by Pierre Rey
"It was given to me." "A fine present, indeed!"
"Not exactly a present, lieutenant It was to pay off a gambling debt. I met a man in a bar, and we got to talking, and after a while we got into a poker game. I won about twenty thousand dollars off him."
"What was that man's name?"
"He didn't tell me."
"And you didn't ask?"
"Why should I, when I was winning?" Lando asked with a fatalistic shrug.
"His name is Volpone, Genco Volpone," the lieuten ant said.
"Could be."
"Or rather, that was his name."
Lando felt his palms go moist, but he was able to con tinue looking politely bored. His jaw set, Lando waited for the words that would tell him he was no longer a free man.
Blesh suddenly looked away. "Thanks for coming in, Herr Baretto," he said in a rough tone. "You'll be able to get your car back as soon as we finish our investigation. Ill just ask you please not to leave the city. We may need you to answer a few more questions."
Speechless, Lando headed out the door, convinced that Blesh was playing a trick on him, that in a minute he would call him back and put him under arrest But no such thing occurred.
Out in the street he breathed deeply, repressing an urge to run. He had to let Italo know that the game was over, that he had to get out of Switzerland immediately unless he wanted to spend the rest of his days under lock and key.
Chimene Kloppe begged her husband to leave the room where Renata lay. The prostrate father had not eaten since the night before, but had remained kneeling, insensible to the cramps that had overcome his legs in the intervening hours. Now and then he imagined he saw Rena ta move ever so slightly in the flickering light of the can dles.
"Don't stay here, Homer, I beg you. It's not good for you."
Like a shadow he went out through the apartment A crew of workmen sent by Oswald Hepbräuer was try ing to restore things to normal without making any noise.
Kloppe walked through the streets thinking of the ridicu lousness of the business deals that had absorbed his whole life. What did they amount to with Renata dead?
Suddenly he was at the bank, without having known he was going there. Marjorie was waiting in the outer of fice, stiff and embarrassed.
"Sir..." she tried to console him.
Homer patted her on the arm as he went by, but he did not look at her. He walked into his office and sat down .at his desk, looking at the familiar room as if he had never seen it before. He opened a drawer, took out his bottle of Waterman's ink, uncorked it, and brought it to his lips without drinking. Then he put it back alongside the box of Davidoff s Punch Culebras.
There was nothing he wanted; it was as if he himself had died. He got heavily to his feet and went over to the window, but he didn't really see the landscape. Down be low, on the avenue, people were out walking. How could the weather be so fine when a twenty-three-year-old woman had just died? How could the world go on revolv ing without her, as if nothing had happened?
He returned to his desk, took out a folder, riffled through it without seeing it Nothing meant anything anymore....
Marjorie slipped into the room.
"Sir, are you in?"
"No."
She was about to go out, but Kloppe called her back. "Who is it?"
"A gentleman who says he came over specially from America. He says he has to see you. His name is Ettore Gabelotti."
The name of Volpone popped violently into Homer's head. After Renata's accident, he had even pointlessly wondered whether Volpone hadn't . . . But no, the little gangster couldn't have engineered his daughter's death. He himself must take the blame, all on account of a fortune that would never be of any use to him.
"Show him in," he forced himself to say.
Marjorie seemed surprised, but she refrained from comment
Ettore Gabelotti came into the office. "Mr. Kloppe?"
Homer nodded him to a seat.
"Thanks," Gabelotti said. "You know, who I am? We have a mutual acquaintance: my lawyer, Philip Diego. He must have spoken to you about me. Pm in a bit of a spot, you see. I have a large sum on deposit with your bank. Two billion dollars, as you know..."
Don. Ettore glanced at the banker's face to see if it showed any sign of encouragement, but he saw nothing.
'This capital was in transit here, when my partner, who you met, was killed. My friend Genco Volpone. It al so happens, by an extraordinary set of circumstances, that my representative, Mr. Mortimer O'Brion, who you met with Volpone when he came here to make the deposit..."
Gabelotti stopped, took a deep breath, and then went on.
"It so happens that Mr. O'Brion acted unprofessionally, dishonestly, toward me. He did not give me the true account number for our deposit, as I found out when I phoned from New York to complete that transfer after my unfortunate partner died. Yes, Mr. Kloppe, I was betrayed by the man who had my confidence for many, many years."
Homer reacted to all this no more than if he had been made of cast iron.
Gabelotti twisted in his seat "I am also aware, Mr. Kloppe, that my partner's brother, Mr. Italo Volpone, took it upon himself to come and see you without consulting me, something he had absolutely no authority to do. I know how awkward he can be sometimes, so I hope you won't feel that a man as honorable as me is responsible for any such actions. I was the one who personally chose your bank for our transfer because I knew your reputation for complete and total faithfulness and integrity. I realize that, with anyone less understanding than you, these very qualities might work against me. For I am not in posses sion of the number of my own account Mr. Kloppe.
"As you can see, I’m putting all my cards on the ta ble because I have utter confidence in you. You know that the money deposited in that account is mine. So I am calling upon your long-established business sense, and, man to man, without witnesses, I ask you now to effect the transfer of our deposit to the Panama Chemical, as planned'
For a few seconds a kind of religious silence reigned in the office. For the first time, Homer Kloppe appeared to "see" Ettore Gabelotti. Kloppe stared at him at length, then stood to signify that the meeting was as an end.
"I am most unhappy, I assure you, sir, to have to say that I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about"
20
The immigration inspector scanned their passports without taking particular notice.
The four men all wore dark suits, and each held an' important-looking attaché case without which a business man would only look like what he was: not very much.
"Go on through, gentlemen."
Vittorio Pizzu, Aldo Amalfi, Vmcente Bruttore, and Joseph Dotto were swallowed up in the crowd that had just arrived on the New York-Zurich 747. Pizzu had the ad dress of the villa, and Volpone and Moshe Yudelman were expecting them.
"You know the name of the place we're heading for?" Pizzu asked Bruttore. "Bankers’ Boulevard. Takes the Swiss to dream up that one."
"I'm hungry," Bruttore replied.
"Where do we get our rods?" Dotto wanted to know.
"Don't worry," Vittorio grumbled.
They piled into a taxi and Pizzu showed the driver a piece of paper that had Sonnenberg—Aurorastrasse written on it.
"Ja!" said the driver as he-drove them away.
At the same time, the immigration official, having gotten a colleague to take his place, was phoning the central headquarters of the Zurich cantonal police.
"Lieutenant Blesh, please."
"Who's calling?"
"Airport Immigration. Sergeant Glucke."
"He's not in, feHa, but give me the poop; I know what it's about. Another batch of 'em?" "Yeah, four."
"Hold it while I get a pencil. Let me have the names." "Just in from New York. Vincente Bruttore..." "With a double t"
"Yes. Aldo Amalfi... Joseph Dotto, Vittorio Piz zu."
"Very good. Did you alert our guys?" "Right away. They're on their tail." "Thanks again."
"Good-bye."
"So long."
Lieutenant Blesh and Captain Kirkpatrick loathed one another instantly. Blesh couldn't stand redheads, es pecially when, not satisfied with infringing on him them selves, they brought reinforcements.
"My assistant, Lieutenant Herb Finnegan," Kirkpat rick said.
Blesh dryly nodded recognition.
"And Mr. Scott Dempsey," Kirkpatrick went on. Blesh looked the little man up and down; he seemed to be having the time of his life in his impressed tweed jacket and his navy blue tie, wrinkled as a dishrag.
"You with the police?" Blesh distrustfully inquired of Dempsey.
"Not exactly," Kirkpatrick cut in. He cleared his throat and went for broke. "My friend Scott Dempsey is here for the Securities and Exchange Commission."
Blesh frowned. If there was one kind of intruder he had no desire to see in Zurich, it was an SEC bureaucrat.
"I’m truly surprised, captain. I had understood that you were coming alone, purely as a private citizen."
"That's what I said, lieutenant"
"In that case, I don't understand what a full-fledged investigator of the U.S. financial services is doing here."
Scott Dempsey went right on laughing, as if he were not involved in the issue.
Kirkpatrick was upset by Dempsey's lack of concern. "His trip here is on a purely private and friendly basis," he urged.
I’m sorry to have to inform you that it must remain so," said Blesh. "It is difficult for us to permit foreign of ficials to come investigating on our territory, even when they are from friendly countries."
The "friendly country" bit almost made Kirkpatrick choke.
"We are well aware of those facts, lieutenant," he said, smiling-affably. "I can assure you, none of us have the intention of lifting even a finger as long as we are your guests. Just forget who we are and take us on as volunteer informants, won't you?"
Blesh stared at Scott Dennisey and inquired, "May I know, sir, what it was that prompted you to make this trip?"
"I invited him to come along," Kirkpatrick cut in. "Why?"
Dempsey giggled again, and Kirkpatrick glared at
him.
"You see, lieutenant," the captain went on, "the case we are investigating is beyond my competence—"
"I'm surprised," Blesh interrupted. "You assured me when we talked that you were involved in a purely crimi nal investigation."
"That's correct"
"Well, then?"
Kirkpatrick, accustomed to doing the asking instead of the answering, twisted nervously. He had no intention of letting this pip-squeak lieutenant in on the real reason for the investigation. What could a Swiss understand about how the very existence of the Syndicate affected the life of the United States?
"I don't think you've played fair with me, captain," Lieutenant Blesh remarked icily.
"I beg your pardon?"
"And I must say, I don't like it."
Kirkpatrick's face was now red enough to match his. hair. Blesh brought his hand down as if in a karate chop.
"Since the time I informed you of the death of De tective Cavanaugh, sir, you have constantly acted as if I were not all there! You say you want to help me, but I can't believe it You have tried to get whatever you could out of me, and you have given nothing in return. This is not what we expect from fellow officers.’'
The last-time Kirkpatrick had been chewed out was twenty years ago, when he had been bucking for detec tive.
"I know as much as you about the case you're in vestigating, and maybe more,’’ Blesh went on in a peremp tory tone. "Volpone, Yudelman, Pizzu, Mori, Dotto, Brut tore, Amalfi—all are here under our surveillance. And the Gabelotti clan as well. Crimello, Barba, Badaletto, Merta, Sabatini, and Ferro." Blesh held out his flat palm and then closed it sharply. "All here! And incidentally, do you know Rico Gatto? No. Have you ever beard of Orlando Baretto? Of course not. Well there are still a few things I can show you, captain!"
Kirkpatrick rolled with the punch. Herb Finnegan, . embarrassed, turned his head away. Even Scott Dempsey looked serious.
"So here's what I propose to you," Blesh concluded, "take it or leave it. Either we put all our cards on the table and loyally exchange information—in which case, if I find you holding back the slightest thing, the deal is off! Or you may prefer not to talk, if so, gentlemen, you are free to leave."
Kirkpatrick bit his lip and glanced at Finnegan and Dempsey.
Finnegan said, "I believe the lieutenant makes sense, captain."
"Just a second," Blesh cut in. "I must add one thing: you have no authority in Switzerland—no police authority and no right to investigate our Confederation's banking activities."
"What does that leave us?" Kirkpatrick asked, swal lowing his saliva with difficulty.
'Not a thing! In exchange for certain leads, I will allow you to be present during my investigation. And you may use what you learn in whatever way you see fit— once you are back in your United States!"
"But what if you arrest some of these jokers?"
Blesh made a snide little face. "You’re overlooking something, captain. Until proof of the contrary, none of these jokers, as you call them, has so far committed any
crime on Swiss soil. What reason would I have to arrest them? What could I charge them with?"
In order not to show how satisfied he was to be able to stick it to his American confrere, Blesh assumed a som ber look and paced behind his desk. He suddenly stopped, facing Kirkpatrick, and burst out, "Well? Yes or no?"
Kirkpatrick ran an unsteady hand through his red mop and again sought the approval of Scott Dempsey and Herb Finnegan, both of whom nodded to him.
Kirkpatrick shrugged. "Okay, deal," he conceded.
The lieutenant smiled slightly and pushed a button. A sentry stuck his head through the door.
"Bring some glasses, ice, and scotch,"
"Very well, lieutenant."
Fritz Blesh turned toward his guests. "Between you and me, I'd be just as happy if those—fellow citizens of yours hadn't come to Zurich. All I want is to be rid of them. I hope they're not crazy enough to think they can carry on here the way they do in Chicago."
Then he said, "Now, captain, what was it you wanted to tell me?"
At the villa, there was no one in the foyer or in any of the downstairs rooms. Lando bounded up the stairs, four at a time, having forgotten how exhausted he was, con centrating on the task before him: informing Volpone that the Swiss police had pegged them. At the first landing, he bumped into Folco Mori.
"Where's the padrone?"
‘Not to be disturbed."
"I gotta talk to him, Folco!"
"Pizzu just got here with the three capiregime. Italo and Yudelman are reading the riot act to them. You better wait."
"Shit! Wfll it take long?"
"I don't know."
Knowing family protocol, Lando didn't dare tell Mori that the flames were practically licking at their asses. He had to talk to Italo Volpone first, and to no one else. Frustrated, he went down to the kitchen to get himself a pick-me-up.
He saw Bellinzona's broad back. Pietro was sitting on a stool at the kitchen table, looking through a comic book. In front of him, there were three or four empty beer bot tles. Lando grabbed a bottle of vodka and poured himself a stiff one.
"Pietro, you think they're gonna be long up there?"
"All depends," Pietro said. "Who you want?' "Volpone."
"They been in there over an hour."
Lando realized something was strange: Bellinzona had started to talk to him again. Reassured, he reasoned with himself that his lack of sleep had made him blow things out of proportion.
‘Feeling better now?" he warmly asked Bellinzona.
"What?" the big guy retorted.
"You looked blue yesterday, like depressed, you know?"
If he had dared, Lando would have said that he had already forgotten the scene he had been forced to witness, that he would never breathe, a word about the
misfortune that had befallen Pietro.
"Sure, I’m okay. Just fine, like."
Pietro got up, went to the refrigerator, and took out another bottle of beer. He twisted off the cap. Downing half of it in one long gulp, he thoughtfully walked toward the door. Lando saw him nonchalantly turn the key and lock it