The Black Hand (14 page)

“That is for the best,” Barker stated. “Your community is too small to be divided into factions.”

“I believe Father Amati is satisfied with the outcome of this situation, save for the loss of my son.”

“How is your grandson?”

“He has retreated into himself. His mother is trying to teach him not to nurse anger in his heart, but Victor’s death has been a cruel blow to us all. I am glad my wife is not alive to see it.”

“And who shall run the Camorra now that Victor is gone?”

“That mantle is on my shoulders now. I gave it to him and now it comes back to me again.”

“It was a dangerous business he was in,” Barker said.

“It is a dangerous world, Mr. Barker.”

“I’ll not argue the point, sir. Is there another question I can answer for you? We must get to chapel.”

“Just one. These brothers, twins. I understand they actually killed Victor.”

“Aye. Both are seriously injured. I understand Scotland Yard is watching them carefully. Do you intend to go against them?”

Gigliotti frowned. “We have not decided. Are you still involved in this?”

“No, my involvement is at an end.”

I watched Gigliotti nod in thought. The truce with the Sicilians did not extend to the man who killed his son.

“Give our respects to your family,” the Guv said, tugging the brim of his bowler.

We parted company with Mr. Gigliotti. When he was gone, Barker turned to me. “The Camorra is dead, or very nearly. Most of their members joined because of Victor’s passion. With him gone, Vincenzo will most likely devote all his energy toward protecting his family.”

“Forgive me for asking, sir, but you didn’t plan this in any way, did you?”

“No, Victor brought it down upon his own shoulders. You saw him challenge the Sicilians openly on the docks. Why do you ask?”

“Everything worked to our advantage. You didn’t just
bring down one criminal organization, you brought down three: the Mafia, the Camorra, and the Hooley Gang, since Patrick is bound for prison.”

The Guv gave a wintry smile. “Thomas, sometimes the best defense is simply to step out of the way and wait for the smoke to clear.”

M
ONDAY MORNING CAME ALL TOO SOON. I GOT
out of bed through sheer determination, shaved and dressed, and made my way downstairs. I went into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee, and took it to the deal table.

“You need eggs with that,” Etienne Dummolard stated critically. He was leaning against the stove with a cup of his own.

“Etienne! You’re back!”

Warmed by my response, Dummolard spat on the floor and lit one of his short French cigarettes.
Now we can have proper meals again
, I thought. No more rubber ham, hard cheese, and pickled onions.

“I’m glad they released you,” I told him.

“They didn’t. I snook out. That is good English, right? To snook?”

“Perfectly good,” I replied.

“I could take no more idiotic doctors and Mireille and Clothilde fussing over me. They buy half the flowers in Covent Garden. I hate flowers to death. What are they for? You
cannot eat them. They die in a day. They are a complete waste of money.”

“Hear, hear.”

“Do you happen to know,” he asked, casually cracking eggs against the side of a bowl, “where my brothers are this morning?”

“Well …”

“Has your brain stopped working, Thomas?” he snapped. “It is a simple enough question. Where are my brothers?”

“I imagine they are still in jail. I heard they were put in darbies night before last.”

Etienne stood with his back to me, mixing the eggs. He stopped suddenly and then started again. He was going to explode any moment, I thought. Really, I had enough troubles of my own. I didn’t need the ill humor of my employer’s cook right after a harrowing case. Then Dummolard made a sound in his throat that resolved itself into chuckling.

“You’re not angry?”

“It is where they belong,” he said. “Good riddance. They are criminals. I hope they are deported back to France. I never asked them to come to my rescue, and I did not require their help.”

He poured the mixture into a pan already starting to bubble with butter. My stomach rumbled with anticipation. The things Etienne Dummolard can do with a common egg are miraculous. He began chopping chives and herbs from the garden that had been drying on a rack overhead, humming a tune to himself. It must have felt good to return to the work one was destined for.

In two minutes, he slid the plate in front of me. I ate as he watched, and made all the appreciative noises I knew. It was perfect, as always. Who could imagine that an oafish, bearlike Frenchman could produce such delicacies? Dummolard brought us each a fresh cup of coffee and then lit another cigarette.

“What happened the other night?” he asked.

I outlined the entire case. It took me almost twenty minutes. Outside the window, the Guv’s Chinese gardeners were discussing the state of the garden, but my employer was not among them. He’d been injured and had worked long hours on this case. If he were having a lie-in, he deserved one.

Dummolard brayed out a laugh. “You, hanging there on the end of his arm with his pistol stuck in the pocket of your waistcoat? Very droll, Thomas.”

“I didn’t intend it to end that way, it just happened.”

“I am sorry I did not get to see it.”

Suddenly Mac put his head in the door. “The Guv’s got a visitor. They’re going into the garden right now.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s Mr. Anderson of the Home Office.”

Etienne and I looked out the window. My employer and the spymaster were near the back gate, where the standard tour was still in progress. I don’t know whether the spymaster had any interest in gardening, but Barker’s is certainly unique, at least in this part of the world. By the time I caught up with them, they were stepping into the shade of the pavilion.

“Sorry I’m late, gentlemen,” I said. “How is your shoulder today, sir?”

“It’s fine, Mr. Llewelyn, little more than a scratch. I’ve received worse during a sparring match.”

“I understand you nearly had it worse,” Anderson said to me. “Did you really jam the man’s pistol into your waistcoat pocket?”

“Well, sir, I’ve always found my gun a nuisance, getting caught when I pull it out of my pocket; and waistcoat pockets are a bother, as well. I’m always getting a key caught in the lining. When Faldo shot at Barker, I thought I’d jam the barrel into my pocket before he shot a second time.”

“But what was to stop him from shooting you?”

“I knew that shooting me was no guarantee he could get to my employer any more quickly. He would still have to extricate the barrel from my pocket, and by then the Guv would have had him.”

“It was still a plucky thing to do. You’re a brave little fellow.” Everyone thinks that’s a compliment, but it only points out my size, as if it’s remarkable that any person my height would dare attempt anything.

“I assume, Mr. Anderson,” Barker said, “that you had an informant on the dock who witnessed the fight last night.”

“Yes, indeed. He said I missed one of the most entertaining events he’d ever seen. He was particularly impressed with how you conjured a ship full of men when you found yourselves outnumbered.”

“I thought it likely Mr. Hooligan would double-cross me. It’s like him to go with the winning side, having a desire to get ahead and not being burdened with any type of scruple, like the rest of us.”

“I noticed that most of the Sicilians were captured, as was your Mr. Hooligan and his men, while few of your men
were found to arrest, save a group of Frenchmen who put up a stiff fight. If they can prove that they are legally in the country and are not agitators, they can stay. Hooligan is in jail this morning, and the rest are being questioned. If they are here illegally, however, I’m afraid we’ll have to ship them to the Continent.”

“Is that fair, do you think?” Barker asked in a neutral tone.

“It is expedient. We don’t have time to take each case individually. Some don’t speak English and some are obviously criminals. They’ll get a fair trial with a barrister to defend them. Both of you know that some will be back in London within the month.”

“It is not perfect, but I suppose it’s the most they can expect.”

“Vito Moroni passed away from his wounds this morning. His brother, Stefano, with the broken leg is still in the infirmary at Wormwood Scrubs. What did you do to his leg, by the way? Our man said he suddenly went down.”

“A little method I learned in Canton,” Barker said. “It was good to see it’s still effective.”

“I gather those gents have been sticking those blades of theirs into dozens of poor fellows across Europe. It was a fitting end for Vito, and perhaps his brother will learn something from it. He’s still young, barely thirty.”

“What about Marco Faldo?”

“His file arrived by the last post Saturday, too late to be of any use to us. It made for excellent reading, but I cannot say it would have been of great help. He had above-average intelligence, but he was still a brute. He grew up on the streets of Palermo after his father died and was arrested half
a dozen times for extortion and assault. His reputation for ruthlessness helped him rise through the ranks. It’s believed he beat a policeman to death with the butt of his pistol, and he would have swung for it if the principal witness hadn’t recanted his testimony. Since then, he’s had several arrests but no convictions for the same reason. There’s a lot in there about Pettigrilli’s attempts to incarcerate him, poor chap.”

“Have you wired the Palermo police about the inspector’s fate?”

“I have. So far, there’s been no response. I’m certain it must be a cruel blow for the department, let alone his wife and family.”

“What’s to become of the bodies?” I asked.

“They’ll be buried here at government expense.”

“A better fate than Pettigrilli’s,” Barker growled. “His body was probably tossed overboard.”

“I imagine the police there will hold a memorial service for him,” Anderson said. “The city needs its heroes to carry on the fight. To think that could have been London. Would you say there will be more men like Marco Faldo, exporting crime from Sicily?”

“It seems inevitable. If Faldo had not been a criminal, he could have challenged Gigliotti in business and brought him down that way. His methods will be picked up by someone else and exported elsewhere. Given the right conditions, it will flourish.”

“Heaven help the world, then,” Anderson said.

“I hope you don’t mind taking joint credit with Scotland Yard over this matter,” Barker said. “It was the only way to keep us from remaining in custody.”

“When my superiors read my report, there will be no
question over who actually pulled this thing off,” the Home Office man replied. “A check will be sent to you very shortly.”

Presumably he found our performance satisfactory. The remuneration from the government probably wouldn’t begin to pay for all our expenses, let alone the personal debt Barker owed to men like Tillett and Beauchamp, but it would recompense our efforts, at least. Barker walked Anderson to the front door and returned.

“That’s it, then,” I said. “He went for it.”

“You make it sound as if we were trying to trick him,” he said, pulling his walking stick out of the hall stand. “We accomplished all he asked of us, though not necessarily in the manner he might have imagined.”

We hailed a cab and rode to our office in Whitehall. I feel curiously deflated after a case is done.

Barker chose a pipe from the cabinet, stuffed it full from the jar that bore the legend
Tabac
, and lit it with a match from the small ceramic striker. He hooked his ankles on a corner of his desk and looked out the window, which was flooding the chamber with light. There was nothing to see but a bare, brick wall opposite, unless one stepped to the window, but he continued staring, as he filled the chamber with his tobacco smoke. I gathered my notes from the case and began putting them in some semblance of order prior to typing a full report for our files.

“Lad,” the Guv rumbled, “I wish to speak with you.”

“Sir?” I asked, putting down my notes. I had no idea what he would say. He could have spoken with me in the cab but preferred the formality of our chambers.

“Thomas, I wish to tell you that your apprenticeship is now over. As far as I am concerned, and my judgment is the
only one required, you are now a journeyman in the field. I believe you’ve shown yourself knowledgeable and proficient in the skills of the profession.”

I have to admit I was taken aback. I suppose I should have realized that my apprenticeship would not last forever, but I wasn’t expecting this.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Is there some sort of test to take or license needed in order to become a journeyman?”

“No, lad,” Barker said. “Her Majesty’s government does not recognize our profession. Even when you have become an enquiry agent, there will be no license, no letters after your name. If you wish, Mr. Jenkins could make up a diploma for you, but we both know it’s just a piece of paper. We among the enquiry profession regulate ourselves, and I am able to say that you have completed the first leg of your training successfully.”