“I’ll be back soon,” Hickock said. He trudged off into a misty rain, down an empty street. Following the directions that had been faxed to him that afternoon, he turned left and crossed the street. The number “ 19” had been spray-painted on the door of a building, but it looked locked. He tried it, and it wasn’t. Inside, he went to a huge freight elevator, pulled a cord that closed the doors from the top and bottom, and pressed the number for the fourth floor. The thing actually worked.
When it stopped he pushed open the door and walked out of the elevator into a large, empty factory area. Daylight was waning, and the low light threw into relief holes in the floor where machinery had once been bolted down. There was no place to sit, so he walked slowly around the floor, wondering at what he was about to do. Suddenly he heard an electric motor running, and a moment later another freight elevator at the opposite end of the floor stopped, and Enrico Bianchi stepped out.
The two men walked from their opposite ends to the middle of the huge floor and embraced.
“Hello, Ricky,” Hickock said. “Thank you so much for coming.” Bianchi was, as always, tanned and slim, and his finely barbered hair had gone snow white.
“Dickie,” Bianchi said, holding him at arm’s length and looking at him. “You lost some weight.”
“Yeah, well, Glynnis made me buy a treadmill.”
Bianchi laughed heartily. “My wife will never get me on one of those.”
“How is she? And your daughter?”
“The wife is the same, maybe a little fatter. Mary Ann is married to the law, you will remember.”
“That must be a little touchy,” Hickock said.
“We manage to get along, mostly by not talking. He’s not a bad fellow, for a cop. I bought them an apartment on the East Side; Mary Ann has never liked Brooklyn.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“Well, she’s my only daughter, you know, and she’s a tough one, like me. She gets what she wants, always.” He tucked Hickock’s arm into his. “Let’s walk.”
Hickock moved with him and, arm in arm, they promenaded slowly around the empty floor.
“I’m sorry we have to meet like this, but the feds are everywhere these days, have everything bugged. I can’t even talk in my car anymore, and we had to lose a carload of them before coming here today.”
“It’s all right; I understand. I’m just glad you could take the time.”
“Something’s wrong, eh?” Bianchi asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Tell me about it.”
“There are two young men who have been circulating rumors about me; they have almost cost me my marriage.”
Bianchi made a noise. “That is awful, to attack a man’s personal life. Is this a business thing?”
“They seem to know more than they should about my business. An employee has talked out of turn.”
“And you want me to, ah, speak to this employee?”
Hickock shook his head. “No; I can take care of him whenever I like. But the two young men are out of my reach.”
“But, perhaps, not out of mine?” Bianchi said, chuckling.
“I hope you are right. They have been very elusive; I have names, but they may be false; I have no address, but they are circulating around the fashionable quarters of Manhattan.” Hickock pulled a copy of Vanity Fair from his overcoat pocket and opened it. “But I have a very good photograph of one of them. He calls himself Jonathan Dryer.”
Bianchi stopped walking, fished a lighter out of his jacket pocket, and struck it, studying the photograph. “A good-looking boy,” he said. He closed the magazine and tucked it into his own overcoat pocket.
“Yes, he seems to do well with the ladies. The other one has used the name Geoffrey Power, and maybe G. Gable.”
“What else can you tell me about these young men?”
“They resemble each other – so much so that they may be brothers. One of them has recently arrived from L.A. One or both of them has some considerable skill as a burglar; he has broken into several large apartments and stolen cash, jewelry – always men’s wristwatches – and a pistol with a silencer attached. One of them may have killed a retired police officer with the stolen pistol.”
“So the police are already looking for them?”
“No, not yet; there hasn’t been enough evidence to connect them to the murder. I have no hard information whatever about these two; everything I have told you is just guessing.”
“How did you come by what you have already told me?”
“I hired an investigator.”
“His name?”
“Stone Barrington. You know him?”
“I know of him; he is a friend of my son-in-law, the cop.”
“He’s very good.”
“Is he still working on this?”
“He’s being called off today. I’m afraid that if he finds them and the police start talking to them, too much of this will get into the papers.”
Bianchi nodded. “I see. Is there anything else you can tell me about these two?”
“No, that’s all Barrington has been able to find out.”
“And it’s only these two you wish me to deal with?”
“There’s a third.” He handed Bianchi a slip of paper. “I haven’t decided what to do about that one yet. If we move, it will have to be an accident; I’ll let you know later about that.”
“I see. So you wish me to find these two young men and then…”
“I want a permanent solution; I don’t want to hear about them again,” Hickock said. “Ever.”
Bianchi nodded. “I don’t blame you; it is what I would do, in the circumstances.”
“I apologize for bringing up money, but I know this will be expensive.”
“You are very kind, Dickie.”
Hickock removed a thick envelope from his other overcoat pocket and handed it to Bianchi. “There’s fifty thousand in there,” he said. “I hope that will cover it.”
“I believe so,” Bianchi said, “unless there are unusual complications.”
“I’m very grateful to you, Ricky,” Hickock said.
Bianchi shrugged. “It is at times like this that one must come to one’s old friends. I am sorry that circumstances prevent us from meeting more often, when there is no business to discuss.”
“I’m sorry for that, too, old friend. Do you know that we have seen each other only a half-dozen times since Yale? I feel badly that I only come to you when I have problems.”
“Do not concern yourself,” Bianchi said. “I know your heart.”
“You are a good friend, Ricky.”
Bianchi embraced Hickock again. “I must go; there is always business to do. I will be in touch through the usual channels when this business of yours has been completed.”
“Good-bye, Ricky.”
“Good-bye, Dickie.”
The two men parted, and each walked to his own elevator.
There was a man waiting for Bianchi on the ground floor, and he handed him the magazine. On the way back to the car he imparted the information he had just learned. “Make copies of this photograph, small ones; put the word out on the street, especially in the good bars and restaurants, that we want to locate both of them. There will be a two-thousand-dollar reward for this information. When they have both – not one, but both – been found, they should die in a way that will seem to be an ordinary crime – a mugging, a robbery. There will be five thousand each for this work, but for the money to be paid, they must both be killed, you understand?”
The man nodded. “Si, padrone,” he said.
They had reached the car. Bianchi held a finger to his lips for silence, then they got in.
“Stone?”
“Yes, Amanda, what’s up?”
“I had lunch with Dick Hickock today, and we’ve decided to call off the DIRT investigation.”
“Really?” Stone asked, surprised. “Why?”