In The Hour Before Midnight aka The Sicilian Heritage

SIX

I WENT TO bed for a while after we’d eaten. Sleep came easily to me at that time, simply by closing the eyes and I seldom seemed to dream. When I opened them again it was seven-thirty by the bedside clock and almost dark.

Somewhere I could hear the murmur of voices and I got to my feet, pulled on a bathrobe and padded across to the glass doors that opened on to the terrace.

Burke was standing in the courtyard below, one foot on the rim of the ornamental fountain. His companion was a thick-set man with close-cropped white hair who looked in better shape than he probably was, thanks to a tailor who knew how to cut cloth.

There was nothing ostentatious about him. He’d resisted the impulse to wear more than one ring and displayed only the regulation inch of white cuff as if following someone’s instructions to the letter. I think it was the tie which spoiled things – Guards Brigade, which didn’t seem likely – and when he produced a platinum case and offered Burke a cigarette, he looked about as real as his garden.

He accepted a light, turned away slightly, running a hand over his hair with a rather feminine gesture and saw me standing there at the edge of the balcony.

He had obviously cultivated the instant smile. “Hello there,” he called. “I’m Karl Hoffer. How are you?”

“Fine,” I said. “You provide excellent beds.”

His voice was the first surprise. Pure American – no Austrian accent at all as far as I could judge.

He smiled at Burke. “Heh, I like him,” then looked up at me again. “We’re just going to have a drink. Why don’t you join us? Good chance to talk business.”

“Five minutes,” I said and went back into the bedroom to dress.

As I went down to the hall, Rosa Solazzo appeared from the dining room followed by one of the houseboys carrying a tray of drinks. All the best dresses were English that year. Hers must have set Hoffer back two hundred guineas at least, a cloud of red silk like a flame in the night, setting her hair and eyes off to perfection.

“Please,” she said, reached up and straightened my tie. “There, that is better. I felt very foolish this afternoon. I didn’t know.”

She’d spoken in Italian and I replied in kind. “Didn’t know what?”

“Oh, about you. That your mother was Sicilian.”

“And who told you that?”

“Colonel Burke.”

“Life’s just full of surprises, isn’t it?” I said. “Shall we join the others?”

“As you wish.”

I think she took it as some kind of dismissal, but she certainly didn’t seem annoyed, although I suppose a woman in her position can seldom afford the luxury of that kind of emotion.

Hoffer and Burke had moved to a small illuminated patio where another fountain which was an exact duplicate of the first lifted into the night. They were sitting at a wrought iron table and rose to greet me.

Hoffer had the kind of out-of-season tan that usually argues a lamp or, more rarely, someone rich enough to follow the sun. On closer acquaintance, he was older than I had imagined, his face a network of fine seams and in spite of the ready smile, there was little joy in the china blue eyes.

We shook hands and he waved me to a seat. “Sorry I wasn’t here when you got in. I’m having to run down to Gela three or four times a week now. You know the oil game.”

I didn’t, but I remembered Gela, a Greek colony in classic times, mainly as a pleasant little coastal town on the other side of the island with some interesting archaeological remains. I wondered how the derricks and refineries were fitting in and accepted a large vodka and tonic from Rosa.

She dismissed the houseboy and served us herself, dropping unobtrusively into a chair in the background when she had finished which seemed to indicate that Hoffer trusted her all the way – something I’d been wrong about.

He certainly didn’t waste any time in getting down to business. “Mr. Wyatt, Colonel Burke recommended you highly for this job which is why we went to so much trouble to get you out.”

“That was real nice of him,” I said and the irony was in my voice for all to hear.

Except Hoffer, apparently, who carried on. “In fact I don’t think it’s overdoing it to say that we’re all depending on you, boy.”

He put a hand on my knee which I didn’t like and there was the sort of edge to his voice that you get with the kind of American wheat-belt politician who’s trying to persuade you he’s just folks after all. Any minute now I expected him to break into a chorus of “I believe in you” and I couldn’t have that.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Hoffer. I’m here for twenty-five thousand dollars plus expenses in advance.”

He straightened abruptly, the head went back, the eyes hardened into chips of blue glass. I expected him to argue about the terms because Burke actually looked alarmed and moved in fast.

“I’m sorry about this, Mr. Hoffer. Stacey doesn’t realise…”

Hoffer cut him off with a motion of one hand that was like a sword falling. “Never mind. I like a man who knows his own mind. So long as we all know where we stand.”

He was another man – hard, competent with the kind of ruthless edge he would have needed to get where he was. Even his physical movements were different. He snapped his fingers for another drink and Rosa Solazzo came running.

“Half in advance,” he said. “To you and Burke.”

“And if we fail to get the girl out?”

“You’re that much ahead of the game.”

“And the other two?”

“Your affair.”

Burke was frowning, mainly, I suppose, because he felt he was being cut out of things. He nodded slightly, which surprised me – or did it really?

In any event I shook my head and said to Hoffer, “Not good enough. Jaeger and Legrande get the same terms or we don’t go.”

He didn’t even argue. “All right. I’ll let you have a cheque you can draw in Palermo tomorrow, but made out to Colonel Burke. He holds the bank until the job is over one way or the other. Some insurance for me against anyone preferring a bird in the hand.”

“Fair enough.”

Burke was obviously furiously angry, but I ignored him and emptied my glass. Rosa came over to get me another. Hoffer said, “Can we get down to business now? How do you intend to tackle this thing?”

“You’re certain Serafino is in the Cammarata?” I said.

He nodded. “That definitely seems to be his home ground. Every enquiry I’ve been able to make confirms it. You know the area, I believe?”

“I’ve been there. It’s wild country.”

“You don’t need to tell me. I had to drive up there alone to make the first payment.”

“And you met him?”

“Serafino?” He nodded. “Face to face at a bridge on what passes for the main road near a village called Bellona.”

“What was he like?”

“I can show you.” He produced a wallet, took out a photo and gave it to me. “I got that through someone I know in the police. Our friend has been through their hands more than once.”

It was typical of police photography the world over, reducing the subject to a kind of Neanderthal man, capable – from his appearance – of rape or murder and most things in between.

I shook my head. “This doesn’t tell me a thing. What was he like? Describe him.”

“Twenty-five or six – medium height. Dark hair – long dark hair.” He didn’t approve of that. “One of those swarthy faces you get round here – they tell me it’s the Arab blood from Saracen days. Typical Sicilian.”

“Sounds just like me,” I said.

“If you like.” He wasn’t in the least put out. “He’s lost an eye since the photo was taken and he laughed a lot. Treated the whole thing as if it was one big joke.”

And he hadn’t liked that either. His right hand clenched into a fist and stayed that way. “I think Bellona sounds like a good place to start,” I said.

Hoffer seemed surprised. “Is that such a good idea? The impression I get is that most of the villagers in the area work hand in glove with people like Serafino.”

I looked at Burke. “You play the tourist. I’ll pass myself off as a hire-car driver.”

He nodded. “Suits me.”

I turned to Hoffer. “Not the Mercedes. Something that isn’t too ostentatious. Can you manage that?”

“Certainly. Is there anything else you’d like?”

“Yes, tell me about the girl.”

He looked slightly bewildered. “Joanna? But I thought the colonel told you all you needed to know?”

“I’d like to hear about her from you – all about her. In a thing like this it’s important to know as much as you can about people. That way you can have some idea in advance about how they might behave in a given situation.”

He was full of approval. “That makes sense. All right – where should I begin?”

“When you first met her would do for a start.”

Which was when she was twelve years old. Her father had died of leukaemia two years earlier. Hoffer had met her and the mother at St. Moritz one Christmas and the marriage had taken place shortly afterwards and had lasted until four months previously when his wife had been killed in a car crash in France.

“I understand the girl was rather a handful,” I said. “Presumably her mother’s death didn’t help.”

He seemed to slump wearily, ran a hand across his face and sighed. “Where do you begin with a thing like this? Look, Wyatt, I’ll put it in a nutshell for you. When Joanna was fourteen her mother found her in bed with the chauffeur and he wasn’t the first. She’s been nothing but trouble ever since – one rotten little scandal after another.”

“Then why are you bothering?”

He looked surprised, then frowned as if it hadn’t occurred to him before. “A good question – certainly not because of any great affection. She’s no good, she never has been and I honestly don’t think she ever will be. Maybe it isn’t her fault, but that’s the way it is. No, I suppose when it all comes down to it I owe it to my wife. She was a wonderful woman. The seven years she gave me were the best, Wyatt. Anything else can only be afters.”

He certainly sounded sincere and the presence of Rosa Solazzo didn’t alter my judgement in the slightest. I was certainly the last man in the world to hold the fact that he needed a woman around against him.

“One thing puzzles me,” I said. “I can understand you not going near the police. In Sicily they are worse than useless in a case like this, but didn’t it ever occur to you to approach Mafia?”

“What good would that do?” Burke laughed. “Stacey has this Mafia thing on the brain, Mr. Hoffer. There are reasons.”

Hoffer waved him down. “Sure I tried Mafia. They’re still behind most things here. Don’t believe all this crap you hear about Rome having stamped it out. That’s just for the tourist trade. They don’t want to scare anyone away.”

“Did you get anywhere?”

He shook his head. “It seems Serafino Lentini doesn’t like the Mafia. The impression I got was that they’d like to get their hands on him, too.”

“Stacey’s grandfather is something to do with this Mafia thing,” Burke said. “Isn’t that so, Stacey? He’s going to see him tonight.”

Hoffer frowned. “Your grandfather?”

“Vito Barbaccia,” I said, I think for effect more than anything.

Rosa Solazzo sucked in her breath and dropped her glass. Hoffer stared at me incredulously in the following silence. “You are Vito Barbaccia’s grandson?”

“You’ve heard of him, I take it?”

“Heard of him? Who hasn’t? And you are seeing him tonight?”

I nodded and he shook his head. “I can’t get over it.”

“You’ve met him?” Burke asked.

Hoffer smiled. “Twice – at parties, but never to speak to. Only royalty gets that close.”

Burke looked at me, a frown on his face and I realised that everything I had told him at the cemetery hadn’t really registered, certainly not the fundamental fact of just how important my grandfather was.

I drained my glass and got to my feet. “Well, I think I’ll take a turn round the garden before dinner.”

“Why not.” Hoffer nodded to Rosa. “Show him the sights, angel. There’s a fish pond round the back that’s quite a showpiece, Mr. Wyatt.”

Now he was calling me Mr. again. Strange how the Barbaccia affected people. And Rosa? Rosa had gone very pale and when I smiled at her, she dropped her gaze, fear in those dark eyes.

Barbaccia – mafioso. I suppose that to her, the two were interchangeable. When I tucked her arm in mine, she was trembling.

Hoffer obviously used a first-rate local chef. We had narbe di San Paolo which is a kind of ravioli filled with sugar and ricotta cheese and fried and cannolo, probably the most famous sweet in Sicily, consisting of a tube of flour and egg filled with cream. The others drank Marsala which is too sweet for me and I had a bottle of Zibibbo from the island of Pantellaria, a wine which is flavoured with anis. The sort of thing you either like at once or not at all.

We dined on the terrace, a rather conventional little group with Piet and Legrande very much on their best behaviour. Later – the wine having taken effect – things livened up a little. Piet gave all his attention to Rosa though strictly at a superficial level, and even Legrande unwound enough to smile once or twice.

The coffee was Yemeni mocha, probably the best in the world. I took mine to the edge of the terrace to drink. The laughter was louder now and no one appeared to notice as I faded away.

I went up to my room, got the Smith and Wesson in its spring holster from the drawer and snapped it to my belt. I pulled it clear a couple of times to make sure things were working all right and Burke came in. He closed the door and leaned against it.

“Expecting trouble?”

“I’m not sure.”

I replaced the Smith and Wesson, buttoned my jacket and slipped half a dozen spare rounds into my left-hand pocket and Marco’s Walther in the right.

“I’d like to come with you,” he said. “It might help.”

I looked him straight in the eye and he held my gaze, grave and serious. I nodded. “If you like.”

He smiled in a kind of relief – he was doing a lot of smiling these days – and slapped me on the shoulder. “The old firm, eh, Stacey boy?”

But it could never be that again, nothing was more certain. Why, as we went down the stairs, I wasn’t too happy about having him at the back of me.