by Pierre Rey
"Couldn't we put one of the Louis XV armchairs up there?" Renata asked.
"It's too heavy," said Oswald, "but the Formica table might do very well. Paul The table"
"Why not add some refuse to it?" suggested Kurt, not about to-be left behind in this drive toward the absurd.
"Obvious, too obvious," Oswald decreed. "You see shit Wherever you look, so we have to use it sparingly. It just gets boring—"
"Oswald," Renata cut in, "how about some clothes? As if people had just dropped them on the floor?"
"Let’s not get carried away. First things first. The de tails can be filled in later. But look at the Pissarro! That sky at the bottom. It's too wonderful for words."
He joined Renata and Kurt on the floor, twisting him self into a pretzel shape, his buttocks above and his head peering up through his legs.
"Wait till they see the Leonardo! Can you picture it? A Da Vinci masterpiece ass over teakettle? It's never been done before! All right Paul, how about that table?"
There were ten of them working. In order not to get her parents too worried, Renata had insisted that the work be finished as quickly as possible.
"You have carte blanche," she had told Oswald. "Use as many men as you need, but work around the clock. After the wedding, get the whole shooting match out immediately."
Hepbräuer was never reluctant to have a go at any thing, especially for a price, and this event would make every newspaper in town.
"How about this? Isn't it great?" he asked as a workman came in carrying an electric chandelier with fake crystal pendants pointing up instead of down, skillfully pasted to defy the laws of gravity.
"We'll hang this from the floor—I mean to say, the ceiling." He corrected himself between laughs. I’m going to have three or four of them around the room. Just look. Hubert! Up there, on the left, is the .table ready, with the bottles?" "Here it is."
Liquor bottles of all brands were glued to the smooth surface of a chrome and glass coffee table.
"Add a bouquet of flowers to that!" he called. "And watch out up there. The weight has to be carried by the sconces."
He turned back and gave the engaged couple a wink of complicity.
"Well, kids, you've given us quite a job. But it's gonna knock 'em reeling. They won't get over your wedding for many a moon!"
Kurt took Renata's hand. The closer their crazy idea came to realization, the more he felt strangely uneasy about it But it was too late to do anything but voice the fullest approval. To overcome his malaise, he felt it was best to keep adding suggestions.
"Oswald, how about your ceiling? When are you set ting it up on the floor?"
"Later, later. Now look, kids, I don't want to drive you out but I've got to get on with the work. You can come back in two hours, okay? You'll see how far we've gotten!"
The minute she felt her hand in Kurt's, Renata had pulled it back unthinkingly. Things seemed to be taking place without her having anything to do with them. On a dare, she had set all this in motion. Now that the prison was being built she felt caught in a trap.
"You coming?"
"Let's go," Kurt replied.
"Renata," Oswald Hepbräuer called to her as she was going; "you may think you thought of everything, but I still have some surprises in store for you. You'll see, kid dies! Just wait!"
Moshe Yudelman walked into Don Ettore's office as if entering a slaughterhouse. Carmine Crimello, Angelo Barba, and Carlo Badaletto stared at him, but Moshe ignored them. He took two steps toward Gabelotti and said, "Don Ettore, could I speak with you alone?"
"Out," Gabelotti said to his men, waving at the same
time.
"Just a second, padrone," said Badaletto.
He stepped up and frisked Yudelman, who let him do it, eyeing him with something like contempt.
"Out," Don Ettore repeated to Badaletto.
Carlo closed the door behind him. Gabelotti raised an eyebrow and said to Yudelman, "I’m listening."
Moshe felt that his visit would in itself constitute an earnest of good faith. But if he had misread Gabelotti, if Italo had been right, then it was his tough luck: he'd never walk out of there alive.
"Don Ettore," he began, "you asked me to come back, and here I am. Of my own free will. I trust your judgment and your wisdom. I’m not a member of your family, but we are all children of the same mother family, the Syndicate. All of us have been at our jobs long enough to know that there is no need to let things start popping without reason."
Gabelotti listened attentively as he cracked and munched pistachio nuts. The fact that Yudelman had come back to his headquarters was a good sign. His men, after several fruitless attempts, had succeeded in getting Homer Kloppe's home phone number. Unfortunately, Ettore had no more luck there than at the bank. A female voice informed him that the banker was not at home. When he declined to give his name, she had abruptly hung up, so for the time being, the best he could do was to wait and pray that Volpone had not withdrawn the money. Yudelman's presence could only mean reassurance on that account
"To tell the truth, I have come here against the ad vice of Italo Volpone."
"Did you reach him?" Ettore asked, trying not to show his anxiety.
"Yes."
"Still' in Zurich?" "Yes."
Gabelotti swallowed a handful of shucked pista chios. He held the can out to Yudelman, who shook his head no.
"Did he tell you what he's doing there?" "His brother has been murdered," Moshe quietly re minded the don.
"That's what he says."
"Just a minute, Don Ettore. We're all on edge on account of this business. Any one of us may say something more than he means to. A little while ago you made some pretty serious accusations against Italo. I didn't approve of what you said. Then Italo said things about you. I don't approve of those either. What I want to do is get at the truth and end this misunderstanding. It can only bring harm to all of us."
"Since your don is dead, whose name are you talking in?"
"In my own name, and the name of reason, and our mutual interest However, I must add that, since Don Genco died, his younger brother is, at least temporarily, his successor as head of the family."
"Italo is an irresponsible character!"
"No, Don Ettore. Italo simply is a man who has never had to shoulder any real responsibilities. Unfortunately, he's broken up by the tragedy, he's hotheaded and stub born, yes. And he's convinced that your consigliere tried to go behind your back and double-cross you."
Despite the cold sweat that was running down his spine, Moshe looked into Gabelotti's venomous eyes. If this giant ever found out that Morty O'Brion was gone, that Italo Volpone had personally killed him, it would mean war without mercy—to the last man alive. And the first one to get an epitaph would be Moshe him self.
"Do you agree with him?" Gabelotti asked in an abso lutely neutral tone.
"All men are fallible, Don Ettore. Mortimer O'Brion is no exception. Italo doesn't think his brother died by ac cident."
"I'm sure of that," Ettore replied in a voice full of undertones. "You want to know how I feel about all this? As long as O'Brion isn't standing before me in the flesh to tell me so himself, no one in the world is going to make me believe he double-crossed me! It’s just too convenient to finger a goy who isn't here to defend himself. Much too easy! It doesn't take a brain to see who can benefit from that! Italo Volpone."
"There's one sure way to find out, Don Ettore. And it would clear up this whole mess. There were three people who knew the account number. Don Genco, O'Brion, and yourself. All you have to do is phone Zurich and set the whole matter straight"
"If I didn't do that before now," Gabelotti lied, "it was out of respect for my friend Genco. We were in this together."
"If Babe Volpone made the mistake of going to the bank without notifying you," Moshe Yudelman now lied in his turn, "it was only because his brother's death led him to believe that your consigliere was trying to do you dirt Now he is asking through my mo
uth, please call Zur ich immediately and give the order for the transfer."
Gabelotti pretended to go along with him. He looked at his watch.
"Too late. It's almost six o'clock in Europe now. The bank'll be closed."
"Well, then, tomorrow, Don Ettore. As soon as it opens."
Gabelotti thought about it
"Incidentally, do you know where to reach Volpone?" "Of course."
Ettore pushed the phone over to Yudelman. "Get him. I want to talk to him." "Okay," Moshe said.
Hiding his discomfort, he picked up the phone. He had hoped he'd be able to handle things smartly enough to keep himself in the clear, to avoid open conflict to save two billion dollars, and to spare human lives. He wanted to be the buffer between the two barrels of explosives—to keep them from coming into violent contact. Now he felt a cold sweat between his shoulder blades. He smiled tenta tively, in a friendly way, toward Gabelotti, who was watching him carefully.
"Sordi's?" he inquired. "Please let me talk to Mr. Volpone."
"Hold the line."
To his surprise, he found that the answer from Zurich filled the whole room. Gabelotti had connected the phone to the squawkbox. Mbshe silently prayed that Italo might be out.
"Mr. Volpone's room doesn't answer.’’ "Would you let me have the desk, please? .. . Hello, reception desk?’’ "Yes, sir.’’
"Can you leave a message for Mr. Volpone?" "Mr. Volpone is no longer registered here, sir." "I beg your pardon." "Mr. Volpone settled his bill an hour or two ago and checked out"
Yudelman felt himself turning soft in the legs. "Did he leave any address?" "None, sir."
Moshe hung up without daring to look at Don Ettore. Well, you can only die once, Moshe told himself.
"There it is, Don Ettore," he said. "You know as much about it as me."
Suddenly he felt exhausted. "Maybe, he's on his way back to New York—or he might be calling me at my place..."
He slowly got to his feet
"Where are you going?" Gabelotti asked.
"Home," he replied. 'I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear from him."
"Moshe," Ettore said, "you look depressed."
He walked around the desk and placed an arm as fat as a ham hock over Moshe's shoulders.
"Do me a favor. Be my guest. Stay here. I might need you on hand when I call the bank in the morning. After all, we're partners in this deal. Go on, take a rest Simeone will show you to your room. Simeone!" he called.
Simeone Ferro appeared so fast it would seem he had been listening behind the door. "Padrone?"
"Show my partner, Mr. Yudelman, to the guest room. Be sure he has everything he needs." "Yes, padrone."
Moshe, heavy at heart, gave him a sad little smile. "You're right, Don Ettore. Ill take a rest for a while. Be lieve me, I appreciate your hospitality."
"You're doing me an honor by accepting it," Gabelot ti oozed.
As soon as Moshe and Ferro were out of the room, he -went to the intercom. In a short imperative tone he barked, "Grab Angela Volpone."
13
When they were seated, there was nothing about the two young black men that would have attracted attention except for the remarkable handsomeness of their faces. One, in blue jeans and a fur coat, sported the studied negligence typical of American college men. The other wore a turtle-neck, a tweed jacket, and flannel slacks.
Blood brothers, they were both hereditary princes, direct descendants of the royal line of the Kibondos. The first, named Amadou Tézé, but better known in the U.S. as Rocky, was one of the world's five top-money basket ball players. The younger, Kouakou Touamé, Was one of the most significant new hopes in the nuclear-physics field, and he was presently-involved in giving a series of lec tures on high-velocity particle accelerators in France.
Rocky and Kouakou had six other brothers. The tallest was seven foot six. The shortest, at six foot seven, was affectionately known to the family as Runt Kouakou, standing an even seven feet, and Rocky, who was seven foot two, were in the happy-medium range.
Rocky had phoned Kouakou from New York.
‘I’ll pick you up in Paris in eight hours. Be ready.’’
"For how long?"
"A couple of days;"
"Where we going?"
‘To Zurich. I’ll explain. A family matter. For generations beyond memory, the word family was a sacred word among the Kibondos. Anyone who insulted one of them had the whole tribe to deal with. It was this extreme spirit of devotion that had kept the -line intact for over two centuries. But times were changing. Five of the eight brothers had gone to college; two including Rocky, had become professional athletes; and only the youngest boy, Mango, had stayed home with their father, the king. The baby of the family was Inez, born after all eight of the boys.
They all idolized her. She had traveled a great deal in Europe, having settled briefly in Rome, then London and Paris, where her exotic beauty had made her a fixture on the leading magazine covers.
"Just what happened to her?" Kouakou asked Rocky.
"She was treated disrespectfully in Zurich."
The expression "treated disrespectfully," applied to their sister, immediately wiped away all their Western ve neer and brought out the tribal reflexes of the Kibondos. That such a thing should happen was intolerable to them, and the less comprehensible since Inez herself was big enough to stand up to anyone.
"Did she get hit?" Kouakou asked.
‘I don't know; she didn't say. She just said she needed help. I thought you'd like to be in on it."
'Thanks," Kouakou acknowledged. "I don't suppose well have any trouble locating the guy."
"From what I gathered, it's guys," Rocky explained. "I played in Zurich once in an. exhibition game against the Globetrotters. It's a nice little place. Unless they skipped out, well find them in a hurry."
Angela Volpone was ashamed of the way she had felt the day before. Instead of helping Francesca, she had re turned home; unable to tolerate her sister-in-law's grief. She had been a Volpone for six months now, yet she realized she had never fully accepted the family's attitudes and burdens.
Her education, tastes, and life-style all separated her from that narrowly inner-directed clan, in which the wom en's role was merely to wait and to be resigned. Sicilian families had lived that way since time immemorial. But Angela was not Sicilian; and tragedy was not her cup of tea.
The problem was that she had fallen madly in love with a man whose way of life was worlds away from her own. Something animal, something irresistible had hit her like a knife in the heart when Italo walked into that library in London.
She would never forget the first exchange that sealed their mutual fate. That evening, he'd come back for her. She was the last one in the place, and she locked up. The fifteen pounds sterling they paid her each week wasn't enough to live on, but her father, who had a ship chandler's shop in Amalfi, sent her the difference monthly.
She was twenty-three and, to her knowledge, the only one of her contemporaries to have reached that advanced age still a virgin. Not that she bragged about it. Some of her college chums related sex experiences they'd had as early as their fourteenth year, but when she dated one of her peers, she never let things get very far. Not that her father, or even her mother, had ever laid down any law to her in that regard. Sex was something just not discussed in her family.
Yet Angela was a beauty. She had huge gray eyes, black hair, and sweet, fleshy lips—a young girl's lips in a perfectly oval face that was totally woman. Boys were always overwhelming her with compliments. But, unlike most girls of her generation, she felt that in order to have sex you also ought to feel "something else.''
On spring evenings she had often felt the sap rising hotly inside her, urging her to bestow what she had been so jealously guarding, and she wondered whether she wasn't wasting something precious, something as fragile and fleet ing as time itself.
Italo took her to a little Italian restaurant in the rather uninspiring neighbourhood of the
Edgeware Road. She had watched him eat, herself unable to swallow a thing, fascinated by his pale face and hypnotic eyes.
"Aren't you hungry?" he'd asked.
"Yes, I am," she said.
"You haven't touched a thing on your plate. How old are you?"
"Twenty-three."
He had burst out laughing .as he continued to devour his scampi.