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Mortimer O’Brien left Zaza alone in the bar at the airport. There were just forty minutes till plane time. No matter how often she asked where they were going, he refused to answer, merely giving her mysterious smiles that didn't hide the nervous tics in his face. Seeing how tense he was, she let the matter drop. But her feelings were evident as she looked down into the glass of lukewarm champagne a sweaty waiter set before her with no more pomp than if it had been a glass of beer.

  Mortimer quickly disappeared into the crowd, ready for the next-to-last move in his wild coup. If everything went well, he was sure the final step would present no prob lems: he could simply disappear off the face of the earth. His heart began to beat heavily as he wandered around retracing his steps. He must have gone past the telephone switchboard two or three times without noticing it

  The telephone operator was carrying on several con versations at once and doing her nails at the same time.

  "Miss, could you get me Zurich?"

  "In what state?'

  "No state! Zurich, Switzerland!" She glared at him. "What number?" He told her.

  "Booth number three." "Will there be a long delay?" "Booth number three."

  He closed the door of the booth and wiped his face.

  His handkerchief was soaked. Everything stuck to his skin.

  At the beginning, his plan had been simply a mental exercise, a what-would-happen-if kind of diversion in which he enumerated causes and effects that meshed perfectly with nothing going awry. Then, to his surprise, what had been purely theoretical began to take shape without his being aware that he was the one carrying it out. His meet ing Zaza, which had revealed to him a realm of sensuality he had not even known existed, had made him realize the sexual revulsion he felt for his wife. Now was the time to do all the things he had never dared do when they might have been much less of a danger to him. So what if he was terrified—if that was needed for him to be born again? He sneered inwardly as he thought of Judith lying in her clammy bed, stuffing herself with aspirin and sleep ing pills, dead to herself and the world and not even know ing it Mortimer had made use of her name one last time— to sign a message she had not written.

  The ring of the phone made him jump. The receiver almost slipped from his hands as he brought it to his ear. A woman's voice was mumbling something incomprehen sible in German. He cleared his throat to speak more firm ly, but it did no good. In a quavering voice he said, "Is this the Zurich Trade Bank?"

  From halfway around the world a voice said yes and asked, "With whom did you wish to speak?"

  Suddenly aware that the whole life-and-death matter was up for grabs right now, he said, "Homer Kloppe. Ur gent and personal."

  "Certainly, m see whether Mr. Kloppe is in. Who shall I say is calling?"

  Morty swallowed. Then, in as normal a voice as he could muster, he spoke the magic words: "Mamma mia!"

  Captain Kirkpatrick's loathing of Sicilian-Americans endeared him to the New York City police force. His bosses knew how to put his prejudice to good use. Every time the Syndicate was involved in anything, Kirkpatrick was assigned to the case. He had a make on every hood, even the least important runners. Unfortunately, getting them locked up was another matter. The bastards paid fabulous retainers to an army of lawyers who were always on hand to move heaven and earth if the police so much as touched a hair on any of their heads.

  Therefore, Kirkpatrick had felt almost uncontrollable elation when he was told about a stray leg, found on a train engine near Zurich, that might belong to no less a don than Genco Volpone.

  No capo ever loses a leg without serious after effects, and, in the case of Genco Volpone, the effect would be like a tidal wave. If by chance someone had murdered Volpone, anything might happen!

  The captain rubbed his hands with glee and ran them through his thick red hair. Looking at Finnegan, his assis tant, he mused, "Do you realize what's happening? In less than an hour, we'll have a Volpone sitting in that chair!"

  Finnegan made a doubting face. "You really think so, captain?"

  "I can hope, can't I?"

  "What did he say on the phone?"

  "He said, 'I'm coming in on the next plane/"

  "And what if he does?"

  "If s a long shot, but not impossible. After all, it is his brother, and we've got the shoe."

  "If you ask me, his lawyers’ll advise him to go straight to Switzerland to identify the leg."

  "Gould you identify a leg by itself?"

  "If it was a pretty girl's..."

  "Well see. Are you ready?"

  "Yes."

  "Wherever he goes, whatever he does, I want your men on his tail from the second he steps out of this office."

  "Provided he comes."

  "Provided he comes . . ." Kirkpatrick echoed hope fully, and he shook his head, a warm glow coming over his face. "Just imagine, Finnegan—if we could get the goods on him, and he tried to pull a fast one... he'd be a sure thing f or the chair, I’d give ten years of my pay to be able to pull that switch myself."

  Whenever Homer Kloppe had sex, that is, once a week, he brushed his teeth vigorously every hour or so for the next forty-eight hours. He figured it took at least that

  long to knock out the billions of microbes in and around his mouth after his lips had come into contact with his lover's unclean skin. He was brushing his teeth for the eighth time today when he finally heard the muffled buzz of his telephone. He spat a mouthful of antiseptic into the sink and dried his lips.

  "It is urgent and personal, sir. The gentleman gave the name of Mamma mia," the switchboard operator said. "Are you in, sir?"

  "Put him on, yes."

  There was a click, and for two seconds the banker could clearly hear the strained breathing. Instinctively he got on his guard. Dealing with large sums of money had given him a sixth sense.

  "Hello."

  "Hello. Mr. Kloppe?" "Speaking." "Mamma mia."

  The voice was not Genco Volpone's. So it had to be the skinny little one, Mortimer O’Brien, who had his power of attorney. Strange: Volpone had made it clear that he would be calling personally. Prudently, Homer went along.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "Do you know who this is?"

  "Yes."

  "You are to make the transfer as arranged." "Very well."

  "But with one slight change."

  Kloppe's hand tightened on the phone slightly. He had not been mistaken; there was the stench of something rot ten in the air.

  "What change is that?"

  "The location of the transfer."

  "Where is it to be made?"

  "To the Banque Centrale in Geneva. As of this min ute."

  "That presents a small problem." "I beg your pardon?"

  Once again, Kloppe heard O'Brion's hoarse breath ing.

  'T say it presents a small problem. I can't make the transfer to this new address without a written release from one of the two principals."

  "Why not? We're in a hurry, and it had been agreed

  Kloppe cut in coldly, "Our agreements hold only if all the original terms remain in effect Now you say I am to change the location we had agreed upon."

  "Very well. What must I do?’

  "Just a formality. Come in and sign a release."

  "But I’m not in Switzerland!"

  "I'm sorry. Is the person you came with still here?"

  The barest hesitation at the other end of the wire. "I don't believe so. He must be on his way to where I am."

  Homer knew the lawyer was lying. His first job was to protect his depositors. In this specific case, although he had no proof, he sensed it was his duty to stall for time. He was not a man to let two billion dollars out of his hands without taking a few elementary precautions.

  "I understand your predicament" he said. "Just send me a note signed by you, and your orders will be carried out at once."

  "But I'm telling you, this is urgent!" O’Brien shouted.

  "It would get here in forty-eight hours."

  "Tha
t's too long."

  Several silent seconds went by.

  OBrion resumed, in a voice that he tried to keep un der control, "Listen—considering how urgent this is— you're not making things any easier for us. My client will be most unhappy."

  "Believe me, sir, I am unhappy about it, too. But I have no choice."

  "Very well. Then I’ll come. I’ll catch the first plane out and see you this evening." "This evening? Where are you calling from?"

  "Nassau."

  "Do you realize, sir, that it is now 5:00 p.m. in Zurich and I am winding up my business for the day?"

  "Mr. Kloppe," 0’Brion roared, "when you're dealing with sums of this magnitude, the time of day has no meaning."

  ‘I can't agree with you, sir. I have made prior ar rangements for this evening."

  'Couldn't you see me later tonight?" "The bank is closed to the public until 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. Even if you were able to fly out immediately, I could hot see you outside of the bank's office hours."

  "But we have the whole night ahead of us. It would take you only a minute, just to get my signature. You have to do it!"

  "I never do business at night, sir. And I make it an absolute rule to be in bed by eleven. I am truly sorry."

  ‘I will be at your office tomorrow morning." O’Brien gave in, desperation in his voice.

  "I apologize a thousand times, sir. And I will be looking forward to seeing you."

  Homer Kloppe put the phone back into its cradle and suddenly felt an urgent need to brush his teeth.

  A stink of dirty feet, stale sandwiches, sweat, and beer hit the three lawyers as they entered the police station. Two uniformed cops did not even seem to notice them. One was hunt-and-pecking on an old typewriter; the other, standing with his hands behind his back outside the lockup, was laughing at the insults a prostitute inside the tank was yelling at him. All the way in back, a bum was sleeping off his drunk on a low cot, snoring symphonically.

  "If you please!" Johnny Kieffe called out with scorn ful authority.

  Kieffe had gone forward a couple of steps while his two partners, Hubert Murdle and Chester Henley, stood on either side of Italo Volpone. Kieffe, Murdle and Henley was the most expensive law firm in New York. According to what the traffic would bear, they billed their clients any where from $500 to $1,000 an hour. That, of course, was of no import to the Syndicate, which paid them a yearly retainer large enough to have its legal problems take priority.

  "Yes?" the cop asked without taking his eyes off his typing.

  "We have an appointment with Captain Kirkpatrick," Johnny Kieffe said sententiously.

  The cop was not impressed. "Who's ‘we’?"

  Kieffe shoved his business card under the cop's nose.

  "Here. How about speeding this up a little?"

  The cop took the card, turned it upside down and backward, and then nonchalantly got up.

  'I’ll see what I can do," he said.

  He disappeared through a door behind the counter. When he came back, he said to the lawyer, 'The captain is very busy. He has an important appointment. Come see him some other time, or else call him on the phone."

  "Just a minute!" Kieffe blustered. "He's the one who called my client in to see him! What do you mean, he's busy?"

  "Your client? Who's your client?" "Mr. Volpone here," Hanley interjected. "Italo Vol pone."

  "Which one of you is Volpone?" the cop wanted to know.

  "What difference does that make?" Kieffe raised his voice. "Go tell the captain that we're here!"

  In another half minute, the cop called, "The captain can see you now!" and held the door open for them.

  They followed him down a hallway and into Kirkpatrick's office like bulls going into the arena.

  The captain got up to welcome them. I’m sorry about that, Mr. Kieffe. I didn't know you were with Mr. Volpone. The man on duty misunderstood."

  "My partners, Henley and Murdle, and Mr. Italo Volpone," said Kieffe, dryly introducing them.

  "Please be seated, gentlemen."

  "No, thanks, we'd rather stand," said Hubert Murdle.

  "As you wish," said Kirkpatrick, again running his hand through his hair. "Mr. Volpone, I'm afraid your brother may have met with a serious accident Biasca has definitely identified the shoe as belonging to him. It came from an amputated leg found by our Swiss colleagues. Of course that doesn't mean it was your brother Genco's leg, but—would you know—was your brother in Zurich with in the past few days?"

  "Can we see the shoe?" Kieffe cut in.

  "In a moment sir. Would you answer my question, Mr. Volpone?"

  "We will stipulate that Genco Volpone may have been out in Switzerland several days ago," Henley answered for him.

  Kirkpatrick kept his gaze on Italo, whose eyes in turn whirled rapidly about the room.

  "Mr. Volpone?" Kirkpatrick asked again, ignoring the interruption.

  Italo cleared his throat "My brother had a business meeting in Zurich."

  "You don't have to volunteer any details," Murdle cautioned.

  Kirkpatrick opened a desk drawer, withdrew a pack age, unwrapped the tissue paper around it, and handed the object to Italo, who carefully examined it

  "This could be my brother's shoe."

  "Are you sure?"

  "How could he be?" Kieffe cut in. "Would you be sure you could identify something that belonged to a member of your family?"

  "Captain," Henley took over, "I don't get-the picture very well. Our client here was in the Bahamas for a cou ple of days' vacation, and you made him come back specially—"

  "I only requested him to come back," Kirkpatrick countered, without taking his eyes off Italo, "to help us with our investigation. I had no power to force him to come back. And I must say, Mr. Volpone, I had not thought you would feel you needed three lawyers for so simple an identification."

  "When did you find that leg?" Italo wanted to know.

  'Thirty-six hours ago. It was lying on the cowcatcher of a railroad engine that came into the Zurich station."

  "Let's get out of here," Italo said nervously.

  "As far as your brother is concerned, I’m going to have to put out a worldwide all-points missing-persons bulletin. And I may have to call on you if anything we find requires your testimony."

  "You know where you can reach Mr. Volpone," Kief fe said.

  "Mr. Volpone, are you planning to leave New York City within the next few days?’' Kirkpatrick asked.

  "I beg your pardon^" Murdle replied. "What's the meaning of that?"

  "Nothing special counselor. I just wanted to know where your client might be if I happened to need him."

  "I'm taking the first plane to Switzerland," Italo mumbled somberly. "If anything happened to my brother, I'm gonna find out about it"

  "I hope for your sake nothing did, Mr. Volpone. But there's another thing that seems to be bother the Swiss police. In the pants pocket of that leg, there was a one-way ticket from Zurich to Geneva, stamped in Zurich only twenty minutes before the accident was discovered."

  "So what?' asked Murdle.

  "Counselor," Kirkpatrick began, as if the lawyer ought to know better, "an unidentified person got on a train in Zurich to go to Geneva, and twenty minutes later his leg was back in Zurich."

  "What are you getting at, captain?"

  "That leg should have gone on to Geneva, shouldn't it?

  "What difference does that make? As long as it hasn't been identified..."

  "Let’s get outta here," Volpone said.

  "Mr. Volpone," Kirkpatrick concluded, "if you hear the slightest thing from or about your brother, please let me know. And I’ll keep you filled in on anything we find out"

  There were the briefest nods on all sides by way of good-byes, and Italo and his three mouthpieces had scarcely closed the door when Finnegan stuck his head in.

  "Finnegan," the captain exulted, "we got 'em up tight already! Now let your guys make sure this bum gets on the plane to Zurich. I want two of my men o
n that flight with him. Use Cavanaugh and Mahoney!"

  He rolled under her, trying to defend himself, turn ing his head away as she tried laughingly to kiss him on the lips; and suddenly he pulled away. "They're waiting for us," he warned.

  "So what? It could be fun!"