The Black Hand

25

I suppose if this were a legitimate enterprise upon which we were engaged, we would have kept up with what was going on with Mr. Soft. We might have sent a messenger or telegram, and thus would have been in touch with his progress. Instead, we had to trust that all was coming together smoothly. Strange, isn’t it, that such matters involving criminals and rampsmen like Mr. Soft and Mr. Hardy should be a matter of trust.

“I don’t like this,” I admitted aloud, as we rode to Wentworth Street.

“What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know. Of being betrayed, perhaps. How do we know Mr. Soft will not inform the Sicilians or let it become common knowledge on the street? Either way, our goose is cooked.”

“No slang, Mr. Llewelyn, please. Let me explain it to you. In legitimate society, honesty and integrity is taken as a matter of course. You don’t stand in Oxford Street and try to discern which businesses are honest; but in the underworld, you see, all businesses run on the reputations of the men who own them. Mr. Soft has one and so do I. Part of the money you paid him was for his silence. We are both aware that he could go to the Sicilians, true; but he and his long ladder were established here before the Mafia, and, the Lord willing, shall be here after they are gone. If he double-crossed me, it would come back on him, even if I didn’t attempt to avenge myself. My associates would no longer seek his custom. It’s all about alliances, and no one allies with a man who is untrustworthy unless the stakes are high.”

“Are the stakes high?”

Barker’s mustache grew wide, like a bow being stretched. I’d said something he actually thought was funny. “High enough,” he admitted.

“I just want to be certain we won’t be ambushed. I don’t relish being sealed up inside Mr. Soft’s tomb. No matter what sort of businessman he is, he’s also a criminal.”

“You have high principles, Thomas, for someone who spent eight months in Oxford Prison for theft.”

“There were extenuating circumstances,” I stated.

“Aye, lad, but aren’t there always?”

We alighted from the cab in Wentworth Street. When Mr. Hardy came to the door, I noticed he was wearing a shirt and jacket, attempting to look at least somewhat respectable. He nodded us through.

Mr. Soft had undergone a transformation of his own. He wore a green velvet jacket closed with frogs and a soft-collared shirt with an ascot. Atop his downy curls was a tasseled fez. I wondered if he’d purchased the outfit with our ten pounds, and had a good mind to demand our money back on the grounds of poor taste in fashion.

“Welcome, gentlemen, welcome!” he exclaimed. My first impression, that he was a mouse in human form, bore up under a second scrutiny. No doubt he thought he looked cultured, and for all I know, he did. I didn’t attend many salons these days.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Soft. Is all in readiness?” my employer asked.

“To the letter, sir, to the very letter. We have not stinted on the plate or the comestibles. All awaits your inspection.”

The room in which the trapdoor lay open had been done up with a carpet leading to the very edge and oilcloth lining the rough hole in the floor. It looked vaguely theatrical, as I suppose did Mr. Soft. Perhaps even Mr. Hardy himself was in costume when one considered his everyday attire.

A hundred feet below, the table had been set on a large Persian carpet surrounded by a ring of chairs. Shaded oil lamps had been set on the table at each end, and a sideboard with food and liquors lay behind. It certainly wasn’t normal East End fare. The light flickered on the rough tunnel walls, a mixture of natural stone, concrete, brick, and dirt.

At six o’clock, they began to arrive. The first was Patrick Hooligan. Barker nodded when he heard the young man’s voice.

“Go down there? Are you barmy? I dunno what’s down there!”

“Then leave, Mr. Hooligan.” Barker’s voice echoed and filled the chamber we were in. “You solicited us, not the other way ’round.”

“That you, Barker?” Hooligan called down.

“It is.”

“How do I know you don’t have a hundred coppers down there?”

“I don’t need a hundred coppers, you rascal,” the Guv growled, “just a bag to put you in!”

Hooligan chuckled. “Fair enough,” he called, and swinging a leg over the side, began to descend. “How many at this church meeting?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Barker responded, and for once the young gang leader agreed, sitting down in one of the chairs.

Our second guest to arrive was Ben Tillett. He alone was not a member of London’s underworld, though as a union organizer, I imagine he missed it by only a small margin. He had had to be convinced to join us.

“What is this place?” he demanded. “Why can’t we meet at a cafe or public house like everyone else?”

“This is my get-together, Mr. Tillett,” the Guv explained. “My game, my rules. I value my privacy.”

“But it must be a hundred feet down. I’m afraid of depths.”

“Don’t you mean heights?” I asked.

“No, if it’s a lookout you want, I’ll swarm up to any crow’s nest you can name. But I don’t like holes in the ground.”

“I’m not going to call out everything to you up there,” Barker said. “It’s here or good night to you.”

Tillett grumbled but slowly began to descend. The next I knew, another man was coming down after him. I couldn’t see his face from below, merely his wide shoulders. He did not move quickly, but then he couldn’t with Tillett going slowly below him. After a moment I could see that it was Robert Dummolard. He looked tense and alert. Perhaps it was a quality his whole family possessed.

“Bonsoir, m’sieur,” Barker said.

“This had better be worth my time,” the Frenchman said irritably.

“Here now!” Hooligan objected. “Have you brought the Frenchies in? We got enough lads of our own without bringing in apaches!”

“His brother was injured by the Sicilians,” Barker explained. “He and his other brothers have come all this way from France to defend him. I have decided to make use of them. We are all assembled, then. Gentlemen, there is a sideboard stocked with food. We also have water and wine and beer.”

“What, no gin?” Hooligan put in. “You really are a nonconformist, Barker.”

My employer ignored the gibe. “Pray help yourselves and we shall get down to business in five minutes.”

I had to hand it to Mr. Soft: he set a good table. I wondered how many trips it took his associate to bring these items down, one by one. Aside from the sliced beef and cheeses, there was fresh bread and a cold prawn salad I could eat every day of the week.

“Very well, gentlemen-”

“ ’Scuse me, sir,” a voice filtered down from above.

Barker looked up over his head. “Yes, Mr. Hardy?”

“There’s a tyke up here what says he’s part of the meeting. Shall I send him down?”

“No, sir. He is definitely not a part of this meeting. You may toss him into the street and tell him to go home.”

A minute later, I heard the indignant voice of Mr. Soho Vic, Esquire, protesting vehemently. I couldn’t help but think the cries he uttered while being tossed out the door were more pleasing to my ear than a concert at Covent Garden.

“Very well, gentlemen, let us begin,” Barker said, circling the table. “All of you are aware of a number of deaths in the city recently, which can be put at the door of a Sicilian organization known as the Mafia. It would appear that this group, led by an unknown individual, is attempting to establish itself in London, particularly in the area around the docks, in Soho, and in Clerkenwell. Many Black Hand notes have been issued; I have received one myself and my assistant, Llewelyn, has as well. Two men, Inspector Pettigrilli of Palermo and Victor Gigliotti, ignored these notes at the cost of their lives. My sources inform me that the unknown mafiusi leader is organizing some of the Sicilians in the area. In an effort to forestall any further plans this leader might have, I will issue a challenge to his people, a fight at the docks to determine who is the strongest. I do this because I believe the presence of the Sicilian mob would alter crime in London forever.”

“Alter in what way?” Hooligan asked. He’d pushed back his plate and was now smoking a villainous cheroot that looked like a piece of tarred rope.

“Escalated violence, extortion, weapons smuggling, murder, and vendettas.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Hooligan said.

“There would be a public outcry, and Scotland Yard must react. How would you like to see twice the present force on the streets and more severe sentences for every crime? And how long before the Italians are against the Irish, and the French against the Chinese, and one man wishing to be head over all London, through murder and intimidation?”

“This must really stick in your craw, Push,” Hooligan stated. “A nice gentleman like yourself having to associate with us base criminals. You must want these Sicilians very bad.”

“Yes, I do, Mr. Hooligan,” the Guv said, refusing to be baited. I imagined that the gang leader had been a disruptive force wherever he was since he first learned to crawl. I wished we had not used his gang and had been in league with the Italians instead, but I understood that Barker did not wish to turn this strictly into a Mafia-Camorran feud.

“How do you intend to accomplish this?” Tillett spoke up. Like me, he wanted to see this meeting firm on its track and trundling along.

“I will issue a challenge in an hour or two for six o’clock tomorrow evening, at the docks. At this point, we have no idea how many men the Sicilians can muster. If we are overwhelmed, we must have reserves. If their force is small, we will have the advantage. This is too important to give them a fair match. They must be brought down, but I don’t want a bloodbath if at all possible.”

“What if they bring guns?” Tillett continued. I had to admit I was thinking the same thing.

“If they are well armed, we will disperse before anything happens. I don’t want a full-scale war, merely the opportunity to discourage the Sicilian Mafia from thinking it can do as it likes here in London.”

“What about knives?” Hooligan asked, giving a glance at the stitches in my cheek.

“I’d prefer dock weapons-sticks, belaying pins, staves, boat hooks, monkey’s fist knots, and the like-but your men can bring clasp knives for an emergency.”

I had to ask. “What’s a monkey’s-fist knot?”

If I could have seen behind his tinted spectacles, I’m sure the Guv was rolling his eyes. He gave a short sigh.

Tillett spoke for him. “It’s a rope with a weighted knot on the end. Useful for thumping noggins.”

“Who’ll test the waters?” Dummolard interrupted. “Who will see how they fight and what weapons they’ll employ? May I have the honor?”

“I would rather Mr. Hooligan and his boys do that,” Barker said. “But, remember, it is merely a feint, to pull them out of position. I want you and your brothers to deliver a solid response to their attack from another direction, rather like a right hook to the ear.”

“I hope you know what you are about, monsieur,” Etienne’s brother put in.

“I shall do my best, Mr. Dummolard.”

“And where will my brothers and I be stationed?”

“Your men and Mr. Tillett’s will be behind Hooligan’s. I want the dockworkers to bring up the rear, considering they are untrained.”

“I’ll do my best to keep them there, sir, but some of them are aching for a scrap,” Tillett responded.

“I am certain they’ll get one. Are there any other questions?”

“Just one. The same one I asked when I came in here,” Hooligan said. “What are you about, Mr. Barker? You’re no criminal, and yet you’re planning a dock war in the East End. If the Yard hears of this, you’ll be in Wormwood Scrubs till you rot, and some of us with you.”

“Let us leave Wormwood Scrubs out of this. I make no apologies for the fact that I am after the assassin and the Sicilian leader, whom I believe is named Marco Faldo. I will challenge him and he must attend as a debt of honor. I’m doing this to flush him out of his hole. It is the only way.”

“How do you know it’s this Faldo?” Tillett asked. “I don’t believe I have heard of him.”

“I have the strong feeling that Faldo is in London somewhere, biding his time and sending Black Hand notes. Were there another fellow as dangerous hiding here, I’d like to think he would have reached our collective ear by now. I am in the business of collecting information, after all, and in knowing what dangerous men are in the country.”

No one spoke. Apparently, tomorrow’s events were going forward as planned. Young Mr. Tillett and Robert Dummolard did not seem inclined to stay and chat and enjoy the food Mr. Soft had provided. If one is not accustomed to being underground, it can be unsettling. Hooligan was not going to be put off, however, pouring himself an ale and putting a thick slice of ham in bread.

“Good victuals, Mr. Barker,” he said. “You do know how to throw a party. I’m going to have to rent this place meself sometime.”

Our other guests were halfway up the ladder when Mr. Soft’s placid voice filtered down to my ear.

“Pardon me, gentlemen, and forgive the intrusion, but there appears to be an altercation at the front door. There is no reason to hurry or panic, but I suggest all of you leave at once. If you would deign to follow me, I can get you safely off the premises. This way, please.”

In less than a minute, all of us were on the ladder at once. The metal frame groaned once at the combined weight but showed no signs of giving way. Thank the Lord for good English iron, I say. Barker and I were last, of course. When we reached the top once more, we could hear the disturbance outside. Something was being slammed against the door, perhaps some sort of battering ram. It did not seem to concern Mr. Hardy much, who was sitting in a chair opposite with what I can only describe as an elephant gun over one shoulder and his boot resting against a dog at his feet. The dog was of indeterminate breed and had but one ear and one eye. It seemed to be no more concerned about the pounding at the front door than its master.

“Early stages, gentlemen,” Hardy said easily. “There’s still plenty of time, yet. Mr. Soft does get the vapors up.”

There was a sound of a shot being fired outside and the entire door gave a shudder. The dog put up its head as if mildly curious.

“Ah, now we’re gettin’ somewheres. Stage two of the assault. I suggest you follow Mr. Soft to the escape room.”

So saying, the man pulled a fat cigar from his pocket and scraped a vesta against the wall behind him.

“Hope they tear the whole entrance down,” he said conversationally. “I’ve been meanin’ to put in brick. You get ever so much more security with brick. Or stone! Stone would be nice. Granite maybe.”

We left Mr. Hardy debating the merits of various types of stone and followed our guests. We went down a narrow hall into a sitting room. All our guests looked a trifle perturbed, but Mr. Soft seemed in no more of a hurry than his associate. He pulled a chair out of a corner and moved a blue and white ceramic pot full of tall grass aside.

“This will only take a minute, gentlemen,” he assured us. Taking a small jackknife from his pocket, he cut into the patterned wallpaper and began tearing a straight line. At one point above his head, he stopped and cut horizontally. Then he put the knife away with a fastidiousness that we all found wearing and gave a sudden savage kick to the wall. It gave way with a squeak of rusted hinges. A door had been plastered up inside the wall and papered over. With a bow, he invited us through. We tried to converge upon it at once, propelled by the sound of more shots at the front of the establishment.

“Plenty of time, gentlemen,” Mr. Soft assured us. “Just follow the passages to the street. You’ll exit in the area of the Jewish synagogue. There should be no trouble finding a cab of a Friday night. Thank you for visiting our establishment. If you ever require such services, I hope you’ll think of us. Good evening!”

We squeezed through the small doorway and began to shuffle through a succession of dusty hallways and courtyards. Any moment, I expected to reach the street, only to come upon another abandoned-looking hall. I had heard there were escape passages like this in the warrens of Whitechapel, made by criminals to evade the police. At one point, we went down some steps and through a short tunnel, and at another we found ourselves in a brick alleyway with the stars shining above the roofs three stories overhead. Then, finally, we burst through a door into a courtyard full of Jews in their Sabbath best, the women in dresses adorned with jet and heavy mantles, like Spanish donas, and the men in yarmulkes and long talliths. We made our way through the crowd with apologies, and reaching the street, commandeered some of the vehicles. We all relaxed, I noticed, and were smiling now that the danger had passed, at the novelty of the evening. Tillett tramped off with his hands in his pockets. Hooligan tipped a wink in our direction as his cab rolled by, followed by Robert Dummolard, who gave us a nod.

“Pass me a sixpence, lad,” Barker said, taking control of the situation again. I reached into my pocket and handed the coin to him. Part of my duties is always to have at least one of every coin in the realm, as well as every denomination up to and including fifty pounds. Barker held the coin vertically between his thumb and forefinger and then suddenly it vanished like a magic trick. Behind him, a ragged street urchin jogged away as fast as the crowd and his bare feet would allow. That accomplished, we stepped back from the curb and Barker stuffed and lit his pipe. We watched as the well-to-do crowd made its staid leave-taking from the Sabbath services.

I had to admit I was looking for someone, now that I was here. A young Jewess named Rebecca Mocatta had caught my eye a year before, and rarely did I enter the East End without keeping an eye out for her. Alas, she did not pass by, but it was probably for the better. I was not exactly free to speak with her just then.

There was a flutter by my face, and I stepped back involuntarily. Soho Vic had appeared at my elbow and stolen my pocket handkerchief. He blew his nose into it, a honking blast that turned several heads in our direction, then he stuffed the soiled linen back into my breast pocket.

“Quite a scene over in Wentworth Street, gentlemen,” he said. “Buncha I-talians tried to break into a certain establishment, with everything short o’ dynamite, but it was nuffink doing. They gave up. The door is half stove in and shot to pieces, but it held. The tenant inside discouraged them wif one good shot of his scattergun. Carpet tacks do make wery in’eresting projectiles, don’t ya fink?”