Paul Erdman - The Billion Dollar Sure Thing

“Ah, come on. My friend here is not used to drinking stale wine. Look, for God’s sake. It’s a 1957 Pommard. You want to ruin a thing like that?”

The warden looked at the label: in fact, he studied it with sudden respect.

“O.K., just wait a minute. I’ll get another one.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Sammy. “After all, you’ve had a long day.”

To Bernoulli’s surprise, both of them disappeared, leaving the door completely open. Five minutes later Sammy reappeared and produced not only a corkscrew but two cigars, two bottles of beer, and a candle.

“Met a buddy” was his only explanation.

At nine-thirty, exactly, the lights in the cell went out. Just as punctually, Sammy’s candle went on. Bernoulli and Bechot settled down to a hard night of drinking, mingled with jokes and resulting laughter that at one time invoked a heavy banging on the cell wall. Apparently the guy next door wanted to sleep. It must have been well past midnight when Sammy started talking shop. It was an unexpected opportunity, with such an obviously literate and appreciative audience. And sure enough, when he described his new technique, it elicited a response of respect, true respect. By this time the wine was gone. They turned to the beer, which had been cooling in the wash basin, under continuously running water for hours. The occasion also called for cigars.

“Ain’t this the life?” asked Sammy.

“Sure, as long as it doesn’t drag on too long,” countered Bernoulli.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not worried one little bit on that score. I’ll be out of here in less than a week—maximum.”

“Really?”

Sammy meant it—really. They would not dare keep him; his second-last job had been done for the cops themselves! One of the kommissars who had dealt with Sammy in regard to an earlier charge, which eventually had brought him twenty-four months behind bars, had set it up, and paid Sammy 10,000 francs for one of the simplest jobs he had ever done in his life. His latest little escapade would be swept under the rug for lack of evidence, and that would be that.

This was all Bernoulli needed. To press for more information from Sammy at this point would simply be too risky. With or without alcohol, Bechot was a crafty character.

They soon finished off their beer and cigars. Sammy blew out the candle and carefully hid the stump in a spare pair of socks. Obviously he knew his way around the cell, even in pitch darkness.

Within minutes both men were asleep, and in fact both slept very well in the sure knowledge that they would not be in jail much longer.

The next morning Bernoulli was again collected from his cell for interrogation. Within fifteen minutes his friend Heinz Bucher collected every dossier of information they had on Sammy Bechot. After Bernoulli’s retelling of Sammy’s tale of the previous evening, Bucher had turned white with anger; it had the ring of truth.

As the two men systematically went through the documentation, containing hundreds of pages of past interrogation of Bechot, they both had one single objective—the listing of every cop that had ever dealt with Sammy.

In order to maintain the façade, Bernoulli was returned to his cell for lunch. When he returned an hour later, Bucher was still on the job.

“Heinz, when are you going to eat?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Look, don’t take it personally for God’s sake. It happens in the best police forces.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Maybe Sammy’s lying after all.”

“I doubt it. Why don’t you shut up, so that we can get this dirty work over.”

By four o’clock they had the full list of police contacts with Bechot from the past. Fourteen names. As Bucher reread the list for what must have been the twentieth time, he suddenly slammed his hand down on his desk.

“George, dammit, I’ll bet I’ve got it. That dirty son of a bitch. We’ll hang that bastard up so high they’ll need a crane to get him back down.”

“Who is it, Heinz?”

“Probably a fellow named Rolf Lutz.”

“What’s his rank?”

“He has none. He left the force about four years ago. Used to be a kommissar in the fraud squad. We worked together quite a bit. Then he set up a collection agency in town. It went very well. So he branched out to Zurich and Geneva, then Lugano.”

“That does not exactly fit, Heinz. I mean just because he’s apparently the only fellow on your list who has left the force does not mean you have to jump to such conclusions.”

“That’s not the whole story. He didn’t stick to collections. Two years ago he changed the name of his company to Swiss Security Consultants. Now the bulk of the business is the investigation of thefts, frauds, scandals that companies don’t want leaked. His success has been fantastic. By now Lutz must have a group of at least fifty people, most of them ex-policemen, on his staff. He moved headquarters to Geneva last year—same time as he changed the name. They tell me he picked up a whole crew of communications guys down there. They’ll sweep a place for you on a regular contract basis for bugs, wiretaps, or just plain carelessness. But as far as I know, he’s never been caught stepping out of line. Strictly defensive stuff.”

“You got a file on him?”

“No. As I told you he’s been operating out of Geneva for the past couple of years. And we’ve had no reason to investigate his local operations.”

“What makes you feel that he would get involved in something like this? I mean, there’s an enormous risk.”

“Just a feeling. First, I don’t like coincidences one bit. Bechot would hardly differentiate between a cop and an ex-cop. He thinks strictly in terms of us and them. Second, Lutz did not leave this place in a blaze of glory. We all get our hands a bit dirty now and then. You know that. But Lutz seemed to make a habit of it.”

“So he was fired?”

“No, but nobody here was especially sad to see him go. He liked money just a little too much.”

“Heinz, I’ll just have to trust your judgment,” said Bernoulli. “I don’t have time to wait for a laborious sifting out of the other people on the list.”

“But I can hardly pick him up, or even approach him, on the grounds of your story, George.”

“I know, and that would be the very last thing we would want. For the moment I really need just one thing. A more complete dossier on Swiss Security Consultants A.G. Geneva must have something. The most important factor is a better feeling for their clientele.”

“O.K. I’ll ask the fellows in Geneva.”

“But do it real easy, Heinz,” stressed Bernoulli. “I don’t want one speck of dust stirred up.”

“I’ll work it out.”

“Now one other thing. I want you to try to trace Bechot’s movements—all of them—on the evening and night of October 27. Check every hotel and every bar in the city. Carefully.”

“Right.”

By this time it was starting to get dark outside. Bernoulli was brought back to his cell just in time for the evening meal. It consisted of dark bread and thick cocoa.

“How did it go?” asked Bechot.

“Fine. It should be all cleared up by tomorrow.”

“How come?”

“My father has agreed to cover the check. All one big mixup, you know. I thought his regular transfer had arrived, but it seems that he forgot it, or something.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately this is not the first time. I had a little problem like this in Germany a while back. But there we could arrange things without me being locked up.”

“Hah,” said Bechot. “Do you think it’s the first time for any of us here? Once they get to know you they never leave you alone. It’s too bad. Now I’ll probably get some damn Turk or Italian for a cellmate. But that’s all right. They won’t dare keep me for long either.”