"May I speak?" Matt asked.
"I'm waiting."
"I'm not going to hurt Penny. Period. I don't really think that… what happened…hurt her."
"And what are you going to do when she realizes that you don't love her?"
"I never told her I did."
"When she learns about the rest of your harem?" Amy asked, and pointed to the telephone. "Like the one who just called?"
Matt shrugged.
"I can only repeat that I will not hurt her," Matt said.
"You've already set the stage to do exactly that. She sees you as a life preserver, someone she can lean on. I don't know how she's going to react when she finds out, inevitably, that's not true. Certainly, you're not willing to assume emotional responsibility for her. And even if you were, I don't think you could handle it."
He didn't reply.
"Penny cannot be just one more notch on your gun, Matt."
"I never thought of her that way," Matt interrupted.
Amy ignored his response.
"You can't, when she becomes an inconvenience, tell Penny, the way you told that woman on the telephone just now, 'I can't talk to you right now. I'll call you right back.' She cannot take that kind of rejection, for that matter, any rejection right now. It would put her right back in The Lindens."
"Okay, you made your point."
"You're going to have to disabuse her of the notion that she's in love with you very gently."
"I told you, you made your point."
Amy glowered at him, but after a moment her face softened.
"Okay, Matt. Ihave made my point. And you're not really a sonofabitch. You're incredibly stupid and insensitive, of course, and you do most of your thinking with your penis. A typical male, I would say."
He looked at her and smiled.
"How about an egg roll?"
"You bastard!" Amy said, but she sat beside him on the couch and helped herself to an egg roll.
When she left, half an hour later, and he steeled himself to call Evelyn back, there was no answer.
He knew that if he stayed in the apartment he would get drunk, so he called Charley McFadden, and Charley's mother said he was out with his girlfriend.
He walked up Rittenhouse Square to the Rittenhouse Club, and stood at the bar and ordered a Scotch. There were some people there whom he knew vaguely, and who smiled at him. He moved down the bar and tried to join their conversation.
Before he finished his first drink, he realized that he was wholly disinterested in what they were talking about.
I look like them. I act like them. I am a product of the same socio-economic background. But I am no longer like them. I'm a cop.
So where does that leave me with Penny?
He motioned to the bartender, so that he could sign the chit, and then he went back to his apartment.
TWENTY-THREE
Matt woke instantly at the first ring of the telephone, and was instantly wide awake, and aware that he was in his armchair in the living room. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was quarter past eleven.
The telephone rang a second time. On the third ring, the answering machine would kick in.
Evelyn, of course. Who else? And Jesus, I don't want to talk to her!
He picked up the telephone a half second after the answering machine began to play his message.
He spoke over it. "I'm here. Hang on until the machine does its thing."
"Did I wake you up?" Sergeant Jerry O'Dowd asked.
"Yeah, but it's all right. What's up?"
"I thought if you didn't have anything better to do, you might want to put in some unpaid overtime."
No, as a matter of fact, I would not want to put in some overtime, paid or otherwise. But he wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.
"Sure. What's up?"
"Not to be repeated, okay?"
"Sure."
"I was not impressed with the two guys Olsen sent to relieve us at the airport. I know one of them, and he couldn't be trusted to follow an elephant down Broad Street."
"You want me to go out there? Lanza knows me."
"I thought about that. And decided it was worth the risk. But I wouldn't drive the Porsche."
Wohl doesn't know about this. If he did, he would tell me to stay at least five miles away from the airport.
As if he had read Mart's mind, O'Dowd said, "If there is any static, from Wohl especially, I'll take the heat. With a little bit of luck, no one will ever know about this but you and me. I'll be proven wrong about the guy I know."
"You'll have to explain that."
"If I'm wrong, and I hope I will be, the guys on Lanza will be able to follow him. If they can follow him, wherever he's going, fine, we'll hang it up. But if they lose him, which wouldn't be surprising, at midnight in that area, I want to be on him. Then I'll get on the radio and tell the other guys where he is."
"You want me to go with you?"
"No. I want both of us to follow him. That would have three people following him. I don't think all three of us would lose him. But if they did, and I did, and you didn't…"
"Okay. Where do I meet you?"
"There's an all-night diner on South Broad right across from the stadium. You know it?"
"Uh-huh."
"Twenty minutes?"
"I'll be there."
"Thanks, Matt. I've got one of those feelings about tonight."
"Twenty minutes," Matt repeated. "You still have Tony Harris's car?"
"Yeah," O'Dowd said, and hung up.
At ten minutes after eleven, Corporal Vito Lanza came out of the Airport Unit, went to the parking lot, unlocked his Cadillac, and entered the sparse stream of traffic leaving the airport in the direction of Philadelphia.
So did a four-year-old Pontiac, with two men in it; a new Ford sedan with one man in it; and a twelve-year-old Volkswagen driven by Detective M. M. Payne, who brought up the tail of the line.
Corporal Lanza took Penrose Avenue, sometimes known as Bridge Avenue, which carried him across the Schuylkill River to the stop light at the intersection of Pattison Avenue. Until this point, he had been driving in the left lane, and so had the Pontiac and the Ford. At the last moment, Corporal Lanza jerked the Cadillac into the right lane, and as the light turned red, he turned right onto Pattison Avenue.
The line of traffic closed up, and left the Pontiac and the Ford with no choice but to wait for the light to turn green again, with the hope that Corporal Lanza intended to get on South Broad Street, and that they could intercept him by following Penrose as it turns into Moyamensing Avenue, which angles to the right, and intersects South Broad Street at Oregon Avenue just north of Marconi Plaza.
Detective Payne, in the twelve-year-old Volkswagen, had not been able to get in line behind the Pontiac and the Ford in the left lane, and consequently was already in the right lane when Corporal Lanza abruptly moved into it.
He saw that the Pontiac and the Ford were trapped in the left lane, and thought, as the drivers of the Pontiac and the Ford did, that they could probably catch up with Lanza at South Broad and Oregon. But in the meantime, there was only one possible course of action for him to take, and he took it.
He drove the Bug onto the sidewalk, down the sidewalk to Pattison Avenue, and then down Pattison past the U.S. Naval Hospital and Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park to South Broad Street.
As he approached South Broad, as he saw Lanza's Cadillac turn left onto South Broad Street, the traffic light turned orange and then red. Matt ran it, which caused the horns of several automobiles to sound angrily. But he did not lose Lanza, even though Lanza was driving like hell.
Policemen tend to do that,Matt thought wryly, remembering his encounter with the State Trooper on the way to the Oaks and Pines Lodge,secure in the knowledge they are unlikely to get a ticket from a brother officer.
The traffic lights at first Oregon Avenue and then Snyder Avenue were green, permitting the Lanza Cadillac and the Payne Volkswagen to sail thro
ugh without stopping. They were stopped at Passyunk Avenue and South Broad Street, however, which gave Detective Payne the opportunity to search in vain in his rearview mirror for either a Ford or a Pontiac.
Corporal Lanza turned left at the intersection of South Broad and Spruce Streets, and then wove his way around to the Penn-Services Parking garage, which he entered.
Detective Payne was familiar with the Penn-Services Parking garage, which was around the corner from the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel and not far from his apartment and the Union League Club. It was in the Penn-Services Parking garage that Mr. Anthony "Tony the Zee" DeZego had met his untimely end at the hand of assassin or assassins unknown. Where Matt found Miss Penelope Detweiler lying in a pool of her own blood.
Matt drove around the block until he saw Corporal Lanza come out of the building. Lanza did not look at the Volkswagen as it passed him.
Matt parked the Volkswagen illegally in an alley and ran down the alley and saw Lanza crossing a street. He followed him as discreetly as he could, very much afraid that Lanza would sense his presence and turn around.
But he didn't. He walked purposefully down a street and entered an apartment building. Matt looked around for a pay telephone but couldn' t see one.
He backtracked to the next block and found a tavern. He went inside, went to the phone booth, and searched his pockets futilely for coins. The bartender was visibly reluctant to make change for someone who didn't even buy a lousy beer, but finally came through.
Matt called Police Radio and asked the dispatcher to pass to William Five (Harris's radio call sign) his location.
****
Sergeant Jerry O'Dowd, in Tony Harris's Ford, pulled up in front of the tavern less than ten minutes later. Before he was completely out of the car, the Pontiac pulled up behind him, and two men Matt had never seen before got out of it.
"Lanza's in an apartment around the corner," Matt said to O'Dowd.
"Good man," O'Dowd said.
"Until you called me on the radio, O'Dowd, I didn't know you were in on this," one of the two men from the Pontiac said. He pointed at Matt. "Or him. He works for you?"
"Excuse me," O'Dowd said politely. "Sergeant Framm, Detective Pillare, this is Detective Payne."
Both men shook Matt's hand.
"It's a good thing we were, wouldn't you say, Framm?" O'Dowd asked. "You lost Lanza before you got to the Naval Hospital."
There was no doubt in Matt's mind that Sergeant Framm was the man O'Dowd would not trust to follow an elephant down Broad Street.
"I got caught in traffic…" Framm began.
"Nobody, Olsen or Wohl, has to know about this," O'Dowd interrupted. "Payne did not lose Lanza. Everything is fine."
"Yeah, well…Hell, all's well that ends well, right?"
"Show us the apartment, Matt," O'Dowd said, "and then you can get some sleep."
When Matt got back to the apartment, the red light on the answering machine was flashing.
"I knew you wouldn't call me back," Evelyn's recorded voice said. "What have I done wrong, Matt?"
****
Mssrs. Paulo Cassandro, Joseph Fierello, Francesco Guttermo, Ricco Baltazari, and Gian-Carlo Rosselli were sitting at a table at the end of the bar off the lobby of the Hotel Warwick.
Mr. Rosselli took an appreciative sip of his Ambassador 24 Scotch, set the glass delicately down on the marble tabletop, and consulted his Rolex Oyster wristwatch.
"It's almost one," he announced, and then inquired, "How long does it take to drive from the airport?"
"At this time of night," Frankie the Gut replied, "twenty minutes, thirty tops."
"You're saying you don't think he's coming here?" Mr. Cassandro asked.
"Do you see him?" Mr. Rosselli asked. He turned to Mr. Fierello. " Why don't you call your 'niece' and see if he's there?"
"I don't have the number."
"I got it," Mr. Baltazari said, and took a gold Parker ballpoint pen from his pocket, wrote a number inside a Hotel Warwick matchbook, and handed it to Mr. Fierello.
"That's right," Mr. Rosselli said, "I forgot. You know Joe's niece, don't you, Ricco?"
Mr. Fierello and Mr. Cassandro laughed, but it was evident that Mr. Baltazari did not consider the remark amusing.
Mr. Fierello got up from the table and went to one of the pay telephones in the lobby. He was back at the table in less than two minutes.
"He's there."
Mr. Rosselli nodded. He sat thoughtfully for a moment and then nodded again. He stood up.
"Just in case, Ricco, I think you'd better give me the key to the apartment."
"You don't want me to go?"
"Paulo and I can handle it," Mr. Rosselli said. "And I wouldn't want that your jealousy should get in the way."
Mr. Cassandro and Mr. Guttermo laughed.
"Shit!" Mr. Baltazari said.
He removed a key from a ring and handed it to Mr. Rosselli.
"Take care of the bill, will you, Frankie?" Mr. Rosselli asked.
"My pleasure," Mr. Guttermo said.
Mr. Rosselli and Mr. Cassandro left the bar by the door leading directly to the street. They turned south.
"What do you want to do about the car, Carlo?" Mr. Cassandro asked.
"Leave it in the garage," Mr. Rosselli said, his tone suggesting the answer should have been evident. "Jesus, Paulo, you leave a car like a Jaguar on the street, you come back, it'll either be gone or there'll be nothing left but the windshield."
"Yeah," Mr. Cassandro agreed, his tone suggesting that he regretted raising the question.
They walked to the apartment building in which Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer maintained her residence. There was a fouryear-old Pontiac parked halfway down the block on the other side of the street, but neither gentleman paid it more than cursory attention.
The interior lobby door was locked. Mr. Cassandro took a small, silver pocketknife, which was engraved with his initials, from his pocket, opened it, and slipped the blade into the lock. He then pushed open the door and held it for Mr. Rosselli to pass inside.
They took the elevator to the fifth floor, and walked down the corridor.
"Here it is," Mr. Cassandro said, stopping before the door to Apartment 5-F.
"Ring the bell," Mr. Rosselli ordered.
Sixty seconds later, Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer, wearing a bathrobe, opened the door.
"Hi, ya, Tony," Mr. Rosselli said. "Sorry to disturb you. But we have to talk to Vito. Is he here?"
Mrs. Schermer looked distinctly uncomfortable. She stepped back from the door, and waited for them to come into the apartment, then closed the door after them.
"Yo, Vito! It's Gian-Carlo Rosselli. You there?"
"He's in the bedroom," Tony Schermer said. "Give him a minute."
"Take your time, Vito," Mr. Rosselli called cheerfully. "Put your pants on."
Mr. Cassandro chuckled.
"Can I offer you something?" Tony asked.
"You got a little Scotch and water, I wouldn't say no. Paulo?"
"Yeah, me too."
Tony went into the kitchen.
Corporal Lanza came out of the bedroom, which opened onto the living room, barefoot, wearing a T-shirt and his uniform trousers.
"Hey," he greeted his callers somewhat uncomfortably. "What's up?"
"Well, when you didn't show up at the Warwick, we figured, what the hell, we'll go see him. I hope we didn't interrupt anything?"
"Nah. The reason I didn't come over there-I wanted to-was I didn't have any decent clothes to change into at the airport, and I can't be seen drinking in uniform. They'd have my ass."
"I understand," Mr. Rosselli said. "Anyway, a cop would make the customers nervous."
"Yeah."
Tony came into the room carrying two glasses.
"Can I fix you one, honey?" Tony asked.
"Why not?" Vito replied.
There were several minutes of somewhat awkward silence while Tony went into the kitche
n and made Vito a drink.
"Honey, there's no reason for you to lose your beauty sleep," Mr. Rosselli said. "We're just going to sit around and have a couple of shooters. Why don't you go to bed? When we need another, Vito'll make it. Right, Vito?"
"Right," Vito said.
"Okay, then," Tony said. "If you're sure you don't mind, Vito."
"Go to bed," Vito said.
When she had closed the door behind her, Mr. Rosselli said, "I like her. She's a nice girl, Vito."
"Yeah, Tony's all right," Vito agreed.
"Vito, I'm going to tell you something, and I hope you'll believe me," Mr. Rosselli said.
"Why shouldn't I believe you?"
"You should. When I asked you to come by the Warwick for a couple of shooters, a couple of laughs, that was all I had in mind. You believe me?"
"Absolutely. And I wanted to come, and if I had the clothes, I would have. Next time."
"Right. Next time," Mr. Rosselli said. "But between the time I seen you and the plumbers…what's all that going to cost you, by the way?"
"A fucking bundle is what it's going to cost me. Those bastards know they've got you by the short hair."
"Yeah, I figured. Well, what the hell are you going to do? You can bitch all you want, but in the end, you end up paying, right?"
"Right."
"Like I was saying, Vito, between the time I was at your house and tonight, something has come up. We got a little problem that maybe you can help us with."
"What kind of a problem?"
"You ever hear of the guy that broke the bank at Monte Carlo?" He waited until Vito nodded, and then went on: "We had a guy between nine o'clock and nine-fifteen tonight, that goddamned near broke the bank at Oaks and Pines."
"No shit?"
"Sonofabitch was drunk, which probably had a lot to do with it, a sober guy wouldn't have bet the way he did."
"Like how?"
"He was playing roulette. He bet a hundred, split between Zero and Double Zero. He hit. That gave him eighteen hundred. He let that ride. He hit again…"
"Jesus!"
"That gave him, what? Thirty thousand, thirty-two thousand, something like that."
Vito thought: Jesus Christ, that's the kind of luck I need!
The Assassin boh-5 Page 39
