by Pierre Rey
He who had preached virtue, had done evil, he who had judged, stood condemned, he was being punished in his most sensitive spot, his social persona, he would have
to pay the price. The very next day, once Renata had become Mrs. Kurt Heinz—at three o'clock in the morning, as if anything could be more unseemly!—he would begin acting only according to his conscience, no matter what effect it might have on his business.
His recent interview with Melvin Bost had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. Out of weakness; (or was it greed?), he had failed to face up to the Intercontinental Motor Cars situation. It was monstrous to let innocent peo ple die, and Homer would no longer permit it. Whatever it might cost him, he would instruct Bost to have all au thorized dealers recall every Beauty Ghost P9 on the road.
Kloppe decided to give himself three years to wind up his affairs. He had no son to succeed him, Renata had no interest in finance, and poor Kurt surely could not run the shop. Why try to accumulate capital that was not a means to an end, but only an end in itself? He and Chimene would never want for anything till the end of their days. Even if they went wild, they would never be able to spend one one-hundredth of their wealth.
"It's urgent, sir, very urgent; important and personal. The party is on the line." Marjorie had been waiting for him outside his office door.
Kloppe looked at his watch. It was 9:01.
"Yes?" he said.
"Mr. Homer Kloppe?"
"Yes."
"You don't know me, but I have an account with you."
"I'm listening."
"You met my attorney, Mr. Mortimer O'Brion."
A little light went on in Kloppe's head. This man could only be Philip Diego's client and Genco Volpone's partner, Ettore Gabelotti. Immediately, the banker visual ized the number of the account 828384, as well as; Mam ma mia, the code name chosen by the depositors. Any thing over two or three million dollars etched itself into his memory automatically.
"First I;ll give you the number. Then I have certain instructions for you."
"Go ahead, sir."
"21877, in the name of G-O-D."
Kloppe knitted his brow. His suspicions about Morti mer O'Brion had not been without foundation. The dishon est little man had given his employer a fake number. Klop pe was distressed to find that a human being could stoop to such baseness, but, unfortunately, he was not able to be any more helpful to Ettore Gabelotti than he had been to Italo Volpone. He made his voice sound as impersonal as possible.
"I am very sorry, sir. But I have no idea what yon are talking about''
"I beg your pardon?" came the choking reply.
'The details you have just given me do not corre spond to those of any account we have here in the firm."
"What are you talking about? What are you trying to tell me?"
"I am very sorry, sir. But apparently you've made some mistake. Good day, sir."
He hung up and rang for Marjorie.
"If by any chance that party should call back, please tell him I've gone out"
"Very well, sir."
She walked out stiffly. By force of habit, he started putting some figures down on paper.
It was now five days since Genco Volpone had made the two-billion-dollar deposit at the Zurich Trade Bank. Homer had immediately redeposited that amount with Eugene Schmeelbling at Schaan. Allowing for the interest that Kloppe would—perhaps—have to pay to whomever came in with the right account number, this perfectly ordi nary and legal bit of paperwork left him a daily net profit of $109,588, or, multiplied by five, $547,940 in all.
Kloppe couldn't dismiss the Latin phrase that kept coming to his lips: Cui bono? (Who profits from the crime?). Obviously, this did not apply to him, and, had it not been for the deep remorse haunting him for totally different reasons, he would never even have thought of it
Yet, there could be ho two ways about ft. If there was any crime involved, there was only one person profit ing—and that was the banker himself.
At exactly 9:30 a.m., on the third floor of 9 Zweier-8trasse,.a slim man in a black suit rang Professor August Strain's bell. His hand was on the arm of a husky charac ter who was holding his jaw, a look of extreme pain on his mug.
Ingrid Strolh opened the door.
"Gentlemen?’' she inquired.
Folco Mori pointed to Pietro Bellinzona anj said, "For the last hour he's been suffering the tortures of the damned.''
"Do you have an appointment?" Ingrid asked, mak ing a face.
"We're just passing through. You must have had a call from the concierge of our hotel, the Continental." "Not at all."
"But I can't let my friend go on suffering."
To back him up, Pietro gave a muffled groan.
I’m sorry," Ingrid replied, "but we have a full sched ule for the day. Would you like the address of someone else?"
"No, no," Folco protested. "My friend doesn't want to go anywhere else. At the hotel they said that Professor Strolh is the finest- specialist in all Zurich."
Ingrid hesitated only a second. "Sit down a minute," she told them. 'The professor is busy, but I'll see what I can do." And she turned on her heels. For an instant Pietro and Folco admired the sight of her rump.
"You ever have toothaches?" Bellinzona asked Folco.
"No."
"Me neither. Know why? When I was a kid, I was playing ball and got hit in the face with a bat. The roots are mine, but the rest are caps."
Ingrid was coming back in. Bellinzona's hands went to his jaw and he made an awful face and bent his head.
"The professor has a ten-o'clock appointment. If there's a moment between patients, he's agreed to exam ine you, but he won't be able to do any dental work today."
She handed Pietro a glass of water and a white pill. Take this. It'll ease the pain." Bellinzona sniffed at the glass distrustfully. "Drink it!" Folco ordered.
Pietro put the pill under his tongue and swallowed the water with revulsion. As soon as Ingrid went out, he took the pill out of his mouth and slipped it into his pocket
At five minutes to ten, she came back. "Please follow me."
She showed them into a room that had so much chrome it looked more like an electric power station than a dental office. Soft music floated on the air.'
"I can only give you a quick examination," August Strolh said to Bellinzona. "Please be seated."
"That your old lady?" Folco Mori asked, pointing to Ingrid.
Strolh shrugged in response and exchanged a glance with his wife. ‘I beg your pardon?" he replied.
"She's got one helluvan ass," Folco said, raising her skirt.
In the same motion, his right hand, holding a razor, went around Ingrid's neck, while Bellinzona pointed a Walther PP into the stomatologist's solar plexus.
"Higher," Pietro insisted.
Folco raised the folds of the skirt a bit more.
"Hey, the pig's not wearing no underpants!" Pietro guffawed.
Under his salt-and-pepper beard, the blood drained out of August Strolh's face, just as it flushed in In grid's.
Folco took advantage of the slight pause to get his statement in. "We got nothin' against you. But that won't keep me from slitting her throat if you don't do every thing exactly like I tell you."
"You wouldn't like us to slit the throat of your sweet little pig of a wife, would you?" Bellinzona added in false sympathy. "Hey! You know why she don't wear no panties? He must stick it to her between patients."
"That's not it at all," Folco said. "While he's drill ing, she spreads her legs. That way, the patient forgets that it hurts!"
Bellinzona gaff awed again. One of the reasons he liked Folco so much was that terrific sense of humor he always kept, even in the toughest spots.
Despite the fact that he was trembling and his throat was parched and his legs giving way, August Strolh suc ceeded in saying, 'Tell me how much money you want, and go away."
"Won't cost you a cent," Folco said, marshaling Ingrid off to the back of the office.
He raised a curtain and found himself in a cubbyhole about six feet by nine that was lined with shelves holding all kinds of plaster impressions of jaws. Terrified, Ingrid
let herself lean against him, limp as a rag doll. Mori turned back toward Pietro and gave him a thumbs-up sign.
"Will it do?" Bellinzona asked.
"Yeah. We can stay in here with her."
"Listen," the professor said in a quavering voice, "in a minute, one of my patients will be here."
"That's just it," said Mori. "He's the one we're here for. While you treat him, just don't forget that we're watching everything you do."
"What are you talking about?"
Bellinzona couldn't repress a delighted little gurgle. He gently ran the edge of his hand across August Strain's throat in a gesture of unmistakable meaning.
"Well let you know. And if you don't do as we say— then, your wife—-Oops!"
"Not to mention the shot in the belly you'll get, for good measure," Folco added. Then he started to explain what they expected. .
Strolh was desperately making signs of refusal, his eyes glowering with indignation.
'Tf you'd rather watch your wife croak before your eyes, and your patient get rubbed out too, suit yourself," Folco concluded with a fatalistic shrug.
The doorbell rang.
"Go open up," Mori said calmly.
Bellinzona let go of the dentist "Don't forget we've got our eyes on you," he said. "One word, one look, one questionable move and if s curtains for all of you."
Pressing close against Ingrid Strolh, they disappeared behind the curtain.
"I repeat, it just can't be done," the professor pro tested one last time. "He'll see through it."
A stifled cry from Ingrid came back as reply. Ter rified, August hurried to answer the door.
Three light knocks, and one heavy one. Orlando Baretto opened the door just a crack and Italo Volpone slipped through.
"Where is she?" Volporie demanded.
"Locked in her bedroom."
Volpone went in. Inez was propped up on pile of cushions against the radiator. She was reading a fashion magazine that she held in her right hand. Her left wrist was handcuffed to the radiator. She put the magazine down and looked blankly at Italo.
"You know how to write?" Italo asked.
Lando gave him a surprised look. How could anyone
ask such a question of a girl who had completed three years of college?
Lando hadn't slept much. Following the boss's or ders, he had grudgingly chained Inez to the radiator. She had remained stubbornly silent, hostile, scornful, indifferent, and obedient, and Lando had agreed to give her the phone whenever it rang. Volpone felt she ought to answer it so as not to arouse suspicions in any of her customers. Or lando listened in on the extension, and in doing so he got a whole new idea of what his girl's life was nice. She had spoken to several women, models, who chattered to her about dressing-room gossip full of sly innuendo’ Men, too: a German movie producer and an Italian fashion photographer. Inez had politely turned down an offer to do a top magazine cover wearing a king's ransom in jewelry covering her body. There were also a few words spoken in an African tongue.
‘Two of my cousins," she had told him, "who are passing through. Diplomats. They're coming over."
Lando had gotten furious. "All you had to do was say you'd be out!"
"They haven't seen me in two years. They're bringing presents. You don't have to let them in if you don't want to."
"If you say one more word in that language of yours, I'll beat your brains in."
He had a burning yen for her, but he could only ex press it by exaggerating his irritation. The fact was, all things considered, he felt he had fallen in love with her, and he was sore at himself for having done so.
"Write what I dictate to you," Volpone ordered as he gave her some paper and a pen.
She pointed to the handcuffs. "I can't write with these on."
‘Your right hand is free."
"I'm left-handed."
'Take the cuffs off," he told Lando.
Inez rubbed her wrist and stretched with the supple grace of a jungle cat. She started to take the pad and pen.
"Just a minute," Volpone said. "I want a picture of you, Bare-assed."
She went searching through a dresser drawer, got a folder, and found a print for him. Italo took a quick look at it and pocketed it without a word. Inez lay on her stomach on the bed, picked up the pen in her left hand, and placed the pad in front of her.
"Go ahead," she told Volpone without bothering to look at him.
At any other time, Homer Kloppe would have noticed immediately how distressed Dr. Strolh looked, and how limp and unconvincing his handshake was. But this morn ing Kloppe was too concerned with his own worries.
"Isn't your wife here?" he asked perfunctorily.
"She’ll be back soon," Strolh said, making sure he didn't look into the banker's eyes. "Please be seated. I’ll be right with you."
He pretended to be busy with his instruments as Kloppe plopped into the heavy leather dental chair.
Suddenly blinded by the strong light that Strolh flashed into his face, Kloppe saw the professor's long white hands move into his field of vision as if they had no connection with the dentist's arms and body. Kloppe, daz zled, could not even make out where the doctor was stand ing, and he closed his eyes to avoid the thousand little suns that exploded on his retinas. He felt a bib being tied around his neck, and he was surprised by Strain's silence. Usually the professor told a string of stories, running them one into the other in a dizzying rhythm so that they had a kind of hypnotic effect on the patient
"Are you all right?" Homer asked him.
"Yes, just fine. Now, let's take a little look at what we have here."
August Strolh would have liked to yell to Homer to get out. To prove to himself that he wasn't dreaming, he looked back toward the curtain where the two men were holding his wife. The curtain parted just the slightest bit as the circus strong man gave him what was supposed to be an encouraging smile. Next to him, August could see Ingrid, her eyes wide with fear, in the arms of the other man, her head being held slightly back, the razor poised against her throat
To retain his sanity, August Strolh launched into his professional monologue. But he had to keep it coherent so he wouldn't arouse Kloppe's suspicions. As far as dental theory went, the banker, being the buff he was, knew al most as much as the doctor himself.
"I have the answer to what you asked me the other day," the professor was saying. "Now, bend your head slightly to the left There. Yes. Thanks. You know, about dissolving the organic base of the enamel . . . Most un likely unless the apatite crystals are broken down first..."
"Ah?" Kloppe replied.
"Keep your mouth wide open. The organic elements are petrified right into the mineral base. Besides, as you very well know, cariogenic bacteria are not generally speak ing, proteolytic."
Homer Kloppe raised a finger as if asking permission to speak. He felt Strom's hands release his jaw.
"There's one other possibility: the simultaneous dis solution of both the organic and mineral base of the enamel."
His face bathed in perspiration, the professor could not resist his violent urge to look toward the curtain again. The strong man signaled to him impatiently, and he me chanically answered Kloppe.
"Very unlikely, my friend, very unlikely. Of course, all the apatites that are the main constituents of the enamel are soluble. But at pH7, in distilled water, only 1.2 percent of human enamel dissolves in five weeks."
It would never work. Kloppe would smell a rat the minute he started to anesthetize him. He'd ask why. What could he answer? Kloppe knew his teeth were in perfect
condition. But if August didn't do it, the others, behind the curtain with Ingrid . . . Strolh had no choice and no time. Under the impetus of the terror in his solar plexus,
he gave a fake miserable little laugh..
'I'm
going to show you something entirely, new, and I think wonderful. It's Swedish. Just keep your mouth closed now. I'm going to have to raise your gum slightly to see what's giving you a bit of inflammation. I'll need a closer look."