by Jack Barnao
"I've already phoned him. He's in Calgary but he should be here on the first flight."
"Will he bring money with him to ransom Herbie?"
"I'm not sure. The police said that the men last night had heard there was a half million dollar bonus for taking Herbie. That means the organizer will probably ask more than that."
"Why?" she looked at me wide-eyed. "How can you be so sure?"
I lifted my hands, a lost gesture. "I'm not sure, but if they're offering big money to the foot soldiers, they're expecting bigger money themselves."
"He doesn't have it." She shook her head, a rigid little shudder, like some strange modern dance movement. "He doesn't have that kind of money. Where will he get it?"
"He'll get it, and Herbie will be released." I wasn't so sure myself but this wasn't the time to make her any more fearful.
There was a tap on the door. I went to it but it opened and Capelli walked in, swinging the key. "Excuse me. I think you will not open the door and I have news."
"What news?" Kate Ridley asked in a hiss.
"We found the car that was used to kidnap the boy. Two of the three men were in it."
"Did they say where my son was?" she whispered.
Capelli sighed. "I am sorry, signora, they said nothing. They were dead."
Chapter 11
"Dead? How?"
"Shot," he said, "I think someone did not want to pay them the money from the contract."
Kate Ridley gasped. Her face went milk-white and she started to tremble. I reached her in one step, catching her as she collapsed.
I laid her flat on the floor and put a cushion under her feet. Capelli made an urgent little popping sound with his mouth then swore softly in Italian. "I am a fool," he said.
"She'll be okay," I promised. "Don't worry about her. Quickly, while she can't hear. What do you think's happened to the boy?"
"He has been taken by somebody with organization, somebody big. This somebody sent the banditti to capture him, knowing perhaps that you would stop some of the men. Then he paid them in lead instead of gold."
Kate Ridley stirred and her eyes opened.
"Can you sit up, Kate?" I asked her and she nodded.
We supported her as she sat up, then half lifted her onto the couch. Capelli said, "A thousand pardons, signora."
She shook her head and gestured, dismissing his concern. "What about my son?" she asked.
The phone rang and I answered it, leaving Capelli to explain.
"John Locke, who's calling please?"
"Signor Locke, it is the desk. A man has come to see you. He has a delivery, a cake. I told him what has happened but he says it is important."
"It is, thank you for calling. Tell him to wait in the bar."
I hung up and spoke to Capelli. "I have to go downstairs, I'll be ten minutes."
He frowned. "What is happening?"
"Nothing to do with the case. I'll explain later." I went out, finding a uniformed man outside talking to a striking-looking brunette with a notebook. She abandoned the cop and latched on to me.
"Signor Locke, yes?"
"Signor Brown," I said and smiled and walked quickly down the corridor but she clip-clopped after me on high heels.
"Signor, a moment of your time, please."
She got into the elevator with me, still talking. I beamed at her and took no notice. She had to be a TV reporter, I guessed. Her makeup was perfect, she was ready to step in front of a camera at the drop of a hint.
"Signor, what is happening in there?" She was burning a smile like a thousand-watt light bulb, charm enough for a whole Miss America pageant.
"I don't understand, signora," I said and then stood and smiled, counting the floors down to the ground while she tried all the tricks they taught her in journalism school.
The lobby was full of people, TV cameras, men and women with microphones. They saw the attention the woman was giving me and swooped after me like wasps. I ignored all of them and went into the bar. Little Guido was sitting at a corner table, lighting a cigarette. He had a grappa in front of him. He looked up in horror as the TV cameras came in and quickly put a newspaper in front of his face.
As I walked towards him another uniformed policeman worked his way through the crowd and ordered them out, making sure that he was in front of the TV cameras while he did it. He shooed them all out and shut the door. I made a note to slip him ten thousand lire when I left.
Guido took down his paper and reached for the grappa. "Mother of God. John, I don' want alla these people look at me."
"Don't worry, Guido. We'll get you out the side door when you leave. Did you get my order?"
"Sure." He picked up a package from beside him. It was an ornate cake box, the kind that contains a Panforte, the airy sponge cakes they eat in Northern Italy, big enough to contain the cake in a plastic bag with a lot of loose sugar. You shake it all up before you open the box.
I took it, feeling the heft of a piece inside. The barman came out from behind the counter, all eyes and eagerness. I pointed to Guido's glass. "Due, per favore, signor."
He went back to the bar, doing his best to watch us while he poured two grappas. I peeled off three traveler's checks and signed them with the pen that materialized instantly in Guido's hand. He noted the denominations, all $100 and allowed himself a small smile. "Bene," he said.
The barman came back, carrying the drinks in one hand and a cloth in the other. He set down the drinks and started swabbing the already spotless table. Guido spoke to him rapidly and he answered and shrugged but took the hint and went back to the bar to practice his pout.
"What flavor did you bring me?" I asked.
"Is no the same asa last time," Guido said. He picked up his new grappa and took a quick snort. "Is your favorite."
"The one I always have at home?"
"Sure." He made a modest little shrug. "We trya please the cliente."
I raised my grappa and toasted him. "Here's to business," I said and we both chugged the drinks down. I opened the box and took a quick look inside. He'd got me a Walther. I stood up, the box comfortably under my arm. "Thanks Guido. Get the barman to show you out the side way. I'll keep these others away."
We shook hands. He had a good handshake, warm and strong. Then I dropped some bills on the table and turned away, keeping ten mille in my hand, rolled up small.
Outside the bar it was a zoo. All the reporters were talking at once and the uniformed man was answering questions, speaking rapidly and stroking his fine mustache for the women's sake. He was having fun. When the crowd saw me he became number two on the hit parade but I smiled at him and shook his hand and the bill disappeared. I hoped the few bucks would be enough to quench his thirst. He made a way for me through the crowd and pressed the elevator button grandly. The elevator arrived and I was just stepping in when I heard a familiar voice above the babble, calling my name. I looked around and saw Carla Fontana, working through the crowd like a running back. "Signor Locke," she called. "You remember me?"
"Of course. Come on up." I stood aside and the cop held the elevator door for her and she was inside, as beautiful as I remembered, glowing with exertion.
It was no time for games. "I didn't expect to see you today," I told her.
She was Joan of Arc, heroic, unappreciated. "Why not?"
"The boy's gone. It was him you were looking for, wasn't it?"
Italians can outshrug the entire world. She could have made their Olympic team. "I'm afraid I do not understand, signor."
"We can discuss it in the room. I'm glad you showed up." I stood aside to let her go ahead out of the elevator and down the corridor. She seemed to know which room. The same uniformed man was on duty and he straightened up to his full height when he saw Carla. He was still an inch shorter than her but Italian men are used to that. He was proud as a bantam rooster.
I tapped on the door and called out, "John Locke."
A detective opened it. Two of them had arrived since I'd l
eft. One of them was fitting a tape recorder to the telephone. Capelli was supervising. He looked up and saw Carla and his jaw dropped minutely. Then he straightened and spoke to her in Italian. Kate Ridley watched them, following their exchange as if it was a tennis match.
I nodded vaguely at everybody and went into the bedroom to open my cake box. Guido had done me proud. It was a Walther PP Super and a full box of 9mm ammunition. I loaded the gun and put it into the holster then slung it on my belt, moving the location this time so it was at my left side, butt forward, ready for an across the body draw. Quick draws don't matter much outside of western movies but this positioning would save me a second or so and the boys played rough in this country.
I topped it off with the cotton jacket and came back out of the bedroom. Capelli said, "I think you should hear what Signora Fontana has to say." I wondered why he was using her alias. Probably, like a good copper, he hadn't shown all his cards yet.
Carla spoke in English. "The news is all over town, all over the country by now." This didn't surprise me so I waited.
She touched her hair, a courtesan's gesture that showed she didn't earn her keep teaching art. She was somebody's little bon-bon. "I was telling the tenente that I knew already that there was going to be an attempt to take the boy."
"How?"
She smiled patiently. "I have important friends. One of them told me that the boy was coming and that his father was very rich. Everyone in a certain group knew all about him."
"Is that why you set up that little drama in the street yesterday?"
She dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. "I have already told the tenente. It was my friend's intention to protect the boy. He owes the boy's father a favor, something about business in Canada." I glanced at Kate Ridley. She was staring at Carla the way you'd stare at a snake.
Carla said, "My friend asked me to make your acquaintance. Then when you were so quick, I reported to my friend that the boy was safe, you're a very resourceful guy." Her American accent was emerging, second by second, as she opened up and dropped the camouflage.
"A nice story, Carla. But I've got a couple of questions. A: Is it true? and B: If it is, why are you here now?"
She smiled a languorous smile, the feminine equivalent of the British expression "Don't get your knickers in a knot, everything's taken care of." "My friends are anxious to honor their debt to the boy's father. They asked me to come and see you because you already know me. You would let me in. They want to help."
"The police are already working on it," I said. The phone rang and Kate Ridley answered. The detective was watching his recorder. She spoke quickly, then hung up. Carla ignored it all. "The tenente is a good man but he has to work by different rules. I have already spoken to him and he has accepted."
Capelli nodded once and I cheered up. The Mafia could open doors that would be locked to him. If it wasn't a Mafia kidnapping and they owed Ridley senior, this could be useful. Very useful.
"What can they do?"
"My instructions were to talk to you and see if you needed help. After that, if you think they can help, I go back and they do what has to be done."
"I'd like to come with you," I said.
She pulled a mocking little face. "And you would know where to look? Your Italian is good enough to ask questions?"
"No. But I have some skills that might be useful."
She lifted her shoulders. "I will take you," she said. "After that it is up to my friends."
I looked at Capelli and nodded towards the bedroom. He came with me and we shut the door. "Does she know you're on to her?"
"Of course. A Mafia nobile's mistress. She knows we know her."
"You figure she can help us?"
Now he did his shrug. God, it was infectious, a form of Italian St. Vitus's Dance. "If it gets the boy back faster, yes it is a help. If it does not, it does no harm. They came to me, I am not in their debt."
"Okay then, I'll go with her and we'll take it from there. No way can I sit around that room waiting for telephone calls."
He had noticed the cake box and he picked it up, tossing it from hand to hand like a basketball. "Your friend the baker, he sells good things."
"The best," I said carefully. I'd seen his maggiore, I didn't want Capelli to be forced to lie to him about my gun. He saved me the trouble, changing the subject. "Remember you are lying down with pigs. Expect to get dirty."
"I've lain down with worse in my time," I told him. "You look after things this end."
We went back into the sitting room and I spoke to Carla. "The tenente thinks I should come. Let's get to it."
"Good," she said simply. Then she went to Kate Ridley and squatted down in front of her. "Mrs. Ridley. Try not to worry. We will find your son."
"I pray God you do," Kate said quietly and her voice had knives in it.
The same reporter was outside the door again. God alone knew how she had sneaked out of the crush downstairs. Carla solved the problem for me. She spoke to the policeman and he started asking the reporter questions. She shrieked at him, all her charm blown away in anger as we walked away and she couldn't follow.
We took the freight elevator to the basement and out the back. There were people standing around, reporters possibly, but Carla put her hand on my arm and chattered away to me in Italian, laughing and preening, and the men did nothing but ogle her, ignoring me completely. When we were around the corner she pointed to a Mercedes coupe. It was double-parked and one of the Vigili Urbani was standing in front of it, looking doubtful. She paid him for his courtesy with a brilliant smile and he melted, looking at me the way I'd look at a sweepstakes winner. Business, just business, I wanted to tell him. Right now I had other priorities.
We got in and she pulled away, moving easily, fluidly, not with the kind of brio you find in male Italian drivers. I tried the obvious question. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see," she said. She opened her purse with one hand and took out cigarettes, offering them to me first. I shook my head but pressed in the lighter for her. She took a cigarette and lit it, waving the lighter afterwards as if it was a match. Every gesture was a little larger than life. I guess she had to be part actress in her work. Her boyfriend expected the best performance possible.
She drove for about twenty minutes, whirling me through the traffic smoothly, using the power of the Mercedes the right way. If she was as good in bed as she was behind the wheel, Scavuzzo was getting his money's worth.
We stopped on a street of old limestone houses with the same moneyed feel you recognize in the Upper East Side in New York, except that these places were lower, only three stories high. She parked the car in a laneway beside it. There were other cars there, two Mercedes and a Porsche. Money talks. I guessed it was conferring inside. "Come," she commanded and walked briskly to the front door of the nearest house, making no attempt to be friendly anymore. I rated only as much charm as was needed for camouflage.
I followed and Carla let herself in. A babble of Italian voices in various male registers was coming from a room to the left of the door. She pushed it open carelessly and walked in. Four men were sitting around with coffee cups. Two of them hustled to their feet, feeling for their guns when they saw me but she turned them off with a spout of language and they settled down. I got a look at them all before I approached the table. The gunmen were young, beautifully dressed in light suits. The other two men were older, one of them in his fifties. They were both dressed less showily. They were the heavies, was my reading.
The oldest one said, "You are called Locke?"
"That's right." I looked him over. He had a friendly face, if you discounted the eyes which lay in it like stones in a puddle. He laughed shortly and spoke to the others in Italian. The second heavy pursed his lips and gave an approving little nod. The two gunnies narrowed their eyes and looked snotty. I guessed he was telling my war stories for me.
"You're fast, Signor Locke," he said, all but his eyes smiling.
"Not fast enough, signor. They got the kid." No need to act macho, the muscle men could do that for all of us.
"And that's why you're here?" It was more statement than question so I tried a mock-Italian shrug. "The signorina said she had powerful friends. Right now I could use some friends in Firenze."
He humphed and translated then asked me, "Coffee?"
"Please," I said and he told one of the gunnies to oblige. The guy didn't like it but everybody else outranked him. I thanked him gravely and sipped and waited.
The oldest one did all the talking. "We hear that there were two cars. You stopped one of them, four men." He looked around at the gunmen and repeated it in Italian for their benefit. It still didn't make them love me but it gave me some kind of status, they relaxed a little. Then he asked, "You heard what happened to the others, the men who took the boy away?"
"I did. It sounds as if the boy is in danger."
He shrugged, then sipped his coffee. "Not if his father has money. They want money, not the life of the boy."
"And you can help me find the boy, signor?"
Another shrug. "Of course. Nothing happens in Firenze that I do not hear about. We will find him."
"Good. His mother is at the hotel, she is worried."
He frowned and spoke to Carla in Italian, then to me again. "His mother is here, in Firenze?"
"Yes. It's a coincidence. She has business here, she buys leather goods for stores in Canada."
He sucked his teeth. "But Signor Ridley has a wife in Canada, this is another woman?"
"His first wife, they divorced, five years ago." I hoped he wasn't a devout Catholic, it wasn't likely but in the cradle of the Renaissance they have more than their share of religion.
I needn't have worried. "No matter, our business is with Signor Ridley."
"I understand Signor Ridley has friends here," I said. It wasn't very profound but if Ridley had markers to call, I wanted to know about them.
He ignored me. "And you have come here because you want to help us look for the boy?"