by Pierre Rey
Volpone gave him a murderous look. "I have an appointment with Kloppe."
"In that case, sir, please follow me. I will have you announced."
Italo grabbed the other man's arm and felt the hard ball of solid muscle. The guy didn't budge an inch.
"You gonna get out of my way, or do I have to bust your head in?" Volpone snarled.
"Please, sir. Let's not make any fuss here."
Suddenly two other huskies appeared. "Having trou ble?" one of them asked.
With, a gesture that to anyone but Volpone might have seemed casual, the man put his hand on Italo's shoul der. It was enough for Italo to know the nature of the man's job and that he weighed well over two hundred pounds.
'I’m telling you, Kloppe expects me."
"Why, certainly, sir. We'll let him know you're here," the guard said.
"Watch out, don't wrinkle the gentleman's clothes," the third one cut in.
As if to smooth Volpone's jacket, he frisked him quickly, front, back, and sideways, just the way airport inspectors do before letting certain passengers board a flight Italo was not carrying a weapon.
"Would you please give me your name, sir?"
Italo had no chance of breaking through their line. He made a mental note that the banker would pay extra for this additional insult. Babe Volpone might have tol erated being shot at if the occasion arose, but the idea of being pushed around by strong-arm men was more than he could bear.
"My card," he said.
His left hand went into his inside coat pocket The man holding his arm let go. Italo's right hand flew out toward the man's underbelly. Through the material of his pants, Italo could feel the mass of his genitals, and he grabbed at them and squeezed the man's testicles as hard as he could, twisting savagely while he did. In the same fraction of a second, his left knee flew up and caught the second guy smack on his penis. The third one miraculously evaded Italo's other hand, which was flying like an arrow, two forked fingers extended, toward his eyes. When Vol pone recovered from that hand having met no target he found himself staring into the muzzle of a big-caliber Mauser.
On the floor, the first two guards were twisting and turning, their hands grabbing at their painful scrota. Pant ing, his heart beating hard, Volpone glared at the one who had him covered.
"Shoot, you fucker! Go on, shoot! What the hell you waiting for? I dare you!"
"Get out" the man ordered him. "Now!"
Homer Kloppe had clearly told them he did not want any fuss made inside the bank. "If this gentleman ap pears," he had said, "just throw a scare into him and get him to leave."
The guard looked down at his two sidekicks and leaned back against the elevator door. Italo saw the one he had kneed get up on all fours, shake his head like a groggy boxer trying to come to, and slowly rise by holding onto the wall. Then he took out a Mauser and aimed it at Volpctae.
"That hurts, doesn't it, soft-balls?" Italo jeered at him. The guard on the ground vomited. Italo turned and walked out of the bank, his head high. Apparently not a soul in the crowded establishment had been aware of the altercation. He looked at his watch: it was 12:06. His ultimatum had been ignored. The war was on.
11
' Lieutenant Fritz Blesh owed his brilliant rise in the cantonal police force to his typically Swiss qualities: flexi-ablity, efficiency, stubbornness, and sense of duty.
In any given twenty-four hours, as many violent or bizarre happenings took place in Zurich as in any of the great European capitals, but with this difference: a strang er always had the impression that nothing unusual was going on.
Zurich police did not wield nightsticks. Its students and workers did not demonstrate in the streets. And when two cars bumped into each other, their drivers got out, apologized to one another, and then had a drink together while the wreckers towed their vehicles away. The army, made up of citizen volunteers, was not infiltrated by any kind of subversive group, and the New Left comprised only a few overheated intellectuals who at night went quietly back to their well-appointed apartments.
That was just where the skill of the police came in: Within the limits of decency, everything was tolerated, provided it did not offend the public order. Swindlers were quietly escorted across the border, would-be murderers were discreetly disposed of, and jealous husbands had the good taste to commit their crimes.of passion in places like Hamburg, London, Rome, or Paris, m Switzerland, every body loved everybody—in four languages. Since alt the basic needs had long since been within everyone's means,
the superfluous alone now seemed indispensable. Every day, the borders opened to flocks of foreigners coming in to deposit their currencies. And the banks showed no prejudice, treating everyone alike.
Obviously, the local authorities didn't like foreign nationals to come into the Confederation to settle their personal quarrels. Fritz Blesh was there to see to that On the pretext of wanting to discover the secret numbered accounts of the Mafia, American police agents had, it seemed, made a breach in the Helvetic system. In' cases of large-scale underworld activities, it was agreed that they could ask for certain specific information, but this was by no means an open license to lead their own investigations on Swiss soil. Appropriate authorities had to be notified.
Fritz Blesh had been quick to comprehend the rela tionship between the severed leg in the local morgue and the American detective who had fallen out of his window at Sordi's Hotel three days later. It did not take much investigating to find out that another American citizen, Patrick Mahoney, who had come in on the same plane, had also disappeared from the same hotel without paying his bill. The management was holding his valise. His rented car was never found. And a routine check further revealed that Mahoney, like Cavanaugh. was one of the regulars on Captain Kirkpatrick's antirackets squad in the New York City Police Department Blesh deduced that there was something afoot American detectives were by passing him in his own bailiwick, and he didn't care for this one little bit.
When Blesh was informed that Captain Kirkpatrick was on the line from New York, he wondered whether his American colleague was ready to come clean. The captain was courteous enough to start by asking whether Fritz spoke English. Yes, he did.
"How did it happen, lieutenant?’ asked Kirkpatrick.
"All we have been able to determine so far is that it was an accident"
"Do you believe that?"
"Until I have evidence to the contrary, I have to. At any rate, please accept my condolences." 'Thank you."
"Perhaps yon can help me, captain. Was- David Cavanaugh here in Zurich on official business?" "Yes. Just a routine matter." "May I ask you to be more specific?" "Surveillance."
"Ah. May I ask whom he was surveilling?"
"An Italian-American who we think is a big cog in the Syndicate."
"Hisname?’
"Look, lieutenant—David Cavanaugh left a wifeand three children?- I've broken the news to her. -It was awful. Could you lake care of having his body shipped home?"
"As soon as the autopsy is completed, captain."
"When will that be?"
'I’ll have the coroner's report tonight I’ll see to all the rest."
"Thank you so much." "Captain..." "Yes?"
"Did you have only one man here in Zurich?" Kirkpatrick hesitated only the briefest second. "No, two."
"Detective Mahoney?" "That's right"
"Has he returned to New York?" "I beg your pardon?"
"I asked, is Patrick Mahoney back in New York?" "I don't believe so. I really don't know where he is." "Well, I don't either, captain. Your man has disap peared."
"How did you find that out?"
"He left his hotel without paying the bill," Fritz Blesh said in a voice of righteous condemnation. In Switzerland, that is just not done.
Once out of the bank, Italo Volpone hopped into the Ford and barked at Pietro Bellinzona, 'Take off !"
Italo was bubbling over with thoughts of revenge. Once he had his hands on his money, he'd settle that banker's co
okies. Not right away, though. He'd give him a little time to forget, to think it was all in the past that be could go on enjoying life. And the day when he least expected it, he'd get a bullet in his skull, or his car would blow up, or he'd be poisoned in some restaurant or run down by a truck as he was crossing the street
"Where to?" Bellinzona asked.
"Shut up! To the hotel."
Pietro swallowed whatever he was about to say. He gave a squint into the rearview mirror and saw a gray Opel take off from where it was parked on the street Behind the wheel was the guy who had been trying to tail them- since they got to Zurich, the one Folco Mori had spotted at the airport Bellinzona didn't know whether he should mention it Folco had asked him not to tell Volpone that aside from O'Brion and Zaza, they had also done away with two American dicks since they got here.
"It'll be time enough to tell him when he hasn't got so much on his mind," Folco had decreed.
Pietro had been impressed by the fact that Folco was willing to keep quiet about their accomplishments, but he was afraid it might not be good to keep them secret too long. Babe Volpone's reactions were sometimes unpredic table—and almost always hostile. Having seen the look of despair that came over Italo's face after he shoved O'Brion under the saw, Pietro realized that Italo knew he had done something wrong.- Wouldn't he himself be do ing wrong if he kept this information from Volpone?
"Padrone..."
Italo did not seem to hear. Bellinzona had to swerve sharply to miss a woman who was backing up to get into a parking place.
"Padrone..." he repeated.
"What the hell is it?" Italo barked.
"Somebody's tailing us."
"Where?"
"In a gray Opel."
"How do you know?'' Italo asked, curbing his im pulse to turn around and look.
"Folco tagged him when we landed. He was on the plane with us."
~'Idiot! I’ve got a cop on my ass and you don't tell me’
"Nota cop, padrone"
"How the hell do you know?" Volpone exploded.
"Folco’ll explain it to you. You were so busy. But during that time, we didn't just sit on our asses."
"What does that mean?" Italo asked, knitting his brow.
"Folco’ll explain it to you," Bellinzona repeated, try ing to get off the dangerous-ground he had ventured onto. "Folco thinks the tail is a torpedo Gabelotti pinned on us. Anyway—-could be."
'Take the first turn to the right," Volpone ordered,
"and just keep driving. I gotta think."
He turned around, pretending to look for something on the back seat, and eased the Opel.
"Where's Folco right now?"
"Behind—tailing that guy."
‘Turn left!"
Pietro drove around the traffic circle under the peace ful eye of the traffic cop.
"Still see him?" Italo asked.
‘Yep. Want me to cut him off?"
"Just drive along the water's edge and keep quiet. When you get to the park, turn left and head for the Commodore."
The Commodore was a huge new hotel Volpone had passed the day before.
"Drop me off in front, and make like you're taking off. Park the car wherever you can. I'll stay in the lobby for three minutes. After that, all you have to do is tail the guy when he starts following me."
"You got something in mind?''
‘Watch the road!"
They were in view of the big hotel, its thirty stories towering over the high greenery of the park. Bellinzona slowly braked to a halt on the gravel drive, and a footman dressed in an admiral's uniform rushed to open the door for Volpone. Bellinzona took off again, following a series of arrows that brought him to an outdoor parking lot He had to wait until a couple of lovers kissing in an Austin condescended to let him have their space, and he ran back to the main entrance of the hotel, just in time to see
Folco Mori hand a tip to the acimiral, who was sitting be hind the wheel of Mori's cream-colored Volkswagen. They exchanged a short look and, without apparent connection, went on into the hotel. -
Italo Volpone was pacing in the lobby, checking his wristwatch like someone waiting for his date to arrive. Twenty yards away, the torpedo was pretending to study the menu posted outside the door of one of the three Commodore restaurants. Bellinzona walked over5 and rif fled through some travel folders at the main desk. He took one with him, walked over to Italo, and pointed to a pic ture of hunters on their way back from a safari in Kenya. ‘It's the guy reading the menu,’' he whispered.
"Who told you to come and talk to me?" Volpone hissed.
"Padrone, he saw that I was the one who was driv ing you. If he doesn't see me with you, he’ll know I'm following him. Folco's here."
"Where?"
"In front of the bookstall."
"Go ask some information at the desk."
"What?" said Bellinzona.
"Any goddamn thing. Just go and talk to the clerk, and then come back and bring me some information."
Pietro walked lumberingly away. Volpone saw him talk to the clerk, who then turned away to take care of the next customer. When Bellinzona got back, he told Italo,'It's twelve-thirty on the nose."
"Come with me."
They crossed the lobby.
Rico Gatto, who was watching them through the mirror on which the menu was posted, decided they were on their way to meet someone. He wanted to make up for his half-assed job at the morgue. Gabelotti had been furi ous that he had had nothing new to report about the mys terious leg. Rico saw Volpone and Bellinzona lift up a drape behind an imposing marble column at the end of the lobby. As soon as they disappeared, he headed in the same direc tion. Folco Mori nonchalantly turned away from the book stall and began walking.
Behind the drape was a large French door leading into a banquet hall with tables all set and decorated with floral pieces. A small flowered dais had a lectern on it, ready to be used except for the carafe of water and glass for the speaker. He would arrive later. So would the crowd. For the time being, there was no one in the hall.
This made Rico Gatto nervous. He wondered whether he had once again lost Volpone. Then an idea hit him: if Italo had deliberately ditched him, that meant he knew he Was
being tailed. And that changed the whole picture. Volpone would be trying to lure him into a trap and knock him off,
The palm of Rico's hand slipped over the Beretta lodged in the holster on the left side of his chest. With his hand under his coat he walked toward the dais, trying neither to hide nor to muffle his steps. When he was about fifteen feet from the dais, he darted two bounds to the right gun in hand, but no one was there.
Very carefully he turned the knob of the door that had been hidden from him by the dais. It started to open. Rico kicked it and jumped back. He moved cautiously down a long, dimly lit corridor. Some twenty yards along, there were two more doors. He quietly opened the one on the left. It led to a concrete spiral stairway. If Volpone and Bellinzona had taken it he could stop here. It was too late to pick them up again.
The other door was marked Danger. It was a metal door, which he thought would be locked, but it opened easily. Steep iron steps led down to a platform over a huge cave that seemed as large as the entire ground surface of the Commodore. Intertwined with tresses of varicolored pipes, the internal machinery of the big hotel had a life of its own that was pulsating to the muffled hum of its generator.
Rico smiled slightly. It was his kind of terrain. If Italo and his gorilla tried to trap him in here, they would have some surprises in store.
He stayed absolutely motionless for half a minute, lis tening for the slightest noise. He forgot that Gabelotti only wanted to be kept informed on Volpone's comings and goings, and, caught up in the chase, he jumped out in to space, his hand on the stair rail, and landed on the platform fifteen feet below. He leaped again, rolling through the stairs to lie flat behind a boiler, the dull vibration of which filled the place with its waves-All his senses at the ready, he stayed: there
for at least two minutes. Nothing happened.
He suddenly felt a little ridiculous. What if Volpone and Bellinzona were gone? What if there was no one else in this engine room? Maybe he was playing war all by
himself, for nothing.
Buthe had to make sure, and to do that he had to risk his life. He would have to cross an open space of some thirty yards, go over a catwalk about ten yardalong, and take refuge at the other end of the room.
Very close to him, on his left, someone whistled the first eight bars of "Colonel Bogey's March" from The Bridge on the River Kwai. Rico rolled over on himself, in stinctively firing three, blind shots in the opposite direc tion. He could hear the tight staccato of several projectiles whining and ricocheting off the stairwell's metal guard. One of them hit the very spot on the boiler where his head had been half a second earlier, and a powerful jet of boiling steam came spurting out of the pierced metal, trac ing a straight line as far as the eye could see.