Stiletto (10 page)

Cesare nodded. “I am quite well, thank you.”

“It must have been a shattering experience,” Baker prompted.

“It was more than that,” Cesare said with a strange sort of earnestness as if he were seeking words in English to describe it. “It was tragic. I shall never stop blaming myself for allowing it to happen.”

“You could have prevented it?” Baker asked quickly.

He thought he caught a glimpse of mockery deep in Cesare’s eyes. “I think so,” Cesare answered. “I should never have let her drive. The car was too much for her.”

It was at that moment that Baker knew he had it, the answer to a great many questions. He had wanted Cesare to bait him into a direct probe and had succeeded, without revealing any of his own suspicions.

“I’m glad you’re over it,” Baker said quietly. “Now if we may get down to business?”

Cesare nodded. “By all means.”

“As a result of the accident,” Baker said, “it has come to our attention through the newspapers that during the past week you spent some time at the Maharajah in Las Vegas and the St. Tropez in Miami Beach.”

“That’s true,” Cesare confirmed.

“And that also on Monday of last week you were in the Federal Courthouse in Foley Square here in New York?”

“Your people are very thorough,” Cesare said. “That is also true.”

“Do you have any idea why I’m referring to these places?” Baker asked.

Cesare smiled. “I would be a fool if I pretended ignorance, wouldn’t I?” he asked. “I read the newspapers also.”

“You are aware then of the murders of the witnesses in the trial of the criminal syndicate?”

Cesare nodded. “I am. But what I do not see is how I can be of help to you in connection with them.”

Baker looked at him. “What were you doing in the courthouse that day?”

Cesare met his gaze. “You do not know?” He laughed shortly. “I went there to get my first citizenship papers.”

“Immigration is on the ground floor,” Baker said. “Yet you were observed on the third-floor corridor outside the courtroom.”

Cesare laughed again. “That is simple enough too. You see the lavatory on the ground floor was occupied. I was told there was one on the third floor so I went up the staircase to it. When I saw the crowds I came downstairs again.”

“You didn’t notice anything unusual while you were on the third floor?” Baker asked.

“The whole thing was unusual to me,” Cesare answered. “If you refer to anything particular, an incident, no. There was just the crowd and the men coming off the elevator and my trying to push my way through them to get back to the staircase.”

“What reason did you have for going to these hotels particularly? Why not any of the others in Vegas or Miami?”

Cesare looked at him. “Hotels, Mr. Baker, are a matter of fashion. And in my business I have to be aware of such things.” He took a cigarette from a box on the table next to him. “It would seem to me more relevant to ask the same question of the one responsible for allowing those witnesses to stay in those hotels.”

“You never saw any of them?” Baker asked.

Cesare lit the cigarette and shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. Besides if I had seen them I would not have recognized them. I did not even know what they looked like.” He hesitated a moment. “Perhaps in Vegas I saw one of them. I do not know. But as Miss Lang and I were leaving the casino, a man was carried out, past us.”

“That was one of the witnesses,” Baker said.

“It was?” Cesare asked politely. “Too bad I did not know then. I would have perhaps looked more closely.”

“Is there anything at all that comes to your mind that might be of help to us? Other people that you may have noticed?”

Cesare shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Baker,” he said regretfully, “there is nothing I can think of. You see, I was on a holiday with a very beautiful woman and I’m afraid I wasn’t very interested in anything else.”

Baker recognized the end of the road. The interview was over and nothing had been learned. And it wouldn’t do any good to try to sweat it out of this man either. He wasn’t the type. Baker got to his feet. As he did he saw a pair of crossed daggers mounted on the wall behind Cesare. “What are those?” he asked.

Cesare didn’t turn around. “They are stilettos,” he answered.

Baker walked over to the wall and looked at them. They were dull with patina. “Stilettos,” he said. “The witnesses were killed with that sort of weapon.”

“So I have read,” Cesare said imperturbably.

“Have you had them long?” Baker asked.

“They are family heirlooms,” Cesare answered. “I have quite a collection of them, here in New York in my apartment and at home in Italy. The stiletto was a favorite weapon of the Borgias who are listed among my ancestors.”

“I see,” Baker said. “I suppose you are an expert in their use.”

Cesare got up smiling. “I suppose I am,” he answered. “But there is not much room in our society to become really proficient at it. Weapons, like many other things, also are subject to the whims of fashion.” He came over to Baker and took one of the stilettos down from the wall. He looked at it for a moment then handed it to Baker.

“Those little toys we market downstairs in the showroom kill more people in a month than all the stilettos made since they were first adapted from the Florentine.”

Baker looked down at the delicate blade in his hand, then up at Cesare. A vague memory ran through his mind. “Are you the same Cardinali who was once fencing champion of Italy?”

Cesare nodded. “Another of the ancient sports I enjoy. Do you fence?”

“I did,” Baker replied. “I was on the team at college.” He put the stiletto down on the telephone table gently. “I must be going now,” he said. “Thank you very much for your cooperation, Count Cardinali.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help,” Cesare replied politely.

The stiletto was still on the small telephone table when Miss Martin came in to the office after Baker had left. She looked down at the stiletto then up at Cesare. “What did he want?” she asked with a familiarity born of long association.

Cesare picked up the stiletto and replaced it on the wall. He turned to her, smiling. “It seems I was very unwise in choosing the route for my holiday,” he said.

***

Baker leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t learn a damn thing,” he admitted.

Strang smiled. “You didn’t think you would, did you?”

Baker shook his head. “I guess I didn’t. The only thing I did was convince myself. That guy is the Stiletto. I know it.”

“Knowing it and proving it are two different things,” Strang said.

Baker leaned over his desk and came up with several photographs of a wrecked car. He pushed them over to Strang. “Look at them. They were sent up from Florida.”

Strang looked down at them. “Well?”

“See how the girl is wedged in behind the wheel? See how the motor was pushed back almost to the front seat through the dashboard? Well, if Cardinali was asleep like he said he was when the crash happened, where in hell were his feet? Not on the floor under the dash like you would think they were, or he never would have gotten out of that car. His legs would have been crushed when the front end came in on him.”

“I’ve seen enough automobile accidents to know anything is possible,” Strang said.

“Maybe,” Baker admitted. “But I’m willing to bet my shirt right now that Cardinali had his feet on the seat under him until almost the moment the car hit and then he jumped.”

“But what about the girl?” Strang asked. “She was driving.”

Baker looked at him. “The only thing we’re sure of is that she was behind the wheel.”

“You still can’t prove anything,” Strang said.

“Right now I can’t,” Baker said. “But I have some ideas.”

“Going to put a tail on him?” Strang asked.

Baker shook his head. “It would be wasted. In the circles in which that guy moves anyone we could put on him would stick out like a sore thumb. Besides it would make too much of a stink. You know how careful the chief is with important people.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Strang asked.

Baker smiled. “The first thing is to leak to the newspapers that he was questioned. The next thing to do is to find someone that will stick close enough to him to maybe learn something and be of real help to us.”

“Like who?” Strang asked.

“Like a dame,” Baker said. “He’s quite a ladies’ man. Well, we’re on to one that will fit right in. Society. Racing cars. The works.”

“If he is the Stiletto, it might be dangerous for her,” Strang said.

“She says she can handle him,” Baker answered. “And I’ve had a look at her record and, believe me, if she can’t, then nobody can.”

The party was in full swing when Cesare entered the stateroom. He stood in the doorway, his eyes searching for the hostess. She saw him at almost the same time as he saw her and came hurrying forward, her hand outstretched.

“Cesare, my dear boy,” she said, as he kissed her hand. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“I would sooner die than miss Madame’s sailing.” He smiled.

She smiled, her somber eyes glowing under the rich gray hair. Her voice lowered and assumed a tone that was much like the voice Cesare had heard on the telephone just a few weeks ago. “This stateroom is next to his,” she whispered. “There is a connecting door between the two bathrooms. He should be aboard in about ten minutes.”

He didn’t speak and she raised her voice as another guest approached. “And thank you for the lovely flowers.”

“It is a pleasure, Madame,” he answered.

He watched her turn to the other guest and move away. Once she had been a very beautiful woman, one of the most famous in international society. Her name still conjured up visions of glamorous ballrooms and princes. But now, she belonged to Don Emilio.

He moved toward the bathroom door slowly. He heard her laughter as he opened the door. How many more like her were there who walked the borderline of the two worlds? For that matter how many more were there like himself?

***

Emilio Matteo put his coat up against the wind that blew in from the chilly Hudson River as he got out of the taxicab in front of the pier. He looked up at the ship morosely as the detectives got out beside him. Without speaking, he gave one of them a bill for the driver.

“This way,” the detective said and started for the pier.

“I know the way,” Emilio said sourly. They walked onto the pier and over to the gangplank.

The little steward led them down a corridor on the first-class deck. Sounds of merriment came from behind the doors where bon voyage parties were almost at their height. The
Italia
was due to leave in less than an hour. The steward opened a door.

“This way, signore.” He bowed.

Emilio entered the suite and the detectives followed him. There was a small bar set up in the corner of the room.

The steward came in after them. “Is everything to the signore’s satisfaction?” he asked Emilio.

Emilio gave him a bill. “Fine,” he said.

The steward bowed again and left. The two detectives looked around. The oldest turned to Emilio. “This is pretty snazzy, Matteo,” he said.

Emilio smiled at him. “Nothing but the best,” he said, crossing to the bar. “You didn’t think I would stay in one of those lousy cabins the government pays for, did you?”

The detective grinned. “I guess not.”

Emilio opened a bottle and poured himself a drink. He threw it down his throat. “Ah,” he said, “that’s good whisky. It warms you up a little after that cold wind on the docks.” He turned to the detectives. “Have a drink?”

The detectives looked at each other and smiled. “Don’t mind if we do,” the oldest said, walking over to the bar.

“Help yourself.” Emilio pushed the bottle toward him. He took off his overcoat and threw it on a chair. “I guess I’m getting old all right, my kidneys ain’t what they used to be. I’m going to the john.”

He opened the bathroom door. The younger detective was at his side. Emilio stepped back. “Age before beauty,” he said sarcastically. “Maybe you’d better have a look first.”

The detective looked inside the bathroom. He turned back, a sheepish expression on his face. “Okay,” he said.

“Thank you,” Emilio said with formality. He stepped into the bathroom and began to close the door. “For some things a man must have a little privacy.”

The door closed behind him and a burst of noise came into the stateroom from the cabin next door. “Sounds like a wild party,” the younger detective said, pouring himself a drink.

“All it takes is money,” the other said. He held his drink up in the air. “Shalanta.”

“Shalanta,” the other man replied. They swallowed their drinks. “This is good whisky,” he added.

The other detective looked at him. “Like Matteo says,” he said in a bitter voice, “nothing but the best.”

The younger man stared at him. “Yeah,” he said sarcastically. “Crime doesn’t pay.”

***

Emilio walked over to the sink and turned on the tap. He waited for a moment and listened. He could hear the faint murmur of the detectives’ voices from his room. Quickly he crossed to the far end of the bathroom. There was a door there that connected with the next suite. It was locked.

He ran his fingernails against the door, making a scraping sound. “Cesare!” he whispered.

A scraping sound came back to him. Quickly he turned and opened the medicine cabinet. On the top shelf was a key. He put it in the door and turned it. The tumbler on his side clicked. A moment later he could hear the tumbler fall on the other side.

The door opened slightly and Cesare slipped into the room quickly and shut the door behind him.

Emilio smiled. “Don Cesare! My nephew!”

Cesare smiled also. “Don Emilio! My uncle!”

The two men embraced. “It has been a long time,” Emilio said.

“A long time indeed,” Cesare answered formally.

“You have done well, my nephew,” Emilio whispered. “I am proud.”

“I have kept the oath, Don Emilio,” Cesare replied.

“You have, and the family will be pleased when I tell them of you. It is time now that you take a place in our councils.”