Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double

by Harold Robbins

  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!”

  10

  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 a
nd 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?”

  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.”