The Black Hand

21

"So, exactly how many MAFIUSI are in London, and where are they hiding?”

I can generally be relied upon to ask the most rudimentary question. After I asked it, I pushed a piece of bread around a plate of herbed olive oil and ate it. We were in the Neapolitan again, and Victor Gigliotti felt it was impossible to think on an empty stomach-or do anything else, for that matter. On the table in front of us was the inevitable tray of antipasti. Though it was not yet noon, a flask of Gallo Nero stood at my elbow. I avoided it, for one glass and I’d be no good for the rest of the day.

“At the very minimum, two,” Barker said, rolling slices of cheese and ham together and taking a large bite. “It’s possible that the two assassins came here together and have planned these assaults themselves, but more likely someone else is telling them what to do and staying in hiding, for whatever purpose. I presume it is Marco Faldo, which makes three. If Faldo is wise-and I believe he must be in order to have come this far-he has either brought along or recruited a handful of underlings, men such as Venucchi who are not as experienced or proficient as his two assassins, to act as bodyguards and lackeys. I don’t believe a self-respecting criminal mastermind would allow himself to deliver threatening notes under doors or to attempt to steal small dogs.”

“Are you telling me,” Gigliotti asked, “that I, with a thousand men at my beck and call, am being harassed by one fellow and a handful of underlings?” He slammed his little coffee cup so hard into its saucer that the handle broke off. “Luigi!” he bawled over his shoulder. “Another cup!”

“I believe he has formed a new organization from among the Sicilian dockworkers.”

“Then we know where to look,” I put in. “Down by the docks. That must be where they are.”

Gigliotti grinned, showing his vulpine teeth. “They would not settle near the docks,” he corrected. “Italians always settle near a church, and there is but one Italian church in London, Saint Peter’s.”

“You yourself live in Clerkenwell, is that not correct?” Barker continued.

“It is.”

“Have you moved your family?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I have emptied my household, save for guards and servants. You will forgive me if I do not say where they have gone.”

“Of course. That is wise. Have you doubled the guard around your ice warehouse?”

“There seemed no need if I have my own guards nearby. It is me they want, me they threaten.” He stood and went to the money box by the front door and drew out a shotgun from under the counter. “Forgive me, my friend, but you have been in England too long. You wait upon events. You think too much when you must act. They stabbed your cook, cut your assistant, even tried to steal your dog, yet you wait for all the members of your little coalition to agree when to meet. Let us take this war to them. Hunt them down in Clerkenwell today, I say. I will help you. I’ll even call in all my employees to turn over the entire district. You’ll have your own private-”

“Down!” I cried.

I’d been facing the front of the restaurant with its elaborate frosted windows and lace curtains threaded on thin rods, not looking at anything in particular, just listening to what the restaurant owner was saying, when I noticed a sudden flutter at either side of the glass, shadows appearing against the panes. Suddenly, that sense that Gallenga had trained in me began jangling.

I kicked over my chair as the glass shattered and buckshot scattered across the room, encountering wood, plaster, cutlery, and human flesh.

Gigliotti turned as the glass shattered. He had been peppered with buckshot and glass but was unhurt, lifting the rifle in his hand. Then a man stepped in front of the windowframe, and before the Camorran could react, fired a second volley into him from ten paces. Victor Gigliotti dropped the shotgun and fell back onto the floor, his body riddled and bleeding. I watched the man turn to leave, and as he did so, the two of us locked eyes. An instant later he was gone.

Belatedly, the bodyguards rose from among the shattered tables screaming curses and ran past us out the door, guns drawn, while I struggled to my feet. What was a well-appointed restaurant a moment before was now a shambles. Tables and chairs were upset, bottles broken and leaking onto the floor, and dishes trampled underfoot.

“Are you all right, sir?” I called from the floor. One of my cuffs was stained red, but I was relieved to see it was only from the Chianti bottle beside me.

“Well enough,” Barker said, straightening his tie.

I dared stand. Instead of the intimate restaurant front, there was now a clear view of the street, the buildings opposite, and the dozen or more people surveying the damage in wonder. With the sun streaming down, the street seemed unnaturally bright and colorful, as if it were a stage set and we the audience. Another dozen citizens soon peered in at us. My employer crossed over to Gigliotti and put two fingers to the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse, and shook his head. The leader of the Camorrans was dead.

“You’re bleeding, sir,” I pointed out. “Your forehead.”

The Guv dug a tiny ball of shot from his temple with his nail and dabbed at the cut with a serviette.

“Your training with Gallenga seems to have served you in good stead,” he remarked.

“Did you see him?” I asked, as I brushed glass from my cutaway coat.

“No, blast it. I knocked over the table to avoid the shot and didn’t right it again until after he was gone. What did he look like?”

“Tall and thin, with light-colored hair. Clean shaven, sharp features. I won’t forget the look he gave me. I think he regretted wasting all his ammunition on poor Mr. Gigliotti.”

“You may be the only witness, then,” he said.

Barker shook his head. The waiters stood about, murmuring to each other, confounded. The livelihoods of a thousand people had suddenly been put at peril.

“Should we go, sir?” I asked. “I don’t relish going back to Scotland Yard.”

“You may, if you wish,” the Guv replied, “but there’s no chance the witnesses outside will not remember me.”

He was right, of course. I’m relatively insignificant, and if I slipped out, might go unnoticed, but no one forgets Cyrus Barker, all six feet two and fifteen stone of him, with his fierce mustache and his black-lensed Chinese spectacles. It was his only liability as a private enquiry agent, but then he played upon it often as well. Would I cut and run on him? Of course I wouldn’t.

It was in the nature of waiters to want to pick up things and begin restoring the restaurant to some order. It was cathartic for them, and it gave them something to do. A few, I noticed, were crying.

“Touch nothing!” Barker ordered. They all stopped and looked at him. He was not their employer, but it was good to be told what to do, to have someone in charge. They willingly obeyed.

“All of you go back to that table in the corner,” he continued, pointing to the large banqueting table at the far back. “Open a bottle of wine, but don’t get drunk. Scotland Yard is coming soon.”

“You’re sure of that?” I asked.

“A window being blown out by shotgun is going to be reported, lad. This is not Palermo yet. Besides, I’m sure Poole is having the restaurant watched. It’s what I would do in his shoes.”

It took all of five minutes for the first blue helmet to arrive, and another ten before Poole showed his bewhiskered face.

He stepped in and looked about, not saying a word, though there was a spot of color on his cheek. He took in the body laying supine on the black-and-white tiled floor, the scattered glass everywhere, and the upturned tables and chairs. He walked over and regarded the waiters as if they were part of a tableau, and then he finally came to us. The inspector reached into his pocket and put something into his mouth. It was a lozenge for his ulcer. I’ve heard him say Barker was responsible for it.

“Back in town again, eh, Cyrus?” he asked gruffly.

“As you see.”

“You haven’t wasted any time.”

He went over and spoke to one of the officers in a low voice, who turned and hurried out the door. “Sicilians again, I take it.”

“Two men, as before,” my employer answered. “Thomas saw one of them.”

Poole scrutinized me as if I’d done something clever, or beneath contempt, I’m not certain which. Obviously, I hadn’t saved Gigliotti’s life, and I’d only locked eyes with the killer unintentionally. It wasn’t in my mind, as my chair was falling back and the plate glass window shattering in front of me, to decide to help further this case along by identifying one of the assassins.

“Why do I always find you in the thick of the action, Cyrus?” Poole complained.

“I don’t know. Why does Scotland Yard always arrive last? The commissioner should have hired me years ago, when I offered him the chance.”

It may have been sunny outside, but there were storm clouds forming in the room just then. It never occurred to me that Barker might have offered his services to Scotland Yard at one time and been refused.

“The C.I.D. is not in the habit of hiring inspectors with shady spectacles and even shadier pasts.”

“Your loss,” I said.

“I’ll have no word out of you,” Poole warned.

Barker was glowering at me, but then, he was glowering at everything. “I have been forthcoming, Terry,” he said. “I know you wish to bring in the killer of Inspector Pettigrilli, but I cannot help you if you intend to continue locking me up and questioning me. You are impeding my investigation.”

Poole removed his hat and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “You were present during two murders in the last week!” he shouted.

“No, only the last one. I was nearby during the other.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. You’ve blasted my stomach beyond what it can endure. Pray don’t speak to me for ten minutes. In fact, be so good as to step outside but don’t go away yet. If you do, I’ll only have to come looking for you.”

Barker stepped into the street and looked up and down it. I followed. There were close to thirty people watching as the inevitable handcart arrived to transport Victor Gigliotti’s body. I had grown heartily sick of handcarts.

Five minutes later, a Black Maria pulled up to the front door, obstructing everyone’s view. It was an old vehicle, its paint chipped at the corners, rather dusty from lack of use. It amply shut off the view of the gawkers, but that was not its only use. Poole opened the door and ushered the Neapolitan’s waiters directly into the van. Some of them had not heeded Barker’s advice and were clearly drunk, while others gestured and argued all the way into the vehicle. I felt sorry for them, having just lost their employer, their livelihoods, and now, momentarily at least, their freedom. I hoped for their sakes there was a solicitor in London who spoke Italian. Had they been English, I thought, there would have been no need for the van.

“You next,” Poole said to me.

“What? Are you serious?” I asked. “Didn’t you just hear-”

“In!” The inspector seized my arm and propelled me into the van before closing the door in my face. Cyrus Barker, I noted, was not being arrested, nor was he doing anything to save me. I stood up and peered out the small barred window of the back door.

“Why is he getting special privileges?”

“It’s the way of the world,” Poole explained. “Get used to it.” Behind him, Barker turned and gave one of his sharp whistles for a cab. Under my feet, the vehicle shuddered and began to move.

I heaved a sigh and sat down in what little space there was. There were seven of us in the small vehicle, not counting the driver. It smelled like a vineyard in the close quarters. Someone nearby used too little soap and too much eau de cologne. Beneath it all, I smelled old varnish and the sweat of fear from hundreds of people over the years. Perhaps that included my own. It was hot in there and very close. This was no way to treat witnesses.

Another cell, I told myself. This was definitely becoming a habit. I had to admit that Poole was right. We’d appeared at the wrong place at the wrong time twice now. The Guv should not expect them to simply let him go on the grounds that he had an investigation to run. As a rule, police officers do not respect their private brethren. As Barker said, we are a part of London’s underworld, not much better than the criminals we apprehend.

Before I knew it, the van drew to a halt. Looking out the little window, I saw that we were in Whitehall already. The door opened and I hopped down into Great Scotland Yard Street where we were herded inside immediately.

“We’re home!” I intoned as we crossed the threshold. “Put the kettle on.”