"Carlo," I said, starting to feel more than a bit impatient, "are you telling me that you'll lose your job, you'll be forced to leave the country, and your family will starve just because I don't want to use you? Cornucopia must have somebody else for you to drive around. Listen, I'll be happy to call your boss and explain the situation."
"No, signor," he replied quickly, opening his eyes wide. "That would only make matters worse. You see, there isn't anyone else to drive around; there hasn't been for weeks. Cornucopia has been very, very good to me. They originally hired me as a janitor ten years ago. Then I hurt myself, and they saw that it was difficult for me to do the heavy physical labor sometimes required of me. Rather than dismiss me, they gave me this job of chauffeur. This is work I can do, signor; it is the best job I have ever had. But I know they are thinking there really isn't that much need for a chauffeur. I am afraid of being let go. Please, signor, you look like a kind man. If you would let me serve you, and then-if you are satisfied with my service-perhaps say a kind word about me to my boss, I would appreciate it very, very much. I promise not to get in your way, and I will always be close by when you need me."
Carlo might be old and crippled, but he was no slouch when it came to presenting a case. Cornucopia should have hired him as a lawyer. I grunted, pointed to his crooked left leg. "You can, uh, drive all right with that leg?"
"Oh, si, signor. The car has automatic transmission. You will find I am a very good driver."
He was right. Despite my protestations, he had insisted on using his free hand to push my luggage cart out of the terminal to a special-permit parking lot where a gleaming black Mercedes-Benz was parked off to one side, and from the ease with which he tossed my luggage into the cavernous trunk, I knew he was not a man I would have wanted to annoy when he was younger. Behind the wheel of the Mercedes, he drove along the highway into Zurich, and then through the city's streets, with confidence and skill, and-despite his Keystone Kops uniform-an air of professionalism that made him appear as if he'd been a chauffeur all his life. As if fearing to invade my privacy, he'd rolled up the window separating the front seat from the rear salon, which seemed to me only slightly smaller than a handball court. There was a bar, television, and a selection of about a dozen newspapers and magazines. There was also a thermos of hot coffee. I opted for the coffee, pouring myself a cup of the nutty, chocolate-laced liquid, leaning back in the soft, rich-smelling leather that surrounded me, and enjoying the view out the windows as we made our way to the Hilton.
I told Carlo to wait for me while I checked into the hotel. I was amused to find that Neuberger had booked me into one of three "honeymoon suites," since the Presidential Suite had already been booked when he'd called. If the car's salon had been big enough for a game of handball, the hotel suite was more suitable for jai alai. After an initial twinge of guilt at being the proximate cause of so much wasted money, I reminded myself that my expenses were coming out of Neuberger's very spacious pockets, and not funds meant to feed starving children; if he wanted to spend his money this way while I looked into what might have happened to the funds that had been meant to feed starving children, I wasn't about to complain. I'd already done that.
It was four o'clock, local time. I was tired, of course, but my experience with jet lag told me that I wasn't going to be able to wind down and sleep for hours, and so I might just as well get right to business. I called Hyatt Pomeroy at Cornucopia's branch office in Zurich, announced who I was and why I was there, and asked if I could come over to talk to him. Pomeroy, who spoke with a pronounced Australian accent, didn't sound exactly thrilled at the prospect of having his day capped by me, but he'd been expecting my call, and he didn't object. I jumped into the shower, put on fresh clothes, and went out to find my chauffeur waiting for me at the curb.
"He totally misrepresented himself," Hyatt Pomeroy announced in his high-pitched, nasal voice virtually the moment I stepped through the door into his office. He sounded like he believed this was new information to me, and that it would explain everything.
Hyatt Pomeroy, the executive in charge of Cornucopia's operations in western Europe, made much the same negative impression on me as Emmet P. Neuberger, despite-or perhaps because of-the fact that he was a polar opposite in both appearance and demeanor. While Neuberger was obese and obsequious, Pomeroy was rail thin and haughtily austere; Neuberger was warm, if that was the word, to the point of nausea, while this man with the piccolo voice and Australian accent was ice cold. Neuberger, despite his enormous wealth, wore clothes that looked like they had been hastily snatched off some pipe rack at a fire sale while the fire was in progress, while Pomeroy's suit, shirt, Hermes tie, and Gucci shoes were all top-of-the-line. Although he had insisted that I sit in the straight-backed chair placed in front of the desk in his cramped office, he remained standing, like a man ready to make a quick getaway. I could tell he was not overjoyed to see me.
"How so, Mr. Pomeroy?" I asked evenly.
"Let me be frank with you, Dr. Frederickson," he said, shoving both his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. "I resent you being here-or rather, I should say I resent the fact that Mr. Neuberger has seen fit to send a private investigator here to question me. Not only does it betoken a complete lack of trust and confidence on my employer's part, but I consider it insulting. I've been thoroughly interrogated by both Interpol and the Zurich police-a number of times. Every scrap of paper from this office has been confiscated. I can't even authorize the payroll for staff until this bloody business is finished. How could Mr. Neuberger possibly think I had anything to do with this theft?"
"I'm not here to investigate you, Mr. Pomeroy."
That took him by surprise. He stared at me for a few moments, slowly blinked. "What, then?"
"All Mr. Neuberger wants is a comprehensive report bringing him up to date on the investigation. My being here is in no way a reflection on you."
Pomeroy sniffed. "I talk to him on the phone at least once- and usually twice-a day. What's the matter with the reports I give him?"
"You'll have to ask him that question, Pomeroy, because I don't have an answer for you. I've told you what my job is. If you don't want to talk to me, fine. I'll just include that in my report."
Hyatt Pomeroy thought about that for a few moments, then abruptly walked behind his desk and sat down in the swivel chair there. He brushed some imaginary lint off his lapels, then leaned forward and clasped his hands together on his desktop. "The man whom authorities say is actually John Sinclair was known to me as Michael Radigan," he said evenly. "We met four times over a period of six weeks. He sat right there where you're sitting."
"What did he look like?"
"What difference does it make? I'm told he's a master of disguise, and that nobody is certain what he really looks like."