by Pierre Rey
The two cars flew off, going full speed through a stone tunnel. After about three hundred yards they came out facing a metal plaque that formed a dead end.
The factory worker braked hard, jumped but and ran over to pull a switch in the wall The plaque swung open, letting them through.
"Put out your headlights,’’ he yelled to Joseph Dotto in the second car.
He got back into his car and in low gear drove through an empty barn that had steel beams holding up a glass roof through which a vague night sky could be seen.
Once again he got out to open the other barn door. They could hear the distant reports of the firelight still taking place in the dairy between Ottavio's soldiers and the Swiss cantonal police. The fires shot a great red spray into the dark sky.
The worker, whose name was Enzo Cerignola, was a Sicilian, a personal friend of Genco Volpone. Five years before, he had finally convinced Don Genco to dig this subterranean tunnel, and he was the only one who had the key to it
Walking over to Joseph Dotto, he instructed, "Fol low me. Don't put on any lights unless you see me put mine on. God wining, well make it to the mountains."
In the shed, Simeone Ferro yelled, "Straight ahead! I’ve got you covered," to Aldo Amalfi.
Aldo ran as fast as he could, bent all the way over, zigzagging with hare's leaps. A cop who was hidden under the eaves let him have a burst of his Sten gun, and Aldo rolled over and ended up kneeling before the metal door through which Vittorio, Merta, and the others had dis appeared. In despair, he found that the surface of the metal had no handle on it When he turned back toward the cop who had fired at him he saw that the man had no face, just a shapeless, bloody ball. Curiously, that pulp of a head remained lodged against a miraculously un broken pane of glass, now turned red with the mess that was on it Aldo looked for Simeone. He lay spread-eagled on his back, and four inches from his chest was the Her stal that slipped from his hands when he got shot. Amalfi understood then that he was alone against all of them, and that he too would have to die.
He crawled behind the stone parapet that surrounded the milk vat The only protection it afforded him was its height—about eight inches. Bullets whistled past his ears, some hitting the stone, others ricocheting off tile surface of the milk with a tiny meow before they crashed dully against the back wall and that forbidden metal door. The cops had come about fifteen yards farther forward, or about the length of one of the vats. Aldo shot at a blond man among them who was not in uniform; the man hit the ground and started to crawl toward him. protected by the parapet of the next-to-last milk vat
"Get up and come out with your hands up!" the man yelled. "I am Lieutenant Blesh. Surrender, and you will hot be harmed!"
Aldo shot three times, and, as the bullets chipped pieces off the parapet he wondered what kind of slop he was lying in. His belly and chest were all wet He ran his hand under his body and when his hand came up it was sticky with blood. Afraid to acknowledge the wound, he suddenly sprang up and emptied his clip on the guy in civvies; then a hail of bullets virtually cut him in half, and he fell headfirst into the vat splashing out a wave of bloody milk as he went
At the top of the grassy knoll, Don Ettore felt dizzy. Clutching Angelo Barba's arm, he had climbed the hill in total darkness while Folco Mori brought up the rear in surly silence. For an instant Don Ettore had the idea that. Italo Volpone had lured him here to get rid of him. He slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the butt of his Luger, his finger going to the trigger.
Italo's voice reached him. 'Well, Moshe, what’re you waiting for?’
The ray of a flashlight pierced the darkness, and al most immediately there was another flash up ahead, about a hundred or two hundred yards on the right.Their signal was being returned.
"Andiamo!" Volpone said.
Behind him were Don Ettore, Moshe Yudelman, Folco Mori, Pietro Bellinzona, Carmine Crimello, and Angelo Barba, all walking in the dark. From time to time Moshe sent a quick flash of light down to his feet trying to avoid deep holes and unsteady footing.
After Vittorio Pizzu's phone report, Volpone and Gabelotti had held a conference. A very cold and distant one. During the preceding days, for brief moments, the hope of success had brought them closer, but now the failure of their joint enterprise was splitting them apart again.
"I can take you with me," Volpone had said, "if you're ready to go right away."
Gabelotti hesitated. Moshe Yudelman added his weight to the advice of Ettore's two consiglieri, Barba and Crimello, to convince the don that a strategic withdrawal now was the wisest course. A soldier, sent by Ottavio Giacomassi, had come to pick them up, and just before leaving, Volpone had telephoned Enzo Priano, the man ager of the gas station where Homer Kloppe was being held.
"Enzo, don’t let him got Wait for orders from me."
Volpone, embittered by the recent fiasco, didn't open his mouth once while the Mercedes 600 headed toward the plateau where Amedeo Morobbia and Giancarlo Ferrero were waiting for them with the plane.
A muffled voice came to them out of the darkness.
"Moshe?"
"Here!" Yudelman replied.
"How many are you?" Morobbia asked.
"Seven."
"Okay. Hop aboard."
With a quick swish of his flashlight, Morobbia showed them the entrance to the plane.
Volpone, Yudelman, Barba, and Mori piled in. Cri mello could sense Gabelotti's terror and discreetly shoved him ahead.
"Where is the runway?" Don Ettore asked in a ter rified voice.
Pietro Bellinzona, standing still at the foot of the ladder, was waiting for them to make up their minds.
Discreetly Carmine tapped Pietro on the shoulder. Bellinzona understood. He pushed Don Ettore forward, and the radioman, who had guessed what was up, took Gabelotti's hand and pulled him into the plane.
"Here—this way . . ." Ferrero kept repeating as he guided Don Ettore along the inside wall of the cabin and made him sit down.
"Of course, sir, you must be used to first class in 747s," he said laughingly. "And this isn't quite the same kind of luxury!"
He buckled the safety belt around Gabelotti's waist
"Don't you worry, now. This contraption flies just fine. In less man an hour well be in Milan. The other plane is waiting for you were, a Boeing. We chartered it specially for you. You’ll be on your way again without delay."
Ferrero turned back to the door, which he closed and locked from inside the cockpit "Amedeo, let’s take off!"
The engine noise broke the night silence. Gabelotti scrunched down, calling on all his self-control to contain his terror, digging his nails into the flesh of his thighs. The plane shook from stem to stern and turned into the wind. No one spoke a word as it picked up speed in the dark ness and lifted miraculously from the ground.
23
For the first time since he had started to grow hair on his face, Fritz Blesh was not shaved by 8:00 a.m. In fact, he had skipped a night’s rest After the raid on the Zwiss Milk and Butter plant, there had been a great deal to do. Heavy losses were suffered on both sides. Two prom ising detectives, Hans Bregenz and Paul Romanshorn, had been blown to bits by a grenade near the Zurich Trade Bank. Three men had been shot badly at the dairy, and three more killed, including Officer Schindler, who had found the courage to climb up under the eaves in order to cut off the perpetrators' escape route. Schindler’s face was smashed by a dumdum bullet from a Heretal.
As for the gang they had attacked, nine had died—in their pockets not the slightest bit of identification. Three others had been taken alive: one had a shattered hip and was given immediate transfusions by the ambulance men; another had two bullets in his chest The doctors at the hospital refused to allow Blesh to interrogate them as long as they remained in critical condition. If they proved as talkative as the third, who sustained only minor wounds, questioning them would be no more useful than the road blocks had been in stopping the ones that got away.
At 7:00 a.m. Blesh
was getting ready to leave his office when Captain Kirkpatrick, Lieutenant Finnegan, and Mr. Scott Dempsey of the SEC dropped in on him unexpectedly. Beside himself, Blesh had thrown them out after a brief, unsavory exchange. Kirkpatrick had had
the audacity to say, ‘I told you so, lieutenant," and Blesh had called in two strong and stready sentries to wish him bon voyage.
By now all of Zurich knew of the shoot-out The city had been awakened by the unfamiliar music and fireworks—the grenade explosions, the staccato rhythms of automatic weapons, the flashes of flamethrowers, and the crackling of fires.
At 8:00 a.m., Blesh, drunk with exhaustion and ran cor, decided to head for home. That was when he got the message that Chimene Kloppe wanted to see him im mediately.
"My husband has been kidnapped, lieutenant" she told him when he arrived at her house. I’m sure of it"
She showed him Inez's letter. ‘I got this yesterday. But I waited before calling you. I was hoping Homer would come back.’’
"Do you know what went on during the night madam?"
"No, lieutenant"
"You didn't hear a thing?"
"Nothing at all!’
"None of the shooting?"
"What are you talking about?"
"A squad of armed men attacked the Zurich Trade Bank,’’ he informed her.
Her reaction took him by surprise.
"Oh—they broke his bank!" Chimene exclaimed as though she were talking about his favorite toy.
"You will have to help me now, madam. Who are they’?"
"Why, that's something for you to tell me, lieutenant. How would I know?"
"Has your husband seemed worried or depressed re cently?"
He bit his tongue as Chimene looked at him with reproachful eyes, in which tears were welling up. How tactless could he be?
"Please excuse what I just said, Frau Kloppe. I’m truly exhausted—at the end of my rope!’
"So am I, lieutenant''
‘Perhaps you could give me some kind of lead. The letter you just showed me was obviously intended to keep you from calling me."
"What is it you would like to know?"
"Did your husband keep you posted about his af fairs—at the bank, I mean to say?"
Blesh realized he was out of line a second time.
"Did you get any kind of ransom demand?"
"Ransom?" she asked. "What for?"
"Well, nothing, really, madam. I just wondered . . There might have been something. May I assume you will let me know if anything unusual occurs? You need have no worry. I'm going all-out on this, alerting every brigade; we'll search the entire city, and I’ll keep you posted."
He saluted, as if to leave, but she said, "Lieuten ant..."
"Yes, madam?"
"My husband is a good man, a very good man. What have they got against him? Why should anyone want to hurt him?"
"I'm sorry to inform you that the Commissione wants me to explain what’s been going on," Gabelotti said. He stopped talking, his face icy. No one said a word. Don Ettore let a few doom-laden seconds go by. Without looking at anyone in particular, he went on: "No Syndi cate family can be put in danger because somebody in another family makes mistakes."
Jaws clamped, eyes hard, Italo Volpone moved slightly on his chair, but he managed to control himself. Moshe had made him swear he wouldn't let himself get tricked into answering, that he'd remain calm and col lected. Unfortunately, he knew his own limits, and he wasn't inclined to put up with Gabelotti's pious-sounding insinuations for too long.
On the long trip back to New York, both Italo and Gabelotti had remained stubbornly locked in their silent hostility. No sooner had Italo arrived home than he threw himself into Angela's arms and dragged her off to the bedroom, locking the door behind them, with total dis regard for the fact that Yudelman, Folco Mori, and Pietro Bellinzona were in the living room. After about an hour, Moshe knocked on the door.
"Babe, it's important,’’ lie called out'
"Angela, please ask him to come out. His safety de pends on it’’
"Italo.. .’’ she had whispered.
He had barely taken the time to get her clothes off, furiously grabbing her into his embrace, rolling over on her in the bed, on the rug on the floor, picking her up, shoving her brutally against the wall while she hung onto his muscular shoulders and groaned in happy abandon. He let her go only after he came for the third time. She lay on the floor, out of breath, arms crossed, fulfilled. He pushed his head against her chest and began tenderly licking her breasts. And then Moshe, again...
"Italo!"
"You gonna gimme time to take a shower?’
"Hurry up, Italo! Please, hurry!'‘
He had slipped his arms under his wife's body, picked her up from the floor, and carried her locked onto him into the bathroom, her thighs around his hips, her head bouncing in the hollow of his neck. He turned the water on full force. And there, again, flooded by the soft warm rain that was running down their bodies, he penetrated her.
"Don Ettore's waiting for us, Italo!" she said’ ‘If he wants to see me, let him come over." Moshe had not been able to get Italo to change his mind. He had finally called Angelo Barba back to ask him to set a neutral meeting ground, and they met at the Bowl, a Fifty-second Street nightclub that wasn't open at this time of day but whose owner took his orders from the Syndicate.
The two dons got there at the exact same moment Gabelotti had Carmine Crimello and Angelo Barba, his two consiglieri, with him, as well as two bodyguards who remained with Folco Mori and Pietro Bellinzona on guard outside the club.
Moshe was very concerned. Since their hasty retreat from Zurich, he hadn't heard a thing from Vittorio Pizza and his capiregime, Aldo Amalfi, Vmcente Bruttore, and Joseph Dotto. The police assault on the dairy was going to create disturbing waves, and their effects would be felt even in New York. The Commissione could not abide anything that upset its well-regulated routine. The Syndi cate was in the habit of settling its internal disputes as quietly as possible, without attracting attention.
The Commissione," Gabelotti said, "has let me know that it won't tolerate anyone doing stuff on his own to put the safety of all our families in real danger."
Seeing that Italo was about to open his mouth, Moshe rushed to ask, "What did you answer the Commissione, Don Ettore?"
Gabelotti turned a heavy, reproving eye on the con sigliere.
"The truth, Moshe, just the truth," he said. '1 told them I had to go to Switzerland to clear up a mess I was not responsible for."
"Could I ask you who was responsible for it?" Volpone inquired in a toneless voice.
Disregarding him, Gabelotti continued to look at Yudelman. The Commissione told me I was slipshod, Moshe. And I had to plead guilty."
"Guilty of what, Don Ettore?" Moshe asked politely, his heart beating rapidly.
Gabelotti answered offhandedly, "Of having let an irresponsible character make this mess."
Volpone jumped up. "You're the irresponsible char acter!" he shouted.
Only now did Gabelotti appear to notice that Italo was there.
There are some things a person doesn't say," he commented, "if he expects to live to a ripe old age."
Italo, overflowing with hate, spat at him, The old est one is the one that dies first Just remember that!"
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Yudelman cut in. "I beg all of you, let’s not get into personal squabbles! There's much too much at stake! Two billion dollars, to be exact"
Ettore Gabelotti now stood up, his face twisted with rage, and pointed a finger at Volpone. "You know what you are? A nobody! All you did was fuck up one thing after another! You took over from Don Genco without any right! From now on, keep your nose out of this deal. When I have it settled, your family's heirs will get the share they're entitled to. Understand?"
Volpone stood up now and leaned forward, wild with fury. ^You dare threaten me!’ he yelled. "After what you did to my brother!"
"I didn't do nothing to
your brother!" Gabelotti barked as he banged his fist on the table. "You dirty little louse! You're the one who had O'Brion knocked off!"
"No, I didn't," Volpone shouted back. ‘I killed him with my own hands—your stinking fuckin' crook of a consigliere!"
"Cornuto!’ Don Ettore roared. "If he was alive, we'd have the number. You're gonna pay for this!"