by Pierre Rey
'Italo was very shook up by his brother's death grant that he may have acted hastily, in the shock of the moment, but all he was trying to do was what his brother would have done in his place: get the transfer over with as quickly as possible."
"Did he go to the bank with that in mind?"
"Yes, Don Ettore. To try to move the operation along."
"Without anyone having instructed him to?" "He must have thought that..." "Thought what?"
Yudelman had a hard time swallowing his saliva. "That inasmuch as Genco was dead, it was up to him temporarily to act as capo of the family."
"And did he inform you, as consigliere of the Volpones, of what he was going to do?"
"He only told me about it after he had done it"
"In what capacity did he go to the bank?"
"As Don Genco’s brother and heir."
"And was that enough for the Swiss banker to exe cute the transfer?"
"No, Don Ettore. He refused."
In the heavy silence that ensued, Gabelotti poured himself a glassful of cognac without offering it to anyone else. He rotated the glass slowly in his fingers, gazing off into the distance. Gabelotti downed the cognac with out taking a breath, unthinkingly wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and brought his eyes around to where they were looking directly into Yudelman's. He kept them there for several seconds without saying a word.
"There's one thing that bothers me," he finally lit tered in a dreamlike voice. "How could Italo, who was never anything but his brother's brother, and who never represented anything other than himself, have taken it on himself to speak for me? Even sorrow can't explain everything..."
"Don Ettore, I may as well tell you the whole thing. Italo thinks someone may have done Don Genco in."
"Done him in? You can't mean it. Who could pos sibly have had anything against so highly respected a man? He didn't have an enemy in this this world."
"I don't know," Yudelman said lamely.
"Well, you see yourself that it doesn't make' sense. But I am grateful to you for filling me in. After all, you are the one who brought about the partnership between our two families, although that doesn't make you respon sible for what your Padrone's brother may do on the spur of the moment. Incidentally, are you aware that I haven't heard a word from Mortimer O’Brien?"
‘No, I wasn't aware of it." Moshe said in a tone that
he hoped would reveal no reaction.
"It's a real bother," Gabelotti went on. "As you know, my consigliere was the one who had the number for our account. Have you heard anything about him at all?" "Me?" Yudelman croaked. "Yes, you—or Italo?"
"How would I?"
"Yes, of course, you must excuse me,. I’m really just thinking out loud, you understand? First you tell me that Don Genco has been murdered, then that his brother has been acting on his own, and along with that my O'Brion seems to have disappeared. What do you make of it, Moshe?"
"I mink it's all very puzzling."
"Ah, you see! Well, so do I!"
Moshe was twisting around in his seat, holding back the words that were trying 1o cross his lips. Should he point out to Gabelotti that O'Brion was the only man in the word who could profit from Genco's disappearance?
"Were you going to say something?" Gabelotti asked.
"No, nothing."
Yet he was dying to talk. If anyone had really helped Zu Genco Volpone come to his sad end, it could only be Morty O'Brion. But how to word that? How could you tell a don that his own trusted counselor tried to double-cross him?
"Go on, Moshe, say what’s on your mind. It's the only way we can get things out in the open."
"Well," he began, "considering the size of the trans fer, I wonder whether it is just a coincidence."
"What coincidence?"
"That of the three people who can unlock the ac count, one has died and another has disappeared."
Having spoken, Moshe lowered his eyes and stared at his nails.
Gabelotti shook his head in agreement "Moshe, you're absolutely right. But tell me. If you were in my shoes, wouldn't you be concerned? I’m the third one of those people. I hope nothing's goingto happen to me!"
Carlo Badaletto emitted a mocking laugh. Ettore pretended not to notice.
"Well, Moshe," Gabelotti demanded, "what do you think?"
Yudelman was struck by the possibility that Gabelotti was putting on a show for his crowd, after having him self double-crossed the Volpone family. When Italo sug gested that might be the case, had Moshe been wrong in laughing it off? It had seemed out of the questions, but now, as Gabelotti played this cat-and-mouse game, alter nating the soft approach with hard sarcasm, Moshe be gan to appraise his chances of getting out alive, and they seemed minute. With nothing to lose, he might as well go whole hog.
"It was a great misfortune, Don Ettore, that you weren't able to go to Zurich with Don Genco."
"You know very well that I can't fly," Gabelotti re plied.
"Yes’ I know, Don Ettore, I know. But if he could have had you at his side, Don Genco might still be among us."
"What do you mean by that, Moshe?"
"There would have been the two capi, and no one else."
"Are you trying to say that Mortimer O'Brion didn't do his job right?"
"No, no, Don Ettore! No one faults the competence
of your consigliere."
"Then what?"
"Mortimer has always been impeccably moral. But he's only human, after all. He has his weak points, too ."
Gabelotti looked at him with feigned surprise and said slowly, "Do you think Mortimer might have double-crossed his padrone?"
"I didn't say that!" Yudelman protested. "How could " I make such an accusation when I haven't the slightest proof? No. I was only trying to consider every possibility."
Ignoring Pizzu, Ettore looked in turn at his three men: Angelo Barba, Carmine Crimello, and Carlo Badaletto.
"If that were the case, how would you judge the situation?" he said to Moshe.
"I wouldn't, Don Ettore. I wouldn't presume to pass a judgment",
"Come on, Moshe, don't hold back. Let's suppose, say, Mortimer went crazy—because you'll agree with me he'd, have to be crazy to try to do anything so impossi ble! Never mind. Let's suppose he decided he wanted to grab the money . . ." He looked up at Yudelman, extend ing his chin in a silent question, to make sure Moshe was taking in everything he said.
"Yes, we might suppose he did," Moshe conceded.
"Good. Then how would you imagine he had gone about it? Would O'Brion actually have committed murder to get his hands on our deposit?"
Yudelman remained absolutely motionless.
"You can talk. We're just speculating." Ettore smiled at him. "Could that be possible?"
"It's a possibility." Yudelman prudently admitted.
"Okay. then. At least you don't beat around the bush, Moshe. So. Let’s say Mortimer had Don Genco rubbed out, grabbed the Syndicate's money from the bank, and disappeared. Is that the picture?"
Yudelman spread his hands to indicate an open mind. "I don't know that any of that happened, Don Ettore. it's just what you're supposing."
Gabelotti jumped out of his seat and his chair whirled back toward the other side of the room.
"What do you take as for? Shitheads?"
Vittorio Pizzu. motionless under the stare of Gabe-lotti's men. was careful to leave his two hands in clear view on the tabletop, making no gesture that might be thought suspicious.
Speechless. Moshe moved his lips in vain. "Don Et tore, I don't understand." he finally said.
"Well I’ll make you understand!" Gabelotti yelled, his face livid, and he grabbed Yudelman by the shoul ders and shook him like a reed. "If Genco is really dead, his fuckin? brother is the one who offed him. And he knocked O'Brion off too. He tortured him to get him to reveal the account number. And he's such a fuckin' idiot he thinks he can pin the job on my consigliere! Well, you listen to me! If things did happen the wav I just sai
d, your Italo won't last two days more. And he won't be the only one! I can promise you. you'll all get what you've got coming to you. You and the whole Volpone family: men women, and children!"
Yudelman blanched. The don's interpretation of what happened left him speechless. He was looking wildly at Gabelotti with great round disbelieving eyes. He felt Piz zu tug discreetly at his sleeve.
"Come on, Moshe, let’s go." Pizzu said.
Yudelman got up, weak in the knees. Everyone around the table did the same.
The veins in his neck swollen with anger, his fists clenched, Gabelotti spat a final imprecation at him. "You can tell that motherfucker Italo that I know every step he takes. Everything! If he so much as lifts a little finger, I’ll have him shot down like a dog. From now on, I'm taking over. And you—be back here in three hours. Now, get the hell out."
When: they were in the car, the first thing Vittorio Pizzu did-was to get his rod out of the glove compart ment
"I'll move heaven and earth to keep a. war from breaking out," Moshe said in a quavering voice, "but Italo's gone crazy, and Gabelotti's crazy, too!"
Pizzu crossed himself. "First you better tell Italo that Gabelotti has a torpedo on his tail in Zurich," he said.
Moshe sighed. From here on in, although he was not ordinarily given to extreme pessimism, all he could antic ipate was the worst
10
After Philip Diego left his office, Homer Kloppe did something unusual In spite of the early hour, he took out his bottle of Waterman's ink poured himself a glass ful, and downed it Now that he knew there was a third man, Gabelotti, who had the number of the account he finally had all the pieces of the puzzle. He felt in his bones that the day would not go by without either O'Brion or Gabelotti getting in touch with him,
In spite of Italo Volpone's accusations, Kloppe could not imagine O'Brion having someone murdered in order to be able to embezzle the funds, especially since Gabelotti, his immediate boss, was no doubt highly placed in the mob. In case of betrayal, justice would be quickly dispensed without benefit of trial.
Kloppe had not played his hand with total honesty when he refused to make the transfer for O'Brion with out a signature. If he had followed the letter rather than the spirit of his profession, he would have released the money on the spot But just as priests, in extremely ser ious cases, may take certain liberties with the secrecy of the confessional, so bankers, in their souls and con sciences, feel they can twist the rules to suit the occasion, when the customer's own best interests are involved.
Kloppe pressed a button. Across from him a wall panel swung around, and in its place appeared a closed-circuit television screen that could be tuned to dif ferent areas of the bank. He switched to the main lobby and spotted the three men he had hired to keep Italo Volpone out of the building. It was now 9:30. If that mad man came back as he had threatened, it wouldn't be until noon. The guards Homer hired came from the same agency he usually employed to transport cash. They all had licenses to carry sidearms. In case of trouble, Vol pone would have no advantage.
Kloppe rang for Marjorie.
‘Yes, sir?"
"I'm going to the dentist's. I do have a ten-o'clock appointment, don't I?"
Marjorie consulted a notebook on her desk. ‘Yes, sir."
"I'll be back before noon. It's just a routine check up."
"Very well, sir. May I remind you that you speak at the Grossmunster at three o'clock?" "Thanks, I’m aware of it"
Homer was scheduled to give an hour's talk before a privileged group of elders who would have as their guests the members of the various synods' delegations. It would be in the very cathedral in which Zwingli, on New Year's Day of 1519, had begun to preach the Reformation.
He was just about to leave when Marjorie called him back.
"Sir, a telex for you..."
‘I’ll be late, Marjorie. I'll see it when I come back." "It's from the U.S. About IMC..." "Let me see it!"
It read: eighth accident in London stop steer ing column broken stop await instructions stop melvin bost.
Visibly shaken, he noted Marjorie's eyes on his face.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" he snapped. "Go on back to your office."
Hurt, she hurried out Kloppe thought back to his meeting with Melvin Bost three days before.
"Are you sure these accidents are not just pure co incidence?"
"Seven accidents for the same reasons can’t be co incidence ..."
Well, now it had happened! A hundred and fifty million dollars to recall and change all the questionable parts on the Beauty Ghost P9s. It could break the Zurich Trade Bank as well as the entire automobile company. But may be it was just a run of bad luck.
Horribly disturbed, Homer decided to give himself three days before replying. After Renata was married, his mind would be clearer. He rang for Marjorie.
"Sir?"
"I’m on my way. Please let the dentist know that I may be a few minutes late."
Dr. August Strolh had a heavy schedule. And he was the last person in the world Homer Kloppe would want to keep waiting.
Inez lay in bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She had been awake all night, turning an awful truth over and over in her mind: she had been raped!
Two or three generations before, in her native Burun di, it was the custom for nubile young girls to be de flowered by the old women, who broke their hymens with a wooden wand. In their wisdom, the Africans had known that, subconsciously, a girl never forgives the first man who takes her.
Inez, who had known many men, had never been forced to have sex against her will. She swore the pig who had dared violate her so crudely would pay for his pleasure with his life. Nothing less could wipe from her mind the vision of that repulsive face whose lips greedily went after hers while his vulgar hands forced their way between her thighs. After she put up a brief resistance with scratches and bites, he had knocked her out with a karate chop and bulled his way into her half-uncon scious body with the brutality of an animal.
She looked over toward Lando, who was sitting in an armchair, and she met his vigilant eyes and turned hers away, her face a mask of sullen indifference. She got up, covering herself with a blanket, and went through the ritual morning movements: squeezing grapefruit juice, putting the kettle on, and laying out a cup—just one—oh a tray.
I’ll have some, too," Lando said as he stretched.
Ignoring him, she went into the bathroom and locked the door. She was as disgusted with Orlando Baretto as she had been by Pietro Bellinzona.
Lando drank the grapefruit juice, rubbed the back of his hand over his unshaven cheeks, and wondered how he ought to behave. He knew that this girl of his was not one to push around. What good would it do to tell her that if he had tried to interfere, Italo Volpone would never have let either of them out of the sawmill alive.
He could still see Italo Volpone, white as a sheet, his clothes soiled with blood, holding Mortimer OBrion's sawed-off head in his hands while the lawyer's body twitched on the table before falling to the ground, where it took several seconds to stop moving. At that moment Lando knew that Volpone was capable of being enraged enough to take leave of his senses.
He had seemed like a man coming out of a night mare when Folco Mori took the head out of his hands.
It had taken them about three-quarters of an hour to bury the blonde and O'Brion, separately, with O'Brion's head being held back for special treatment. On some strange whim of Italo's, it had been buried by itself in a deep hole that Lando himself had dug before Inez's wildly staring eyes.
Lando had noticed that Pietro Bellinzona's fly had not been properly closed after his escapade with Inez, and he had resented the fact that the big gorilla had had the use of his girl without having to pay for it. What had followed was even less enjoyable. Volpone had savagely slapped Inez and threatened her in a sugar-sweet voice: from now on, she would have to carry out his orders, whatever they might be, without hesitation or complaint. He had asked her several questi
ons about Homer Kloppe: how he spent his time, what his habits were, what about his sex fantasies. Inez had answered mechanically, reveal ing details Lando could never have imagined.
Lando turned the gas off under the water that was beginning to boil over. Inez reappeared in slacks and a turtleneck. Seen from the rear, she was as nimble and masculine looking as a basketball pro. Pretending not to notice that he had finished her juice, she squeezed another glassful for herself.