by Pierre Rey
Pietro and Moshe had barely left when Folco Mori came inr Lando took advantage of his presence to escape from the atmosphere of impending doom around the vifia. All he wanted was to get back to his own place and soak in a hot tub."Folco, I'm gonna go pick up my wheels and go home and clean up."
‘Okay," Mori said. "Folco..
"Yes’
"How long you known Bellinzona?"
Folco looked at him quizzically. "Why?"
"No special reason," Lando replied.
He phoned for a taxi and told the driver to take him to Bellerivestrasse. His Beauty Ghost was not where he had left it
He had no desire to hang around Bellerivestrasse, so he gave the driver his address, wondering whether Renata had taken his convertible. In Switzerland, it’s well known that there are no petty thieves. Concerned, but too tired to be upset Lando paid off the taxi and went into his apart ment building. Two guys were leaning against the marble pillar in the lobby.
"Herr Orlando Baretto?" one of them asked, smiling and coming toward him. He showed his police ID to Lan do. "You are Herr Baretto, aren't you?"
"Yes," Lando admitted, frowning.
"Would you come along to our office, please?"
"Whafs the problem?" ‘
The second cop came over. "If s about your car."
Lando kept his composure. It just happens that it's been stolen," he said. "You may have seen that I came home by taxi. I was just about to report it."
"Don't worry, Herr Baretto. We found it’
"Oh, good. Wherer
"On the airport road. Will you come along, please?"
They were being very courteous, but they took up positions on either side of him.
"I was just going up to get out of these dirty clothes..."
'This won't take more than a minute. It's just a for mality. Please come along now; Lieutenant Blesh is wait ing for you."
After a long preparatory discussion, Moshe Yudelman and Angelo Barba agreed that their two padroni should meet on the grounds of the Dolder Grand Hotel. The meeting was to take place on the stroke of noon. Each capo would be allowed only two bodyguards, who would stand fifty yards away from their bosses.
At 11:55 a black Mercedes 600 dropped Gabelotti off in front of the Dower's parterre. With the practiced nonchalance of a walker in the city, the don took a few steps toward the pool. There were no swimmers, but a few hotel guests, lured by the warmth of the sun, lazed in steamer chairs. The air was full of the sound of buzzing wasps and singing birds, and the sweet-scented wind softly shook the tips of the trees that were just bursting into bloom.
Don Ettore walked down a gravel path bordered by tufts of flowering rosemary. The path veered off between two sycamores, and Gabelotti, with Thomas Merta beside him, could see Simeone Ferro, incongruous in his severe black suit, gazing into one of the smaller pools. Gabelotti suddenly realized that he, as well as Merta, was clad in black. Another black spot, a hundred yards away, caught his eye, and he recognized Pietro Bellinzona attentively reading a paper—or more likely looking at the pictures. Babe Volpone was nowhere to be seen.
Thirty seconds later, Italo's Ford drew up. Folco Mori got out to hold the door for him, and Italo and Mori, also dressed in black, walked up the path. The gravel squeaked beneath their shoes. Italo caught sight of Pietro Bellinzona. Each capo had thus sent one man ahead to reconnoiter the grounds, keeping at his side the one man among his sol diers who was most gifted at hand-to-hand combat. In addition to the Herstal that was weighing down his right-hand combat. In addition to the Herstal that was weighing down his right-hand pocket, Folco was armed with two throwing daggers. One—the one that killed Officer Pat rick Mahoney—was, as usual, placed point upward in a sheath between his shoulder blades. The other was kept in place by a complicated set of straps around his left calf, pointed down.
Thomas Merta and Folco Mori discreetly walked away. As Moshe had advised him to, Italo walked straight toward Gabelotti. Since they were of equal rank, it was not unfitting for the younger to take the first step toward his senior, in the traditional way. Babe Volpone came to a halt about a yard from Don Ettore, an attentive but non committal expression on his face, his hands hanging at his sides.
"Well, you wished to see me, Don Ettore. Here I am."
Gabelotti smiled paternally, patronizingly, and thanked Italo for having come. But before the younger capo could show any resentment, Don Ettore opened his arms for a fraternal abbraccio.
"Let me repeat to you what grief I felt over the loss of your brother, figlio mio."
Ettore pulled back slightly, without releasing Italo's shoulders. He kept him at arm's length and looked him in the eye, enveloping him in the warmth of his gaze as if he had just been reunited with an old and dear friend.
"Don Genco was my friend. I had the greatest respect and the most sincere admiration for him."
Then he took Italo by the arm and started to walk. Despite a slight involuntary tensing of his muscles, Italo allowed himself to be swept along. For all their apparent detachment, Mori, Merta, Bellinzona, and Ferro watched the two men like hawks.
"I've heard a great deal about you, Italo, and I'm happy to have this chance to get to know you. I knew your brother from the time he first started out He used to tell me a lot about you—things I bet you never thought anyone knew."
"Such as?" Volpone asked tartly.
Gabelotti laughed warmly. "Oh, say, how you knocked over old man Bisciotto's grocery . . . See? You're surprised, eh? You musta been—what? Fourteen?"
"Thirteen," Italo corrected.
"That's what I was saying. So, you see! You got a good break in life, Italo: you were born in the shadow of a great man, un uomo di rispetto. As luck would have it, we were sometimes on opposite sides in business, but we were always loyal, even as rivals. I shouldn't be telling you this because modesty forbids, but before going to my hotel, I went by the morgue to pay him my last respects."
Overwhelmed by his own magnanimity, Gabelotti stopped talking. Arm in arm, the two capi walked along in silence for twenty yards or so, and from time to time, Don Ettore stretched a hand out to touch a flower. Finally they got to a convenient bench.
"Would you like to sit here? As you know, I’m a few pounds overweight, and a few years older than I'd like. Walking tires me out."
Gabelotti let himself down on the bench with a sigh of satisfaction. Italo sat beside him. Nothing was happen ing as he had expected. Here he was in a children's play ground, surrounded by pink nannies, listening to the con ciliatory words of a tired, fatherly man. At the rate things were going, he'd soon be hearing about Don Ettore's arthritis and his digestive problems. But Moshe had begged him to hold his water and let things take their course.
‘You haven't said much yet," Don Ettore was saying, "and you may feel that I am being a little too familiar. But I assure you that's only out of trust and friendship. If you have even a share of the esteem for me that I had for your poor brother, please feel at ease with me. And please believe that I sincerely mean everything I have said. I know you must be somewhat distrustful. No, no, don't deny it! I wouldn't believe you if you did. Before men can judge one another, they have to get to know each other. We are full and equal partners in this business here in Zurich. In a short time, you may be the capo of your family."
- I am now."
Again that fatherly laugh, as Don Ettore answered, "Oh, Italo, Italo! Genco had you down pat, all right! Good-hearted but impulsive. You know, becoming a don isn't achieved just for the asking. It has to be earned."
"It can be had for the taking, though," Italo said without raising his voice.
"Well, you're right about that, it can be had for the taking—and I'm sure that in this case the Volpone family is in good hands. Now, let us talk seriously. Do you have any idea .why I decided to come to Zurich? My consigliere, Mortimer O'Brion, has disappeared. Your poor brother is dead. I can't stand by while our joint capital lies fallow in a bank. Out of courtesy to you, I didn't wan
t to take any of the steps to get it working again without first advising you. I want your view on the subject Do you object in any way to my taking our money out of the Zurich Trade Bank and sending it along its way as we had worked it out with Don Genco?"
Volpone could not keep from looking sharply at him. "You seem surprised," Gabelotti commented. "Do you have an objection?"
"No, none at all. Have you spoken to the banker?" "Now that you agree, I’ll go after our deposit first thing this afternoon."
Volpone could not resist asking the question that was burning his tongue, stupid as he knew it was. "Do you have the account number?" Gabelotti seemed taken aback, and he looked at Italo with total incredulousness.
"Why, Italo, if I didn't have the number, who in the world would? I know you tried to make yourself useful to all of us by going to see the banker and trying to push along what your brother didn't have the chance to com plete. I can fully understand why you did this, upset as you were. Of course, you ought to have asked me about it first. I would have told you what you must have found out by now: compared to Swiss banks, Fort Knox is wide open. You know, I might have been offended and not even understood that, in your grief, you were doing what you felt was best To be frank, I could well have thought you were mixing into what was none of your business— either that, or that you were out of your mind over Genco's death. Just put yourself in my shoes—"
"Put yourself in mine!" Volpone cut him off. "My brother turns up dead, and at the same moment your consigliere disappears off the face of the earth!"
"How do you know that?"
"You told me so yourself."
"Correct, I just did. But when you went to the bank, you didn't know it"
"Don't try outsmarting me," Volpone snapped. "Everybody in the organization knows your fuckin' mouth piece took a powder."
Gabelotti's heavy eyes instantly turned into two shiny, merciless slits in his face. He was at the point of signaling Thomas Merta to open fire. At that range, Merta could hit the center of a playing card. It took enormous effort on Don Ettore's part to control himself. Puffing like a sea lion, he closed his eyes, remembering that Volpone was perfectly right; that son of a bitch O'Brion had double-crossed him. But he wasn't ready to admit anything to Volpone. Not yet
Gabelotti waited for his pulse to resume its normal rhythm; he leaned over to pluck a buttercup and brought it to his nostrils. It had no odor. He crushed the stem and flower in his fingers.
"Now listen to me, Italo, because I never repeat my self. If you want to keep on holding down Don Genco's place, don't let yourself use such abusive language. Out of respect for your brother's memory, I am saying this to you today as an older friend's advice. If you take it as I hope, I'm willing to wipe the slate clean and forget any differences of opinion that may have cropped up between our two families. I think I'm making-you a reasonable offer. The main thing, if you get my drift, is to live to a ripe old age."
"Yeah’ that's what Genco used to say."
Gabelotti stood up. "Don't forget what I told you. In a little while I’ll go by the bank. I’ll let you know the out come later this afternoon."
And turning on his heels, he walked away.
Fritz Blesh hung up, furious: a few hours more and he'd have Captain Kirkpatrick in his hair. During a long transatlantic phone call, in which each had done his best to-get the other to tell everything he knew, Blesh realized that he had met his match.
"Say that again, lieutenant What did you say?" Kirk patrick had said.
"I was just pointing out to you that all these people did not come here together. The reports came from dif ferent border posts, some from France, some from Italy. Only Gabelotti and Crimello came in direct from New York."
"Listen, lieutenant. I'll come over and explain the whole thing to you."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Yes; if you have no objection, I think I'll hop over to Zurich."
There was nothing Blesh hated worse than other peo ple- cutting in on his turf. For any foreign police to move in on his canton seemed to him a personal affront and he answered only with an extended silence.
'I’ll be there as a private citizen, lieutenant, you un derstand that! I know the men involved. If I can be of any assistance to you . . ." And in a humble, begging tone, he had gone on, ". . . as one officer to another. All I'd like to do is fill you in on the specifically American as pects of this matter, the things you can't possibly know about"
"Just who are these men?"
Now it was Kirkpatrick's turn to mark time. Finally he conceded. "Ettore Gabelotti is the capo of one of the Syndicate families."
I’ll have him deported immediately."
"Please don't do that, lieutenant! Together we could pull off a real coup!"
"We could?"
'I’m sorry, I meant to say, you could. But I assure you, I can help you pull it off."
So that his opposite number would not score too many points, Blesh had refrained from informing Kirkpatrick of one new event that he was convinced was connected to the unusual goings-on in Zurich during the past week. A few hours before, between three and four o'clock that morning, Renata Kloppe, sole heiress to one of the wealthiest of all of Zurich's wealthy bankers, had been killed in an auto accident
The car under which her body was found belonged to another American, Orlando Baretto, a former soccer pro who for the past five years had been living in Switzer land on a visitor's permit renewed every six months. His profession was officially listed as "grain broker," but the foreign residents' dossiers showed no real activity in that line, and Blesh's investigators believed that he had income from something other than trade in cereals, indicated by his close relationship with a very high-priced call girl. Yet he had never been involved in any scandal, and he pos sessed two very healthy bank accounts.
"Lieutenant," one of the detectives announced as he poked his head through the door, "that man you wanted to see is here. Baretto."
"Show him in," said Blesh.
On the way over, Lando thought out his tactics. There was no way that the cops could find any link between Re nata Kloppe and himself. If they could, and some smart little bastard were to find out about the relationship be tween Volpone and Kloppe, the jig might be up. It was his tough luck that any member of a Syndicate family was considered fair game.
"Come in, Herr Baretto. I'm Lieutenant Blesh. Thank you for coming."
'Your men told me you found my car."
"That's correct."
"I was just getting ready to report it stolen."
"Ah, it was stolen, Herr Baretto? When was that?"
Blesh found this gigolo repulsive.
"Probably during the night" Lando said. "When I went to get in it this morning, it was gone. I'm told you found it on the road to the airport, right?"
"Where did you leave it Herr Baretto?"
"In front of where I live."
"Had you had it long?"
"About a week and a half. Can I get it back now?" "I’m afraid not sir. It was involved in an accident" "What kind of accident?"
"Do you know Renata Kloppe?" "Who?"-
"Renata Kloppe, the banker's daughter?"
Lando shook his head. "Never heard of her."
"Oh, you must have!" Blesh encouraged him. "You've been living in Zurich long enough to keep up with some of our local gossip. Renata Kloppe is the young lady whose wedding took place at three o'clock this morning. The story was in all the papers."
"Could be—I may have read about it. But I don't see the connection ..."
"There is one, Herr Baretto. Renata Kloppe was killed a few hours ago; and she was driving your Beauty Ghost. Could you explain how she happened to have the keys?"
The smell of danger immediately drove out die feel ing of exhaustion that had been dogging Lando since the night before.
"Why, lieutenant," he said with amazement, "how would I possibly know?" "What did it cost you?" "What did what cost me?" "Your car."
"What did m
y car cost me?"
Lando didn't know how far Blesh had gotten with his inquiry, but he knew he had to hide the truth as tightly as he could, letting it out only a bit at a time, admitting only what his adversary already knew.
"It must have come to some eighteen, nineteen thou sand dollars."
"Did you pay for it in dollars?"
"No, in Swiss francs."
"By check?"
"Listen, lieutenant, I don't see what tins has—" "By check, sir?"
"Yes, by check. But not my own."
Lando knew now that he was up to his neck in the trap.