The Black Hand

29

"So,” Terence Poole said, setting a half pint of porter in front of Barker and full ones in front of himself and me. The Guv had a reputation once as a villainous drinker and was careful now where alcohol was concerned. “This was your bright idea, was it, to stage a labor battle on the docks?”

“Let us say, it was to coordinate a staged labor battle on the docks.”

“You tipped the Yard that it was going to take place?” I asked, still irritated at being left out of the plans.

“Oh, aye. They arrived by steam launch, with the aid of the river police,” he replied, and took a drink, leaving foam on his mustache.

“But to everyone on the docks it looks like the Metropolitan Police staged a raid instead of you,” I said.

“Exactly. I thought it was important that Scotland Yard get the credit for this, to discourage any other mafiusi from moving north.”

“Well, I’ll certainly give them the credit,” I said. “Thank you for saving my skin, Inspector.”

“It was nothing,” Poole said, “but why were you trying to get yourself killed? I swear I saw you jamming that man’s pistol barrel into your waistcoat pocket!”

I thought back to a recent sunny day in Sussex. “Keeping a promise I made to a woman,” I replied.

“What did she ask-that you sacrifice yourself?”

“Something like that.”

Poole put a sudden hand to his stomach and made a sour face. The porter was not doing good things to his ulcer.

“It was a good thing Mr. Barker had the situation under control,” I said.

“Here now,” Poole objected, “we weren’t exactly sitting on our hands. We have an inspector in Clerkenwell who is an expert on Italian culture, and a team of plain-clothes C.I.D. officers in the area. We were on top of the situation.”

“Did you suspect Pettigrilli was a fake?”

“No,” the inspector admitted. “But we had tracked his cohorts to a flat in Clerkenwell Close. Oh, and I deduced that the assassins were twins. It wasn’t merely that the measurements were wrong, but they were nearly reversed. We’ve seen that sort of thing before. So, what exactly did you do to them?” he said, turning to the Guv. “Will they live?”

“They’ve both been stabbed,” Barker said. “And I broke the kneecaps of one.”

“You were gentle with them, then.”

“I wanted them in good enough condition to be questioned about Faldo. I didn’t know you were going to shoot him.”

“Who else did you capture?” I asked the inspector.

“Patrick Hooligan, for one. We’ve had an outstanding warrant for him. He’ll see at least a year in jail. The rest are mostly Sicilian.”

“Any Frenchmen?” I asked.

“I believe we did catch a few Frenchies, yes.”

“Those are Dummolard’s brothers.”

“No special treatment,” Barker said, sipping his half pint.

“How many did you get in all?”

“I don’t know. A few dozen. A good many of them jumped into the canal and swam through the basin into the river.”

“So there was never to be a full-out fight at all,” I said to my employer. “It was a feint to make the Sicilian leader show himself.”

“Exactly. Tomorrow, the newspapers will announce that Scotland Yard broke up a fight on the docks between two groups of casual laborers, during which a dangerous Sicilian criminal, Marco Faldo, who had masqueraded as Inspector Pettigrilli of the Palermo police, was shot and killed.”

“What of the fact that he killed Sir Alan and the Serafinis?”

“That need not come out, I think. Don’t you agree, Inspector?”

“Yes. There’s no need to bring Bledsoe’s name into a murder investigation. When did you first suspect Pettigrilli was a fake?”

“I suspected when he was found with his head conveniently blown off, but I was not convinced until you showed me that letter from the Palermo police, expressing their regret over the loss of Alberto Pettigrilli.”

“What did that have to do with anything?”

“He told us at Scotland Yard that his given name was Umberto.”

Poole raised a hand to his long, ginger-colored side-whiskers and looked in danger of pulling them out. “I missed that,” he admitted.

“So where is the real Pettigrilli?” I asked.

“Long dead, I’m afraid,” Barker said. “I’ll wager Faldo assassinated the inspector on the boat to France and assumed his identity. It was an excellent cover, and he must have laughed to himself when the Surete took him at face value and began to train him under Alphonse Bertillon himself.”

“If his system makes any actual sense, I’ll eat my hat,” Poole said.

“Sir Francis Galton swears that the markings on the tips of the fingers can be used to identify a criminal,” Barker said, “but his theories are often unreliable.”

“I certainly don’t believe in eugenics,” I put in. “No doubt he considers Scots and Welshmen little more advanced than red Indians.”

“That makes perfect sense to me,” Poole pronounced, looking down his slightly pointed English nose at us.

“It would. So who was found dead in the cab with the constable?”

“The wound was so fresh, the victim must have been one of Faldo’s associates, dressed in identical clothing. He’d planned the whole thing down to the last detail, and he was ruthless.”

“Why didn’t you suspect anyone else of the crimes?”

“I did,” Barker said. “I suspected everyone for a time. Give me some examples.”

“The Gigliottis.”

“Victor Gigliotti didn’t want competition from the Sicilians-and he was a reasonable suspect-but he had everything to lose by getting involved with them. His small empire was what Faldo was after in the first place-complete power over the Italian community. Had he succeeded, he’d have taken over the ice factory and the hokeypokey carts, and been producing an income within the week. He would have taken over the other Italian enterprises-the docks and the cafes-and then I imagine he would have purchased influence among the gambling fraternity, both boxing and horse racing. Coming from Palermo, where several families are jockeying for positions of power, he must have felt it would be an easy task with only the Gigliottis to oppose him.”

“He was awfully heavy-handed,” I said. “All those threatening notes and murders.”

“He was not faint of heart,” the Guv agreed.

“So what about Hooligan? How was he involved? And how did you know he would become a turncoat?”

“In his position, it made sense. He wanted to control the East End. If he allied himself with Faldo, they could have brought down the Chinese power base together; and as his lieutenant, Hooligan might have been placed in charge of it. Of course, if I know him, his next step would have been to kill Faldo.”

“I doubt he would have succeeded there,” I said. “Perhaps putting him in jail is more of a kindness than he would have given himself. He’d have been as dead as Gigliotti within the year.”

“You’d have a hard time convincing him of that,” Poole said. “The Hooley Gang is without a leader now. It will either choose a new one or disband.”

“Did you ever suspect Gallenga?” I asked my employer.

“Of course,” he replied. “Once one is a member of the Honored Society, one never leaves it.”

“Who is this Gallenga fellow?” Poole asked quickly.

“He was a radical in his youth and a supporter of Mazzini’s Young Italy party, but his recent years have been spent as a correspondent with The Times and an expert on Italian matters. He has recently left London.”

Poole finished his pint and called for another, but one was my limit and I was but halfway through it.

“The Sicilian threat is done, then,” the inspector finally said. “There are no more criminals among the Italians now, correct?”

“No more so than among any other group of people in London. Their youth are high-spirited and liable to get into trouble, but there is no organized crime.”

“What of the Camorra?”

“It is broken,” Barker pronounced. “Vincenzo Gigliotti will have his hands full running the factory and the businesses. Unless Palermo sends another would-be Napoleon our way, I suspect Clerkenwell shall be quiet enough for a while.”

“I could do with quiet,” Poole said.

“So could I,” I said, raising my glass. “Here’s to quiet.”

Our glasses clinked and we each took a long sip, though I wondered exactly what Mr. Anderson would have to say about Scotland Yard getting all the glory.