A panel light above the gym’s wall clock flashed on. It was the front doorbell. Joe had the device installed in case he was home alone and working out.
The clock read six-fifty-one, much too early for anyone in Saddle Valley to be ringing front doorbells. He put the small weights on the floor and walked to his house intercom.
«Yes? Who is it?»
«Telegram, Mr. Cardione.»
«Who?»
«Cardione, it says.»
«The name is Cardone.»
«Isn’t this Eleven Apple Place?»
«I’ll be right there.»
He flicked off the intercom and grabbed a towel from the rack, draping it around him as he walked rapidly out of the gym. He didn’t like what he had just heard. He reached the front door and opened it. A small man in uniform stood there chewing gum.
«Why didn’t you telephone? It’s pretty early, isn’t it?»
«Instructions were to deliver. I had to drive out here, Mr. Cardione. Almost fifteen miles. We keep twenty-four-hour service.»
Cardone signed for the envelope. «Why fifteen miles? Western Union’s got a branch in Ridge Park.»
«Not Western Union, Mister. This is a cablegram … from Europe.»
Cardone grabbed the envelope out of the uniformed man’s hand. «Wait a minute.» He didn’t want to appear excited, so he walked normally into the living room where he remembered seeing Betty’s purse on the piano. He took out two one-dollar bills and returned to the door. «Here you are. Sorry about the trip.» He closed the door and ripped open the cablegram.
L’UOMO BRUNO PALIDO NON È AMICO DEL ITALIANO. GUARDA BENE VICINI DI QUESTA MANIERA. PROTECIATE PER LA FINA DELL A SETTTMANA.
DA VINCI
Cardone walked into the kitchen, found a pencil on the telephone shelf and sat down at the table. He wrote out the translation on the back of a magazine.
The tight-brown man is no friend of the Italian. Be cautious of such neighbors. Protect yourself against the end of the week. Da Vinci.
What did it mean? What «light-brown … neighbors»? There were no blacks in Saddle Valley. The message didn’t make sense.
Suddenly Joe Cardone froze. The light-brown neighbor could only mean John Tanner. The end of the week—Friday—the Ostermans were arriving. Someone in Europe was telling him to protect himself against John Tanner and the upcoming Osterman weekend.
He snatched up the cablegram and looked at the dateline.
Zurich.
Oh, Jesus Christ! Zurich!
Someone in Zurich—someone who called himself Da Vinci, someone who knew his real name, who knew John Tanner, who knew about the Ostermans—was warning him!
Joe Cardone stared out the window at his backyard lawn. Da Vinci, Da Vinci!
Leonardo.
Artist, soldier, architect of war—all things to all men.
Mafia!
Oh, Christ! Which of them?
The Costellanos? The Batellas? The Latronas, maybe.
Which of them had turned on him? And why? He was their friend!
His hands shook as he spread the cablegram on the kitchen table. He read it once more. Each sentence conjured up progressively more dangerous meanings.
Tanner!
John Tanner had found out something! But what?
And why did the message come from Zurich?
What would any of them have to do with Zurich?
Or the Ostermans?
What had Tanner discovered? What was he going to do?… One of the Battella men called Tanner something once; what was it?
«Volturno!»
Vulture.
«… no friend of the Italian… Be cautious… Protect yourself…»
How? From what? Tanner wouldn’t confide in him. Why should he?
He, Joe Cardone, wasn’t syndicate; he wasn’t famiglia. What could he know?
But «Da Vinci’s» message had come from Switzerland.
And that left one remaining possibility, a frightening one. The Cosa Nostra had learned about Zurich! They’d use it against him unless he was able to control the «light-brown man,» the Italian’s enemy. Unless he could stop whatever it was John Tanner was about to do, he’d be destroyed.
Zurich! The Ostermans!
He had done what he thought was right! What he had to do to survive. Osterman had pointed that out in a way that left no doubts. But it was in other hands now. Not his. He couldn’t be touched any more.
Joe Cardone walked out of the kitchen and returned to his miniature gymnasium. Without putting on gloves he started pounding the bag. Faster and faster, harder and harder.
There was a screeching in his brain.
«Zurich! Zurich! Zurich!»
Virginia Tremayne heard her husband get out of bed at six-fifteen, and knew immediately that something was wrong. Her husband rarely stirred that early.
She waited several minutes. When he didn’t return, she rose, put on her bathrobe, and went downstairs. He was in the living room standing by the bay window, smoking a cigarette and reading something on a piece of paper.
«What are you doing?»
«Look at this,» he answered quietly.
«At what?» She took the paper from his hand.
Take extreme caution with your editorial friend. His friendship does not extend beyond his zeal. He is not what he appears to be. We may have to report his visitors from California.
Blackstone
«What is this? When did you get it?»
«I heard noises outside the window about twenty minutes ago. Just enough to wake me up. Then there was the gunning of a car engine. It kept racing up and down… I thought you heard it, too. You pulled the covers up.»
«I think I did. I didn’t pay any attention…»
«I came down and opened the door. This envelope was on the doormat.»
«What does it mean?»
«I’m not sure yet.»
«Who’s Blackstone?»
«The commentaries. Basis of the legal system…» Richard Tremayne flung himself down in an armchair and brought his hand up to his forehead. With the other he rolled his cigarette delicately along the rim of an ashtray. «Please… Let me think.»
Virginia Tremayne looked again at the paper with the cryptic message. «‘Editorial friend.’ Does that mean?…»
«Tanner’s onto something and whoever delivered this is in panic. Now they’re trying to make me panic, too.»
«Why?»
«I don’t know. Maybe they think I can help them. And if I don’t they’re threatening me. All of us.»
«The Ostermans.»
«Exactly. They’re threatening us with Zurich.»
«Oh, my God! They know! Someone’s found out!»
«It looks that way.»
«Do you think Bernie got frightened? Talked about it?»
Tremayne’s eye twitched. «He’d be insane if he did. He’d be crucified on both sides of the Atlantic… No, that’s not it.»
«What is it, then?»
«Whoever wrote this is someone I’ve either worked with in the past or refused to handle. Maybe it’s one of the current cases. Maybe one of the files on my desk right now. And Tanner got wind of it and is making noises. They expect me to stop him. If I don’t, I’m finished. Before I can afford it… Before Zurich goes to work for us.»
«They couldn’t touch you!» said Tremayne’s wife with fierce, artificial defiance.
«Come on, darling. Let’s not kid each other. In polite circles I’m a merger analyst. In the boardrooms I’m a corporate raider. To paraphrase Judge Hand, the merger market is currently insane with false purchase. False. That means fake. Buying with paper. Pieces of fiction.»
«Are you in trouble?»
«Not really—I could always say I was given wrong information. The courts like me.»