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Authors: George C. Chesbro
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newspapers, listen to the news reports."
"What else do you hear?"
"Notwithstanding the great favor you did for me, Veil, I don't think it's right for you to come to me on a fishing expedition."
"This is a bit more than a fishing expedition, Father. The Mafia wants the idol, don't they?"
"Yes."
"Do you know why?"
"No."
'"Father . . . ?"
"It's the truth, Veil. The fact that it's wanted by the capos is common knowledge on the street; indeed, there's a bounty for anyone who brings the idol in and hands it over to any of the top people in the five families. However, the reason for their wanting it is a carefully guarded secret."
"They could be worried about the possibility that it wouldn't be turned in if people knew why they wanted it."
"Perhaps. I don't care to speculate."
"You mentioned five families. What happened to the sixth?"
There was a prolonged silence, and Veil could sense the conflict and indecision in the other man on the opposite side of the partition. "Vito Ricci is dead," the priest said at last. "His operations are being absorbed by the other families, along with those people who are deemed worthy. The Ricci family no longer exists."
Veil suppressed a whistle. "That's some bit of news."
"It's no news at all yet. The police and the FBI know that Vito is missing, of course, but that is all they know. It hasn't made the papers. Nobody will ever find his body, and the authorities will eventually just naturally assume he is dead."
"Execution?"
"Yes. It was Vito who was responsible for trying to squeeze the idol through that smuggling pipeline. Apparently he wanted it for personal reasons. It was an insane act, Veil, and it was not even properly executed at this end. If things had been properly planned, the idol never would have ended up on an auction block, and it certainly wouldn't have surfaced in some art gallery on the East Side in the same week that the first article appeared in The Times. The whole thing was an unmitigated disaster, and Vito paid for his mistake with his life." The priest paused, added dryly, "He must have been getting senile."
"Maybe. Is there a contract out on the K'ung?"
"The what?"
"The black who stole back the idol. Are there specific orders to kill him?"
"No, but I don't suppose that will prevent his death. The easiest way to obtain the idol, of course, is to kill the man carrying it."
"If they find him."
From the darkness on the other side of the filigreed partition came a hoarse chuckle laced with sadness. "Find him? How long can a bushman who's lived all his life in the desert hide in New York City?"
"He's doing pretty well so far, isn't he?"
"I believe he's dead, Veil. I am sorry if this is so, but I believe it's just a matter of finding his corpse and taking the idol from beside it."
"Could be."
"What was done against him and his tribe is very sad."
"Yeah. What do you think will happen to the idol if the police find him first?"
"Oh, I think it's safe to assume that the idol will eventually find its way into the hands of the capos."
"Why, Father? Is it because Carl Nagle is in charge of the police investigation?"
The question brought a sharp intake of breath; the partition vibrated, as if the priest had moved suddenly and inadvertently brushed against it. "What do you know about Carl Nagle?"
"Virtually nothing, except that he comes on pretty cranky. Within hours after the black ran off with the idol, someone gave a two-bit hood by the name of Picker Crabbe the name and address of the woman who'd brought the black to the gallery. The short time span makes me think that it was either Nagle or his partner—or both—who supplied the information. I'm thinking that detectives Nagle and Vahanian may be on the mob payroll. What do you think, Father?"
Veil waited almost a full minute, but the only sound from the other side of the partition was hoarse breathing. Finally it was Veil who spoke. "Thank you, Father," he said evenly. "I hadn't come to you before this,
"What else do you hear?"
"Notwithstanding the great favor you did for me, Veil, I don't think it's right for you to come to me on a fishing expedition."
"This is a bit more than a fishing expedition, Father. The Mafia wants the idol, don't they?"
"Yes."
"Do you know why?"
"No."
'"Father . . . ?"
"It's the truth, Veil. The fact that it's wanted by the capos is common knowledge on the street; indeed, there's a bounty for anyone who brings the idol in and hands it over to any of the top people in the five families. However, the reason for their wanting it is a carefully guarded secret."
"They could be worried about the possibility that it wouldn't be turned in if people knew why they wanted it."
"Perhaps. I don't care to speculate."
"You mentioned five families. What happened to the sixth?"
There was a prolonged silence, and Veil could sense the conflict and indecision in the other man on the opposite side of the partition. "Vito Ricci is dead," the priest said at last. "His operations are being absorbed by the other families, along with those people who are deemed worthy. The Ricci family no longer exists."
Veil suppressed a whistle. "That's some bit of news."
"It's no news at all yet. The police and the FBI know that Vito is missing, of course, but that is all they know. It hasn't made the papers. Nobody will ever find his body, and the authorities will eventually just naturally assume he is dead."
"Execution?"
"Yes. It was Vito who was responsible for trying to squeeze the idol through that smuggling pipeline. Apparently he wanted it for personal reasons. It was an insane act, Veil, and it was not even properly executed at this end. If things had been properly planned, the idol never would have ended up on an auction block, and it certainly wouldn't have surfaced in some art gallery on the East Side in the same week that the first article appeared in The Times. The whole thing was an unmitigated disaster, and Vito paid for his mistake with his life." The priest paused, added dryly, "He must have been getting senile."
"Maybe. Is there a contract out on the K'ung?"
"The what?"
"The black who stole back the idol. Are there specific orders to kill him?"
"No, but I don't suppose that will prevent his death. The easiest way to obtain the idol, of course, is to kill the man carrying it."
"If they find him."
From the darkness on the other side of the filigreed partition came a hoarse chuckle laced with sadness. "Find him? How long can a bushman who's lived all his life in the desert hide in New York City?"
"He's doing pretty well so far, isn't he?"
"I believe he's dead, Veil. I am sorry if this is so, but I believe it's just a matter of finding his corpse and taking the idol from beside it."
"Could be."
"What was done against him and his tribe is very sad."
"Yeah. What do you think will happen to the idol if the police find him first?"
"Oh, I think it's safe to assume that the idol will eventually find its way into the hands of the capos."
"Why, Father? Is it because Carl Nagle is in charge of the police investigation?"
The question brought a sharp intake of breath; the partition vibrated, as if the priest had moved suddenly and inadvertently brushed against it. "What do you know about Carl Nagle?"
"Virtually nothing, except that he comes on pretty cranky. Within hours after the black ran off with the idol, someone gave a two-bit hood by the name of Picker Crabbe the name and address of the woman who'd brought the black to the gallery. The short time span makes me think that it was either Nagle or his partner—or both—who supplied the information. I'm thinking that detectives Nagle and Vahanian may be on the mob payroll. What do you think, Father?"
Veil waited almost a full minute, but the only sound from the other side of the partition was hoarse breathing. Finally it was Veil who spoke. "Thank you, Father," he said evenly. "I hadn't come to you before this,
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