Thefts of Nick Velvet (13 page)

“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.

“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.”

“I heard you call my cat by name, out in the shed.”

Nick hesitated. Mike Pirrone was no fool. “Everybody knows Sparkle. You’re always photographed with him.”

“Her. Sparkle is a her.”

Harry Beaman cleared his throat. “What do you plan to do with him, Mike? If you try to hold him against his will it could be a serious legal matter. So far you’ve been within your rights to treat him as a trespasser, but that could change.”

Pirrone threw up his hands. “Lawyers! Things were simple in the old days—right, Velvet?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

A maid appeared with cocktails and Pirrone waved his hand. “You’re a guest here, Velvet. You arrived in time for the cocktail hour.” He took a glass himself and went off to an adjoining study to make some phone calls. Nick wondered what Pirrone had in mind for him.

Frieda Pirrone rose from the sofa and came to sit by him. “You should have told me you wanted to meet my husband. I could have arranged it much more easily. Are you really a thief?”

“I steal women’s hearts, among other things.”

Her eyes met his for just an instant. “It would take a brave man—or an idiot—to steal anything from Mike Pirrone.”

“I’m neither of those.” He watched Sparkle move slowly across the carpet, stalking some imaginary prey.

“Just what sort of thief are you?”

“Sometimes I’m a cat burglar.”

“Really? You mean one of those who climbs across rooftops?”

Before he could answer, Pirrone returned and handed his lawyer a sheaf of papers. “Business can be a bore at times, Velvet. I’m being a poor host.”

“Perfectly all right. Your drinks are very good.”

The dark-browed don nodded. “My chauffeur will be driving Harry to the train shortly. You’re free to leave with them.”

“Thank you.”

“But one word of advice. If anything turns up missing from this house—now or later—I’ll know just where to look. I’ll send somebody for you, Velvet, and it’ll be just like the old days. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good! Whoever paid you, tell them the deal is off.”

Nick nodded. He needed to be careful now. There would be no other chance to enter the Pirrone domain. Whatever the risk, he had to take Sparkle out of the house with him. He glanced at his watch. It was just after five. “Could I use your bathroom?”

Mike Pirrone nodded. “Go ahead. The maid will show you.” Then, as Nick started to follow her, the don called out, “Taking your fish with you? Now I’ve seen everything!”

The maid waved him into a large tiled bathroom and departed. Nick checked his watch again. He had perhaps three minutes before they would grow suspicious. Quickly he crossed to the door and opened it. As he’d hoped, Sparkle had followed the trail of the fish and was hovering in the hall. With a bit of coaxing Nick had her in hand. He only hoped Pirrone wouldn’t come looking for her right away.

Close up, Sparkle was a handsome feline, uniquely spotted and with a curious expression all her own. Perhaps that was why Pirrone liked her—because she was one of a kind. Nick held her firmly and injected a quick-acting sleeping drug. Sparkle gave one massive yawn and curled up on the floor. Then, working fast, he wrapped the disposable syringe in a tissue and put it in his pocket. He lifted Sparkle’s limp body and slipped it into the perforated plastic bag.

Carrying the cat in one hand, Nick opened the bathroom door again and glanced down the hall toward the living room. No one was in sight. He crossed the hall quickly, entering a spare bedroom which he hoped was the room he sought. From the road he’d observed the telephone line running up the hill to the house and he thought it reached the wall just outside this room. Opening the window he saw that he’d been correct. The phone wire was just above his head, about a foot beyond the window.

He removed two fishhooks from his pocket and attached one to each end of a length of nylon leader. Reaching up he looped the fishing leader over the telephone wire and left it dangling there while he lifted the plastic-bagged cat. The fishhooks snagged two of the perforations in the bag and held it dangling beneath the telephone wire.

Nick tested it for weight, drew a deep prayerful breath, then gave the bag a shove. It began to slide slowly down the phone line, across the wide side yard, and finally over the wall to the telephone pole by the road. Near the pole the bag came to a stop, but by carefully tugging on his end of the wire Nick was able to propel it over the last few feet.