Out

  Folco looked sharply at Orlando Baretto's corpse. During its stay in the cellar of the villa, Lando's body had completely stiffened. On the way over, they had tried to stuff the corpse into the trunk of the car, but Baretto dead was much less accommodating than when he was alive. No way to get his body to bend, and they had to hurry. So they did the risky thing and hid him on the floor of the car's back seat, disguised, they hoped, under a blanket

  Folco drove with jaws clenched, scrupulously obey ing all traffic signals, letting other cars have the right of way, careful not to attract attention. Pietro seemed un concerned, nerveless. Lando's death was a tremendous re lief to him, and now he was certain of never being ac cused of murder. The only thing was, he still had to live with himself, look himself in the mirror, and try to forget the demeaning thing he had been subjected to. He was not so stupid that he was unaware the Volpone family treated him like the village idiot He would have liked to brag about how he took care of Lando, to show them how his staging of the accident had fooled the whole lot of them, but he was forced to keep stifi about it

  In Lando's apartment they staged a similar scenario. When the police or neighbors, alerted by the smell from the corpse, discovered the body, it was pretty certain they would buy the explanation of an accidental death. The living room floor was made of marble, a rung of a chair had been broken, and a pile of gray towels lay in disarray on the floor, just where they had fallen from the top of a linen closet from which Folco, standing on a stool, had shoved them.

  "Anyway," Folco said, "what the hell do we care? By the time they find him, well be on our way."

  "I really liked him," Pietro said.

  "So did I," Folco replied. "Really tough luck."

  "Yeah," Bellinzona agreed. "Real tough luck."

  Hans Bregenz was fed up. He had been on the beat for two hours now, and he knew what was in each win dow of every shop fifty meters on either side of the main entrance to the Zurich Trade Bank. The wind was be ginning to nip his cheeks and he put up his collar as he looked at his watch: 10:00 p.m. He crossed the street, stepped into a passageway, and walked up a few steps into an arcade of stores where there was a bay window facing the bank, making it an efficient as well as incon spicuous observation post

  "Paul, ‘I’ve had it up to here! When are we being re lieved?"

  "At midnight'' Paul Romanshom told him.

  "I could use a drink right now."

  "Anything happen?"

  "Happen! What do you expect to happen? Blesh nev er even told us why he's got us out patrolling in front of this lousy bank. They have their own guards, don't they? Some fucking assignment"

  ' Romanshorn shrugged. The ways of Lieutenant Blesh were mysterious. All he knew was discipline, and he would let his men know only the essentials, since he felt there was no reason to account to them.

  "Report anything you consider suspicious or unusual anywhere near the bank," was all he had specified. -

  Dismissed! Hans Bregenz had mentally added.

  He took the walkie-talkie from Paul Romahshorn's hands. "You go walk the street, girlie," he said. "I’m tak ing five up here."

  "Okay," said Romanshorn, and he walked out through the arcade and began patrolling the downhill street, on which a few cars now and then sped by.

  There were no passersby to speak of. Zurich is an early-rising town, and that means early to bed as well. Romanshorn wondered what he was supposed to be do ing. Swiss banks were sacred. To his knowledge, no one had ever dared try to break into one. Their very names, discreetly posted in gold letters, seemed enough to keep them inviolate from iconoclasts of all kinds. Two more hours to go before they were relieved....

  Up in the arcade, Bregenz manipulated the buttons of the walkie-talkie and made contact with headquarters. He recognized the voice of Sergeant Dorner, charge of quar ters that night

  "Anything to report?" Dorner asked.

  "Yes, papa," Bregenz quipped. 'I’m freezing my balls off and getting bored stiff."

  Homer Kloppe cupped his hands and took a drink from the tap. He hadn't eaten anything since morning. Be fore Renata's funeral he had a cup of black coffee, but he wasn't hungry now. Volpone and Gabelotti had threatened him, but he had not been physically harmed.

  When Volpone had barked in his face, he had been tempted to tell him yes, he did have the money, but that he couldn't turn it over unless the legal conditions for its surrender were fulfilled. Gabelotti had acted more insin uatingly, switching from threats to promises, from prom ises to regrets.

  ‘I am most upset Mr. Kloppe, at being forced to act this way toward you," he said. "But you must admit you dont leave us much choice. You are forcing us to destroy you."

  Well, so what? He was destroyed already. The real ity of Renata's death was catching up with him. The only thing that mattered now was to be able to hold out, not to give in.

  He sat on the iron cot again, his upper body erect, hands on his knees, in what was a familiar posHionto him. Then he recognized the shuffling sound of tires being moved behind the metal door of his cell, A key tuned in the lock, and Ettore Gabelotti came in, followed by Italo Volpone, who locked the door and pocketed the key. Homer didn't move.

  Gabelotti opened the verbal fire. "We have come here, Mr. Kloppe, to make a last call on you before cer tain unpleasant and irreversible events take place. I’ll tell you quite frankly what is going to happen, so you can make up your own mind."

  Volpone, deathly pale, was sitting on a stool, gazing at a spot on the whitewashed wall. His body was motion less, but his right foot was shaking, striking against the floor in rapid rhythm.

  "It is eleven o'clock right now, Mr. Kloppe. In an hour, the Zurich Trade Bank is going to blow up. A squad of men will set fire to everything in the premises. Nothing will remain, sir, not a thing.

  "Now, if that little incident is not enough to make you flunk, tomorrow morning we will kidnap Mrs. Kloppe. I would not be so vulgar as to make you listen to all the things that will be done to her before she welcomes the peace of death, but if you knew them, Mr. Kloppe, you would curse yourself for not having spared her such hor rors. As soon as we kidnap her, we will start torturing her, and at the same time we will burn your house down.

  "After that, we will turn you over to a crew of brutes who, I swear to you, will make you talk. I believe you are a reasonable man, Mr. Kloppe, a good Christian gentleman. You must realize we are not bluffing. So I am begging you, think about this. Make your decision. There is still time!

  "Give us what belongs to us, and you have my word you will be released immediately. You know enough about us now to know who you are dealing with. We go through with everything we plan! I congratulate you on the cour age you have shown, but there is a limit to everything. Now your manly stubbornness is turning into criminal folly. This is no longer just a matter of considering your self, but your wife, too."

  Don Ettore stopped. On the concrete floor, Volpone's foot was beating out its rhythm more and more ner vously. Don Ettore forced himself to smile.

  "There is one thing we have in common, Mr. Kloppe.

  You certainly nave heard of our omerta. It is the law of silence. We observe it as strictly as you do. But there is a difference: we observe it for noble reasons, as a matter of honor. You are not doing this for honor, Mr. Kloppe, only for money. And not even your own money. It is ours, as you well know. So I ask you, what's the point? Will you or wont you give the order to transfer our funds?"

  Volpone's foot stopped drumming. There was silence in the wretched room, disturbed only by Gabelotti's asth matic breathing. Then Homer Kloppe turned slowly to ward Don Ettore and scrutinized him attentively. This man had brought forth all the convincing arguments in a fine speech appealing to Kloppe's humanity, his intelli gence, his reason, with an eloquence Kloppe hadn’t thought him capable of. Yet, behind the screen of words, there remained merely his goal, the money he wanted turned over, although nothing in the world proved it be longed to him. Besides, there was his face. Ben
eath the mask of cordial understanding, Homer could sense cruelty, total absence of pity, something that fleetingly suggested the rage of a wild beast In order to gain the power he held, this man must have tortured, humiliated, and killed.

  The gazes of the two men remained riveted to each other, and for a few seconds Gabelotti had a sneaking hope that he had won. He even thought he saw the bank er's lips begin to move, but he was never to find out what words Kloppe might have uttered.

  Italo leaped up and jumped on Kloppe. "You're gonnatalk, you fuckin' crook! You'll talk, all right!"

  Kloppe did nothing to defend himself. He rolled over on the cot under the weight of Volpone grabbing him by the throat For an instant he hoped this was the end for him.

  But Gabelotti seized Italo by the waist picked him up, and held him with all his strength, shouting, "Italo! Italo!"

  "Shut your trap!" Volpone foamed, wrenching loose with the alertness of a jungle cat and turning to aim his gun at Gabelotti.

  Don Ettore's face took on a pained expression, meant not for Volpone, but for Homer Kloppe.

  "Please believe bow deeply I regret your attitude, Mr. Kloppe," he said. "You will at least be able to say that what you re getting is what you asked for: all the mourning and the misfortune in store for you."

  He turned toward Italo and took his arm in a friend ly fashion, as if he had never noticed the Mauser in his hand.

  "Come on, Italo, let’s go. Andiamo via."

  Volpone did not resist He put his gun back where it belonged, got the key out of his pocket, and opened the door. After it closed again on the imprisoned Kloppe, Don Ettore tried to remember whether any other man who had acted that way towards him had known the good for tune to survive.

  The answer was no.

  "Hans, don't you think that's strange?" "What?" Bregenz asked. "That's the third car stopping on this street" "So what?"

  "Nobody got out of any of them,"

  "Boy, cant a guy even get a quiet little blow-job on a side street anymore?" Bregenz taunted him.

  "Look!" Romanshorn went on. "There's another one!"

  Bregenz saw an Opel pull up and park some thirty meters from the entrance to the Zurich Trade Bank.

  "That makes four," Romanshorn muttered, his face tense.

  Twenty seconds apart, two other vehicles stopped a little farther down.

  Bregenz frowned. "What do you think?"

  "You know what Blesh said," Romanshorn replied. "‘Report anything unusual.' One blow-job, okay—but six in a row, all at the same time? Pass me the radio!"

  He grabbed the walkie-talkie from Bregenz's hands.

  "Domer? This is Romanshorn. Where's Blesh?"

  "What’s up?"

  cars have just pulled up on Stampf enbachstrasse. And nobody got out of any of them."

  "I’ll contact him," Dorner said.

  Romanshorn signed off. ,

  "What do we do now?" Bregenz asked, checking his watch. It was 11:55.

  'Nothing. We just waft."

  Bregenz checked to make sure that his Colt was in his raincoat pocket He had never used it except at the range, on training days. Through the bay window he looked apprehensively at the cars parked along the curb, all the tights out It was peculiar that no one got out

  Lieutenant Blesh was relaxing in his bachelor pad where everything was arranged for the greatest sensual pleasure. Wearing a purple dressing gown, a glass of bour bon in his hand, he was stretched out on a fawn buckskin couch. Enraptured by Cost fan tutte, his favorite opera, he tried to ignore the ringing telephone. But the noise per sisted, spoiling the music for him. Blesh set his highball down and picked up the phone.

  "Sergeant Dorner here, lieutenant"

  "What do you want?’

  "Bregenz and Romanshorn just called in. Six cars have pulled up in front of the Zurich Trade Bank. And nobody got out of any of them.’’

  "So what?" barked Blesh, still somewhat dazed by the music.

  "Well nothing, lieutenant... I'm sorry I disturbed you. But you told me that—’’

  "Goddamn it!" Blesh swore. "Dispatch two van-loads over there immediately. Block off both ends of Stampfenbachstrasse! And hurry! I’ll go straight there myself I"

  When he hit the stairs, going down four at a time, it was 11:58 p.m.

  The last rendezvous before the attack had been at the dairy, northeast of town, beyond Schwamendingen, on a piece of land slightly off Basserdorf Road. A solid nine-foot wall surrounded all of the buildings and barns, and a huge wooden gate opened onto a central courtyard where the fourteen tank trucks were parked. Millions of gallons of fresh milk were pumped into the tank trucks each day for delivery. At the end of the courtyard an arch way led to the processing plant in which the butter and cheese were made. The place was immaculate; nevertheless, as soon as one got past the threshold of the archway, one was assailed by the sourish smell of fermenting milk. Off to the left, covering some twelve hundred square yards, fermentation vats had been dug into the ground, big as swimming pools.

  The sottocapi, consiglieri, and capiregime of both families were all assembled in the office of the Zwiss Milk and Butter Company, five men from the Volpone family and sis of Don Ettore's men, aside from the two dons. Vittorio Pizzu, Italo Volpone's sottocapo, couldn't get used to the idea that the members of the Gabelotti family were always around. Being with that hated gang, even though now they were so-called allies, didn't sit well with him. Too many years of warfare and too many dead bodies lay between the two families for Pizzu to be able to imagine that an extended truce was possible.

  "Your ten men just got in from Italy," Volpone had announced without any other introduction. "Don't let them out of your sight From here on in, you're in charge of 'em. At 11:15, the eight of you are gonna leave for the bank. In six cars. The drivers know exactly where to go. As soon as you clean out the bank, they bring you right back here, you get into the hideouts inside the tankers, and you'll be in Milan before daybreak. I wont see you again till New York."

  Don Ettore had raised his hand in a gesture which, had he been a priest, would have been a benediction. Pizzu noted the phony smile as he mumbled, "Merda a tutti!”

  Now Vittorio looked at his watch: one minute to midnight The car he was in had parked on Stampfenbach strasse four minutes ago. He would be out of it m thirty seconds, as a signal to the rest of the men to take up their places on either side of the main door, sheltered from the imminent explosion. The fireworks should go off in ex actly thirty-eight seconds.

  At 11:50, Cesare Piombino came out of the broom closet where he had been hiding for more than seven hours. He threaded his way into the main banking hall, alert in the half-darkness. He didn't know what kind of alarm-system protected the bank. When he reached the huge wrought-iron door that separated the hall from Stampfenbachstrasse, he sat on the floor, calmly opened his briefcase, and took out his equipment He had four minutes in which to make it all go bang. He took out the stick of dynamite, patted it gently, and unrolled'the Bick-ford fuse. His survival depended on his ability to estimate the proper length for the wick. It had to burn out in fifty-five seconds, the time it took him to get to shelter behind one of the marble pillars that supported the rear of the banking room. As soon as the. door blew out he would rush into the street and head for his car, parked a short distance away in a cross street called Haldeneggstrasse.

  He took a pair of scissors, cut the wick, and put everything he hadn't used back into his briefcase. He lit his trusty old Zippo lighter with one flick of his thumb, and when he saw that the fuse had caught well, he dashed back to the marble pillar and lay down behind it his head propped against his briefcase, his hands over his ears. And he started to count When he got to twenty-eight an unbelievable light filled the bank, followed by an explosion that shook the building to its foundation. A burning-hot draft roared toward him while bits of wood, stone, and steel flew through the air.

  Cesare Piombino started running for the street. Where the massive door once had been was a g
reat gaping hole.

  The awesome spectacle took place before the disbe lieving eyes of Romanshorn and Bregenz. Stampfenbach strasse, deserted a moment before, filled up in three sec onds with silent figures heading toward the Zurich Trade Bank in little groups.

  "Shit!" Bregenz .exclaimed in a hoarse shriek. "Seven teen of 'em!"

  "No," Romanshorn breathed back, "eighteen."

  "Paul! What do we do now?"

  "Stay where we are. And wait for reinforcements."

  Bregenz no longer felt cold. To the contrary, he found he was sweating.

  "Look!" Romanshorn warned.

  The men stopped on either side of the bank entrance, some fifteen meters away. Bregenz saw them ducking be hind the colonnades that held up the portico, standing with their backs against the wall. He was about to ask Romanahorn a question when he was swept away in a whirlwind of red flame and broken glass coming from the arcade's bay window. Deafened by the explosion, he was unable to hear what Romanshorn was shouting at him. All he could see was Paul's outstretched arm begin to spit a sporadic red spark. He painfully got up on all fours, found his Colt Cobra .38 Special two meters from where he'd landed, and crawled toward his partner.