Thefts of Nick Velvet (14 page)

He sighed and closed the window. The whole operation had taken him four minutes—one minute more than he’d planned. He went back to the living room, still carrying his fish, and saw at once that Pirrone and Frieda and the lawyer were waiting for him. A large man in a chauffeur’s uniform stood by the door.

Mike Pirrone smiled slightly and brought out the snub-nosed revolver once more. “I hope you’ll excuse the precaution, Velvet, but we don’t want you leaving with anything that doesn’t belong to you. Search him, Felix.”

Nick raised his arms and the chauffeur ran quick firm hands over his body. After a few seconds he yanked one hand away; it was bleeding. “Damn! What’s he got in there?”

“Fishhooks,” Nick answered with the trace of a smile. “I should have warned you.”

Felix cursed and finished the search. “He’s clean, Mr. Pirrone.”

“All right.” The don put away his gun. “You can go now, Velvet.”

“Thanks,” Nick said, and started to follow the chauffeur and Beaman to the car.

He was halfway down the front walk when he heard Pirrone ask his wife, “Where’s Sparkle?”

Nick kept walking steadily, glancing across the wall at the distant telephone pole and its hanging, plastic bag. “I think she went outside,” Frieda answered.

Suddenly Pirrone called, “Velvet! Hold it!”

Nick froze. The chauffeur, Felix, had turned toward the don, waiting for instructions. “What is it?” he asked as Pirrone came down the walk.

“That fish—let me have it. You could have hidden something small inside it. And if you didn’t it’ll make a nice supper for Sparkle.”

Nick handed it over with feigned reluctance, then climbed into the car with Beaman. On the drive into town the white-haired lawyer tried to smooth things over. “You have to understand Mike. He’s a real gentleman, with a heart of gold, but he lives in constant fear of rivals trying to take over what he’s spent his life building.”

“I assumed he had something to fear when I saw the gun,” Nick said, nodding.

Beaman went on, “Frieda doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like anything connected with his old life, but Mike has to be careful.”

“Of course.”

Beaman dropped him at the marina and went on to the station. Shortly after dark Nick drove back to the Pirrone estate, climbed the telephone pole outside the wall, and removed the perforated plastic bag from the overhead wire. The cat was still sleeping peacefully. From inside the wall Nick could hear one of the servants calling for Sparkle.

Paul Matalena was overjoyed. “Nick, I never thought you could do it!” He stroked the cat on his lap and listened to it purr. “How in hell did you manage it?”

“I have my methods, Paul.”

“Here’s the rest of your money. And my thanks.”

“You realize that Sparkle is a unique cat. She’s been photographed with Pirrone a hundred times, and could hardly be mistaken for anyone else’s pet. When people see it they’ll know it’s Pirrone’s.”

“That’s exactly the idea, Nick.”

“If you’re planning to hold Sparkle for ransom you’re playing with dynamite.”

“It’s nothing like that. In fact, I only want the cat for a meeting tomorrow afternoon. Then you can have her back. If Pirrone recovers his pet within a day, the whole thing shouldn’t upset him too much.”

“You mean you only want Sparkle for one day?”

“That’s right, Nick.” Matalena went to the phone and started making calls. The hour was late, but that didn’t seem to bother him. Sparkle watched for a time, then ran over to Nick and rubbed against his leg. Suddenly, listening to Paul’s words on the telephone, Nick knew why his old schoolmate was willing to pay $20,000 to have Sparkle for one day. He looked at Paul Matalena and chuckled.

“What’s so funny, Nick?”

“Paul, you always were something of a phony, even back in school.”

“What?”

Nick got to his feet and headed for the door. “Good luck to you.”

The following evening, as Nick sat on his front porch drinking a beer, Gloria called to him. “Telephone for you, Nicky.”

He went in, setting down his beer on the table near the phone. She grabbed it up at once and wiped away the damp ring. Grinning, he said, “You’re acting more like a wife every day.”

The voice on the phone was soft and feminine. “Nick Velvet?”

“Yes.”

“This is Frieda Pirrone. My husband is on his way to kill you. He thinks that somehow you stole Sparkle.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“I don’t want him to go back to killing, back to the way it used to be.”

“Neither do I,” Nick said. He hung up and turned to Gloria.

“Trouble, Nicky?”

“Just a little business problem.” He bit his lip and pondered. “Look, Gloria, I’ve got a man coming over to see me. Why don’t you go to a movie or something?”

“That was no man on the phone, Nicky.”

“Come on,” he grinned. “Ask no questions and I’ll buy you that little foreign sports car you’ve been wanting.”

“Will you, Nicky? You really mean it?”

“Sure I mean it.”

When she’d gone he turned out all the lights in the house and sat down to wait. Just before ten o’clock a big black limousine pulled up and parked across the street. Nick had always considered his home to be forbidden territory, away from the dangers of his career; but this time it was different. Two men left the car and crossed the street to his house. One was the chauffeur, Felix. The other was a burly hood Nick didn’t recognize. Mike Pirrone would be waiting in the car.

As they reached the porch Nick opened the door. Felix’s hand dived into his pocket and the hood grabbed Nick, who didn’t resist when they forced him back into the house. “I want to see Pirrone,” Nick said.

“You’ll see him.” While the hood pinioned Nick, Felix went to the door and signaled across the street. Mike Pirrone left the car and came slowly up the walk, studying the house and the tree-lined street.

“Nice little place you have here, Velvet.”

“Good to see you again so soon.”

“Did you think you wouldn’t?” He stepped close to Nick. “Did you think I’d let you get away with Sparkle?”

“No. Not really.”

“Where is she?”

“Right here—I’ll get her.”

“No tricks.” Pirrone had drawn his gun again, and this time he looked as if he meant to use it.

“No tricks,” Nick agreed. He stepped into the kitchen with Felix at his side and called, “Sparkle!”

The big striped tabby came running at the sound of her name, rubbed briefly against Nick’s leg, then bounded into Pirrone’s waiting arms. He put away the gun and stroked her fur while he carefully examined her.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Sparkle is all right, so I’ll let you live. But Felix and Vic here are going to teach you a little lesson about stealing from me.”

“Wait!” Nick said, holding up his hand. “Can’t we talk this over?”

“There’s no need for talk. You were warned, Velvet.”

“At least let me tell you a story first. It’s about the man who hired me to steal Sparkle.”

“Tell me. We’ll want to pay him a visit, too.”

Nick started to talk fast. “You might almost call this a detective story in reverse. Instead of discovering a guilty person, I found one who’s innocent.”

“What are you talking about, Velvet?” Pirrone’s patience was wearing thin.

“The man who hired me, who shall be nameless, runs a highly profitable business in New York City. He was able to establish the business, and maintain it profitably for years, mainly by convincing both his customers and his competitors that he is an important member of the Mafia.”

Mike Pirrone frowned. “You mean he isn’t one?”

“Exactly,” Nick said. “He is not a member of the Mafia, never has been. He’s a simple hard-working guy who took advantage of his Italian name and the fact that many people are willing to believe that any Italian in business must be in the Mob. By fostering the idea that he had important Syndicate connections, he got a lot of business from people who were afraid to go elsewhere.

“But recently some of his customers began to have doubts. The word started circulating that he wasn’t a big Mafia man at all. Faced with the loss of his best customers he decided to call a meeting to keep them in line. Ideally, he would have liked someone like Mike Pirrone with him at the meeting. But since he didn’t even know Mike Pirrone he settled for the next best thing—Mike Pirrone’s cat.”

“What?” Pirrone’s mouth hung open. “You mean he had the cat stolen so he could con people into thinking he was a friend of mine?”

Nick Velvet smiled. “That’s right. It was worth my fee of $20,000 to keep his customers in line. He showed up at the meeting today with Sparkle in his arms. Naturally, in an audience like that, all of them knew the cat by sight—and they knew that Mike Pirrone couldn’t be far away. It convinced them.”

“Didn’t he think I’d hear about something like that?”

“Possibly. But by that time you’d have Sparkle back safe and sound, and you’d probably be reluctant to admit the theft to anyone.”

“Tell me this guy’s name.”

“So you can beat him up or kill him? Where’s your sense of humor? You have Sparkle back and the man has his customers back. No one’s been harmed, and there’s a certain humor in the situation. At a time when the Mafia is taking great pains to deny its existence, here is someone cashing in on the false story that he belongs to the Mafia. In fact, it was his open talking about it that made me suspicious in the first place. The real dons don’t brag about it.”

Felix shifted position. “What should I do, Mr. Pirrone?”

Pirrone studied Nick for a moment, then smiled slightly. “Let him go, Felix. You’ve got one hell of a nerve, Velvet—you and the guy who hired you.” He started out of the house, but then paused by the door. “How did you do it? How did you get Sparkle out of my house?”

“Sorry. That’s a trade secret. But I’ll give you a tip about something else.”

“What sort of tip?”

“Your watchdogs have been well trained by Harry Beaman.”

Pirrone shrugged. “He likes them, I guess.”

“He called them off me, and he could call them off his friends, too, if they happened to come visiting you late some night.”

“I trust Harry,” Pirrone said quickly, but his eyes were thoughtful.

“Think it over. You might live a few years longer.”

Pirrone took a step forward and shook Nick’s hand. “You’ve got a brain, Velvet. I could use someone like you in the organization.”

Nick smiled and shook his head. “Organizations aren’t for me. But remember me if you ever need anything stolen. Something odd or unusual”—Nick grinned—“or valueless.”

N
ICK VELVET SAT STIFFLY
on the straight-backed hospital chair, facing the man in the bed opposite him. He had to admit that Roger Surman looked sick, with sunken cheeks and eyes, and a sallow complexion that gave him the appearance of a beached and blotchy whale. He was a huge man who had trouble getting around even in the best of condition. Now, laid low with a serious liver complaint, Nick wondered if he’d ever be able to leave the bed.

“They’re going to cut through this blubber in the morning,” he told Nick. “I’ve got a bet with the doctor that they don’t have a scalpel long enough to even reach my liver.” He chuckled to himself and then seemed about to drift into sleep.

“You wanted to see me,” Nick said hastily, trying to focus the sick man’s attention.

“That’s right. Wanted to see you. Always told you if I needed a job done I’d call on you.” He tried to lift his head. “Is the nurse around?”

“No. We’re alone.”

“Good. Now, you charge twenty thousand—that right?”

Nick nodded. “But only for unusual thefts. No money, jewels, art treasures—nothing like that.”

“Believe me, this is nothing like that. I’d guess it’s one of the most unusual jobs you’ve ever had.”

“What do you want stolen?” Nick asked as the man’s head bobbed again.

“First let me tell you where it is. You know my brother Vincent?”

“The importer? I’ve heard of him.”

“It’s at his country home. The place is closed now for the winter, so you won’t have any trouble with guards or guests. There are a few window alarms, but nothing fancy.”

“You want, me to steal something from your brother?”

“Exactly. You’ll find it in a storeroom around the back of the house. It adjoins the kitchen, but has its own outside door. Steal what you find in the storeroom and I’ll pay you twenty thousand.”

“Seems simple enough,” Nick said. “Just what will I find there?”

The sick eyes seemed to twinkle for an instant. “Something only you could steal for me, Velvet. I was out there myself a few days ago, but the burglar alarms were too much for me. With all this fat to cart around, and feeling as bad as I did, I couldn’t get in. I knew I had to hire a professional, so I thought of you at once. What I want you to steal is—”

The nurse bustled in and interrupted him. “Now, now, Mr. Surman, we mustn’t tire ourselves! The operation is at seven in the morning.” She turned to Nick. “You must go now.”

“Velvet,” Roger Surman called. “Wait. Here’s a picture of the rear of the house. It’s this doorway, at the end of the driveway. Look it over and then I’ll tell you—”

Nick slipped the photo into his pocket. The nurse was firmly urging him out and there was no chance for further conversation without being overheard. Nick sighed and left the room. The assignment sounded easy enough, although he didn’t yet know what he’d been hired to steal.

In the morning Nick drove out to the country home of Vincent Surman. It was a gloomy November day—more a day for a funeral than an operation—and he wondered how Surman was progressing in surgery. Nick had known him off and on for ten years, mainly through the yacht club where Nick and Gloria often sailed in the summer months. Surman was wealthy, fat, and lonely. His wife had long ago divorced him and gone off to the West Indies with a slim handsome Jamaican, leaving Surman with little in life except his trucking business and his passion for food and drink.

Surman’s brother, Vincent, was the glamorous member of the family, maintaining a twelve-room city house in addition to the country home. His wife Simone was the answer to every bachelor’s dream, and his importing business provided enough income to keep her constantly one of New York’s best-dressed women. In every way Vincent was the celebrity success, while Roger was the plodding fat boy grown old and lonely. Still, Roger’s trucking business could not be dismissed lightly—not when his blue-and-white trucks could be seen on nearly every expressway.