The Black Hand

7

I cannot help but agree with Dickens, who said in The Mystery of Edwin Drood, “I don’t love doctors, or doctor’s stuff.” Now I have no wish to slight the medical profession, great men all, but I have a little trouble with those who will cheerily offer promises of a healthy recovery based solely upon a spirit of optimism. I wouldn’t go so far as to call Dummolard a friend-our relationship was rather as it was that morning multiplied by three hundred and sixty-five-however, I was relieved when we returned to Charing Cross Hospital to find that the Frenchman had awakened from surgery and the doctor assured us that, barring the unforeseen, he would pull through. I wanted to know the exact amount the unforeseen represented in his mind; but the doctor, all smiles, amiably brushed off my concerns. He had managed, at least, to pacify the two-headed hydra, mere et fille, and they were in the room with the patient now. We sat down again, and I felt vaguely concerned that there was now a chair I considered mine in this hospital.

“Now that we know he’s safely out of surgery,” Barker said to me, “let’s go over to Scotland Yard. I want to speak with this Palermo inspector Poole mentioned. Perhaps he can shed some light on what’s going on.”

There was a time, and recently it was, too, when walking into the Criminal Investigation Department made me go clammy all over. It felt as if all I had to do was answer one question wrong and I’d be on my way back to prison. The fear had passed now; and I saw the building as it was, slightly damp and seedy, in need of a fresh coat of paint, and full of people milling about who looked bored or upset.

Cyrus Barker stopped and looked at some offices on the first floor. This was where he had taught his physical culture classes before a bomb left by the Irish Republican Brotherhood had rent it asunder. He sniffed dismissively and walked on.

When we found Poole’s office, he had a small crate open on his desk and was looking through it.

“What have you got, Terry?”

“More work,” Poole grumbled. “Commissioner Henderson has chosen me to try out the new Bertillon system of detection from Paris.”

“Does it work?” my employer asked.

“I have no idea as yet. It’s scientific enough, I’ll grant you that. I can see the importance of photographing criminals as they are booked in and taking down their vitals, I suppose, but Inspector Pettigrilli’s taking it much too far. Why measure a man’s forearms or the circumference of his head, I ask you? What’s that going to accomplish? It’s a waste of our valuable time. It takes a good half hour to fill out each card, and someone walking in the door every five minutes. It will turn us all into clerks.”

“What card?” I asked. “What exactly is the Bertillon system?”

“It’s a scientific method created to identify criminals,” Barker explained. “It was invented by Alphonse Bertillon, chief of criminal identification for the Paris police. It involves a careful measurement and indexing of dozens of parts of the body, parts that cannot change over time and that no criminal can disguise, such as the shape of his ears or the length of his feet. It’s more complicated than that, of course; and, as I recall, it’s tied up with the so-called science of eugenics. If one has the wrong ear shape, for example, it proves somehow one is racially inferior.”

“I haven’t read that far,” Poole admitted. “I just got the instructions today. Look at all these instruments!”

He lifted a pair of calipers and mockingly measured the diameter of his own head. Then he brought out a set of rulers, measuring tapes, special tools for measuring parts of the body, and finally a small wooden bench with centimeters marked upon it.

“So this Sicilian inspector Pettigrilli is in the country to teach the latest police methods,” Barker stated.

“Yes. It’s a cooperative effort between the French, English, and Italian governments.”

“Europe’s once again bringing enlightenment to benighted England,” I put in.

“Something like that-though if you ask me, it’s more a way to put money in Monsieur Bertillon’s pocket.”

“What’s your impression of Pettigrilli?” Barker asked.

“He’s all right, for an Italian. He’s the first one trained by the Surete.”

“I thought the Sicilians hate the French,” I said.

“Pettigrilli says it is important to make alliances; and if the French are willing to extend an olive branch and allow him to study the latest methods, he would be a fool not to do so. Claims it will r-revolutionize the world.”

“I’d like to meet him,” Barker said.

“He’s giving a lecture now for the benefit of the Special Branch, not that they’ll appreciate it.” Poole pulled out his watch and consulted it. “He should be done soon.”

“How much practical use do you think the Bertillon system will be?”

Poole ran his fingers through his long, drooping whiskers. “It would require retraining every officer in the country and getting them to agree on the same procedures. Then thousands of these kits must be sent out everywhere and a working camera given to every constabulary, with training in photography and developing. Records would have to be filled out after each arrest and an officer hired and trained to do naught else but keep them. You’re talking about thousands of pounds there. Plus, it’s all theory. Only a few arrests have occurred in France because of the new records, and those were due more to the photographs than the measurements, I’m thinking. It’s all good intentioned, but I’d have to be convinced of its reliability.”

“You’re skeptical,” Barker concluded.

“I am, but then, the commissioner doesn’t lose any sleep at night wondering whether the Yard is being run to my satisfaction. It’s more ‘go and make it work, or feel my boot hard against your backside.’ ”

There was a clamor of stout shoes in the hall and men began filing past Poole’s door.

“The meeting must have adjourned,” Poole said. He came quickly around the desk and stepped out into the corridor. “Mr. Pettigrilli!” he called out. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

A squarely built man stepped into the room, dressed in a European-looking suit and an alpine-style hat. He had good features-dark eyes and a thin mustache that made him look refined. He seemed vigorous, a dynamo running on some internal source of energy.

“Yes, Inspector. What can I do for you?” he asked.

“May I present Mr. Barker and his assistant, Mr. Llewelyn? They are private enquiry agents.”

“Ah!” The Sicilian’s face lit up and he pumped Barker’s hand soundly, as if he were drawing water from a pump. “Umberto Pettigrilli. So good to meet a representative of the private fraternity. The methods I teach, they will change the way we do everything. Science is the way of the world now, and it is only a matter of time before it r-revolutionizes detective work.”

I could see now that when Poole said “revolutionized” he had been mimicking Pettigrilli’s rolling r’s. The Sicilian seized my hand in his firm grip, shaking it with enthusiasm.

“How long has it been since you were in Palermo, Inspector?” Barker asked.

“Six months, sir. The Surete keeps me to a very strict schedule. I shall be traveling around England for the next two weeks, and after that I go to Scotland and Ireland. My schedule was put together by a madman, sir, a madman.”

“Mr. Pettigrilli, there have been three murders and one attempt on another’s life here in London by what I believe to be members of the Sicilian group that calls itself the Mafia.”

The Sicilian inspector frowned a moment in puzzlement, then suddenly threw his head back and laughed. “This is a joke, is it not? This group you mentioned-it does not exist outside Sicily.”

“Not even in a city like London where there are hundreds of Sicilians?” Barker asked. “Or where the Camorra is already well settled? At least one of them received a Black Hand note.”

“Just that? No request for money? That is-” Here he snapped his fingers impatiently until the English word finally came to him. “Atypical. It is atypical. The reason for a Black Hand note is generally to extort money. I’m afraid also that few such notes come from the actual group that uses that name. Often it is another group or individual posing as mafiusi hoping to scare someone out of a few liras by it.”

“They are not merely posing,” Barker rumbled in a harsh voice. “The first two victims were shot and barreled. Another, who is a friend of mine, was stabbed twice and was barely able to crawl to my door. A third was killed with some sort of thrust in the ear.”

Pettigrilli rubbed his mustache in thought. “I admit, sir, that those are all genuine methods used in Palermo.”

“I assure you, Mr. Pettigrilli, that they are without precedent in London. Four attacks in just a few days … We generally don’t see that many in a season. It is, as you say, atypical. Also, all the crimes have had some connection to the Italian community here. One of the victims is a friend of mine who owns a French restaurant in Soho. He gave me this note but a few hours ago.” Barker pulled the paper from his pocket and handed it to the inspector, who read it intently.

“Pardon, signor,” the Sicilian said gravely. “I have misspoken. It would appear that either you do indeed have some mafiusi here, attempting to take control, or someone who has adopted their tactics to discredit them; though personally I don’t think it possible to black their name any further. That is good English, isn’t it? To black their name?”

“Er, yes,” Barker said. “I assume you have intimate knowledge of the Mafia, sir, having worked as a police inspector?”

“You cannot know what that word does to me. It chills the spine. It is not spoken openly in my country. Politicians use it in our newspapers, until inevitably they are mown down, like so much hay. Mr. Barker, you must not put yourself in the path of the Mafia. I was once vain and stupid enough to do it myself, and I am a marked man. It’s why I left Sicily. I survived two attempts on my life while in Paris, and am exiled from my homeland and my family. I fear for the lives of my fellow officers, my friends, anyone whose death could be used as a warning to me.”

“How came you to be under the Mafia’s wrath, sir?” I asked.

“I was naive and ambitious once, gentlemen. There was a mafiusu who was gaining great power in Palermo, by the name of Marco Faldo. I received information from an informer that he would be in a certain restaurant at a certain time, and when he arrived my detectives overwhelmed him as well as his men and arrested them all. We had what we believed was a case watertight; but as Faldo sat in jail awaiting trial, being cosseted with free wine and food provided by the very restaurant from which we took him, our case began to fall apart. Some witnesses disappeared or experienced sudden, fatal accidents. Others recanted their testimony. Rumors came to my ear that the judge hearing the case had been threatened. It came as no shock when Faldo was found innocent of murder and extortion, but I had become a marked man and put myself and my family in danger.

“As I said, I was naive. Two days later, I found the freshly stripped pelt of my daughter’s kitten tacked to our front door. It was a warning from Faldo. Immediately I packed up my family and sent them to Corsica, where my wife has an aunt. My commissioner showed me a letter from the Surete, offering training in the new Bertillon system of criminal identification, and suggested I accept the offer. Normally we scoff at the Surete. We have no respect for it as we do the Scotland Yard. However, it seemed a way to both spare my life and to continue working. Reluctantly I left for Paris. On the day I left, I was shot at in the harbor; but the assassin’s lupara, his shotgun, was far enough away to merely pepper me with stinging shot. Later, in Nantes, I was set upon and stabbed, but the blade point went into a leather wallet inside my coat pocket. I have been very fortunate.” He looked away for a few moments, shaking his head. “So you say they are here now. But I suppose it cannot be Faldo if all these other people you mention are being killed. The families are in constant competition with one another, and they kill for many reasons. I shall be on my guard all the same.”

“Does it look like a genuine Black Hand note?” Barker pursued.

“It looks genuine enough, though it would not be difficult to duplicate. It is in English, of course. I don’t know that Faldo speaks English. I regret I cannot be more help to you in this matter, since your friend was killed.”

“Not killed,” Barker corrected. “In fact, he survived.”

Pettigrilli smiled. “I am glad to hear it. Perhaps I will survive as well. I have given thought to emigrating to America, somewhere safe where my family can live.”

“I suppose,” Poole said in the silence afterward, “that it would be prudent to send a telegram to Palermo to ascertain if Faldo is still there.”

“What will you do if he is actually here, Inspector?” Barker asked.

Pettigrilli shrugged as if to say it made no difference to him. “What can I do? Their tentacles, they reach everywhere. I have Scotland Yard to protect me. I shall continue my scheduled course. Perhaps Faldo will consider a Sicilian going to Manchester to be punishment enough.” The inspector laughed at his own joke, but it was a hollow laugh. “If you are planning to pursue this case, have a care, Signor Barker. Watch over your shoulder and test the locks of your house. Are you married?”

“No, sir.”

“Good! And no children?”

“I have a ward, but she does not live with me.”

“Better still. My advice to you, sir, is not to take this case. And if you receive a Black Hand note of your own, take it seriously.” He handed the note back to Barker. “Your friend didn’t, and see what happened to him.”

“Have you heard of the Mafia working outside Sicily before, Inspector?”

“There has been some action in Italy, but never in England. And, yet, why should they not come here? You make it very easy for criminals in this country. They come and go quite freely, if I may say it. England is very indulgent.”

The Sicilian looked down at the instruments on the desk.

“So, Inspector Poole. How did you find your new Bertillon kit?” he asked.

“Delightful,” Poole remarked, but the sarcasm was lost on Pettigrilli.

“You fellows here at Scotland Yard, you will take to this new method the way a fish takes to water. It is orderly, and so should appeal to an English mind such as yours. The only mystery is how it was originally conceived by a Frenchman.”

Dummolard was awake when we returned to the hospital, but he’d been so sedated with morphine his mind wandered. He’d been moved to a ward and given a cot, while his wife and daughter fluttered about demanding better conditions. For once, he was too weak to bawl French curses at us all.

“Etienne, do you recall who attacked you?” Barker asked, lowering his large frame gently down onto the bedcovers.

“Oignons,” he replied. “I was not satisfied with the oignons at the restaurant this morning. I was going to Tottenham Court Road for fresh ones. The market was crowded. There was a man in a cloak in front of me. Suddenly, he stopped too quickly. I knocked into him, and the man behind, he knocked into me. Then I felt pain. Very bad pain. I thought I was having heart failure. Then I saw the blood and realized I had been stabbed. I thought perhaps they would try to finish me, so I came as fast as I could to see you, Capitaine.”

“Monsieur,” Mireille Dummolard implored, “he cannot speak. He must conserve his strength for recovery.”

“A cloak, you say,” the Guv went on, ignoring the woman. “Did you see his face?”

“Non,” Etienne stated. “He had a broad-brimmed hat, all in black.”

“All in black?” my employer repeated. “Hat, cloak, and everything?”

“Oui.”

“And the fellow behind?”

“I didn’t see him.”

“Very well. Thank you, Etienne. We’ll stop by tomorrow. Come, Thomas.”

Outside in the street, Barker turned in the direction of Whitehall, his stick swinging, leaving me scurrying to keep up.

“Assassins,” he growled.

“Professional, do you think?” I asked.

“Only skilled and dangerous men dress all in black as a rule, though I knew one in Kyoto who wore white, which amounts to the same thing. Black is a symbol among the underworld. It must be earned. If a minor criminal wishing to build a reputation were to attend certain places in full black, he would have to fight for the right to wear it.”

“What places?” I asked, noting to myself that my employer generally wore black himself, save for his crimson tie and white Windsor collar.

“Gang meetings, clandestine prizefights, pubs known to attract a certain type of fellow. These men that Etienne stumbled into, they killed Serafini and his wife, quite a brace of feathers for their caps, I’m sure. Then they killed Sir Alan and made the attempt on Etienne. The only thing all these individuals have in common is that they stood in opposition to the Sicilians. It’s highly possible that there is a pair of professional assassins walking the streets of London today; and sooner or later, we shall have to face them.”

“Sir,” I said, wishing he would stop at an outdoor cafe and sit down so we could talk properly. “I admit I know next to nothing about professional assassins, but don’t they generally work under contract? They wouldn’t do something like this on their own.”

“As I said before, lad,” he replied, “there must be a leader, someone they’re working for, the way the Serafinis worked for Victor Gigliotti. I think that is a reasonable possibility.”

“Three of them, then.”

“Let us say two, at least. We don’t yet know if Faldo does his own work.”

“Faldo? Do you really think it is he that followed Inspector Pettigrilli here all the way from Sicily?”

“Men that ruthless and skilled at murder and intimidation are rare, Thomas. I’ll take it as a probability that Marco Faldo is somewhere in London this minute, considering his next Black Hand note. If that doesn’t concern you, it should.”