by Pierre Rey
"When we're all done, you can buy me a Swiss watch."
'When do we snatch him?"
"This afternoon."
"When do we hit the bank?"
"During the night, if you okay it"
Don Ettore made a face. "I believe in fast work, but let's not overdo it."
"I got ten men coming in from Milan during the night."
"How’ll you get them across the border?" "I got that fixed."
Gabelotti was highly amused. "So the young wolves are working for the old wolves now, eh?"
"Nope, Ettore, all the wolves are working together."
Charged with a new feeling of power, Italo looked at the older don with eyes bright as gushing oil.
"You trust me to do it?"
Gabelotti grabbed Italo's upper arms in both his hands and replied, ."Absolutely, Italo. Absolutely! But I'd like it if you filled me in on some of the details."
"Okay."
"You know, Italo. I like being on the sidelines. But not when I got two billion bucks riding on it!"
It seemed as if the whole town had decided to turn out at the cemetery. Floral pieces were crowded on all sides, even decorating the surrounding graves.
Homer Kloppe was much too religious to doubt for a second that there would be an afterlife for his daughter's soul. Ood had simply called her home, to a mysterious place where he and Chimene would join her when their own last hour had come. Homer knew with certainty that the Lord had subjected him to this ordeal as punishment for his moral failings, for not running his business with the unbending rigor he professed.
Hidden under dark mourning veils, Chimene shook the hands extended to her. She barely heard the confused litany of whispered condolences. Homer was standing on his wife's left, but he wasn't able to stop Kurt Heinz from coming and standing on her right. The stranger who had been his son-in-law for some ten or fifteen minutes was accepting the affectionate sympathy that rightly belonged only to the father and mother of the dead woman.
As soon as the coffin was in the ground, Kurt slid alongside Chimene as if he were one of the family. The crowd was enormous. People trying to get to see the Kloppes had to stand and wait for half an hour, treading between graves, dancing from one foot to the other before going to join the awful traffic jam trying to get out of the cemetery. An hour later the long line of mourners seemed no shorter. Chimene leaned toward Homer and whispered feebly through her veils, 'I’m not feeling very well."
Homer grasped her arm. "Let me take you home." "No, no," she protested. 'Everything's turning around..."
"Is something wrong?" asked Helena Marcoulis, stand ing just behind her friend.
"Let's get out of here," Homer said.
"No," Chimene insisted. "We can't."
"Helena, can you see my wife home?" Homer asked.
"Let me handle it!" she replied, and she put her arm around Chimene's waist, held her up, and nodded unob trusively to Manuella, standing discreetly a few paces away.
After two hours the line had tapered off, but there were still many groups standing around among the family enclosures, as if this burial place were never to be emptied of the crowd that had invaded it
"My car is outside" Kurt said to Homer. "Can I drop you off?"
Kloppe turned his eyes away, and at that moment a chauffeur came up to whisper in his ear. "I'm here to pick you up, Herr Kloppe."
‘I’m coming along," the relieved banker answered.
The chauffeur cut through the crowd and headed for the exit, and Homer followed him; more man a little grateful that he could escape from the embarrassing presence of Kurt Heinz, whose tactlessness struck him as unpardonable. The chauffeur led him among all kinds of cars, off to a shoulder of the road. He respectfully opened the door of a black Mercedes 600 with tinted panes. Kloppe got in and the chauffeur closed the door.
Inside the Mercedes, there'were four men. Two of them, Homer had never seen before. As for the other two, he would have given anything never again to meet them under any circumstances, let alone now.
'I would like you to know," Ettore Gabelotti said contritely, "that you have my heartfelt sympathy in the loss you have suffered."
"Accept my sincere condolences, too," Italo Volpone chimed in.
The banker, his lips pursed, tried the door handle: it would not open from the inside. The Mercedes worked its way out of the confusion of cars surrounding it, turned in the direction of Zurich, and picked up speed. Aware that he had fallen into a trap, Kloppe resolved not to give these hoodlums the satisfaction of seeing him show any reaction. Not deigning to sit back against the soft leather upholstery, he sat erect, hands on his knees, looking straight in front of him. He was not afraid, but angered and bored with the vanity of all human enterprises in general, and this kidnapping in particular.
'I am really terribly sorry, Mr. Kloppe," Gabelotti said to him, "but I think you'll see that this time you do have to pay a little more attention to what we have to say."
21
When she got home, Chimene Kloppe immediately made for her room, where she dropped on the bed, tears pouring down her face. Manuella came in with a cup of tea. Choking on her sobs, Chimene took the maid's hand, squeezing it as if her life depended on it Weeping copious ly, Manuella held her in a tight embrace and men ran from the room, leaving an envelope hi Chimene's hand.
Alone, she finally calmed down. She dried her face on the sheet smearing it with powder and mascara, and sitting up, she opened the envelope. A picture fell out of it, and Chimene rubbed her eyes, immediately recogniz ing the tall black woman whose pictures she had found in her husband's overcoat pocket With a heavy heart she glanced over the letter, rereading the words that twisted her insides to a pulp.
The wildest ideas sped through her mind. She looked at the picture again, lingering over the naked breasts. She knew Homer too well to believe for a second that he was capable of deserting his wife,, even under normal condi tions, and much less so during the horrendous trial the Lord had visited upon them in taking their only daugh ter.
Shocked into action, she phoned Kurt She found him at home, and he told her that Homer had left the cemetery about an hour earlier. She thanked him and dialed the bank. Marjorie hadn't seen her boss since yesterday. Chi mene called information and asked for the number of the cantonal police headquarters, and just as the connection went through, she hung up. She decided to give herself two hours in which to take action. If, by that time, Homer had still not come home, she would phone Lieutenant Fritz Blesh.
The plane was standing on an alternate runway in a section of the Milan airport that was reserved for taxi-planes and a couple of aeroclubs. On either side of the plane the words flight school were printed in big red letters. It was an MD 315 that the French army had re tired and sold as surplus. After a heavy case had been loaded on, ten men marched single file up the several steps of the ladder, looking distrustfully at the rust spots around the edges of the door. There were no seats inside. Safety belts were attached directly to the walls of the pas senger compartment, such as it was. One of the men asked the pilot in a muffled tone, "Say, Morobbia, you sure this tiling really flies?''
Amedeo Morobbia shrugged. "Depends on the days, and the wind," he said, "and the Madonna, ... Go on and belt up; we're taking off."
He turned and went into the cockpit, where he spoke to his mechanic-radioman, Giancarlo Ferrero. "Ready for takeoff?"
"Let 'er go."
Amedeo turned on the contact The twin engines coughed a bit sputtered, hissed, and finally decided to purr, imparting a furious shaking to the whole machine, which was neither soundproofed nor pressurized.
No matter. According to Ottavio Giacomassi's in structions, Morobbia was supposed to practically hedge hop, navigating by sight as soon as they were past the Swiss frontier, and land on a plateau full of cow pastures between Zug, Nafels, and Schwyz. He would come down in a prairie full of bumps and holes about five hundred meters long, more than enough space to bring the old crate to a h
alt, for Morobbia had been trained to stop within three hundred meters from touch-down. As the men off-loaded, he was not to cut his motors, and the minute the last one was out he was to fly toward Zurich, as Giacomassi had instructed him. Giacomassi, once a
Lucky Luciano lieutenant, was now the chief North Ital ian representative of the Volpone family.
When Amedeo got his idea for the flight school, Ottavio Giacomassi was the one who had grubstaked him. Obviously the few students he had weren't enough to keep Morobbia in business, but his patron paid well for oc casional off-the-record jobs such as picking up or deliver ing packages, and sometimes men, between Switzerland and Italy, always in the Zug-Nafels-Schwyz triangle.
"Flight-school MD 315 requests Runway 9," Amedeo radioed.
"MD 315, the runway is yours," the control tower called back. "Take off." "Roger. Taking off..
Morobbia give it the gun. The pile of junk rocked and rolled and reluctantly broke free from gravity, rising just enough to clear the repair hangars. It was some 150 kilometers from Milan to their landing area. When it was loaded, the MD could barely get up to 250 KPH at top speed. Making allowances, Amedeo figured it would take them a good forty-five minutes to get there.
He pointed the plane's nose northwest, tapped his me chanic on the arm, and yelled at the top of his lungs, "Giancarlo! Did you check the oil before we left?"
In an iron-gray suit, white shirt, and black tie, neith er handsome nor ugly, Cesare Piombino was the arche type of the average man, the kind you might see ten times on the street without paying the slightest attention.
He came into the Zurich Trade Bank three-quarters of an hour before closing time, politely asked the at tendant, how to get to the entrance to the vault, thanked him, and took the elevator to the third floor. His brief case under his arm, he sauntered down a hallway, coming to an open area in which three secretaries clad in navy-blue suits were standing and talking near some potted palms.
"Herr Rungghe, if you please."
"Herr Rungghe is not in this afternoon. Did you have an appointment, sir?"
"Yes.''
"Would you like to see the person who is filling in for him?"
"No, thanks. It's a personal matter. When will Herr Rungghe be back?’
"In the morning.''
Thank you. I’ll come back then."
He was so ordinary-looking that it didn't occur to any of the secretaries to ask his name. Like most of the de partment heads, Rungghe had gone to the funeral of Renata Kloppe. By the time Cesare Piombino disap peared around the bend in the hall, the three girls had forgotten him.
Cesare Piombino ran an antique-furniture store in the Aussersihl neighborhood, on Zurlidenstrasse. But the antique business was the least of his concerns. He was in reality one of the five Swiss representatives of Ottavio Giacomassi, with whom he had worked back in the war days, when there were Resistance units and surprise at tacks to be made. His specialties were derailing trains and poisoning the water supply of the occupying troops.
The job Giacomassi had given him this time was al most as ticklish as the ones he used to carry out thirty years ago. First, he was to get himself locked into the Zurich Trade Bank. Then, if the gods were with him, he was to carry out his mission and, once .it was accom plished, get out alive. If he did, he would collect the ten thousand dollars promised him. For the time being, the main tiling was to find a place to hide until they closed the bank. Cesare Piombino cautiously opened a door be hind the elevator shaft It led to the service stairway. Taking a firm grip on his briefcase full of dynamite sticks and Bickford fuses, he started to walk up the stairs.
It was a little gas station, like any one of thousands on streets everywhere, located on a Zurich side street called E8chwiesenstrasse. It had three pumps: two for gas, one for diesel fuel for heavy trucks. To the right of the pumps, a concrete ramp led to an underground garage that could hold about thirty cars. This was where Orlando Baretto had originally intended to take Mortimer O'Brion and Zaza Finney when he picked them up outside Kloppe's bank.
The gas station manager, a Sicilian like Lando, oc casionally did small favors for the Syndicate, though he wasn't, considered a member. But Enzo Priano asked no questions and made no comments when he took the en velopes that paid him off in good hard Swiss francs for those little services he rendered. The most frequent ac commodation he provided was the temporary sheltering of certain persons whose identity never became known to him.
At the back of the garage was a huge pile of old tires, against which leaned a heavy worktable. When the tires were moved, a locked metal door was revealed. It opened onto a storage space, about three yards by four, that had a small iron cot, a hole in the ground pre tentiously called the Turkish toilet, a washstand with cold water, and a naked lightbulb hanging from the ceil ing by a wire. There was an air vent leading to the garage storeroom; and two stools and a rickety table with a couple of old books and some tattered magazines com pleted the furnishings.
Ten minutes earlier, a black Mercedes 600 with a tinted windshield had come down the ramp, and Enzo Priano had moved a few tires and opened the door to what he laughingly called his "guest room." Three men had gone in, the smallest one wearing a blindfold, and when Enzo went back up to his gas pumps, the Mercedes was gone.
When Babe Volpone removed the blindfold, Kloppe blinked several times.
"My glasses?" he asked.
Ettore Gabelotti gave them to him. Putting them on, Kloppe saw the naked walls and concrete floor, the iron bed, and the washbasin.
"You can sit down," Gabelotti said
Homer remained standing. He knew he was still in Zurich, and, from the gas and oil smells that assailed his nostrils, he deduced he was in some kind of garage. In what neighborhood, he had no idea. When the chauffeur at the cemetery had said, 'I’m here to pick you up, Herr Kloppe," he had presumed that Helena Marcoulis had sent the car, and he had followed without question.
"Mr. Kloppe," Gabelotti said, "you can get out of this unpleasant place anytime you want Get out alive, that is. Your dishonest attitude is what forced us to resort to this kind of distasteful measure. You are holding two billion dollars that don't belong to you—for the plain and simple reason that they belong to us. For the last time, are you ready to make the transfer the way Genco Vol pone instructed you?"
Kloppe sat on the edge of the cot He no longer cared about anything. Torture did not scare him, and the idea of dying was inconsequential, perhaps inviting. With Renata buried, the values that had given meaning to his life seemed ridiculous. Except for one: the absolute princi ples of professional discretion that had created the strength and greatness of Us fatherland. Swiss bank em ployees had not talked when the Nazis tried to force them to reveal the numbers of Jewish accounts that were froz en at the outbreak of hostilities. He, too, would keep still, whatever the consequences. He looked carefully at Ettore Gabelotti and Italo Volpone. The shadow of a contemptu ous smile flitted across his thin lips.
‘I think he's makin' fun of us!" Italo grumbled;
‘I asked you a question!" Gabelotti barked at Kloppe.
The banker calmly shook his head. "I have no idea what you are talking about"
Babe Volpone swung around sharply, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and sputtered into his face, "Get this straight pork face! There's one thing you better think about: what we're gonna do to you and what we're gon na do to your bank and to your wife!"
From the moment Fritz Blesh felt that Kirkpatrick was buttoning his damned lip, the lieutenant had become less aggressive. For over an hour he had questioned his foreign confreres and obtained a lot of useful informa tion, in turn willingly answering the questions they asked him. And little by little, the pieces of this bizarre jigsaw started to fall into place.
Blesh wrapped up the meeting, and Dempsey, Kirk patrick, and Finnegan headed for Sordi's Hotel, where they dropped off their luggage and cleaned up a bit. Then they got together again in Blesh's office to discuss the' disappearance of Pat Mah
oney.
"I have a theory," Blesh said, "but it doesn't have much solid information to go on."
"Lefs hear it anyway," said Kirkpatrick.
"If, as you think, your detective was done away with, I may know how it was accomplished. Three days ago, there was a gunfight in the cellar of the Commodore Hotel."
"Between who?"
"That, I don't know. No one saw or heard a thing. The staff was alerted when a cloud of steam came up from the machhm area. The hot-water pipes had been pierced by bullets in one of the boilers, and my men found traces of blood and picked up several spent cart ridges. I went to inspect the place myself, and I am almost certain that a man's body was dragged across the floor and dumped into the hotel furnace."