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When Matt got back to the apartment, the red light on the answering machine was flashing.
"I knew you wouldn't call me back," Evelyn's recorded voice said. "What have I done wrong, Matt?"
****
Mssrs. Paulo Cassandro, Joseph Fierello, Francesco Guttermo, Ricco Baltazari, and Gian-Carlo Rosselli were sitting at a table at the end of the bar off the lobby of the Hotel Warwick.
Mr. Rosselli took an appreciative sip of his Ambassador 24 Scotch, set the glass delicately down on the marble tabletop, and consulted his Rolex Oyster wristwatch.
"It's almost one," he announced, and then inquired, "How long does it take to drive from the airport?"
"At this time of night," Frankie the Gut replied, "twenty minutes, thirty tops."
"You're saying you don't think he's coming here?" Mr. Cassandro asked.
"Do you see him?" Mr. Rosselli asked. He turned to Mr. Fierello. " Why don't you call your 'niece' and see if he's there?"
"I don't have the number."
"I got it," Mr. Baltazari said, and took a gold Parker ballpoint pen from his pocket, wrote a number inside a Hotel Warwick matchbook, and handed it to Mr. Fierello.
"That's right," Mr. Rosselli said, "I forgot. You know Joe's niece, don't you, Ricco?"
Mr. Fierello and Mr. Cassandro laughed, but it was evident that Mr. Baltazari did not consider the remark amusing.
Mr. Fierello got up from the table and went to one of the pay telephones in the lobby. He was back at the table in less than two minutes.
"He's there."
Mr. Rosselli nodded. He sat thoughtfully for a moment and then nodded again. He stood up.
"Just in case, Ricco, I think you'd better give me the key to the apartment."
"You don't want me to go?"
"Paulo and I can handle it," Mr. Rosselli said. "And I wouldn't want that your jealousy should get in the way."
Mr. Cassandro and Mr. Guttermo laughed.
"Shit!" Mr. Baltazari said.
He removed a key from a ring and handed it to Mr. Rosselli.
"Take care of the bill, will you, Frankie?" Mr. Rosselli asked.
"My pleasure," Mr. Guttermo said.
Mr. Rosselli and Mr. Cassandro left the bar by the door leading directly to the street. They turned south.
"What do you want to do about the car, Carlo?" Mr. Cassandro asked.
"Leave it in the garage," Mr. Rosselli said, his tone suggesting the answer should have been evident. "Jesus, Paulo, you leave a car like a Jaguar on the street, you come back, it'll either be gone or there'll be nothing left but the windshield."
"Yeah," Mr. Cassandro agreed, his tone suggesting that he regretted raising the question.
They walked to the apartment building in which Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer maintained her residence. There was a fouryear-old Pontiac parked halfway down the block on the other side of the street, but neither gentleman paid it more than cursory attention.
The interior lobby door was locked. Mr. Cassandro took a small, silver pocketknife, which was engraved with his initials, from his pocket, opened it, and slipped the blade into the lock. He then pushed open the door and held it for Mr. Rosselli to pass inside.
