Party Of The Year

by Inconnu(e)

  “How can I dance with that thing stuck to my leg?” wailed Lucia.

  “You won’t even know it’s there in a minute,” said Cassidy sternly. “You’re not to tell anyone it’s there, and remember you’re not to use it except in dire emergency.”

  Pulling her by the hand toward the elevator they both faced the steel gates, avoiding each other’s eyes in a highly uncomfortable silence.

  “If it comes, don’t forget to squeeze slowly. Don’t let yourself be hurried, and don’t waste shots. You have only nine,” said Cassidy.

  • 28 •

  The noise was earsplitting.

  In the half hour since Cassidy had left, the party had begun to take hold, the dance floor alive with dancers, the tables—filling with the gowned, the jeweled, the dinner-jacketted—all looking a little misty and unreal in the candlelit gloom.

  Lucia was bewitched. “I’ve never been to a grownup party before,” she whispered. “There’s Gogo. Hello, Gogo.”

  The Earl of Canossa was lounging languidly at the side of the dance floor, swaying slightly to his own interior rhythms. When he caught sight of Lucia, his face lit up with his famous smile. “Shall we have a whirl, Contessa?” he said. To Cassidy. “Will you forgive us, sir.”

  He had marvelous manners, no question of it. Cassidy watched a little sadly as Gogo Canossa bore Lucia away to the dance floor where they plunged precipitately into the Fregesi, Canossa moving languorously, voluptuously. Lucia coltishly, her mousy hair flying, eyes bright as harvest moons. Whatever emotional problems she had had were pushed aside by the physical urgencies of the Fregesi.

  Cassidy circled the dance floor, keeping an eye on Lucia, looking around to see what he could see. Chantal de Niailles was dancing with John Spaulding. Gigi Cadwallader was doing his extraordinarily dignified version of the Fregesi with Bibi Pilenski.

  At the security table, Jane Atchison was taking notes in her lap, keeping pencil and paper out of sight, while keeping up a running commentary to Feinberg.

  “That little blonde with George Luvacs is Tessa de Ouvranche from Brazil. Only eighteen and supposed to be the hottest fuck in the western hemisphere. Poor child, she’s out of fashion. Nymphomania was last year. This year chastity is very hot.”

  “Hot chastity,” said Feinberg. “I like that.”

  The Principessa, Cassidy noted, was going from table to table, greeting her guests, radiant in the candlelight which she had probably planned just for that purpose.

  Cassidy drew Fingertips away from the table.

  “What’s up?” asked Fingertips, sensing the trouble.

  “Everything,” said Cassidy. “Keep an eye on Lucia, will you? Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  “Right.”

  Cassidy picked up the phone on the security table and asked for Alfred the Great. Through the gloom he could see the di Rapallos, their faces etched with disapproval which had deepened in the half hour he’d been gone to an expression approaching horror. Had the Principessa just invited them for contrast with the smiles, the laughter, the blaring music? She was quite mischievous enough to do something like that.

  “Well, where the hell is he?” barked Cassidy. Alfred was neither at the restaurant lobby, the front lobby, or in his office.

  “I don’t know, sir!” said the operator, a fierce old spinster who ran the switchboard from 10 P.M. till 6 A.M. at the Windletop because she needed the money. “He always leaves word. Always!”

  “What does the Front say?” The Front had been bribed into working until dawn for the Principessa’s party.

  “He doesn’t know either.”

  “Try his room!”

  “I’ve tried it.”

  “Try it again.”

  Cassidy watched Lucia whirling in Gogo Canossa’s arms, as he hung on the phone. She was having a very good time, her plain face lustrous. Girlhood’s last gasp, Cassidy thought. Soon, she’d be eighteen like Tessa de Ouvranche and would she too be the hottest? . . . no, not Lucia. Cassidy was glad chastity was back in fashion again.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Feinberg, sensing the urgency.

  “Nothing! Everything!” said Cassidy, trying to throw Feinberg off. He didn’t want The New York Times around his neck when there was so much to be done. “Remember those old Joan Crawford movies when somebody said ‘What’s the matter?’ she’d say ‘Nothing. Everything!’ and laugh, Ha ha ha.”

  “She never did,” said Feinberg wisely. “And Charles Boyer never said ‘Come wiz me to ze Casbah’ to Hedy Lamarr either. Those are just myths. Something is the matter.”

  Miss Jasper came back on: “No answer in his room.”

  “Ask Rooftop if he’s seen him. 502.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Miss Jasper. Cassidy heard her ring 502—a long ring. Cassidy looked at his watch—11:15.

  Cassidy watched the Principessa making her rounds of the tables, joy pinned on her features like an orchid on a dress. At each table, there were embraces and kisses and bursts of greeting like shooting stars. She’d sit for a while before moving on, to hear the latest gossip from Peru—or wherever. At that moment, she was at a banquette by the window overlooking Manhattan, straight and slim as always, the golden hair shining through the candlelight. Even at that distance he lusted after her savagely and, in that moment of unbridled lust, he knew as well as he knew his own name he’d never have her again. Not ever.

  Miss Jasper was back on the phone: “No answer!”

  “Try 506, he might be on the elevator.”

  Miss Jasper rang 506.

  The dance floor had got very crowded, and the tumult was deafening. The Principessa had hired Joald Frantic, the world renowned disco expert, a wizard at controlling the pace, tempo, and volume at parties so as to produce the maximum orgasmic effect on the dancers. At that second he was lashing on the dancers with Anyone But You, which was Number 1 on the charts:

  I’ll love

  Anyone but you

  The Antichrist were singing it in their falsetto voices that contrasted so strangely with their virile appearance on the dust jacket of the albums.

  I’ll fly with

  I’ll lie with

  I’ll die with

  Anyone but you.

  Lovely song.

  Miss Jasper was back on the phone: “No answer there, sir.”

  The worst news of all. He’d told Rooftop not to leave his post under any circumstances and if, for some unforeseen reason, he had to take the elevator, to stay in it—not to leave it. If he wasn’t available on 502, he should be on 506. If reachable on neither . . .

  “Mr. Cassidy, I have another call. I can’t hang on any longer.”

  “Go ahead, Miss Jasper,” said Cassidy politely. “I’ve got to think.” He hung up, head spinning. He didn’t want to leave the dance floor but he had to find out. That had always been the weak spot in the defense, that back door—and with Titi missing . . .

  The Antichrist were caroling:

  I’ll do anything

  And everything

  With anyone

  But you, baby.

  The Gypper stood at his elbow.

  “Sorry, I took so long. The lady at the elevator took a bit of talking to. Didn’t know about me.”

  “Come on,” said Cassidy. He rose and started toward the rear exit. Then he stopped.

  Where was Lucia? Cassidy had caught sight of Gogo Canossa who had been Lucia’s partner, now dancing with Bibi Pilenski. Or rather not dancing with Bibi Pilenski.

  There was Lucia—dancing with George Luvacs. Why? She didn’t look as if she were liking it either. Where before she had looked as if she were in heaven, she now looked pained, dancing dutifully with the Hungarian who was himself a very suave dancer.

  Cassidy turned back to the security table and bent over Alvin Feinberg. “Alvin, go cut in on Lucia. She’s out there dancing with George Luvacs and hating it.”

  “I thought I was supposed to stay out of sight.”

  “This is an emergenc
y. Go ahead.”

  “I don’t know any of these dances,” protested Feinberg, rising to his feet reluctantly. “I never got beyond the fox trot.”

  “Lucia does an elegant minuet and if you don’t know how. she’ll teach you,” said Cassidy propelling him in the general direction of the dance floor. “Whatever you do, don’t let her out of your sight until I’m back.”

  He watched a moment as the little butterball of a newspaperman in the gold-rimmed spectacles made his way to the floor and cut in on a startled Lucia.

  It was this sudden interference in the natural order of things, Cassidy was later to write in The Legend of the di Castigliones, Annotated, that saved Feinberg’s life. Otherwise, he’d have been cut down by the same burst of automatic fire that killed Jane Atchison, next to whom he’d been sitting. The odd thing, Cassidy wrote, was that in retrospect he couldn’t understand why he’d done it. It was very foolish and reckless of him to expose Feinberg (who was his own secret) to the gaze of the Principessa at that time. It was as if he’d been forewarned.

  Cassidy was almost at the rear exit heading for the back elevator, when his eye was caught again. Lorenzo was at the refectory table carving a bit of the beautiful three-foot swan for a lone guest whose back was to Cassidy. This was very odd because it was much too early for any guest to be eating supper since all of them had been at dinner parties. Also, he thought he recognized that back.

  “Wait!” commanded Cassidy to the Gypper. He threaded his way back through the tables to the refectory table. Hugh Alison was holding his plate out for the slice of pâté which Lorenzo put on his plate, solemn as if he was performing High Mass.

  “Try the truffled eggs,” suggested Cassidy into Alison’s ear. “The KGB flew them in especially for you.”

  “Always the needle,” complained Alison. He took his plate and made his way along the edge of the dance floor to an empty table. Alison selected a seat and sat down. Cassidy sat next to him.

  “Who let you in?”

  “Hugo’s our pigeon,” said Alison, tucking into the food.

  “Hugo’s everyone’s pigeon,” said Cassidy. “What are you trying to do—provoke a massacre?”

  “Prevent one.” Alison smiled his party smile and accepted a glass of wine from a waiter. Cassidy shook his head fiercely at the waiter who tried to offer him wine, his eyes never leaving Alison’s bland face. “We had to come, Horatio. The Principessa is in this thing deeper than you think.”

  “Oh, you’ve finally got wise to the Principessa?” said Cassidy.

  Alison was eating and sipping wine coolly: “You were a little late in wising up to the Principessa yourself, weren’t you, Horatio?” Alison’s eyes were roving the room, his face fixed in a half smile. “Lovely party.”

  “It’s going to be even lovelier in a minute,” snarled Cassidy. “I think they’re in the building already. I’m going down to find out. Where are the rest of your troops?”

  “That waiter is one of them. Others in the kitchen.”

  Cassidy rose from the table. “Hold everything until I get back.”

  “We might not have the choice,” said Alison, munching quietly.

  Cassidy bounded through the restaurant, picking up Gypper under the exit sign. The two men passed under it and walked rapidly down the bare corridor leading to the elevator. Freddie was in position back against the cement wall keeping an eye on the service elevator and the door leading to the rear stairwell.

  “Not even a mouse stirring,” he called out cheerfully, both his hands in his side pocket resting, Cassidy knew, on the guns in those pockets.

  “Red alert,” said Cassidy. “I think it’s underway. Has anyone used the elevator?”

  “Very active,” said Freddie cheerfully. “Nobody’s got off at this floor but it’s been going up and down, up and down.”

  “Jupiter,” said Cassidy pushing the button. “You should have reported it.” Nobody should have been using the back elevator at this hour. “Do you remember where it stopped?”

  The rear elevator had a big old-fashioned dial which showed where it was.

  “Thirty-nine,” said Freddie. “Three times.”

  “Juno!” said Cassidy, a very large cuss word. He invoked Jupiter’s wife only on special occasions.

  The two men stepped into the elevator, and Cassidy pushed Main. Too late, he was thinking, too late.

  He was right. Rooftop was sitting back against his glass cubicle, mouth open as if greeting someone, legs akimbo in a comical position like a Raggedy Ann doll, eyes open. A little trickle of spit had coursed down the side of the open mouth.

  “Icepick job.” said the Gypper professionally. “Very old-fashioned. Who do you know who owns an icepick? They’re not so easy to find any more.”

  “Come on,” said Cassidy morosely. He’d been fond of Rooftop. Everyone was. Sweet-tempered little man. That’s what got you into trouble. It wasn’t the right time for sweet temper. The two men got back into the elevator and Cassidy pushed thirty-nine.

  “He looked at peace with the world,” said the Gypper. “As if he was good friends with the guy who slipped it to him.”

  “Or the girl,” said Cassidy. “From here on in, its silenzia, Gypper. Thirty-nine is where the operation’s being run from.”

  Gypper put his hand to his mouth, signifying he’d got his orders.

  It was 11:35. They’d been gone from the dance floor eleven minutes.

  • 29 •

  I wished I trusted someone, anyone, Cassidy was thinking, as the elevator shot up toward thirty-nine. Gypper and I are not enough firepower—if they’re in thirty-nine. And if they’re not in thirty-nine . . . Cassidy didn’t like to think about that.

  Cassidy gave the silence signal again as the elevator stopped, the little button glowing thirty-nine. He opened the door soundlessly and listened. Far up the stairwell he heard a slippered sound, but it was very faint and he brushed it aside for more immediate concerns. (A mistake, he was to admit much later in The Legend of the di Castigliones, Annotated.)

  Cassidy and the Gypper stepped out of the elevator soundlessly. At Struthers’s rear door. Cassidy strained his ears. Cassidy slipped the gretchel into the lock and opened it easily. Too easily? It had been double-locked before. This time, it was only on catch as if someone didn’t give a damn.

  Cassidy gritted his teeth, angry at himself. I’m running behind on this operation, and the terrible thing was I don’t know how far behind. Thirty minutes? The two men stepped into Struthers’s kitchen and closed the door. The lights were on. Very peculiar, and very ominous. Cassidy strained his ears again but could hear no sound.

  The two men stepped out of the kitchen and into the corridor. Lights on again. Here Cassidy thrust caution aside. Speed was more essential at this point. On tiptoe but swiftly he traversed the long corridor toward Struthers’s bedroom. At the door he paused only long enough to pull his .38 out of his shoulder holster before stepping into the room which, like the others, was brightly lit.

  Struthers lay on his unopened bed, eyes on the ceiling. He was in a dressing gown and pajamas.

  “Another icepick job,” said the Gypper, looking it over. “Very neat. Couldn’t do it better myself.”

  Cassidy felt the man’s forehead, then tried to bend the arm which was stiff as cement. “Been dead for at least an hour,” he said.

  “Do we know this character?” asked the Gypper.

  “He went under the name of Struthers,” said Cassidy. “His real name is Vittorio Pietroangeli. The Mob has been looking for him for a very long time.”

  “And they found him.”

  “No,” said Cassidy. “Somebody else found him.”

  The closet door stood open. Cassidy marched in, knowing in advance there was no point. He was right. The safe was open and empty.

  Damnation. It was beginning to come together, all of it. I’ve been outwitted at every bloody turn, Cassidy was thinking. The only consolation was that Vittorio Pietroangeli had been outwit
ted in the end—and Vittorio Pietroangeli was both bright and tough. It would take a deal of outwitting to slip an icepick into him, if that was any comfort. And it wasn’t much.

  “Come on,” said Cassidy. “They’re ahead of us.”

  As they left the bedroom, Cassidy glanced into the doorway of the little library-type room where he’d hid out last time he’d been in the apartment. Unlike all the other rooms, it was dark. Something very funny about that.

  Cassidy leaned against the corridor wall, keeping his body well back, and snapped the overhead light with the switch on the library wall. He took a quick look.

  The face that stared at him was only barely recognizable as Hugo’s. Eyes starting out of their sockets, mouth wide open as if caught in midscream—a scream that had been going on for some time. The body was tied with nylon cord—a great deal of it—to the big chair behind the desk. On Hugo the silent scream was a horrifying sight. Screaming wasn’t Hugo’s style and someone had made him scream—something Cassidy hadn’t managed even with the Vivaldi.

  “Someone worked him over real good,” said the Gypper. “Icepick in the kidney. That’s very unkind.”

  “Poor Hugo was always getting it in the kidneys.”

  “Is this guy a friend?” asked Gypper.

  “Oh, Hugo was everyone’s friend,” said Cassidy absently. “That was his big problem.” He was going through Hugo’s dinner jacket pocket by pocket.

  “You were close to this stiff?”

  “Oh, very close.” After you’d tortured a man, Cassidy was thinking, you were his uncle—until death do you part. Death had them parted but Hugo might have a little malevolence left in him which was what he was searching for. “Hugo was a very great expert at survival, Gypper.”

  “If that’s survival, I don’t want any,” said Gypper.

  “He ran out his string,” said Cassidy gently. “It’ll happen to you and me some day.”

  “Not with icepicks. I’m pretty good against icepicks.”

  He found it in a special pocket sewed into Hugo’s trousers on the inside seam near the bottom of the right leg. It was a music box, the little gadget that opened doors.