The Black Hand

9

Barker decided that before the day ended he must stop and see how Etienne was progressing. It was perhaps coincidental that he chose an hour at which Le Toison d’Or was just opening its doors for the dinner crowds and Madame Dummolard was occupied.

When we arrived at Charing Cross Hospital, we buttonholed the admitting orderly to see about Dummolard’s condition.

“He’s not allowed visitors, sir,” the young man told us.

“What? Is he still gravely ill?”

“No, sir, but he boxed the ear of the last doctor what got near him. The hospital cannot be liable for your safety, I’m afraid.”

“I know his temper,” Barker said with a chuckle. “I’ve been acquainted with it for many years. I’ll take my chances. Come, lad.”

When we entered Etienne’s room, we narrowly missed the chamber pot shied at our heads.

“Good afternoon, Etienne,” Barker replied, as if flying pots were our cook’s standard form of greeting.

“Mon capitaine!” Dummolard roared from his bed. “Get me out of here. These cochons don’t realize I have a restaurant to run. London must have a choice beside le Yorkshire pud.”

“You stay until the doctor says you can leave,” the Guv ordered. “I won’t have you collapsing over your roux.”

Dummolard crossed his bare arms and cursed, but it was obvious he would comply. He was used to taking orders from his former captain, if no one else.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“Comme ci, comme ca,” Dummolard replied. “Mireille made such a nuisance of herself that they have restricted her visits to two hours a day. I have not had so much rest since before my wedding day. I must warn you my brothers came to pay a visit.”

“Your brothers?” Barker asked, frowning.

“Oui. All five of them: Robert, Thierry, Francois, Martin, and Jean. The family honor has been bes-, bes-, oh, damn, what is the word?”

“Besmirched?” I offered.

“Besmirched! Merci.”

“They are apache, as I recall,” Barker said. “Is that not so?”

“Oui.”

“Apache?” I queried.

“Not Indians, lad,” Barker explained. “French gang members. Good fighters, savateurs, for the most part. Normally I’d chase them back across the Channel, but I might have use for them now. You say there are only five?”

“Oui, but they despise Sicilians. They would cross a desert to fight them.”

“Do you know where they are staying?”

Dummolard picked up a slip of paper from a table beside his bed and gave it to Barker.

“How long have they been here?”

“They arrived this morning. Smuggled themselves in from Dieppe.”

My employer sighed and put his hands on his hips. “And how much trouble have they gotten into since then?”

“Not much, not for them, anyway. They broke up one of the Sicilian cafes in Soho and had a good fight with the Irish in Seven Dials. They say this London of mine is very tame and that I was more likely attacked by a child in a perambulator armed with a rattle. They said I am getting old. I intend to thrash them all when I get out of here.”

“When will you be released? Have they said?”

“Two days if I agree to stay in bed at home for a while. Two weeks if I intend to go back to work.”

“They know you too well, Etienne,” I couldn’t help but say. “Are you eating the food they serve you here?”

“Of course not. Are you mad? Mireille brings me lunch and dinner from Le Toisin d’Or, so I can be certain they don’t make a shambles of the meals in my absence. You think I would eat the poison they serve in this place? I have no wish for the suicide.”

“So I take it Robert is the next eldest brother, and in charge of the others?” our employer asked, changing the subject.

“He is. You will find him in front of this hospital somewhere. He has convinced himself that the Sicilians intend to finish the work they started.”

“Has he reason to be convinced?”

Dummolard shrugged and then winced in pain. Being stabbed twice seriously impedes a Frenchman’s ability to express himself. “Some fellows resembling Sicilians attempted to enter the hospital yesterday but left when my brothers made a show of strength.”

“And you considered this not noteworthy enough to mention until now?”

“I was hoping for a chance at them myself, if you must know. They caught me unawares once. I will not let them do so again.”

“You’d fight them with a chamber pot?” I couldn’t help but ask. Dummolard was fearless, but that was going too far, even for him.

“No, you idiot,” he replied, reaching behind his pillow and pulling out a wicked-looking pistol.

“A gift from one of your brothers,” my employer commented.

“A man has a right to defend himself, non?”

“It’s a wonder you merely boxed the doctor’s ear,” I commented.

“I’ll leave you to your convalescence, Etienne,” Barker said drily. “Try not to shoot anyone.”

As soon as we came out of Charing Cross Hospital, Cyrus Baker came to the curb and stopped, his hand resting on the head of his stick. He stood immobile among the stream of citizens passing by and I was reminded of an old motto of one of the Scottish clans: Stand Fast. The nation to our north produces rough men like my employer; it was no wonder Hadrian tried to keep them out with a wall from sea to sea.

The Guv’s head turned as he scanned the crowd. He hadn’t bothered to ask what Robert Dummolard looked like. It was something of an intellectual exercise, picking Etienne’s brother out of a crowd, so I attempted to find him as well. It was a variation on Mr. Gallenga’s “eye.” I glanced from face to face, looking for similar features to our cook, similar build, wondering if there was a way to recognize Frenchness in a person.

“I don’t see him, I’m afraid.”

“Look lower,” Barker said, then gave a short summons with his hand before turning and moving south. I had just enough time to see a fellow stand before I followed my employer. Dummolard’s brother had been seated on some steps going down to a basement across the street, and smoking a cigarette.

There is an unwritten code of behavior that goes with being an enquiry agent. I knew I would show myself to be a rank amateur were I to turn my head to see if the Frenchman was following us. The mere act of looking back might raise his scorn and we’d lose him, so I forced myself to keep looking forward.

Barker unlocked our chambers and we crossed to our desks, where I pulled out my ledger book, as if being followed by a French apache was such a common occurrence it was not worth a change in routine.

I blinked and he was there. Very well, perhaps it wasn’t that fast, but nearly so. I looked down at the ledger, and soundlessly he slipped past me and sat in the visitor’s chair. Robert Dummolard was tall and swarthy with black hair and a mustache. He looked nothing like his elder brother, save for the misshapen nose. I could tell he was dangerous. The nose had been broken before, and there was a vertical scar creasing his jawline. He wore a tan overcoat and carried a bowler.

“You wish to avenge your brother against the assassins who almost killed him,” Barker stated, his elbows resting on the arms of his green leather chair with his fingertips pressed together.

In answer, the Frenchman gave the very briefest of nods.

“So do I. In fact, I wish to completely discourage the Mafia from settling in London, though I won’t molest the Sicilians unconnected with it. If we both go after the same individuals we might get in each other’s way. I am considering a confrontation in a few days’ time, and I require skilled fighters. Would you and your brothers be interested?”

“C’est possible,” Robert Dummolard muttered. He had a harsh voice, the kind one gets from smoking too many cigarettes.

“Are you able to speak for your brothers? No pistols. You may bring a knife, but I would prefer sticks at first. I want no fatalities.”

“I cannot promise,” he pronounced slowly.

“We shall cross that bridge when we come to it, then.”

“Comment?”

“We will decide then.”

“D’accord.”

“I would reach you in plenty of time to get you to the skirmish. I may set up a meeting beforehand. Until then, consider that you’ll be of no use to your brother if you end up in jail.”

Robert gave a low chuckle and stood. He moved quickly past me and was gone, on his way back to his post in front of Charing Cross Hospital.

I looked at my employer. “Are you really planning to have a confrontation with the Mafia with the two of us and Etienne’s five brothers?”

“What? You don’t approve of my plan?” the Guv asked, leaning back in his chair. “If it makes you feel any better, I do plan to recruit others to help.”

“But, sir, what if the Sicilians arrive armed with pistols and shotguns? It could be a bloodbath, and you’d be responsible. We don’t know how many men the Sicilians can muster,” I continued. “It could be two or three hundred. There are too many variables. Is there any other way? Obviously, you intend to flush out the Mafia fellow Marco Faldo and his assassin and force them out of London, but will it work?”

“I cannot give you a guarantee, lad, if that is what you want. The head of the Sicilians is bound by honor to appear with his men. Once I see him, I’ll figure out how to bring him down.”

“If you see him first!”

“Oh, I’ll see him, all right. I don’t believe he’s that resourceful. He’s a traditionalist. Look at the methods he’s used already: the barreling, the ice pick, and the Black Hand note. They are classic Sicilian tactics.”

“I’m for more men,” I said. “As many as possible. Where do we find them?”

“We’ll go to the source, lad. First thing in the morning, we’ll go down to the docks.”