see fit Of course, this story is purely imagi nary ..."
"Of course," Kloppe chimed in, concerned, but deeply interested.
"My only reason for telling it to you," Deutsch went on, "is that it may be helpful. You'll decide that Let us suppose that a huge sum of money had been en trusted to one of the banks in this city, under the cloak of a numbered account" He saw Kloppe's face lose its ex pression. "And let us suppose a
lso that this sum, which was just in transit belonged to a group of partners—not necessarily Swiss—but foreigners, say, maybe Americans, whose ways of doing business are rather different from ours. People who, perhaps primitively, feel that papers and signatures mean less than giving one's word or shaking hands on a deal."
Kloppe carefully placed the Waterman's bottle back into his desk drawer. The one thing he would never have anticipated .was that Deutsch, of all people, would turn out to be representing the Volpones. But then, wasn't he, Kloppe himself, the custodian of their funds?