The Black Hand

24

Ours is a short and narrow alley, opening into a rectangular courtyard where the telephone exchange is located. There are other enquiry agents’ offices in the street, as well as a branch of Cox and Company, where Barker does some of his banking. Save a narrow gate at the back of the court, which is generally locked, there is no way of escape. That means that should anyone choose to step in our front door, we would have to go out the back into our private yard and over the wall. Barker is no Soho Vic, however, and would stand and fight rather than escape. During a recent case, a fellow had entered our chambers wielding a saber. I wondered what would happen if someone came in with a loaded shotgun, like the one that killed Victor Gigliotti.

I thought this not because I was in one of my maudlin moods but because a man walked into our offices and I suddenly felt like a rat caught in a trap. It was the hokeypokey man we had seen on the street outside our residence. Were I a betting man, I would have put money that he was Marco Faldo. Jenkins invited him to wait and came to announce our visitor. Our clerk, who enjoyed proper form as much as Mac, carried a carte de visite on a salver. Did the man have the effrontery to present one that proclaimed “Marco Faldo, late of Palermo”? The Guv scooped it off the tray and scrutinized it. Then he tapped the card against his lower lip as if gathering his thoughts before instructing Jenkins to let the visitor in.

The Italian who had regaled us recently entered in a more somber mood than before. Up close, the lines in his forehead and around his eyes were more evident. His hair was thinner than I had first perceived, and it was possible he dyed it, for the line between the black and the gray of his temples was too severe. He was older than I had thought. Our visitor seemed tired and dispirited and sank down into the chair in front of Barker without a word, and without any display of firearms.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Barker said. “This is my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn. Thomas, this is Vincenzo Gigliotti.”

“Gigliotti!” I cried.

“At your service,” the man replied with quiet dignity.

“Would you care for a cigar, sir?” Barker offered.

He shook his head. “No, thank you. I don’t wish to intrude. I understand you are planning a confrontation with the Sicilians.”

“Have you come, sir,” Barker rumbled, “to claim vendetta against the people who killed your son?”

“I am sixty-eight years old, Mr. Barker, and have retired from the life of secret societies and murder. My son attempted to draw me back into it in order to stop these Sicilians, and look where it got him. His children have no father now, and Concetta is a widow.”

“Why were you selling Italian ices outside our home, Mr. Gigliotti?” Barker asked.

“My grandson Alonzo and I were watching you, for your protection. Victor asked me to keep an eye on you. He said you are a good detective, but your weakness is your personal safety. He did not want you to be killed before your plan was carried out.”

I thought of Philippa Ashleigh, who had said much the same thing about my employer. I had to admit, he had more scars on his body than any five men I knew combined. He trusted his ability to fight his way out of any situation.

“I had other men in the area if I needed them,” the old man continued, “even two watching overnight, should the Sicilians attempt to attack then.”

“I thank you for your concern, since I can no longer thank Victor. Was it you who stopped the intruder on my grounds?”

“Yes. We caught the fellow two streets away. That’s one less Sicilian to worry about. Your young man here seemed very comfortable with the dagger.”

“Maestro Gallenga trained him.”

The Italian gave a wan smile. “Ah, Gallenga, yes. He’s gone, you know. He got out of town quickly once the bullets began to fly.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He and his wife left the city. He wished to spend his remaining years in peace. He never had much of a stomach for violence.”

I didn’t either, I had to admit, but I didn’t have that luxury in my line of work.

“What brings you to my office?” my employer asked.

Vincenzo Gigliotti moved forward in his chair and leaned an elbow on Barker’s desk. “I have come to find out what you will do, Mr. Barker. I do not thirst for revenge. That is for young men. Yet even now the Sicilians threaten my family’s livelihood. I wish to run my son’s business interests until such time as Alonzo is full grown and can assume his rightful position. I don’t want to see it driven into the ground by Sicilians. Also, I wish to see the killers of my son brought to justice.”

“Our wishes are the same, then,” Barker said. “I also want to see the Italians and Sicilians at peace again.”

“You go to war in order to make peace? You have an odd way of doing things, Mr. Barker.”

“If I crush the serpent’s head, Mr. Gigliotti, then I need not crush the whole snake. I need something from you that you will have a hard time giving me.”

“You have but to name it.”

“What I want from you, sir, is to stay out of it completely. I don’t want a single Italian on the dock tomorrow night.”

Gigliotti’s face grew red, and his eyes nearly bulged from their sockets.

“Do you trust me?” Barker went on. “Do you see that unless the Sicilians face a completely English force, it will only lead to more vendettas? The only way to stop the Mafia is to cut it off from the Italian community, to isolate it like a contagion, and to destroy the germ itself. Then the Sicilians can go back to their normal commerce and begin to make peace with the Italians.”

“Are you dictating terms, Mr. Barker?”

“At this time, with Victor’s organization in disarray, I could,” Barker admitted, “but I have no desire to. You may handle this entire situation yourself if you wish. I would gladly hand it over to you. But if you wish me to do it, I must have a free hand, and I will not make use of the Camorrans. I consider them to be a criminal organization and won’t associate this agency with them.”

Gigliotti sat tight-lipped for a moment, red to the scalp. It occurred to me that the old man was probably the head of the Camorran secret society in London now and that what Barker said was something of an insult. It also occurred to me that Hooligan’s men were as much criminals as the Italian fraternity, but they had passed through Barker’s sieve.

“Victor said your word is your bond. Will you kill this man who has murdered my son?”

“I will see him brought to justice,” Barker said. “Beyond that, I will not promise. I’m not an assassin.”

Gigliotti took a cigar out of the case and bit off the tip.

“You won’t kill him. Serafini is dead. There is never an assassin around when you need one.” He lit the cigar and puffed a plume of smoke with a sigh. “Very well, if it is the best you can offer. All I wanted was to have a few years of peace before I die. Now this!”

“Most regrettable, sir,” Barker agreed.

“My boy,” he muttered suddenly. “My wonderful boy.” It was as if his mask had slipped and we could see the grief behind it. He cleared his throat and mastered himself once again. “I must get back. I have to plan a funeral for my only son.” He stood and began to leave. Hesitating at the door, he turned and frowned at Barker.

“Find him,” he ordered.

“I will.”

I couldn’t help but think it was easier said than done.