The Black Hand

3

"Good morning, Mr. Anderson,” Barker said.

The official was Robert Anderson of the Home Office, a man with a most intriguing title, that of Spymaster General. He had employed us a year before in an action against a group of Irish dynamiters. At the time, he had attempted to recruit my employer, saying he had more than enough work for him, but Barker had turned him down. It didn’t take a private enquiry agent to see that he was about to ask him again.

“You look fit,” Anderson said. “Are you still causing trouble?”

“I’m still setting all the government lads straight, if that is what you mean.”

“You know how it is, Mr. Barker. Too much to keep up with, too little payroll for overworked men. Why don’t we take a walk? The smell in here is giving me a headache.”

Anderson passed between us. He was a man in his mid-fifties, his hair and beard just starting to gray. Barker had told me once that Anderson was a devout Evangelical who spent his nights studying biblical numerology. The spymaster walked to the door and opened it, saying, “Are you coming?” He was unaccustomed to being refused. With a nod at Vandeleur, Cyrus Barker followed Anderson, with me making a trio.

“Is he coming, too?”

“He is,” the Guv said. “Anything you wish to say can be said in his presence. It won’t be repeated.”

I’m grateful for whatever praise Barker throws my way. Like most Scotsmen, he’s frugal with it. In fact, I’d say a dog would starve on it, but perhaps I exaggerate.

“Very well. He was present at our last encounter, I suppose. Come.”

The attendant generally has visitors sign in and out, but he did not come forward as the three of us left the morgue and began walking down Poplar’s High Street, a downtrodden street like a thousand others in the East End.

“Sir Alan was murdered by men from Sicily, who are part of a criminal society that calls itself the Mafia,” the Home Office man said.

“I am familiar with the Mafia,” Barker rumbled.

“I assumed you would be. Your file says you are informed on the workings of most secret societies. That’s why I need your help.”

“Oh, come, the information I have could be memorized by the average constable in an hour or so. There’s more to your being here than that.”

“There is,” Anderson admitted. “There has been a sharp rise in crime all over London in the last month or so, particularly among the criminal class. Close to a dozen have crawled or been carried into local hospitals with stab wounds. Merchants have been harassed, young women interfered with, and fights broken out along the river under the slightest provocation. It’s as if London has gone back to the days of Marlowe, where the slightest brush against a fellow would cause a duel.”

“Surely you know who is responsible,” Barker said.

“Yes. It’s a group of dockworkers from Sicily, perhaps a hundred or more, mostly casual labor. They go where the work is, and right now, they’re needed to unload cargo from the Indies and America. They live with the other Italians in Clerkenwell.”

“You know who they are and where they are. Why not simply arrest them?”

“It’s like trying to pick up sand with your hands. Most of it escapes. We’ve deported a few dozen to the Continent, only to find them back in London within a week, even more determined to cause trouble.”

“They are playing by Palermo rules,” Barker explained. “Justice is swift and punishment severe. London must seem like a holiday to them. Have there been any known incidents of one Sicilian group attacking another?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Then I would hazard a guess that it’s being planned by a single man, an organizer recently arrived, someone the Sicilian dockworkers look up to and will follow who can keep them from fighting among themselves. It would have to be someone highly placed in their organization. Find him, and you’ll bust his ring of criminals.”

“We’re not total dolts at the Home Office, Mr. Barker. We understand that, but no one has come forward with reliable information, not even for money. There’s a rumor of one or more caped figures moving about London, but who they are is still unknown, and it may be a hoax.” We passed a closed vehicle at the curb and Anderson spoke to the driver. “Follow at a discreet distance. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said, a young man who looked too well-groomed to be a common cabbie. He must be another Home Office man.

“This way, gentlemen,” Robert Anderson coaxed. “There is still much to talk about.”

“Aye, there is,” Barker said. “Why isn’t the Yard being brought in on this matter?”

“They’re working on it already, but we’d rather keep our oars in.”

“You make it sound like the annual boat races on the Thames, Oxford versus Cambridge. Anyone I personally bring in to help will find his life in danger. I’m loath to allow that to happen merely so that the Home Office can put one over on the Yard-or the Foreign Office, for that matter.”

“Your point is well taken,” Anderson said, not insulted, “but I feel that for once, it will take a combined effort to stop this organization. Once these people are established, they are like rats, nearly impossible to drive out. However, my staff is still occupied with the Fenian crisis. Frankly, we’re spread too thin to handle both situations. That’s why I thought of you.”

“So, you’re throwing it all in my lap, to handle as I choose?”

“Within reason. I don’t want anything on the front page of The Times. Under normal conditions, I would be concerned that you are something of a law unto yourself.”

“What concerns me,” Barker said, stopping to pull his tobacco and pipe from his pocket, “is that I’m but one man-two if you count Llewelyn here. If pressed, I could collect a handful, but it sounds to me as if you require an army. I’ve tried the army life and have no taste for it.”

“Are you turning me down?”

Barker paused to light his pipe, taking his time about it. The spymaster huffed impatiently.

“I am considering it,” the Guv said, blowing out his vesta. “Do you wish to deport only the Mafia, or do you also include the Sicilians or even the Italians? That’s a tall order.”

“I’m not one of these ‘England for the English’ chaps,” Anderson stated. “If the Italians and Sicilians wish to come here and succeed through hard work and obeying the laws, they are welcome. But if I have to deport a hundred unlawful immigrants in order to stop a handful of Mafia criminals knowledgeable about making bombs and killing people, I won’t lose any sleep over it. I have public safety to consider and I can’t afford to be subtle.”

Just then it began to rain, and we took shelter under a butcher’s awning, trying to ignore the hanging ducks and pig carcasses on the other side of the glass. My mind tried not to connect the sight to our recent viewing of the late Sir Alan Bledsoe of the East and West India Docks, tried and failed in the attempt. The bile rose in my throat.

Barker spoke. “I may be able to assemble some men because they are opportunistic and others because they owe me a debt, but if I need to pay for the services of others, will funds be available?”

“Very little, I’m afraid, beyond your two salaries. You know how tightfisted my superiors can be.”

Our remuneration for the last case we took from the Home Office had barely covered expenses. It was a wonder to me how anything in the Empire was accomplished if every department ran on so tight a budget.

“We shall simply have to make do. I’m owed certain favors here and there. Perhaps I’ll call in my debts.”

“You do that,” Anderson said, as I wondered just what sort of debts he would call in.

“Just how much autonomy would I have?” my employer asked, watching the rain puddling on the pavement while puffing meditatively on his pipe.

“How much autonomy do you need?”

“Carte blanche.”

“Impossible,” the Home Office man said, crossing his arms. “My superiors would never allow it. That’s the complaint the Foreign Office has with you. You always want things your way.”

We waited for Barker’s response. And waited. He seemed in no hurry to give one, safe from the downpour, with the pipe stem between his square white teeth. Give the man a book and he could stand there all day.

Robert Anderson could not. He had neither the time nor the patience. “Well?”

We stepped back as a gust of wind sprayed rain across our shoes.

“Mr. Anderson, I understand how important this matter is. I don’t want the Mafia working in London. It would change the game completely. If I had wanted to open my agency in Palermo, I’d have stopped there instead of coming all the way to London.”

“I’m sure the climate is better,” I remarked, looking at the sky.

“This is nothing, lad,” Barker said to me. “Someday, I’ll show you a Chinese monsoon. A man could drown standing in the middle of the street. Very well, Mr. Anderson. I’ll accept the case as we’ve discussed it.”

“You’re certain you can complete it successfully? We are taking a very large chance,” Anderson said, as if my remark had not reached his ear. A man single-handedly saving the British Empire does not have time for the flippant remarks of a private enquiry agent’s assistant.

“No less so than in most of my cases. If I thought otherwise, I wouldn’t accept the offer.”

“Understand that the Home Office might find the subject too volatile to handle publicly.”

“I’m not concerned,” the Guv replied. “It will be in my hands to bring the work within the perimeters of governmental requirements.”

“Very well,” Anderson said, offering his hand. “Consider yourself working for the Home Office again.” Barker seized Anderson’s hand and shook it in his manner-two pumps that almost pull one’s arm from the shoulder socket.

“Good, then,” my employer said. “Who is in charge of the investigation at Scotland Yard? Please tell me it is not Munro.”

Inspector James Munro was one of the few men at Scotland Yard with whom Barker did not get along. It might be closer to the mark to say they despised each other.

“No. I understand the C.I.D. is handling the case. I believe an Inspector Poole is coordinating the effort.”

“Poole?” Barker murmured.

“You know him?”

“I know him well. You said it is permissible to coordinate with Scotland Yard at some point?”

“It would be in your best interests not to tell Poole you’re working for the Home Office, politics being what they are, but I suppose you are bound to run into the C.I.D. eventually. If you succeed, those to whom it matters will know whose operation it was. You have permission to work with the Yard if you find it necessary. Have you got a plan in mind?”

“Not yet,” Barker admitted. “I’ll come up with one in a few days. If you receive any pertinent information, send it directly to my office.”

“Very well,” Anderson said. “I suppose there’ll be no going undercover on this one.”

He was referring to our Irish case, in which we’d posed as a German bomb maker and his protege.

“No,” he said. “The best plan when facing the Mafia is to be as mobile as possible and to gather about one men as vicious and cunning as any they can produce. To beat a Sicilian, one must think like a Sicilian.”

“And can you?”

“I believe I can. It’s necessary in my work to know my adversaries.”

Anderson nodded. “Good. I’ll leave you to your plans. I need to get back to Whitehall. I’ll await word from you.”

He stepped out into the downpour as his cab came up the street to meet him. His driver was now sodden and looked in need of a restorative cup of tea, if nothing stronger. Barker put away his pipe and we stepped out from under the awning, the rain drumming on the brims of our bowlers, not an unpleasant sound.

“Are you sure you can find enough men to take on the Mafia, sir?” I asked, struggling to keep up with his long strides while skipping around puddles.

“We shall see, lad.”

“You seemed very accommodating,” I continued. “I rather thought you might turn him down.”

“Someone has to get involved, Thomas, and if the Home Office’s hands are tied at the moment, I’d rather it was me. Scotland Yard is excellent at what it does, but this sort of thing is beyond its scope.”

“Anderson must trust you implicitly to ask you to take over what the Home Office can’t do itself.”

“Perhaps,” Barker admitted, raising his stick to hail a cab while the rain poured off the brims of our bowlers, “but on the other hand, I’ve put him into my debt, which is a very important thing if we are going into debt ourselves.”

“Debt?” I asked, thinking of his account at the Bank of England.

“Aye. Oh, not money, lad. Favors. Don’t think anyone is going to help us merely out of the goodness of his heart.”