The Black Hand

22

Once inside Division A, we were taken down a hallway and directed to a bench, where we sat for a good half hour, and then I was called first into one of the interrogation rooms, presumably because my English was better than my compatriots’. However, no sooner had the door opened than I caught the aroma of Barker’s tobacco, which I would know anywhere. I stepped in and sat down in the chair provided, and explained to Poole, Barker, and a constable taking notes all that had happened at the Neapolitan, excluding the parts I knew the Guv wanted kept secret, while he sat in a shadowy corner away from the oil lamp in front of me.

“That’s it, then,” Poole finally said. He’d taken off his hat and coat, and there was a gleam of perspiration on his pate. It was stuffy in the room, and Barker’s tobacco hadn’t helped anything, save initially to alert me of his presence, which may have been his reason for smoking in the first place.

“That’s what?” I asked.

“Don’t be flippant. Hop it. I’m tired of looking at you.”

I wasn’t going to sit there and argue with the man. I stood and left the room. Barker followed, so I assumed he had already been questioned. Something was going on. A half hour before, Poole seemed more than happy to toss me in jail until I rotted. Barker must have made some sort of concession. He had purchased my freedom, but at what cost? I knew better than to ask, and chances are he wouldn’t tell me-not yet, anyway. He would merely say something like “All will be revealed in the fullness of time, lad.” That really gets up my nose.

I walked with one hand in my pocket and the other swinging my cane, happy to be free. At the same time, however, I considered whether having Barker and Gigliotti together had increased the chance of an attack. Were the Sicilians after Gigliotti or Barker or both? Obviously, Victor had presented a better target and he had been swinging his own shotgun toward them at the time. Were there too many of us protecting the Guv for the killer to risk loading again and stepping into the restaurant? Such an action would have been more than bravado. It would have been suicidal.

I hopped up the steps of our office two at a time, with Barker close behind me. Jenkins was not sitting in his customary chair. I went into the office and called his name, thinking to myself that the assassins could have come in here rather than Gigliotti’s restaurant.

“Here, sir,” his voice came. I looked about for him and finally spotted his slight figure behind the curtain in the bow window.

“Might have been safer to hide under the Guv’s desk,” I said.

“Ignore him, Jeremy,” Barker rumbled. “He’s put out. What has happened?”

“Not sure, sir. There’s been a fellow watching the building. He’s been all up and down the court for the last hour. Even came up to the door once.”

“Describe him.”

“Thirtyish, blond hair, wide-brimmed hat. Wears a cape, sir. Thought he might be a messenger, but he could have just put the note through the slot in the front door.”

“Is he still there?” Barker asked.

“As far as I could tell, he left twenty minutes ago.”

When the Guv went out to take a look, I sat down in my chair, thinking of Victor Gigliotti. I was no friend of his, I’ll admit. He was a criminal, for all his pretensions to legitimate business. He’d never been especially civil to me. Perhaps it wasn’t Victor himself as much as the thought that each person I knew being killed brought me closer to my own bullet or knife wound or shotgun blast or what have you. Another layer of safety had been stripped away.

Barker walked back into our chambers. “He’s no longer there. I’ve checked the area, and he’s gone.”

“Do you still intend to supervise a gang war on the docks?” I asked my employer suddenly. “Nothing has changed your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it merely a ruse for flushing out Faldo?”

“It is required by his code that he attend such a donnybrook. He must show himself and when he does, I will pounce.”

“You make him sound like a wharf rat.”

“As far as I’m concerned, that is just what he is. And I intend to get him between my teeth like a good ratter and bite down hard.”

I said nothing, but I was thinking, and it showed on my face.

“What is it, lad?”

“He’s very close, isn’t he? I mean, he had a man in our garden, a man who disappeared. Then, there was the fellow on our corner, the old gentleman who was singing. How do we know that wasn’t Faldo?”

“You’re rattled,” he said. “Gigliotti’s murder has gotten to you.”

“I’m wondering if we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew, sir. I mean, going against the Mafia, an entire Sicilian secret society.”

“It may not be as bad as all that,” Barker said.

“What do you mean?”

“We have no proof that Faldo arrived as a representative of his brethren. He may have come on a personal vendetta and found London ripe for conquest. I believe he is merely a foot soldier trying to imitate his superiors far from Palermo. He’s stretching his muscles, seeing what he can get away with, and trying to make a name for himself.”

“If he came all the way here from Sicily to kill Pettigrilli, he must be very determined.”

“I’ll give him that, lad. He’s playing this game for high stakes and has no intention of losing.”

“And where does that leave us, sir?”

Barker leaned back in his big chair and crossed his arms. “Well, I’d like to think I have one advantage over him.”

“And that is?”

“I don’t play games.”

Several minutes later, Inspector Poole came into our office. I thought we had been shed of him for the day. Granted, there are advantages to living so close to Scotland Yard-one hears news faster, and anyone not satisfied with the way they’ve been treated can come around the corner and hire an enquiry agent-but there are disadvantages, too. I’d grown heartily sick of Terence Poole and his ulcer.

“We’ve got him! Two constables in Clerkenwell just arrested a man in a black cape. We need your boy here for an identity parade.”

“As a witness or suspect?” I asked.

Poole crossed his thin arms. “Always with the jokes. You really need to learn some respect for the law.”

“It was a legitimate question.”

“Oh, come along, you.”

“He is my assistant, Terry,” the Guv pointed out. “I should like to be asked before you take him away.”

“You’re as touchy as he is these days, Cyrus. I think he’s been a bad influence on you.”

“I merely think a little professional courtesy is in order.”

Poole’s cheeks were turning red. Barker and I knew that there must be several people at the Yard waiting for us to arrive.

“Oh, very well, I’m sorry I ordered you about. I’m sorry I tried to take your assistant away without asking you. I’m sorry I decided to become a constable instead of a river keeper. Now, can we get on with it?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” I said. “Besides, I’ve never been to an identity parade.”

There’s a room in A Division set up solely for this activity, a sort of stage with horizontal lines along the wall, marking heights up to seven feet. The stage is brightly lit with gas jets, but where the witness stands is in heavy shadow, though not heavy enough to suit me.

“Trot them out,” Poole ordered as soon as Barker and I were ready. On the way over, the inspector had explained that of all the people in the area of the Neapolitan, only I had gotten a clear look at the assassin. As the suspects slouched in, I considered how often I’d found myself in such a position.

“Take your time; look them over,” Poole said, as if it were a patter he had memorized long ago. “Gentlemen in the parade, please turn to the right. Thank you.”

I spotted Gigliotti’s killer right off, even though he wasn’t wearing the cloak and hat. He was second from the right, trying to look like all the others, moving as they did, making the same expressions. It didn’t work. I lifted two fingers and Poole nodded in agreement, possibly even relief. He ordered them all to turn to the left and then they shuffled out but not before the fellow looked out past the glare of the gas jets and fixed his eyes on me again, as if it were I in the identity parade and he picking me out of the crowd.

I didn’t know then that there could be blond Italians. I never learned what city he came from, but I doubted it could be Palermo. He must be a northerner, from Florence or Milan or Venice, who had come with Faldo to London. His was a bland face, almost pale, with no whiskers or identifying marks, save for a longish nose. Only his eyes gave him away. They were cold as a block of Gigliotti’s ice, eyes meant for looking down the barrel of a gun or guiding a blade between a pair of ribs or jamming an ice pick into the ear of a victim. He could pierce your heart and then sit down to a glass of wine and a good meal.

“Now what happens?” I asked Poole.

All the tension had left the inspector’s body. He looked almost jubilant. “Now we take his measurements using the latest methods of detective work, the Bertillon system. Inspector Pettigrilli left behind a box of filled-in cards, his own personal rogues’ gallery, and your man is in there.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“His name is Vito Moroni. He’s from Ravenna. He’s had several arrests across Italy. Extortion. Violence. Assault. Finally, he ended up in Palermo where there was steady work for him. Arrested for killing a judge, but he got off. Arrested for killing the chief of police, but got off. Slippery as an eel, this one. Known associates, one Marco Faldo. That should come as no surprise.”

“Has he admitted to being Vito Moroni?”

“Of course not. He claims to be Guido Palazzo, an out-of-work carpenter doing casual work on the docks. He even has papers, but I believe they are forged-or he might have killed the real Palazzo for his papers.”

By then we were leaving A Division for Poole’s office in the C.I.D. building. The sun had gained some strength since noon and was bathing Great Scotland Yard in golden sunlight. We stopped into the next building, and in a few minutes, Poole put a piece of paper into Barker’s hand.

“It’s the response from the chief of police in Palermo. I think you should see it.”

The letter read:

Pietro Berruto

Prefecture of Police

Palermo, Italy

Inspector Poole

A Division

Scotland Yard

London, England

Dear Inspector Poole,

It is with a heavy heart that we learn of the death of our comrade in arms, Inspector Pettigrilli. Alberto was an exemplary officer and will be sorely missed. The government is considering awarding the medal of St. Michael to his widow in his name. All of us here in Palermo have stories of his courage and his strength. He survived no less than three attempts on his life, and so it comes as little surprise that in the end, that life was all too brief. He was a tireless fighter against the organized gangs of Sicily, wishing to rid the country of this plague, for the good of all. It was his greatest wish to provide a way to connect all police agencies around the world through the use of the Bertillon system, and we are glad that before his death he finished training you at the famous Scotland Yard of London, England.

Sincerely,

Pietro Berruto, Commissioner

“Touching,” Barker said.

“The question is,” Poole said, “whether Moroni will lead us to his boss. He looks like he’ll be a tough nut to crack.”

“If you could see some way to place him in my custody, I’m sure I can get him to crack open a little,” Barker offered.

“I’m sure, Cyrus, but it isn’t his skull we want cracked. Or his ribs. Your methods are occasionally heavy-handed.”

Barker gave one of his wintry smiles. “Just a trifle enthusiastic.”