“And so?”
“And so I want my money. No theft took place, so you owe me ten thousand pounds.”
“Your deal was with Haskins,” the Ambassador reminded him.
“But I’m collecting from you.”
Gibellion shook his head. “You’ve already collected your fee, Velvet. You were paid by the anti-Gola forces to steal the birds, and you collected from them this afternoon.”
Nick frowned at him across the desk. “I gather you’ve been talking with Stavanger.”
Gibellion shook his head. “You fail to fully comprehend the intricacy of the situation.” His hand came up from under the desk and it was holding a nickel-plated revolver pointed at Nick’s chest. “You see, I am Stavanger.”
Nick leaned back in the chair, keeping his voice casual. “That’s fine. Then I get paid twice by the same man.”
“Your payment is right here,” the Ambassador said, and the gun edged up a trifle. “You are a thief, Mr. Velvet. You have already robbed me of one payment—for seven false ravens you obviously obtained from a pet shop. I could hardly admit to the girl that I knew the birds were fakes, and so I had to pay for them.”
“Finding those birds last night was a harder job than stealing them,” Nick said. “I had to drive all the way to Greenwich to find a pet shop you hadn’t emptied for your little trick this morning. I’ll admit I was beginning to wonder about the identity of the man in the false beard who was buying black birds.”
“The birds were purchased over a period of several weeks. I have been planning this for some time.” The gun edged up another fraction.
“Before you shoot me, Gibellion, you could at least explain why you did it.”
“Why? There were two reasons, really. One was simply to embarrass the President of Gola on his visit here. But much more important, I wanted to discredit myself and force my recall back home. As Stavanger I have built up a complex underground system in Gola, an army of faithful revolutionaries waiting to follow me. But I am the only man who can lead them, and here I am in London, chained to an Ambassador’s desk. By allowing the theft to take place I incurred the President’s anger and will be sent home in disgrace—which is exactly what I wanted! It is far more effective and less suspicious than if I merely resigned. I will be back in Gola next week, ready to lead the revolution.”
Nick saw the Ambassador’s finger whiten on the trigger, and he tensed for a leap. Then suddenly the window through which he’d entered opened again, and the room was alive with birds. Gibellion jerked back in his chair as a bird darted in front of his eyes and circled toward the ceiling.
Nick waited no longer. He dove across the desk, knocking the gun away and pinning the Ambassador in his chair.
Pat McGowan entered through the window, wearing black slacks and a sweater, and looking that moment even more beautiful than Nick remembered. “The same bird trick,” he said with admiration.
She grinned and took a little bow. “Stavanger’s driver told me he didn’t even want the birds. He left them in the limousine this afternoon. I brought them here to sell them back to Gibellion—anything for a little extra money—and overheard your conversation just now. I was as surprised as you to learn that Stavanger and Gibellion were the same man. I’d never seen the Ambassador before, not even in pictures.”
“I have to thank you for saving my life,” Nick told her. The birds were still swooping around the room, enjoying their, freedom.
“I decided your life was worth saving,” she said.
Releasing his grip on Gibellion, Nick reminded him, “I believe you were about to pay me my fee. Ten thousand pounds.”
The Ambassador sputtered and struggled to his feet. Nick stood by his side as he removed the money from a wall safe. Behind him, Pat McGowan was trying to coax the birds back into their cage. “You’ve been paid twice for nothing,” Gibellion complained. “You didn’t steal the birds, and you didn’t prevent their theft.”
“But you now have fourteen ravens—these seven and your original seven. The extra birds should be worth the extra fee.” Nick grinned and pocketed the money without counting it. Then he took the girl’s hand and they left quickly by the window, before the Ambassador could retrieve his revolver.
“It looks as if I’m no longer working for Stavanger,” Pat remarked as they reached the next block.
“Just as well. Somehow I don’t think he really had much interest in your Irish matters.” He hailed a passing cab. “Let’s go somewhere for a quiet drink. I’ve already missed my plane.”
“What will happen to him now, Nick? To Gibellion, I mean.”
“Who knows? Maybe his brand of revolution is good for Gola. Maybe by next year he’ll be visiting the Queen himself, and she’ll get her seven ravens after all.”
The Theft of the Mafia Cat
NICK VELVET HAD ALWAYS harbored a soft spot for Paul Matalena, ever since they’d been kids together on the same block in the Italian section of Greenwich Village. He still vividly remembered the Saturday afternoon when a gang fight had broken out on Bleecker Street, and Paul had yanked him out of the path of a speeding police car with about one inch to spare. He liked to think that Paul had saved his life that day, and so, being something of a sentimentalist, Nick responded quickly to his old friend’s call for help.
He met Paul in the most unlikely of places—the Shakespeare garden in Central Park, where someone many years ago had planned a floral gathering which was to include every species of flower mentioned in the works of the Bard. If the plan had never come to full blossom it still produced a colorful setting, a backdrop for literary discussion.
“‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance,’” Paul quoted as they strolled among the flowers and shrubs. “‘And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.’”
Nick, who could hardly be called a Shakespeare scholar, had come prepared. “‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,’” he countered.
“You’ve gotten educated since we were kids, Nick.”
“I’m still pretty much the same. What can I do for you, Paul?”
“They tell me you’re in business for yourself these days. Stealing things.”
“Certain things. Those of no great value. You might call it a hobby.”
“Hell, Nick, they say you’re the best in the business. I been hearing about you for years now. At first I couldn’t believe it was the same guy.”
Nick shrugged. “Everyone has to earn a living somehow.”
“But how did you ever get started in it?”
The beginning was something Nick rarely thought about, and it was something he’d never told another person. Now, strolling among the flowers with his boyhood friend, he said, “It was a woman, of course. She talked me into helping her with a robbery. We were going to break into the Institute for Medieval Studies over in New Jersey and steal some art treasures. I got a truck and helped her remove a stained-glass window so we could get into the building. While I was inside she drove off with the window. That was all she’d been after in the first place. It was worth something like $50,000 to collectors.”
Paul Matalena gave a low whistle. “And you never got any of it?”
Nick smiled at the memory. “Not a cent. The girl was later arrested, and the window recovered, so perhaps it’s just as well. But that got me thinking about the kind of objects people steal. I discovered there are things of little or no value that can be worth a great deal to certain people at certain times. By avoiding the usual cash and jewelry and paintings I’m able to concentrate on the odd, the unusual, the valueless.”
“They say you get $20,000 a job, and $30,000 for an especially dangerous one.”
Nick nodded. “My price has been the same for years. No inflation here.”
“Would you do a job for me, Nick?”
“I’d have to charge you the usual rate, Paul.”
“I understand. I wasn’t asking for anything free.”
“Some say you’re a big man in the
Mafia these days. Is that true?”
Matalena shot him a sideways glance. “Sure, it’s true. I’m right up with the top boys. But we don’t usually talk about it.”
“Why not? I’m an Italian-American just like you, Paul, and I think it’s wrong to act as if organized crime doesn’t exist. What we should do is admit it, and then go on to stress the accomplishments of other Italian-Americans—men like Fiorello LaGuardia, John Volpe, and John Pastore in government, Joe DiMaggio in sports, and Gian Carlo Menotti in the arts.”
“I stay out of policy matters, Nick. I’ve got me a nice laundry business that covers restaurants and private hospitals. Brings me in a nice fat income, all legit. In the beginning I had to lean on some of the customers, but when they found out I was Mafia they signed up fast. And no trouble with competition.”
“You must be doing well if you can afford my price. What do you want stolen?”
“A cat.”
“No problem. I once stole a tiger from a zoo.”
“This cat might be tougher. It’s Mike Pirrone’s pet.”
Nick whistled softly. Pirrone was a big man in the Syndicate—one of the biggest still under 50. He lived in a country mansion on the shore of a small New Jersey lake. Not many people visited Mike Pirrone. Not many people wanted to.
“The cat is on the grounds of his home?”
Matalena nodded. “You can’t miss it. A big striped tabby named Sparkle. Pirrone is always being photographed with it. This is from a magazine.”
He showed Nick a picture of Mike Pirrone standing with an older, white-haired man identified as his lawyer. The Mafia don was holding the big tabby in his arms, almost like a child. Nick grunted and put the picture in his pocket. “First time I ever saw Pirrone smiling.”
“He loves that cat. He takes it with him everywhere.”
“And you want to kidnap it and hold it for ransom?”
Matalena chuckled. “Nick, Nick, these wild ideas of yours! You haven’t changed since schooldays.”
“All right. It’s not my concern, as long as your money’s good.”
“This much on account,” Matalena said, slipping an envelope to Nick. “I need results by the weekend.”
They strolled a bit longer among the flowers, talking of old times, then parted. Nick caught a taxi and headed downtown.
Mike Pirrone’s mansion was a sprawling ranch located on a hill overlooking Stag Lake in northern New Jersey. It was a bit north of Stag Pond, in an area of the state that boasted towns with names like Sparta and Athens and Greece. It was fishing country, and the man at the gas station told Nick, “Good yellow perch in these lakes.”
“Might try a little,” Nick admitted. “Got my fishing gear in back. How’s Stag Lake?”
“Mostly private. If you come ashore at the wrong spot it could mean trouble.”
Nick thanked him and drove on, turning off the main road to follow a rutted lane that ran along the edge of the Pirrone estate. The entire place was surrounded by a wall topped by three strands of electrified wire. As he passed the locked gates and peered inside, he saw the large sprawling house on its hill about two hundred feet back. The lake lay at the end of the road, and a chain-link fence ran from the end of the wall into the water. Mike Pirrone was taking no chances on uninvited guests.
Nick was studying the layout when a girl’s voice spoke from very close behind him. “Thinking of doing some fishing?”
He turned and saw a willowy blonde in white shorts and a colorful print blouse standing by the back of his car. He hadn’t heard her approach and he wondered how long she’d been watching him. “I might try for some yellow perch. I hear they’re biting.”
“It’s mostly private property around here,” she said. Her face was hard and tanned, with features that might have been Scandinavian and certainly weren’t Italian.
“I noticed the wall. Who lives there—Howard Hughes?”
“A man named Mike Pirrone. You probably never heard of him.”
“What business is he in?”
“Management.”
“It must be profitable.”
“It is.”
“You know him?”
She smiled at Nick and said, “I’m his wife.”
After his unexpected encounter with Mrs. Pirrone, Nick knew there was no chance for a direct approach to the house. He rented a boat in mid-afternoon and set off down the lake, trolling gently along the shoreline. No one was more surprised than Nick when he hooked a large fish almost at once. It could have been a yellow perch, but he wasn’t sure. Fishing was not his sport.
The boat drifted down to a point opposite the Pirrone estate, and Nick checked the shoreline for guards. No one was visible, but through his binoculars he could see a group of wire cages near the main house. Since the cat Sparkle could be expected to sleep indoors, the cages seemed to indicate dogs—probably watchdogs that prowled the grounds after dark.
Working quickly, Nick filled his jacket pockets with fishhooks, lengths of nylon leader, and a folded and perforated plastic bag. A few other items were already carefully hidden on his person, but the binoculars and fishing pole would have to be abandoned. He used a small hand drill to bore a tiny hole in the bottom of the boat, then watched while the water began to seep in. He half stood up in the boat, giving an image of alarm to anyone who might have been watching, then threw the drill overboard and quickly headed the boat toward shore. In five minutes he was beached on the Pirrone estate; the boat was half full of water.
For a few minutes he stood by it as if pondering his next move. Then he looked up toward the house on the hill and started off for it, carrying his fish. Almost at once he heard the barking of dogs and suddenly two large German shepherds were racing toward him across the expanse of lawn. Nick broke into a run, heading for the nearest tree, but as the dogs seemed about to overtake him they stopped dead in their tracks.
Nick leaned against the tree, panting, and watched a white-haired man walking across the lawn toward him. It was the man in the picture—Pirrone’s lawyer—and he held a shiny silver dog whistle in one hand.
“They’re well trained,” Nick said by way of greeting.
“That they are. You could be a dead man now, if I hadn’t blown this whistle.”
“My boat,” Nick said, gesturing helplessly toward the water. “It sprang a leak. I wonder if I could use your phone?”
The man was well dressed, in the sporty style of the town and country gentleman. He eyed Nick up and down, then nodded. “There’s a phone in the gardener’s shed.”
Nick had hoped to make it into the house, but he had no choice. As the lawyer led the way, Nick held up his fish and said, “They’re really biting today.”
The man grunted and said nothing more. He led Nick to a small shack where tools and fertilizer were stored and pointed to the telephone on the wall. Nick put down his fish and dialed information, seeking the number of a taxi company. He’d just got the operator when the fish by his foot gave a sudden lurch. He looked down to see a large striped tabby cat pulling at it with a furry paw.
“Sparkle,” Nick whispered. “Here, Sparkle.”
The cat lifted its head in response to the name. It seemed to be awaiting some further conversation. Nick bent to stroke it under the chin and saw the legs of a man in striped slacks and golf shoes. His eyes traveled upward to a broad firm chest and the familiar beetle-browed face above. It was Mike Pirrone, and he wasn’t smiling. In his hand he held a snub-nosed revolver pointed at Nick’s face.
“To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr. Velvet?”
The house was fit for a don, or possibly a king, with a huge beamed living room that looked out over the lake. The furniture was expensive and tasteful, and Pirrone’s blonde wife fitted the setting perfectly. She was much younger than her husband, but seeing them together one quickly forgot the difference in ages. Pirrone was approaching 50 gracefully, with a hint of youth that occasionally broke through the dignified menace of his stony face.
&nb
sp; “He’s the fisherman I told you about,” Mrs. Pirrone said as they entered. Her eyes darted from Nick to her husband.
“Yes,” Pirrone said softly. “It seems he was washed up on our shore, and I recognized him. His name is Nick Velvet.”
“The famous thief?”
“None other.”
Nick smiled. He still held the fish at the end of a line in one hand. “You have me at a disadvantage. I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”
“We met. A long time ago at a political dinner. I never forget a face, Velvet. It costs money to forget faces. Sometimes it costs lives. I’m Mike Pirrone, as you certainly know. This is my wife, Frieda, and my lawyer, Harry Beaman.”
The white-haired man nodded in acknowledgment and Nick said deliberately, “I thought he was your dog trainer.”
Mike Pirrone laughed softly and Beaman flushed. “He does have a way with the dogs,” Pirrone said. “He’s trained them well. But they only guard the place. I’m a cat fancier myself.” As if to illustrate he bent and cupped his arms. Sparkle took a running leap and landed in them. “This cat goes everywhere I go.”
“Beautiful animal,” Nick murmured.
Pirrone continued to stroke the cat for a few moments, then put it down. “All right, Velvet,” he said briskly. “What do you want here?”
“Merely to use the phone. My boat sprang a leak.”
“You’re no fisherman,” Pirrone said, pronouncing the words like a final judgment.
“Here’s my fish,” Nick countered, holding it up; but the don was unimpressed.
“You scouted my place and you managed to get inside. What for?”
“Even a thief needs a vacation now and then.”
“You don’t take vacations, Velvet. I investigated you quite closely a few years back, when I almost hired you for a job. I know your habits and I know where you live. Who hired you, and why?”
“I didn’t even know this was your place till I met your wife this morning.”
Thefts of Nick Velvet Page 10
