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  Lando the exact spot on the map—a flyspeck stuck between Kenya, the Congo, Uganda, and Tanzania.

  "Okay, so what’s that river there? Is that near where you live?" he would ask, pointing to a blue line. "Is it big?"

  "Just a little stream. About six hundred miles long and about sixty wide. They call it the Tanganyika." "You're kidding." "Not so you'd notice."

  She said her real name was Kibondo: Princess Kibondo. But how could you tell with people like that?

  She had told him an Italian couturier had renamed her Inez before she came to Switzerland. She was a top model in Rome, and well known in London, Paris, and New York. Her figure was so impressive that she even had the ~ guts to wear four-inch heels, yet there was never anything the least bit snide in the way people looked at her, only a kind of surprise one might feel toward something com pletely unknown, something sublimely beautiful from an other planet, without connection to current tastes or stan dards.

  Lando let his hand slide up her long naked thigh, smooth as a pebble buffed by the sea for a thousand years, warm bronze in color, relaxed, muscular yet fleshy, burn ing in his palm. In a confused way he was proud that so magnificent a creature should be helping to support him, not that he really needed the money—his clandestine pro fession more than covered all his expenses—but simply for the principle of the thing. The money and gifts she had been giving him since she started whoring were tossed at him like the purse a. queen throws to a serf. Without servility, without asking anything in return, without com plaint, just because that was what she felt like doing, what she deigned to do as her fancy dictated. Delicately she lifted Lando's hand from her thigh.

  "No more time left I have a seven o'clock date."

  "The old man?"

  "When we stand facing each other, his glasses come up to my nipples."

  "And when you're in bed?" "In bed, we're all the same. Or just about"

  "Let him wait a little."

  "No, he's a demon for punctuality. And when I work, I'm always on time."

  She stretched like a great cat and began to yawn. Aroused by the broad purple-copper circles around the hard jutting tips of her breasts, Lando went on. "Just a min ute. Won't you, please?"

  This was the limit! He, the man whose tool should have been considered a signal honor by any female, was held at bay by a black woman who was deciding whether or not she was willing!

  She glanced at him pensively. "For a white man, you don’t make love too badly."

  "Would you like it better if I was black?"

  "Color isn't what counts, Lando."

  "Then what does?"

  "What you've got inside your pants."

  Lando reared back; he was damn proud of what he had in there. It had been praised to the skies by hundreds of women he had abandoned, broken, exhausted, or worn out after a few high-flying erotic performances. But Inez, in spite of his unshakable confidence in his ability to make anyone come, succeeded in throwing doubt into his soul. The first night, he had had her five times in a row during eight hours of uninterrupted passion play. When she didn't say anything, he fished for a compliment

  "Well, did you like that?’

  "Not bad."

  "What do you mean, not bad?"

  He had felt that he would be able to sleep ten years straight before getting back into shape.

  She had nodded that beautiful head, her immense eyes seeming almost pasted on the jut of her cheek bones, and mincingly said, "Not bad for a white man."

  Surely she was bluffing. No woman alive could take that kind of treatment without needing a good long rest cure. He had fallen off into a dead man's sleep, revolted by such ingratitude.

  The next day she had given him a platinum watch, made by Vacheron; he had dozens more, of all makes, giv en to him in recognition of his sexual prowess by forgot ten women, all of them ready to make even more meaning ful sacrifices if only he agreed to go with them again. Even today, he could not comprehend why Inez, Princess Kibondo, daughter of a king, found pleasure in giving him the money she collected from a few filthy-rich lovers. He was a little boy in their relationship, and try as he might he had never succeeded in getting through to that secret place in her makeup for which she alone had the key.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and slowly pulled on a pair of fawn-colored boots. One of the parakeets hissed in the cage.

  "Did you buy those birds?"

  "Someone gave them to me. Do you like birds?"

  Orlando Baretto finally got up too, stretching his lean athlete's body. Since he had stopped playing ball, he had been Irving on nothing but liquor. He consumed a bottle or two a day, depending on his mood, yet he never-got drunk.

  'Hove them," he said.

  He went over to the gilded cage, opened the latch door, and fumbled around inside with his fingers. The two parakeets dodged back as far as they could. Tenderly Lando grabbed one of them; it fought back and bit at his fingers, apparently without his feeling it. He took it softly into the hollow of his hands and fluffed its head with a mouthful of warm bream, holding his lips flush against' the feathers. He smiled to Inez.

  'I’m crazy about all kinds of animals," he said.

  Then, in one clamp of his jaws, he bit off the para keet's head.

  The secretary made way for the newcomers. Homer Kloppe rose courteously to greet them, ignoring their out stretched hands. Nodding- curtly, he indicated the padded leather chairs and returned to his own seat behind his desk. The desk top was empty except for a business card in the right-hand corner: Genco Volpone. Kloppe coolly regarded the impeccably dressed man before him, barely noticing his companion, a nondescript little fellow who seemed swallowed up by the plush chair. Kloppe knew that Volpone, for all his appearance of respectability, was believed to be one of the heads of the Syndicate. The bank er politely inquired, "What can I do for you, Mr. Volpone?"

  "Open a numbered account" "You mean, you don't want to use the same one you already have with us?" "That's right" "Very well."

  "In less than an hour," Genco Volpone said, "you will receive a transfer order from your Nassau branch, where the money was deposited this very morning."

  "How much is involved?"

  "Two billion dollars."

  Homer pretended, to clean his glasses. He was ac customed to large figures involving huge, diversified business enterprises over a period of time. This was a lump sum from a single individual!

  Genco Volpone calmly added, T would like this sum to be put to work while it is on deposit" "Why, of courser

  "What rate of interest would it draw?" "That depends on how long it is left" "Give me a daily rate. You'll have the money on de posit for twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the outside." "Six percent" "Make it seven." "The daily rate is only six." "What do I care? I want seven." "Done. And after that?"

  "The funds will be transferred to Panama, to the Chemical Inter Trust We both have power of attorney."

  Only then did Homer Kloppe pay any attention to the runty middle-aged man who had been introduced as Morti mer OBrion, financial adviser to Mr. Volpone's partner. Naturally, Kloppe knew better than to ask who that "part ner" was. On the other hand, Kloppe did know about O’Brion's law firm, which had a fine reputation in interna tional business circles, and he was somewhat surprised by the unimpressive demeanor of its head.

  "What code name will you use for giving us your or ders, Mr. Volpone?"

  "Mamma mia," Genco replied.

  "I have that Now, gentlemen, will you please each give me a sample signature—that is, the signature of Mam ma mia."

  "What for?" Volpone asked. "Well advise you by phone."

  "Oh, it's just a house rule," Kloppe said as he handed them a pen and a blank sheet of paper.

  O’Brien and Volpone each wrote "Mamma mia!’ Kloppe picked it up and said, "Which of you will advise us on transferring the funds—Mr. Volpone or Mr. . O’Brien?"

  For the first time, Volpone smiled. "I will. But that doesn't really matter, since from now on al
l you know is Mamma mia."

  "You're quite right Now, all I have to do is give you a number."

  "Don't bother. I selected it in Nassau."

  ‘‘Wfll you give it to me?’

  "828384."

  "Good"

  "Of course, you'll place the interest on our deposit in a separate account" "Naturally.''

  "That you understand, is to cover our costs. Now, what will you charge us for this service?" "An eighth of one percent"

  "Not bad! I should have been a banker," said Volpone.

  'The job also has its drawbacks, Mr. Volpone."

  ‘I’ll probably phone you tomorrow."

  "Whenever you wish." And Kloppe added, 'I trust you will enjoy your stay in Switzerland."

  "Yes, thanks. I'm staying for forty-eight hours, but O'Brion here is heading right back home."

  Then something strange took place. Genco Volpone, Who had put his hat back on, found himself nose to nose with Homer Kloppe. Each stepped sideways to let the other pass, but by bad luck they both stepped the same way. The embarrassed banker noted that the American gave him an apologetic smile as his hand went out to slap Kloppe on the shoulder. Then, suddenly, Kloppe found himself gripped in a Sicilian abbracdo; Volpone was kiss ing him alternately on both cheeks and hugging him close. Not knowing what to do with his own hands, Homer automatically brought them to his customer's shoulders. They released each other at the same time and the banker closed the door behind his departing customers, perplexed as any good prim Swiss Protestant would be by the demonstra tion of Latin affection.

  Coming back to himself, Kloppe immediately phoned the powerful financier,Eugene Schmeelbling, in Schaan. At Schaan, near Vaduz (Liechtenstein), there is an abso lutely colorless five-story building bearing no identification whatsoever. Nothing distinguishes it from the buildings on either side. Each day at five o'clock, its employees head for home as if they had just finished an ordinary day's busi ness.The difference between them and any other clerks is the size of the sums of money that pass through their hands. For Schaan is where the "bankers' bank" is lo cated. Amassed by millions of men and women, each day money is deposited in thousands of banks worldwide that immediately invest it in the various companies whose shares they hold. These companies, in full legality, transfer it to various branches located in countries where all kinds of benefits allow them to expand their activities without being unduly hampered: Switzerland, Nassau, Liechten stein, Panama, Luxembourg, or one of innumerable tropi cal islands that have been transformed into independent financial paradises—with the secret blessing of the great economic powers that have every reason to want them to exist. These holding companies complete the circle by de positing their assets in other banks—sometimes the same ones in which the sums originated—in a breathtaking mer ry-go-round in which money, by the very inertia of its movement, swells like some abstract beast. Finally and in evitably, one day or another, Schaan is the place where, for a shorter or longer period of time, all loose capital has to make a stop on its wild whirligig. So it was at Schaan that Homer Kloppe deposited “on a day-to-day basis’’ the money that Genco Volpone turned over to him. This had been formalized by an exchange of memos to confirm the "verbal agreement" Then, by methods that he alone knew, Schmeelbling would put that sum to work at a rate higher than the one he gave the banker. And more power to him, thought Kloppe.

  Homer mentally went over his figures again. He had given Genco Volpone—Sorry, Mamma mia, he smilingly told, himself—seven percent Two billion dollars at seven percent calls for an interest payment of $383,561.643 per day, or, rounded out $383,562. The same sum, let out at nine percent, would bring him a daily return of $493,150 and change. Net profit for him: $109,588—and that's not chickenfeed, even if it .is pocket money for a great financier! To which, of course, there had to be added—on the bank's official books—the service charge on the total deposit involved, which came out to no less than two and a half million dollars!

  By the end of the following business day, Kloppe had still not heard from Volpone or his representative. That doubled the $109,588 profit of the day before. "Just let him leave it here with me for a month," Kloppe prayed to some nameless deity—for he dared not use the name of God when dollars were involved.

  Behind him the door slammed. "I bet you're dreaming of a woman!" a voice shouted.

  Homer jumped as if caught in the act

  "You might at least have knocked before coming ml"

  "Okay, HI tell mother!"

  The girl threw her arms around him and swung him about in a waltz step. "I’ve just invented a game to top them all" she said

  "What is it?" he asked. His daughter's escapades se cretly delighted him, dangerous though they often were, and he could not deny that Renata held him in the palm of her hand.

  Perhaps because she was the living opposite of her mother, because of her full head of auburn hair, her tall, slim figure, her deep, purple eyes. Why, he wondered, among all the fine fellows who had courted her, had she chosen Kurt Heinz, the only one who was not of her social standing, the son of a bank teller. Spotless reputation, to be sure—but thirty-five years a bank teller! And next week, Homer was going to have to dance with Utte Heinz, Joseph Heinz's unappealing wife. And his daughter's wed ding, which he had hoped would be as spectacular as the Gauguins and the Fragonards on his walls, would be dis figured by the awkward presence of his son-in-law's par ents. To say nothing of the wild-eyed wedding ceremony Renata had selected; people would probably still be talking about it three centuries from now. But there again, Klop pe had given in.

  "It's a wonderful, demoralizing game. I call it the fly ing mauna!"

  The banker frowned as he repeated, "Flying manna?"

  "Yeah, it's on account of Kurt and his cockeyed theories about money being the root of all evil, rotten and all"

  "I don’t get it"

  "He didn't get it either! I took my plane up and flew over Chiavenna, right in the middle of the agricultural show. And I bombed the hicks with folding money! You should have seen them scrambler'

  Seeing how badly her father took it, she burst out laughing. "Don't look like that! Kurt has to get used to be ing affluent What good would our dough be to us if we couldn't have a little fun with it once in a while?"

  Pietro Biasca was sorry about only one thing: that his old man hadn't lived to see him make good. For it was old Giuseppe, with his advice and his determination to teach his only son to study the profile of a shoe the way you would that of a beloved woman, who was responsible for Pietro's success. "You'll see," he'd say, "all this stuff that bores you now will make your fortune someday." And he was right At forty-eight, Pietro was rich, no small thing when you've gone hungry as a child. But even better, he was famous and respected. His elegant Fifth Avenue boutique was as prestigious as a private club, frequented only by those whom Pietro deemed worthy of his ser vices.

  One of New York's Beautiful People, he was invited to theater openings, cocktail parties, and gallery showings. The secret of his success lay in a loving sense of crafts manship rare in this technological age. In Biasca's work rooms they didn't manufacture shoes, they hand cut them out of the finest and most expensive leathers. "Gloves for the feet" was the slogan that had won him his fame. Of course, Biasca's shoes went for anywhere from five hun dred to a thousand dollars a pair—and up, when customers insisted on things like eighteen-karat gold buckles.

  Pietro went into the workshop where a young ap prentice, an Italian boy. with curly hair, was measuring one of his comrades' feet Biasca came over, as always slightly heady with the odor of leather that wafted through the place—the same odor as the inside of a Rolls-Royce. As he leaned over, he said to the boy, "Don’t forget, the line doesn't count What is important is the whole. Always think of the foot as a whole. That's what Michelangelo did."

  He moved along, glancing admiringly at the shelves of foot molds that were made from each customer after the first two orders placed. "You see these feet?" he said, turning
back to the boy. "I know them better than I do the faces they belong to. Even blindfolded, just by touching them, I can tell you whose they are."

  The apprentice smiled as a tall blond woman stuck her head through the door. "Signore Biasca," she called.

  He raised his chin.

  "Two gentlemen to see you."

  Pietro stepped out into the shop, and he immediately sensed that they were cops.

  "Gentlemen?"

  "Mr. Biasca," said the more distinguished one, who was holding a package, "may I ask you a question?"

  "If I can be of any assistance," Pietro replied as the second detective showed him his ID.

  "Could you identify one of your customers from this shoe?"