«No, please! Please … I want to talk to Da Vinci! We’ve got to talk! Where can I reach him?»
«No way, sir.» The chauffeur held the door effortlessly.
«You prick!» Cardone pulled the handle and shoved his whole weight against the door. It gave just a bit and then slammed shut again under the chauffeur’s hands. «I’ll break you in half!»
The train pulled to a stop in front of the platform. Several men got off and the shriek of two whistle blasts pierced the air.
The chauffeur spoke calmly. «He’s not on the train, Mr. Cardione. He drove into town this morning. We know that, too.»
The train slowly started up and rolled down the tracks. Joe stared at the immense human being holding the car door shut. His anger was nearly beyond control but he was realistic enough to know it would do him no good. The chauffeur stepped back, gave Cardone a second informal salute and walked rapidly towards the Rolls-Royce. Cardone pushed the car door open and stepped out onto the hot pavement.
«Hello there, Joe!» The caller was Amos Needham, of the second contingent of Saddle Valley commuters. A vice-president of Manufacturers Hanover Trust and the chairman of the special events committee for the Saddle Valley Country Club. «You market boys have it easy. When it gets rough you stay home and wait for the calm to set in, eh?»
«Sure, sure, Amos.» Cardone kept his eye on the chauffeur of the Rolls, who had climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
«I tell you,» continued Amos, «I don’t know where you young fellas are taking us!… Did you see the quotes for DuPont? Everybody else takes a bath and it zooms up! Told my trust committee to consult the Ouija board. To hell with you upstart brokers.» Needham chuckled and then suddenly waved his small arm, flagging down a Lincoln Continental approaching the depot. «There’s Ralph. Can I give you a lift, Joe?… But, of course not. You just stepped out of your car.»
The Lincoln pulled up to the platform, and Amos Needham’s chauffeur started to get out.
«No need, Ralph. I can still manipulate a door handle. By the way, Joe … that Rolls you’re looking at reminds me of a friend of mine. Couldn’t be, though. He lived in Maryland.»
Cardone snapped his head around and looked at the innocuous banker. «Maryland? Who in Maryland?»
Amos Needham held the car door open and returned Cardone’s stare with unconcerned good humor. «Oh, I don’t think you’d know him. He’s been dead for years… Funny name. Used to kid him a lot… His name was Caesar.»
Amos Needham stepped into his Lincoln and closed the door. At the top of Station Parkway the Rolls-Royce turned right and roared off towards the main arteries leading to Manhattan. Cardone stood on the tarred surface of the Saddle Valley railroad station and he was afraid.
Tremayne!
Tremayne was with Tanner!
Osterman was with Tanner!
Da Vinci … Caesar!
The architects of war!
And he, Guiseppe Ambruzzio Cardione, was alone!
Oh, Christ! Christ! Son of God! Blessed Mary! Blessed Mary, Mother of Christ! Wash my hands with his blood! The blood of the lamb! Jesus! Jesus! Forgive me my sins!… Mary and Jesus! Christ Incarnate! God all holy!
What have I done?
12
Tuesday—5:00 P.M.
Tremayne walked aimlessly for hours; up and down the familiar streets of the East Side. Yet if anyone had stopped him and asked him where he was, he could not have answered.
He was consumed. Frightened. Blackstone had said everything and clarified nothing.
And Cardone had lied. To somebody. His wife or his office, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Cardone couldn’t be reached. Tremayne knew that the panic wouldn’t stop until he and Cardone figured out between them what Osterman had done.
Had Osterman betrayed them?
Was that really it? Was it possible?
He crossed Vanderbilt Avenue, realizing he had walked to the Biltmore Hotel without thinking about a destination.
It was understandable, he thought. The Biltmore brought back memories of the carefree times.
He walked through the lobby almost expecting to see some forgotten friend from his teens—and suddenly he was staring at a man he hadn’t seen in over twenty-five years. He knew the face, changed terribly with the years—bloated, it seemed to Tremayne, lined—but he couldn’t remember the name. The man went back to prep-school days.
Awkwardly the two men approached each other.
«Dick … Dick Tremayne! It is Dick Tremayne, isn’t it?»
«Yes. And you’re … Jim?»
«Jack! Jack Townsend! How are you, Dick?» The men shook hands, Townsend far more enthusiastic. «It must be twenty-five, thirty years! You look great! How the hell do you keep the weight down? Gave up myself.»
«You look fine. Really, you look swell. I didn’t know you were in New York.»
«I’m not. Based in Toledo. Just in for a couple of days… I swear to God, I had a crazy thought coming in on the plane. I canceled the Hilton and thought I’d grab a room here just to see if any of the old crowd ever came in. Insane, huh?… And look what I run into!»
«That’s funny. Really funny. I was thinking the same sort of thing a few seconds ago.»
«Let’s get a drink.»
Townsend kept spouting opinions that were formed in the traditions of corporate thought. He was being very boring.
Tremayne kept thinking about Cardone. As he drank his third drink he looked around for the bar telephone booth he remembered from his youth. It was hidden near the kitchen entrance, and only Biltmore habitués-in-good-standing knew of its existence.
It wasn’t there any more. And Jack Townsend kept talking, talking, remembering the unmemorable out loud.
There were two Negroes in leather jackets, beads around their necks, standing several feet away from them.
They wouldn’t have been there in other days.
The pleasant days.
Tremayne drank his fourth drink in one assault; Townsend wouldn’t stop talking.
He had to call Joe! The panic was starting again. Maybe Joe would, in a single sentence, unravel the puzzle of Osterman.
«What’s the matter with you, Dick? You look all upset.»
«S’help me God, this is the first time I’ve been in here in years.» Tremayne slurred his words and he knew it. «Have to make a phone call. Excuse me.»
Townsend put his hand on Tremayne’s arm. He spoke quietly.
«Are you going to call Cardone?»
«What?»
«I asked if you were going to call Cardone.»
«Who are you?… Who the hell are you?»
«A friend of Blackstone. Don’t call Cardone. Don’t do that under any circumstances. You put a nail in your own casket if you do. Can you understand that?»
«I don’t understand anything! Who are you? Who’s Blackstone?» Tremayne tried to whisper, but his voice carried throughout the room.
«Let’s put it this way. Cardone may be dangerous. We don’t trust him. We’re not sure of him. Any more than we are of the Ostermans.»
«What are you saying?»
«They may have gotten together. You may be flying solo now. Play it cool and see what you can find out. We’ll be in touch … but Mr. Blackstone told you that already, didn’t he?»
Then Townsend did a strange thing. He removed a bill from his wallet and placed it in front of Richard Tremayne. He said only two words as he turned and walked through the glass doors.
«Take it.»
It was a one-hundred-dollar bill.
What had it bought?
It didn’t buy anything, thought Tremayne. It was merely a symbol.
A price. Any price.
When Fassett walked into the hotel room, two men were already bent over a card table, studying various papers and maps. One was Grover. The other man was named Cole. Fassett removed his Panama hat and sunglasses, putting them on the bureau top.