by Pierre Rey
"Now, let us suppose that the people who deposited the sum and knew the account number were unable to come and claim it. The duty of a banker would be never to reveal the existence of the money to anyone."
Karl Deutsch cleared his throat "Unless, of course, Mr. Kloppe, the claimants were madmen or outlaws who would stop at nothing in order to collect. In that case, and in that one case alone, the banker might be better ad vised to let caution be the better part of valor, to listen to his common sense rather than to adhere to the letter of the law. Do you follow me?"
"Did you receive the invitation to my daughter's wed ding?" Kloppe abruptly changed the subject
‘Yes, thanks."
"Are you planning to come?" '’Why, of course."
Kloppe got up, pushing his chair back.
‘I think it might be better if you decided not to," he said. "Just forget about the wedding, as I have already forgotten the things you've told me, which I must say I could not quite follow."
Karl Deutsch got up, his face drained of color.
"I am deeply sorry, sir. Most upset by this turn of events. I had hoped you would see that I was speaking to you only as a friend."
"Good day, Doktor," said Kloppe.
"Good day, sir," Deutsch replied, and as he turned away, he felt he had just grown ten years older.
Yet, he had done what he did only to try to avoid the worst
When Angela Volpone reached the landing, she was hesitant about ringing. Her heart was beating fast and she wanted to turn and run away. To keep herself from ducking out she had phoned Francesca a half hour ear lier to say she was coming. Now she wondered whether she would have the courage to tell her sister-in-law that Genco was dead.
Francesca opened the door herself. Perhaps because of her simple attire, her lack of makeup, or even the sub tle signs of wear and tear in her face, she looked older than her fifty years. Since marrying Italo, Angela had met Francesca on only three or four occasions, and each time, they had found nothing more to say to each other than the conventional civilities. They were far too dif ferent even though they had married brothers.
Angela's healthy twenty-five-year-old urges could not but make her feel ill at ease in Francesca's calm and re signed presence. What could this woman have been through to appear so broken?
"Come in, Angela. Welcome to my home."
The apartment looked like Francesca. Despite its size, nothing broke its dull, quiet air. Everything was gray, soft a bit faded, timeless. Anonymous. And yet the rustic furnishings seemed to reflect the touch of the man who made them. As if here, on Eighth Avenue, one had sud denly come out into the country.
"Would you like some coffee?"
Angela shook her head. Ushered in by Francesca, she sat down in an easy chair near the window, her hostess on a straight chair facing her.
"Here's the thing," Angela began. "Italo just phoned from Zurich. I have some bad news." Francesca's face contracted almost imperceptibly. "If s about your husband. Genco... uh, had an accident"
Unable to look into her sister-in-law's devouring eyes, Angela looked at her own tensed hands, knotted on her tweed skirt.
"An accident?" Francesca inquired. "Is he . . . ? Is he... ?" she kept asking as she stood up.
Angela, overcome with emotion, bit her lip and low ered her head. Then, with a burst of sympathy, she got up and threw herself into the older woman's arms. Francesca was sobbing but no tears were coming from her eyes.
"Where?" she asked in a changed and hardened voice as she withdrew from the embrace.
Angela did not know what to answer. Wild as it seemed, Italo had not given her any details.
"I asked you, where is my husband?" Francesca re peated. "What happened to him?''
"I don't know," Angela gulped, holding back her sobs. "Italo is supposed to call me back. He didn't tell me anything more. He's taking care of everything."
Francesca collapsed on the easy chair, bent over her self, her head buried in the cushions, punching them as hard as she could while an fahnmnn groan spurted from her breast
"I knew they'd kill him on me. I always knew it!
And now they'll kill Italo, too!"
Angela brought her fists up before her mouth to keep from screaming.
Every time Lando Baretto seemed .to be slowing down, Volpone honked his horn imperiously, urging him to keep up the pace. Now Lando could see the end of the path, as it led into a clearing where, on one side, there was a main building fitted out with barns, lofts, and lean-tos. He cut the motor, got out of the car, and waited for the Ford to come alongside. Not daring to meet Inez's eyes, he rushed to open the door for Volpone.
"This okay?"
"Make sure there's nobody in there," Italo answered sharply, remaining in the car.
Irked by the mud and melting snow that soiled his loafers, Lando walked toward'the buildings. Everything was closed. He knocked on the door several times. Noth ing. He walked around the building, saw a partly open door, and shoved it wide. It squeaked as it swung. The mud floor was covered by a deep layer of chips and scraps of wood. Against the retaining walls were various tools-picks, hatchets, steel wedges—and in the middle of the warehouse sat a huge electric saw covered with sawdust and grime. Lando ran his finger Over the rusted circular blade.
He went out again and climbed the surrounding rise for a hundred yards or so. From the top, he had a panoram ic view of the landscape, hidden from sight in the clearing. In the foreground, diving steeply to the edge of a mountain torrent gleaming below, were several acres of sparsely planted firs, sheared off at the stumps. Farther down, between the stream and the stumps, tree trunks cut into logs lay in piles secured by huge wooden blocks. When the time came, the woodcutters would simply let the logs roll into the water and then collect them down stream. Beyond, among the sharp blacks and whites that faded into bluish grays, was a whole range of hills and snowy escarpments.
Looking back .to the clearing, Lando could see the buildings in one corner, completely surrounded by the dark mass of the trees. He went down, fuming at the fact that he kept sinking into snow halfway up his calves.
"Well?" Volpone asked.
"All clear."
"Get the bastards out!"
Lando signaled to Pietro Bellinzona, who came out of the P9 behind Mortimer O'Brion and Zaza Finney. Volpone got out of the Ford, pushing Inez before him. For a moment they all stood still. Bellinzona kept Zaza and Mortimer covered. Italo Volpone, his face cruel and impersonal, was casually holding Inez's arm while she gazed ahead impassively.
The sudden silence that precedes executions fell over the group. At the sound of an approaching motor, Vol pone raised his hand slightly; no one else moved. Then Folco Mori's cream-colored Volkswagen came into the clearing. He parked it alongside the other two cars, pulled on the hand brake, and came to join them.
"Where'd you come from?" Volpone asked.
‘I was in back."
"We didn't even see you," Bellinzona marveled. "I had to make a stop." "What for?" Bellinzona asked. "Nevermind."
Volpone gave a signal with his head and they all fell into step behind him. Outside the barn, Volpone said to Pietro and Mori, "Get 'em all inside."
And to Lando, "You stay here."
When Zaza, Inez, Mortimer, Folco, and Bellinzona had gone in, Volpone scratched the snow with the tip of his shoe.
"You know my brother?" he asked Lando, with out looking up.
"Yes. I saw him three days ago." "Where?"
"In town. He had me meet him in the bar of the Continental." "What for?"
"Don Genco wanted me to take him to the train station."
"Did your 4rYes."
"Tell me about it"
Lando looked at him. "What's to tell?" "Did you take a taxi?"
"No," he replied with self-satisfaction, twisting his head toward the P9. "We went in that" "Is it yours?"
"Yes, a gift from Don Genco." "When?"
"When we went past the dealer, he said he wanted to g
ive me a memento. I drove it out and took him to the station."
"Did you see him to the train?"
"No, he didn't want me to. I left him outside."
'You didn't go to the ticket window?''
"He told me to just go on."
"So you don't know if he really bought a ticket"
"No."
"How did he seem?" . "Who?"
"My brother," Italo snapped.
"Fine. Relaxed. In a good mood." "Who followed you?"
Lando looked surprised. "Followed us? Nobody: I guess."
"You know that guy you collared?" "Mortimer O'Brion? He's a lawyer." "Did you see him with my brother?" "No. When I met Don Genco, he was alone." "Your name Baretto?" "Orlando Baretto. They call me Lando." "How long you been in the family?" ‘Near nine years." "You well paid?' "Sure."
"From now On, you got a raise. Double your old pay."
"But, padrone..." Lando mumbled in confusion. "Don't you want it?"
"Sure, sure," Lando came back quickly. "But—" “Take this," Volpone ordered as he stuffed a roll of bills into Lando's hand. It was ten thousand dollars. "For me?"
"On account Did you like my brother?"
Lando vigorously nodded again and again.-
"He's dead," Italo said. "You know who got him knocked off?"
Lando's lower jaw seemed to fall completely away.
"That bastard O'Brion did it!" Volpone said. 'Now, listen to me. I've got two or three questions to ask him. When I get done with him, he won't be going back to Zurich. Get my drift?"
"Sure," Lando said, having already suspected as much.
"His blond biddy won't either. You gonna help me?"
"Sure."
"Who's the big bean pole, the dinge?"
"She's my girl."
"You in love with her?"
"Well, I . . ." Lando said, the words sticking in his throat, his voice suddenly hoarse. "She can't come back either." - "But, boss—"
"I’ll make it up to you."
"She didn't do anything. She doesn't know any thing about it!" _
"Could be. Just tough shit for her." "But—"
' "Look, no witnesses, understand? You'll find another broad. There's plenty of cunts around." "Please, padrone..."
Volpone gave him a venomous look. "I already said I’d make it up to you."
"I know, boss, I know. But that's not the point. If she disappears, it'll be noticed. She's acquainted with the big shots all over town—judges and blinkers. You know the place where you sent me this morning, to collar, O'Brion, that bank—"
"What bank?"
"The Zurich Trade Bank. She turns tricks with the banker." "Who?" "Inez."
'You mean with Kloppe?"
"Yes," Lando hastily assured him, realizing that some how he had hit a soft spot "He's crazy about her. Off his fuckin’ nut!"
Volpone's mind was clicking at top speed.
"You say your black girl's fucking Homer Kloppe?"
"Yes, Kloppe, that's the guy."
"You want to keep her hustling?"
"She's a good kid."
"You wanna take her back to Zurich, huh?" "If she ever said one word, I'd bump her off myself." Volpone looked at him with contempt. "You trust a cunt?"
Lando hesitated only a fraction of a second. "This one, yes."
"Well, I don't. Unless we can scare the shit out of her. Now, listen to me, Baretto. If she shoots her mouth off, you know you'll be held responsible. Okay?"
"Okay."
Volpone gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder.
"Don't worry if I push her around a little bit. It'll just be for effect. Just for show, you know?"
Kurt Heinz was embarrassed by his parents. Slow and humble, they would probably end their days in the poorly furnished three-room flat where Kurt was born, never questioning the tradition of mediocrity that had graced their lives. With some bitterness Kurt thought back on his efforts to escape from the cocoon of anonym ity. His parents were scandalized by their only son's in tention to marry into the ranks of the wealthy and socially eminent
"Well, what's done is done." His father sighed. "But don't imagine I can feel comfortable about it."
"You're a professor, Kurt," his mother joined in. "If you two do what you're planning, you'll antagonize a great many people."
Kurt shrugged angrily. Deep down, he knew they were right And he resented that fact all the more. As usual, the idea had come into being as a result of one of Renata's stupid dares. And now it was too late to turn back.
"You don't know how to dream!" Renata had ac cused him. "What you need is a bit of madness in your makeup, Kurt! You'd never carry me away in a helicopt er!"
"Sure, darling, sure I would. Why shouldn't I do it on our wedding day?"
"Why not?" she had retorted, her eyes gleaming. "Yes, why not?"
"You always said you'd like to dump on the dirty bourgeois of this city. Now prove it I dare you!" ‘I’ll take the dare!" "You won't poop out?" "Me?"
The stupid thing had started as a game, and with utter seriousness they went on to plan a whole schedule of festivities that would shock the pants off all of dignified Zurich. The theme of the wedding was perversity itself: everything was to be upside down.
Kurt felt ill at ease as he imagined himself in a flowered gondola, hanging from the helicopter, going up into the sky. There would certainly be a lot of his students out to see the show, which, to the resigned consternation of both families, had been widely publicized in the local press. After that pitiful exhibition, he'd almost certainly have to resign from his job. And do what? Become a bank teller, like his father?
'I’m telling you, Kurt," Joseph Heinz kept saying, "you're putting your mother and me in a very difficult spot."
"You have no sense of humor!" his son chided.
"What if the rope breaks?" Utte worried.
She was big and placid, and she was embarrassed at the idea of disturbing anyone. Her strong thick-fingered peasant hands were made for laundry, for darning, for cooking fondues, for milking cows. At night, she was the last one to bed, checking to see that all the lights were out, the kitchen neat, and the front door double-locked, while Joseph Heinz nodded off to sleep promptly at ten o'clock. No stereotype was missing from their lives, even to the cuckoo clock on the wall that sourly peeped every quarter of an hour, marking the passing of time they had never known how to enjoy.
"You can't understand," Kurt told them. "Renata's a live wire."
'I’m just afraid you'll lose your job," Utte stam mered, casting her eyes down.
"What if I do?" Kurt blustered, secretly afraid of the same thing.
"After all the sacrifices we made," Utte lamented. "You know, your father and I, we hoped, that is—we would have liked..."
"Liked what?" He was almost ready to scream, You would have liked me to be just like you! but he kept silent when he heard his father's heavy sigh.
"Well, I’ll have to be going. Is your gown ready, mother?"
She nodded.
"You'll see. You'll be the prettiest one there!"
He was apprehensive about the moment when she
would appear in the Kloppes' great parlor, tall and awkward as a derrick, in some hideous thing made of a cheap piece of apple-green material. "Good-bye, father."
He grazingly kissed the blotchy cheeks of that fragile old child who had never really become a man. But was Kurt himself really a man?
When he saw Italo Volpone enter the barn, Morti mer O'Brion wanted to crawl into a shell. But the cer tainty of his death and the suffering that would precede it steeled him for a final attempt to save his skin.
"Italo, I swear to you, this is all one hell of a mis understanding!"
Dreamily Italo let his eyes wander, taking in the sawdust and scraps of wood, the saw, the walls, the spider-webs, and the huge beams that held up the roof structure. Not far from the saw was a metal plate set on the floor of pounded earth. Volpone signaled to Pietro Bel linzona, who lifted it, reve
aling a hole about six feet by three, and some two and a half feet deep. In it was the motor for the saw, and there was a large electric meter with a master switch on it
"Leave that hole open!" he ordered Pietro, who was busy nibbing the rust off his hands.