Sammy reached under his bed, and his hand reappeared holding a bottle of beer. His supplies had obviously arrived during Bernoulli’s short absence.
“You see what I mean. In the Bâle prison you get service, prompt service. It’s also the only jail in the country where they let you drink.”
He offered Bernoulli a pull on the bottle and was not turned down.
“Aah,” gasped Bernoulli, “that really hit the spot. Sammy, you know, somehow I have the feeling that things are looking up.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it. You sure looked worried earlier this morning.”
“I guess because it’s my first time. You know how it is when you have absolutely no idea how the system works.”
“Sure, I went through the same thing about, lemme think, yeah, about seven years ago. And that was in Geneva. Ugh. Look, just make sure you order lots to eat and drink from the outside. It takes your mind off of other things. You must have money the way you look. What did you do?”
“Bad cheque. And you?”
“Safes. That’s my speciality. They know me all over. Sammy Bechot. The best in the business.”
Both men had suddenly warmed to each other. Bernoulli found Sammy to be a highly sympathetic and amusing person. And obviously Sammy felt more than a bit sorry for this man who could not quite cope with a life to which Sammy had long ago become accustomed. Prison cells produce peculiar social chemistry.
In the afternoon Bernoulli followed Sammy’s advice and pounded on the door with his metal cup, and when the warden appeared handed him a list of food and especially wine—good wine—that he wanted bought as soon as possible. He deliberately overordered. When the supplies came, the bulk of them was locked in a wooden cupboard right outside the cell door in the corridor. The daily ration of alcohol per day was limited to one litre of wine per head. Through some mixup, however, Bernoulli ended up with two litres in the cell. Then Sammy came up with a further brilliant idea. Nothing in the jail rules precluded one inmate from making gifts to another. He banged on the door with his cup, producing a volume of noise reflecting skill born of practice. This time the door was not opened. The night shift was just coming on and security precautions increased. The metal covering on the peephole in the door was swung aside.
“What’s going on?”
“All I want is some wine for the evening.”
“Sammy, don’t push things too far. All you’ve got is beer and you damn well know it.”
“But my friend George wants to offer me one of his bottles. And he thought you might be able to use one, too.”
The door swung open.
“Not so loud, Sammy. For Christ’s sake, you want to get us all into trouble?” He turned to Bernoulli.
“Is Sammy here telling the truth?”
“Of course.”
“Well, fine. As an exception, mind you, I’ll accept your offer.” He unlocked the cabinet in the corridor and two more bottles appeared. He started to apply the corkscrew, hanging from his heavy keychain.
“Stop it!” commanded Sammy. “Just leave the corkscrew here.”
“You know that’s against the rules. I open the bottles. You drink.”
“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 labeclass="underline" 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.”