Assignment - Palermo (13 page)

The room was empty, furnished in an Italian version of Danish modern, with elaborately slung canvas chairs, an orange couch under a big painting that was only a splash of disorienting color, a coffee table set with liqueurs, including one tall golden bottle of Strega. There was perfume in the air—and a smell of something else.

Durell crossed the room to a hall door beyond the foyer. The chain was not on. He turned the latch and put it on free but did not open it. Then he returned to the main room of the apartment.

“Adolfo?” he called quietly. He did not expect an answer. But he got a small, muffled animal grunt from the next room.

This door was inches ajar. He pushed it open with the muzzle of his gun. He did not remember taking it from his underarm holster. The door was heavy. He pushed it silently open to reveal a bedroom with rich ornamentation and sumptuous silken hangings. The shutters were tightly closed, but a red-shaded lamp beside the huge swan bed cast a bloody glow over the gilt and silver room.

Adolfo lay on the bed in a foetal position, legs tight under his belly, his neck bent, one patent-leather shoe on the floor under his dangling feet. He wore a red silk jacket and an open silk shirt and dark slacks. In the middle of his shirt was an embellishment Adolfo Cimadori obviously had not wanted or expected. It was the jeweled, elaborate hilt of a knife. The ruby stone at the end of the grip was not as scarlet as the blood that flowed down his groin and stained the expensive coverlet of his swan bed.

The miracle was that he still lived.

His eyes were blind and black, and a long sigh came from his slack mouth as Durell moved nearer. He tried to say something, but it was only meaningless air. Durell did not touch him.

The air smelled of perfume, blood, and feces, which stained Adolfo’s elegant slacks.

He moved around the bed and checked the bath, going fast; but he found only sunshine on a glittering tray of cosmetics. He repeated the careful, swift process with two closet doors. Nobody waited for him to turn his back.

He returned to the dying man. “Adolfo, can you hear me?”

The breath sighed with sibilance. “Si . . ."

“Who did it, Adolfo?”

He got a faint negative shake of the head. Adolfo drew his knees up tighter against the wound in his belly. There was grayness under his skin. In his eyes was defiance and even amusement.

“Can’t you tell me?” Durell insisted.

“I could—but I—I will not,” he gasped.

“I brought you the money. Twenty-five thousand American dollars.”

“Leave it—beside me.”

“But we made a bargain.”

Petty avarice flickered in the dying eyes. “Si.”

“Then tell me where to find Vecchio Zio.” Durell was urgent. “Quickly.”

“Would—would a
dottore
help me?”

“No.”

“Zio—” There was a long pause. “Ah, it hurts!” 

“Where can I find Zio?”

“He will—he will kill you.”

“I don’t believe that. He’ll help Gabriella.”

“No. Mama—spoke the truth.”

Durell said: “The money is yours. Where is he?” “Castel San Gi—Gi—”

There was a pause.

“Go on,” Durell said thinly.

But he spoke to a dead man.

DURELL tore the room apart. He worked with efficient haste, rooting out every possible secret. But someone had been here before him. Someone who was almost as professional as he. He found nothing.

He searched the dead man, not moving him any more than necessary. He found nothing there, either. Then he returned to the brightly colored living room. The children still screeched and ran in the courtyard.

And Karl Kronin waited for him.

He was not surprised. He had expected it.

Kronin seemed bigger than life, a dark shadow that darkened all the gay plumage of Cimadori’s cage. He was like an evil bird of prey, bald head shining, shoulders hunched, feet fiat on the rug, in a dark suit, an immaculate white shirt, and a dark tie with a stone in it that winked like a third eye. The gaze was hooded and vulturine; but there was sensuality in the broad, thick lips. His voice was heavy and hoarse.

“Ah, Mr. Durell, such a disappointment. I must ask you not to shoot me out of hand. It would be a disaster for both of us. You may keep your gun on me, but do not use it yet, please.” Kronin smiled with complete assurance.

Durell’s finger had indeed tightened with temptation on the trigger of his gun. Here was the man who had tried to kill him; here was the murderer of blind Colonel Mignon and foolish Amos Rand. Kronin’s only rule was gold and personal power and enjoyment of his role at the center of international affairs. Durell felt a dryness in his throat and hatred in his belly. But he could not afford to pull the trigger. Kronin was right.

The man’s English was only slightly accented. “I have come to bargain with you, and you expected me, eh? So. If you shoot me now, your mission will—how do you say it?—go down the drain. So I weighed the risks. I am not more personally brave than the next man, but I know all about you, Mr. Durell. You are intelligent and dangerous. But intelligence comes first. May we talk for a few moments?”

“Did you kill Adolfo?” he asked.

“That piece of dung? Not I.”

“Your men, then?”

“That is what they are paid for.” Kronin’s bald head was thrust even farther forward on his heavy shoulders. He was a powerful man, and Durell knew he wore a false left leg, although even when Kronin moved, ever so carefully under his gun, he scarcely betrayed his limp. It was said that Kronin lost the leg while fighting with the Albanian Reds against King Zog. But many things were said about Kronin, and no one could separate truth from the lies. All Durell knew at this moment was that he faced a man who was ruthless, amoral, and a Judas who would betray anyone for less than thirty pieces of silver. Kronin had almost put the fear of God into him. Now he had the hunter before him. It would be easy to kill him, Durell decided.

As if divining his thought, Kronin gestured for permission to sit down, hiked up his trouser leg with meticulous care, and showed a glint of aluminum from his false limb as he settled himself.

“We can come to terms of mutual profit,” he said decisively. “I know you do not believe this, but if you hear me out, you will know I speak the truth. Otherwise, why should I take this dreadful risk of confronting you? We both know this world better than most. I admire you. I wish we could work together.” He held up a placating hand against Durell’s anger. “I do not seriously suggest this. I know your morality. But it is a pity, since we are more intelligent than most, and life could be full and rich for us if we could cooperate.”

“There isn’t room in the world for both of us,” Durell said harshly.

“But you will listen?”

Durell nodded. “For a few moments.”

“Good. As for what you seek here, you have lost it, as you know. A pity you found Adolfo dead, eh? He might actually have helped you, in his petty way.”

So, Durell thought,
Kronin did not know that his assassin had slipped and left before making certain that Cimadori was actually dead. Kronin did not know that Adolfo had gasped out a few words before he died
. “Go on,” he said.

“Adolfo was dirt, as I said. A foolish and dissipated young man,. indulging in perverted luxuries. One cannot survive like a child playing with fire. No one will mourn him. How much money did he want?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” Durell said.

“And you brought it with you?”

“I have it, yes.”

Kronin licked his wide lips. He looked more evil than ever. There was an instant hunger in him that he could not hide. “It is a small sum but tidy.”

“Do you think you can get it from me?”

“Perhaps. Is it worth your life?”

“You’re talking nonsense,” said Durell.

“Then is it worth Gabriella’s life? Because you are all dead, you know. Dead and not aware of it yet. You have no idea how we can wait, how patient we can be. A few months, some years, even twenty years. And you will be cruelly dead. The charming Gabriella will be first.”

“I think we’ve talked enough.”

“But you will not kill me now. You think you will take me to your Naples Control of K Section, yes? I am worth more alive than dead. You have had time to control anger and think about this. What I know would close many of your files back in Washington. So listen to my offer. Everything I do must end in profit. It is my first rule in life. Your death now will gain nothing for me. You are only a nuisance, an emotional indulgence, you and your pitiful little band of hoodlums. You are fond of Gabriella, but have you considered what tragedy you bring her to? Or have you considered that she might betray you?”

“Get to the point.”

“I do so. I ask you to give up this foolish venture. O’Malley lied to you. He is a petty thief, and the Brothers must punish him, that is all. Zio cannot permit his breach of discipline. And since Gabriella associates with you, Zio condemns her, too.” Karl Kronin hitched up his trouser leg an inch more. “So, yes, I get to the point. You will leave Naples tonight. You will fly back to the States. I give you back your life this way. And you will consider the problem entirely resolved.” Durell shook his head. “I think not.”

Then the telephone rang.

The sound was discreet in the perfumed apartment. The instrument was at Kronin’s elbow, and he looked at Durell as if for permission to answer it; but he did not wait for Durell’s nod before he picked it up. His bald head shone glossily as he inclined his head to speak into the phone.

“
Pronto . . . Si, si .. . Sono qui . . .
” He listened and looked at Durell’s tall, dark figure. His smile moved like a wound across his harsh face. He nodded again.
“Buono .. . Buono . .. Ciao.”

He hung up and crossed his leg, careless of the gleaming metal that shone under his carefully creased trousers. “You lose, Cajun. Throw, game, and pot. Everything. You’re
carnazza successe
—dead meat, as we say. That was a call from my men. O’Malley has come over to our side. We promised him amnesty for the little Gabriella, whom he loves so much. Such a weakness, love! O’Malley would do anything for our promise not to harm the girl. So now we have him and Gabriella.”

“You’re lying.”

Kronin was not disturbed. “I never lie. You have nothing, I say. Like Dugalef, whom you killed, you no longer have even your life.”

It was almost true.

It happened so fast that afterward Durell was unsure of what he’d seen. But he remembered thinking of Colonel Mignon’s advice:
The man who wants to kill you had best do it himself.
He heard a click, and something moved in the shiny aluminum leg Kronin displayed. The sound, a brief phut!, came after he felt a stunning blow in his shoulder that knocked him back toward the balcony. Too late, he thought.
There wasn’t anything in his dossier about gimmicks in his trick leg.

He fired once, and again, but he was off-balance and not sure of his aim. Kronin moved with astonishing speed out of his armchair. At the same time, Durell glimpsed movement from the balcony, where a shadow abruptly blotted out the sunlight from the court beyond. He felt despair and a rage of defeat, and then something hit him and wiped out all the light completely.

HE SAID, “Ouch!” and he said, “Take it easy,” and then he said, “I’m sorry about that.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“It was stupid.”

“You couldn’t know. Nobody knew.”

“Turn off the light, will you?” he asked.

“The doc will be through in a minute.”

“Is it bad?”

“You’re lucky.”

He could see nothing beyond the glare of the surgical light above his face. He hurt all over. He knew this couldn’t be true and he concentrated on the pain and found that there was none in his left shoulder, only a feeling of something probing in there, and he guessed that was where the bullet went and where the surgeon was working.

“Kronin had a gun mechanism built into his metal leg,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“How did you know?”

“You’ve been cursing it ever since we reached you in Adolfo’s place, fifteen seconds after we heard the shot.” “Well, hell, where were you before that?” 

“Listening. We had the place bugged in cooperation with the Naples
carabinieri
.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Cajun, don’t you know who you’re talking to?” “No,” he said.

“All right. In a minute. Doc, how is it?”

Another voice said,
“Sono finito.”

“Will I live?” Durell asked.

“Unfortunately.”

“That’s how I feel about it,” Durell said.

“Here, swallow these pills.”

“What are they?”

“Juice pellets. You’ll be on your feet in half an hour. Riding high, wide, and handsome.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather die.” He swallowed the pills the hand gave him.

Onan McElroy was an elf in a green Borsalino, a silk suit, pointed Italian shoes, and an exclusive silk cravat from Theresa Barra’s. He had big pink ears and a saddle nose and blue eyes as old and wise as a leprechaun’s. His hair was the color. of dirty sand. His brogue was atrocious, his Italian perfect, and he was the Naples resident for K Section. He smoked a crooked Italian cigar and fondled a bottle of Stravei, then poured it into a glass of red Campari and added a dollop of Beefeater gin.

“How,” he said, and sighed with sybaritic luxury. “No bourbon?”

“At your elbow. Does the arm work?”

Durell tried it. “A little.”

“It was a small slug, after all. It takes more than that to kill you.”

“It knocked me down.”

“Sorry, that was me coming in the window.”

“What about Kronin?”

“Old Karl got clean away.”

“How come?”

Onan McElroy said, “I told you, we all make mistakes. This was a day for it. Who killed precious Adolfo?”

“Kronin’s people, I think.”

“The cops want to know.”

“Tell them anything,” Durell said.

“Not good enough.” McElroy pulled at one of his big pink ears. They sat in McElroy’s small living room, where the doctor had patched Durell’s wound. There was a view of the bay and the Amalfi peninsula creaming into the blue Mediterranean haze. Onan’s cover for his job was as the owner of a fleet of Naples’ notorious taxicabs. He was an Italian citizen, a bachelor of thirty-two, and in his spare time was an authority on the excavations at Herculaneum and an associate of the Naples National Museum. The books in his apartment proved it. When Durell looked at his watch and saw that it was just four o’clock, he was surprised. A lot had happened in a short time. Onan went on talking.