Stiletto (9 page)

The lipstick shot from her hand like a bullet and smashed into the dashboard and then fell tinkling to the floor of the car. He stared down at her, his heart bursting inside him.

She lay slumped across the wheel, one hand still closed on it, her head in an odd position. He was glad he could not see her eyes. He looked around quickly. There were no cars coming. He ran around to the other side of the car and got into it on the seat beside her. He reached over and turned the key, starting the motor. It caught with a roar.

He looked around again. The road was still empty. He reached into his sleeve and took out the stiletto and the hook spring to which it was attached. With a quick motion of his hand he flung it far into the darkness and heard it sink into the watery marsh on the other side of the shoulder. He put the car into gear and, steering from his side, moved it out into the road.

He jammed his foot down on the accelerator. The bridge should be less than a mile from here. In a moment the car was doing eighty. He peered through the fog. Barbara slumped toward him.

There was the bridge. With a muttered curse, he shoved her back under the wheel. He took his foot from the accelerator and pulled both feet up under him. He held the wheel steady, driving the car right at the concrete abutment at the side of the bridge.

He sprang high into the air in an arcing dive at almost the moment of impact. The speed of the car pushed him forward and he tumbled awkwardly through the air toward the water.

The sound of the crash came to his ears at almost the same moment he hit the water. It was cold and black and murky and he gasped for breath. He was going down and down, his lungs were bursting, he would never come up. Frantically his arms flailed the water. The reeds clung to him, trying to keep him down. Then he saw the sky above him again.

He pulled himself toward the shore. There was a pain inside him now, racing all through his body. He felt his feet touch the land and stumbled to his knees. He crawled out of the water slowly and then sprawled out on the ground. His mouth felt filled with dirt and his face scratched and burning.

The ground was moist and clammy and its chill raced through him. He began to shudder convulsively, digging his fingers into the earth, clinging to it. Then he closed his eyes and the night came up and over him.

***

Baker leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. The white winter sun formed sharp patterns on the buildings. Three days had passed since Vanicola had died and they were exactly nowhere. He looked down the desk at the men seated opposite. There was Captain Strang of the New York Police, Jordan in from Las Vegas and Stanley up from Miami.

He spread his hands on the desk in a gesture of defeat. “That’s the story. I’m not blaming any one of you, the responsibility was mine and I accept it. Tomorrow morning I’m due in Washington to see the chief. Senator Bratton is on the Bureau’s back and the chief wants a personal report.”

“What are you going to tell him, George?” Stanley asked.

“What can I tell him?” Baker answered rhetorically. “I don’t know any more than he does.” He picked up an envelope from the desk. “My resignation’s in here. I’m turning it in tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute,” Jordan said. “The chief hasn’t asked for your scalp.”

Baker smiled wryly. “Come on, Ted, don’t be naïve. You know the chief as well as I do. He doesn’t like failure.”

As they fell silent Baker absently pressed the button on the slide projector on his desk. It jumped to life and threw a picture on the wall. It was a scene of the crowd inside the corridor of the courthouse.

“What’ve you got there?” Jordan asked.

Baker pressed the button idly. “Pictures of the corridor taken by newspaper photographers as Dinky Adams was going into the courtroom.” He pressed another button and the scene changed. “I’ve looked at them a thousand times. You’d think with all the pictures they took, we’d find something. Not one of them took the picture at the time we needed it.”

He hit the button and the scene changed again. “I forgot you fellows didn’t see it yet.”

He stared for a moment then pressed the button again.

“Wait a minute,” Stanley said, an excitement rising in his voice. “Can you go back to the picture you had on before this one?”

Baker hit the button. Stanley got up and walked over to the wall and looked closely at the picture. He put a finger out and pointed to a man. “Have you got a doohickey on that machine that will enlarge the picture of this guy in the green alpine hat?”

Baker laughed disgustedly. Another blank. “That hat isn’t green. It’s the wall paint.”

Captain Strang interrupted. “It was green, George. I remember noticing it in the crowd.”

Swiftly Baker fiddled with the lens. Now there was only one man’s face on the screen. There was only a side angle of the face but there was no mistaking the hat.

“I’ve seen that hat before,” Stanley said.

“There are lots of hats like that,” Baker said.

“But not faces like that,” Jordan said suddenly. “I know that one.”

They turned to him. “That’s Count Cardinali,” he said. “The racing-car driver. He was at the table next to us in Vegas. He was there with the girl who models for all those ‘Smoke and Flame’ cosmetic ads, Barbara Lang.”

Stanley jumped to his feet, almost sputtering. “They were at the St. Tropez too. That’s where I saw the hat. I was in the lobby when they checked in and he was wearing it!”

Baker stared at them. Maybe it wasn’t over yet. He picked up the telephone and spoke into it. “I want a complete I.D. file on Count Cardinali. The works, from the day he was born until yesterday!”

He put down the telephone, still looking at them. “Do you have any idea where he may be right now?”

“I do,” Captain Strang answered. He took a newspaper out of his pocket and opened it on the desk. He pointed to the top corner of the page.

Baker looked down at it. There was a picture of Cardinali over the story. The headline read,
Famous Sportsman Out of Hospital Tomorrow
. There was a brief story beneath about the accident on the Sunshine State Parkway in which the girl was killed.

Baker lifted his eyes from the paper and whistled. “If this guy is the Stiletto,” he said in a sober voice, “he’s goin’ to be a tough one to nail down. He doesn’t believe in leaving any witnesses around. Either his own or someone else’s!”

Baker stood in front of the automobile showroom on Park Avenue. Through the windows the sleek foreign cars shone with their highly polished newness. Lettered simply in small silver block letters on the glass entrance doors were the words:
Cesare Cardinali, Imported Automobiles
.

He opened the door to the showroom and walked in. There were several customers looking at cars and he stood around for a few minutes. One of the customers left and the salesman came toward him.

He was a tall silver-haired man and wore a morning coat and a small flower in his buttonhole. He looked more like a stockbroker than an automobile salesman. “Can I help you, sir?” His voice was inquiringly polite yet somehow aloof.

Baker smiled to himself as he thought of the difference in the approach to a customer here and at the Smiling Irishman where he had bought his car. He shook his head slightly. “I would like to see Mr. Cardinali.” He asked, “Is he around?”

A disapproving look came over the salesman’s face. “Mr. Cardinali never comes into the showroom,” he said haughtily.

“No?” Baker smiled. “Then where can I find him?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” the salesman answered. “But you might try the office.”

“Where is that?” Baker asked gently. He had long since learned not to be annoyed by snobs. Too many of them proved empty shells once their props were removed.

“On the fifteenth floor. You can get the elevator in the lobby through that door.” The salesman indicated an entrance on the side.

“Thank you,” Baker said.

“Not at all,” the salesman replied, walking politely toward another prospect who had just entered the showroom.

Baker walked into the lobby and waited for an elevator. This was one of the new buildings on Park Avenue. Everything was automatic, even the elevators had music piped into them. Cardinali was for real, he thought. He had it made. What could it be that tied a man like this to the Syndicate?

He remembered the incredulous expression on Strang’s face when they had gone over the I.D. report.

“I don’t get it,” the captain had said. “This guy’s got everything. Title. Money. War hero. Fame. Where does he fit in with the mob?”

That was the question that bothered them all. And there were the soft points that bothered him. The soft edges around the hard facts that reached out toward something that could not be explained factually. For example there was the war record. Cardinali had cooperated with the Allies in the undercover job prior to the invasion of Italy and had received a medal for it. Still he had killed five of his contacts on that mission while all the others on the same mission, and there were more than twenty agents, found it necessary to eliminate only four people among them. Then there was the matter of Cardinali’s uncle who had been murdered. Of course, Cardinali had been far away but soon after, though he had been broke at the end of the war, he began to make it big. There were the fast cars and the races, and in almost no time at all Cardinali had become a figure in international society. True, there were others like him. De Portago who was killed in that race. Cesare had been in that race too. He had been set down for unnecessarily reckless driving. There had been other races too where he had been set down. Twice the implication had been that he was responsible for the deaths of other contestants. But nowhere was there any clue that pointed to a connection with the underworld.

The elevator doors opened and Baker came out into a softly lit reception room around whose walls were prints of famous automobiles. The receptionist sat at a small desk in the far corner.

“Can I be of help, sir?” she asked.

Baker nodded. “I would like to see Mr. Cardinali.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the girl asked.

Baker shook his head.

“May I have the nature of your business?” the girl asked.

“It’s personal,” Baker answered.

Disapprovingly the girl picked up the telephone. “I will see if Count Cardinali is in,” she said haughtily. “Your name, please?”

“George Baker,” he replied.

He stood there waiting while the girl whispered into the telephone. After a moment she looked up at him. “If you will be kind enough to take a seat, Miss Martin, Count Cardinali’s secretary, will be out to speak with you in a few minutes.”

He walked over to a comfortable couch and sat down. The table in front of him was covered with sports car magazines in every language and from every country. Idly he picked one up and began to glance through it. He looked up when a girl came through a door and stood in front of him.

“I’m Miss Martin,” the girl said, smiling politely, “Count Cardinali’s secretary. He doesn’t see anyone except by appointment. Can I be of help to you?”

He got to his feet slowly, aware of the curious gaze of the receptionist. Silently he reached into his pocket and took out his identification. He gave it to Miss Martin.

She glanced down at it and then up at him, a puzzled expression crossing her face.

“I’m sorry to trouble the Count,” he said reassuringly, “but there are some matters in which he may be able to assist us.”

Miss Martin gave him back the small identification case and he put it in his pocket. “If you’ll be kind enough to wait a moment more, I will see if an appointment can be arranged for you.”

She disappeared through the door and he sat down again. A few minutes later she reappeared. “Follow me, please.”

He followed her into a large working office. There were several girls and men working at desks there. The usual business office. Through that he entered another office. There was only one desk there. She led him past the desk into another office. This belonged to Cardinali.

Baker’s eyes widened as he took in the furnishings. The antiques were authentic, the lamps of genuine statuary. Even the artificial fireplace was of fine Italian marble. On the mantelpiece over the fireplace were some awards and gold cups that were the only concession to commercialism in the entire office. Cardinali did not sit at a desk. There was no desk anywhere in the office.

He rose from a comfortable lounge chair next to a small telephone table with a note pad beside the telephone. He held out his hand to Baker. His grip was firm.

“How can I be of help to you, Mr. Baker?” he inquired, waving him to the seat opposite him.

Baker waited until the secretary left the office and then sat down. He studied the man opposite him for a few moments.

Cardinali took the scrutiny well. His expression remained even, a smile faintly on his lips. He seemed no more than politely curious over the reason for the visit. That fitted too, Baker found himself thinking. Any man who had done what the Stiletto had needed nerves of ice. He smiled slowly.

“You are smiling?” Cesare asked.

Baker nodded. The thought had just jumped through his mind. Everyone had approached him since he had come here with a stock phrase:
Can I be of help to you?
Even Cardinali. And it had been his experience when there was so much overt helpfulness offered, there would be very little actually given.

“I was just thinking, Mr. Cardinali,” he said, “how much more comfortable your office is than many I have been in. It seems almost too comfortable to be an inducement to work.”

Cesare smiled. “Actually that is true,” he admitted. “But in my line of work I do not find it necessary to disturb myself with the mechanics of business. So I keep my office as little like one as I possibly can. Mainly because I am a very selfish creature who is rather fond of his comforts.”

Baker nodded. Everything this man said and did was exactly right. There would be no point in beating around the bush with him. Cardinali could keep this up all day. He leaned forward in his chair. “I trust you are well recovered from the effects of your recent accident?”