Castle in the Air

by Donald E. Westlake

  Above the droning din of existential conversation drifted the notes of a piano, playing over and over a vaguely-slow but syncopated, catchy yet boring, reminiscent yet not quite plagiarized little tune. The piano itself, in a far corner of the long smoky crowded room, was a battered upright, concealing from the general view the man playing it. Charles Moule was his name, he was short and slender but wiry-tough, he was of indeterminate age somewhere shy of forty, and he had a long bony deeply-lined face with a smoldering cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and with black eyes that spoke of too much hope blighted in too many bistros on too many Thursday nights. And Tuesdays as well.

  The fight broke out shortly after eight. The two men at a table in the middle of the room suddenly lunged at one another, swinging haymakers. The two women at the same table leaped to their feet, dragging daggers from the rolled tops of their stockings and having at one another. One of the men, struck by a flailing fist, staggered backward into another table, knocking a customer's beer into the customer's lap, and in no time at all the fight had spread into a general melee. Punches were thrown, and so were glasses, bottles, knives, chairs, tables and the occasional waiter.

  And through it all, the piano tinkled. Protected by the wall of the upright piano, lost in his own thoughts Charles Moule played on, oblivious of the screams, the curses, the threats, the moans and groans of the wounded, the crashing of furniture, the smashing of glass and ultimately the EE-OO EE-OO of approaching sirens. The same little tune babbled endlessly on, the same cigarette smoldered in the corner of Charles' mouth, the same faraway reflection remained in his blank eyes.

  Police burst in, swinging their nightsticks. They made order, but they did so by first making even more chaos-the old omelet-egg idea. But it didn't take them long to dampen the enthusiasm of the combatants, and then to start moving the ambulatory outside to paddy wagons. Ambulances arrived to deal with the non-ambulatory, and very soon the Bistro Chagrin was quiet again, except for that infernal tune. Waiters crept out from the safety of the kitchen to right the tables and chairs, sweep up the debris, restore order. The bistro settled into a kind of exhausted empty pensiveness, and Charles played on.

  Which was when Jean LeFraque and Renee Chateaupierre arrived, drifting as though aimlessly into the joint, ordering pernod (for Renee) and cassis (for Jean), then drifting past the empty tables to the upright piano, leaning their elbows and their glasses on the piano top, looking over it down at Charles. It was Jean who said, "Hello, Charles."

  Charles looked up, with a sad little smile, then looked down again at his moving fingers. The piano played on.

  Renee spoke: "Hello, Charles."

  Not looking up, Charles said, "Hello, Jean. Ah, Renee, good to see you back."

  "I wasn't gone anywhere," Renee said.

  "C'est la vie," said Charles, with a small shrug of the shoulder.

  Jean said, "Mauron told me you were here."

  "The piano is a good thing," Charles said, "when you want to be alone with your thoughts."

  Looking around the empty room, Renee said, "Not much business."

  With another small shrug, Charles said, "Well, it's a week-night."

  "True."

  "We had some action before."

  Getting down to business, Jean said, "Listen, Charles, you want in on something big?"

  Charles shrugged. "Naturally," he said.

  "Come on, then."

  Charles seemed to consider. The piano played on. At last Charles shrugged, saying, "All right, why not." Then he said, "Renee? Would you help me?"

  "Any time at all, Charles," she said.

  Charles nodded at the sheet music open on the piano stand. "Would you turn the page?"

  "Of course."

  Leaning over the piano top, Renee turned the page. Charles, squinting at the new page of sheet music, brought the tune to an end. "C'est fini," he said, and got to his feet.

  (c)

  On a narrow canal branching off a less narrow canal branching off a fairly wide canal branching off the Grand Canal of Venice, a gondola came sliding along, with a singing gondolier. He didn't sing particularly well, but at least he knew all the words. In Italian.

  Two people reclined within the gondola. One of these was a nice lady from Ohio, and the other was Angelo Salvagambelli, who was not particularly nice at all. They were smoodjing together, these people from two different worlds, murmuring sweet nothings into one another's ear.

  From the opposite direction came a flat-bottomed rowboat, effectively blocking the route of the gondola through the canal. In the rowboat, strongly rowing, sat Rosa Palermo, who didn't stop her strong rowing until her boat actually crashed into the prow of the gondola, bringing the gondola to an abrupt stop and hurling the gondolier into the dubious water, which brought the gondolier's song to an abrupt stop.

  The nice lady from Ohio and Angelo Salvagambelli both stopped smoodjing and stared into one another's eyes, taken aback.

  Simultaneously, they said, "What was that?"

  Simultaneously, they answered, "I don't know."

  Rosa, getting to her feet in the rowboat and brandishing a long heavy oar, now yelled at the top of her voice, "Worm!"

  The nice lady from Ohio and Angelo Salvagambelli both sat up and stared at this threatening apparition. Astounded, Angelo said, "Rosa?"

  "You," Rosa answered. "Our children are starving, our furniture is in the street, and where are you?"

  "Rosa," Angelo said, "what the hell is this?"

  The nice lady from Ohio stared at Angelo: "You're married?"

  Gesturing at Rosa, Angelo cried, "To that? What do you think of me?"

  The gondolier at last surfaced and attempted to scramble back up onto his perch at the rear of the gondola, shouting. He continued to shout and continued to scramble, but no one paid him the slightest attention.

  The nice lady from Ohio said, "No, Angelo. I can't stand a liar."

  "Me?" Angelo was thunderstruck.

  "Goodbye, Angelo," the nice lady from Ohio said. "Goodbye, forever." And with that, she dove into the dreadful water of the canal and swam strongly away, using the stroke she'd learned in Red Cross class.

  Angelo watched her go, his mouth open. The gondolier continued to try to scramble up onto the gondola, and continued to shout. He continued to be ignored.

  Angelo turned his head to stare at Rosa. "Rosa," he said, "you did this to me. Rosa, what are you pulling?"

  "I want to talk to you, Angelo," Rosa said, putting down her oar and no longer shouting. "I'm in a hurry," she said, in a brisk and practical way. "It's a business proposition."

  "If I would get married," Angelo told her, "I'd marry my grandmother before I'd marry you."

  "What you do in your family is up to you, Angelo. I want to talk business. Get out of that boudoir and into my boat."

  "Join you? If you think I'd-"

  "Get out of there," Rosa said, picking up the oar again, "or I'll sink it."

  Angelo was nothing if not clearheaded; he knew when he was beaten. Reluctantly transferring himself from the gondola to the rowboat, he complained, "You couldn't wait till we were finished? Just a little longer? Do you realize that was a schoolteacher from Canton, Ohio? Do you realize they have a union, schoolteachers in America? Do you realize she was going to buy me a watch?"

  Unsympathetic, Rosa sat down, reinserted the brandished oar in its oarlock, and said, "You listen to me, Angelo, you'll be able to buy your own watch. And someone nice to wear it." She began to row. The gondolier scrambled and shouted. Angelo sat gingerly in the prow of the rowboat. The canal smelled awful.

  ***

  The occupant of the jail cell, Vito Palone, was a retired master criminal, a bent little old man with a large gray head and a long gray nose and tired gray eyes. His cell was fairly small but not at all uncomfortable, with pretty curtains on the barred window and a nice rectangle of carpet on the floor, fluffy pillows and blankets on the bunk, pictures on the walls, a small bookcase, even a
hotplate and tiny refrigerator. Seated in a comfortable vinyl chair at a small but adequate writing desk, Vito Palone was writing his memoirs, in a small neat hand, in ink, on lined paper. At the moment he was writing:

  "It was then, in nineteen fifty-four, that I entered upon my final period of honest endeavor. With my profits from the burglaries described in chapter seventeen, I opened a small manufacturing concern, specializing in bones of the saints and fragments of the true cross. We made the fragments of the true cross in three different sizes, each encased in its own cube of clear lucite plastic. Interestingly enough, our domestic sales were heaviest in the smallest size, while the largest size made up the bulk of our foreign sales, particularly to Ireland. In fact, years later many of these plastic cubes containing the fragments of the true cross were thrown at British soldiers during the troubles in Belfast. So once again I had made a small contribution to history. Taxes, however, ate up most of the profits of my factory, and in early nineteen fifty-five I was forced to close my doors. Determined to get my money back from the tax officials, I-"

  At this point in his narrative, Vito Palone was interrupted by the removal of the outer wall of his cell. The whole thing, masonry, brick, mortar, was ripped off the face of the building and crumbled away in a great cloud of dust and rumbling of material. Vito, terrified, leaped to his feet, overturning his chair and table, and backed quaking to his door, as far from that now non-existent wall as he could get.

  And through the new opening, with its cloud of dust and smoke, stumbled two creatures, both in black clothing and black knit caps, both wearing crash helmets and scuba-diving equipment and thick work gloves.

  Vito stared in horror. "Martians!" he screamed. "Help, it's Martians!"

  One of the Martians lifted its scuba mask and revealed the irritated face of Rosa Palermo. "What Martians, you idiot?" she demanded. "It's me, Rosa Palermo. And here's Angelo, Angelo Salvagambelli, you remember him."

  "Rosa?" Vito peered at her through the descending dust.

  "Yeah, sure. Rosa. What do you think?"

  "Rosa." Then, in a swift transition from terror to indignation, Vito cried, "What have you done to my wall?"

  Lifting his own scuba mask, Angelo said, "We're here to rescue you."

  "Rescue?" Vito stared at these two crazy people in their crazy clothes. "Who wants to be rescued?"

  But they wouldn't listen to him. Replacing their scuba masks, they approached and each took one of his arms. "Come on," Rosa said, her voice muffled by the mask. "We'll explain the details later."

  "Let me go! Let me go!" Vito struggled uselessly against the strong younger hands.

  They drew him inexorably toward the ruined wall of his ruined cell, trampling on the fallen pictures of the saints. "Vito!" cried Angelo, hearty and stupid. "Vito, it's your comeback!"

  Vito wailed as they dragged him out to the sunlight: "But I don't want to come back!"

  Who listens?

  (d)

  The factory safe was being expertly burgled by Rudi Schlisselmann, a fiftyish, irritable, big-mouthed professional burglar. Around him, the city of Dortmund slept the sleep of honest burghers. Beneath his fingers, the safe's combination lock went click-click-click, as the tumblers whispered to him their secrets.

  And then the lights went on, pop, just like that, and two uniformed policemen rushed into the office, clutching automatics. Rudi leaped to his feet, clutching his chest: "My heart!"

  They ignored him. "Stop where you are, Rudi Schlisselmann!" shouted the first.

  "We have you this time!" shouted the second. "It's jail for you!"

  "But-" Rudi stared frantically from cold face to cold face. "Friends!" he cried, inaccurately. "Wait! Wait!"

  But they wouldn't wait. Without ceremony, they hustled Rudi out of the office and down the long room past all the lathes and out through the door Rudi himself had so recently and so expertly jimmied, while Rudi continued to shout his useless appeals. "Fellows," he cried, "I'm a veteran! I was in the Wehrmacht! We guys in uniform have to stick together!"

  Nothing. No response. No help. The bastard cops were probably too young to even remember the Wehrmacht. In fact, all of a sudden everybody was too young to remember the Wehrmacht.

  Outside was the police car, the same shade of dusty green as the policemen's uniforms, with its bright blue flasher light on top and the black letters POLIZEI in a white rectangle on each door. The policemen were just hustling Rudi into this vehicle when another policeman came along, obviously an officer, definitely bad-tempered, thoroughly in charge. "So," said this officer, tall and thin and stern-looking, "you caught him."

  "Yes, Herr Oberleutnant," said the first policeman, snapping to attention.

  "Caught him in the act," said the second policeman, "Herr Oberleutnant," also snapping to attention.

  "Very good," the officer said, approving of them with slight nods. "Very good."

  They preened under this minimal praise, shifting about as much as a person can do while standing at attention.

  "You will be commended for this," the officer went on, with more slight brisk nods, and the policemen's cheeks swelled with pleasure. Then the officer said, "I'll take over now. Bring him to my car."

  "Yes, Herr Oberleutnant."

  "Yes, Herr Oberleutnant."

  Rudi, meantime, had stopped his useless shouting and wheedling and was staring in a kind of glazed panicky disbelief at the officer. He didn't even resist when the two policemen marched him down the dark block to the black Mercedes under the next streetlamp, where the officer gestured curtly at the back seat and said, "Put him in."

  They did so. The rear window was open, and Rudi immediately stuck his head out, looking up in open-mouthed wonder at the officer, who told the policemen, "Return to your beat, now. Good luck."

  "Thank you, Herr Oberleutnant."

  "Thank you, Herr Oberleutnant."

  With stiff salutes, the two policemen marched quickly away to their own car, got in, and drove off, while the officer continued to stand on the sidewalk watching them and Rudi continued to hold his head outside the car window, staring up at the officer's chiseled face. Finally, as the police car was leaving, Rudi said, in soft tentative wonder, "Herman?"

  Herman continued to watch the police car on out of sight. Half-whispering, Rudi said, "Herman Muller?"

  "Just wait," Herman said. "They may circle the block."

  "I've always liked you, Herman," Rudi said, with an endearing big smile. "You know that, don't you? I've always said you were a prince. Ask anybody. I talk about you all the time. 'That Prince,' I say. 'Herman Muller, he's a Prince.' "

  "Hush, Rudi."

  "The uniform fits you nice. It's beautiful on you."

  At last Herman was satisfied that the police were gone, and swiftly he got behind the wheel of the Mercedes and started the engine. Rudi leaned forward to rest his forearms on the seatback and say, "We don't see enough of each other."

  "Oh, we will, Rudi," Herman told him, as they drove away. "We'll see a lot of one another."

  ***

  Deep in the Black Forest was the Lederhosen Inn, the world's largest cuckoo clock, a baroque but beautiful explosion of turned wood, stag antlers, alpenstocks, beer steins, banners and general gemuchtlichkeit, practically all of it authentic. Out front of the Inn waited four huge chartered buses, all with banners on their sides proclaiming: "Sons of the Mountains 23rd Annual Hike and Picnic." And from inside the Inn came the sound of a male chorus, strong joyful sounds emerging from hundreds of rugged male throats, belting out I Am A Happy Wanderer.

  Within the Inn, however, were no rugged male throats belting out any song at all. A rugged phonograph was playing a record of hundreds of rugged male throats belting out I Am A Happy Wanderer, at one end of a large high-ceilinged ballroom packed with trencher tables. Packed at these trencher tables were hundreds of fifty-five year old fat men in lederhosen, all of whom gave the appearance that they'd been drinking beer steadily for a month. They were now somnolent, coma
tose, moribund; in a word, passed out. They looked like the result of a gas attack.

  All but one. Moving in the room was one man, and one man only. Otto Berg by name, he looked like all the unconscious men, and was dressed like all the unconscious men, but he was different. First, he was different because he was up and awake and moving around sober. And second, he was different because he was picking everybody else's pockets.

  This was probably the biggest drunk-rolling caper in recorded history. There was an open knapsack on Otto Berg's back, and as he moved among his sleeping benefactors he tossed a steady stream of watches and wallets and rings into this knapsack, which was becoming quite significantly heavy.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Otto saw movement other than his own. It was the heavy end door of the ballroom, next to the record player, slowly opening. At once Otto dropped onto the nearest open bench space and pretended to be unconscious. When he ceased to move, in these circumstances, he became to all intents and purposes invisible.

  The heavy door finished opening, and in came a hesitant, tentative, reluctant Rudi Schlisselmann, dressed as a waiter in black tails and white shirt and black bow tie, and carrying a tray of beer mugs. Trying to look in all directions at once while a panicky placatory smile flickered and disappeared and jolted across his face, Rudi crept through the room, whispering, "Otto? Otto?"

  No one could have heard such whispering in a room full of that chorus of happy wanderers, and no one did hear it, including the man whose name was being mentioned. That is, he didn't hear it until one of Rudi's whispered Ottos came at the same instant the male chorus on the record was taking a breath. Also, Rudi was at that time very near the feigning Otto, and this combination of chorus-pause and propinquity made Otto hear his name being whispered, which made him look surreptitiously around, which made him see Rudi passing by, which made him sit up and whisper, "Rudi!"