Barker 05 - Black Hand Read online

  “I’m just a citizen who saw a potential dispute at the docks and did his duty by alerting the police. I’d prefer to remain anonymous in this matter, if you don’t mind. As far as I’m concerned, the Yard lost Pettigrilli, and the Yard tracked him down again. My agency had nothing to do with the matter.”

  “You nearly got yourself killed instead,” Poole said.

  Barker puffed calmly on his pipe. While our backs were turned, most of the dockworkers had melted away. Some had jumped in the river. The South East India Dock was full of constables arresting Sicilians.

  “ ’Pon my soul, Terry. You’re a dour man for someone who’s just saved London from being overrun with killers.”

  “Don’t try to play me, Cyrus. You haven’t told me everything about this, yet.”

  “I’ll tell you all you need to know,” Barker offered, “but it’s thirsty work, and these river vapors are doing no good for the lad’s throat.”

  “Blast the lad’s poxy throat,” Terence Poole said suspiciously. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I’ve heard that the Bread and Treacle serves a very tolerable porter not two streets from here. It’s more comfortable than the interrogation room in A Division.”

  Poole frowned. His hands were still on his hips as if welded there and his nostrils flared as if he smelled something unpleasant. Finally he licked his lips.

  “Done,” he relented, “against my better judgment. Let me speak to my sergeant and I’ll meet you there. I suppose after an evening like this, a pint of good English porter couldn’t hurt anything.”

  Demo version limitation

  30

  I GAVE A LONG, SHUDDERING SIGH AND LET MY body float in the bathhouse behind my employer’s house. I lay to the side, my head resting on a towel on the cedar slats, but my limbs were buoyant due to the Epsom salts Mac had thoughtfully put in the water. The salts stung a little, for I had sustained a half dozen cuts and bruises during the last week; but taken altogether, it felt marvelous. Give me a comfortable bathhouse over a dockside any day.

  Barker suddenly breached like a sperm whale. He didn’t even remove his spectacles when he went underwater. He stood and waded to the side, where he dried himself, sitting on the ledge.

  “You should get that looked after,” I said, regarding the bullet wound near his shoulder. “It could go septic.”

  “I’ll have Mac disinfect and bandage it in the morning,” he said, drying his arms. He stretched and gave a yawn.

  “It’s finally over,” I remarked. “Another successful case.”

  “It’s a wee bit early for that, lad. Let’s wait to hear from Mr. Anderson.”

  “To what could he object?” I countered. “True, Scotland Yard got involved at the last minute, but surely the government knows we were working for the Home Office.”

  “I’ve never known a Home Office man who was completely satisfied about anything.”

  I stood up, because I was getting a crick in my neck. “Let them fight their own battles, then. I doubt we shall clear expenses when the check finally arrives.”

  “It’s not always about the money, lad.”

  “It is for me. I’ve got a burial to pay for.”

  Barker soaked his feet in the warm water. “There is a streak of pessimism in you.”

  “It comes from the Llewelyns having their kingdom taken away, I suppose.”

  “Aye, well, you don’t see me crying over Culloden.” He stood and pulled on one of the thick white robes. That’s Barker all over. Be optimistic and he cautions you. Be pessimistic and he’ll blame your entire race. I got out and threw on my own robe, following him into the garden.

  “At least the heat is past,” I remarked, as I hopped across the white gravel that the Guv’s gardeners were obliged to rake every couple of days. One of the black ornamental stones suddenly moved. I reached down and scratched one of Harm’s ears, to stop him from biting my exposed ankles. It was cool enough for me to wish I’d dried myself more thoroughly before venturing outside.

  “Are you going down to Sussex tomorrow?” I asked.

  “I’ll go soon,” he said. “She’ll expect a report.”

  I nodded and left it at that. I wouldn’t pester him with more questions, nor would I invite myself along. If he wanted me to come, he would ask me.

  My employer walked barefoot across the bridge and past the standing rocks to the corner where his potted Penjing trees stood on shelves against a slatted wall. It was dark here, but he stuck his fingers into the soil of each. He must have considered them dry because he took up a watering can and plied it thoroughly. Then he gave a low whistle to Harm and led us into the house.

  “Nice that the garden is safe again,” I said.

  “Do you think we should fortify the back gate?” he asked.

  It occurred to me that it was the first time he had actually asked my opinion on something. “No,” I replied after a moment. “It would ruin the aesthetics. Leave it as it is, I think. We can chase out whatever pests get in.”

  Barker nodded and went upstairs, the dog tucked under his arm. I locked the door behind us and followed him.

  The next morning, our lives had returned to normal, that is, the part of our lives that was like everyone else’s. We got up, dressed for church, and walked across the street to the Metropolitan Tabernacle. Or at least we tried. There was an obstacle between us and the tabernacle. It was Vincenzo Gigliotti, resplendent in a morning suit with a white boutonniere. He had not come to sell ice cream that day, but was waiting to speak to Barker. My employer frowned. He does not like to be diverted from a mission, which at that moment was to get to chapel on time and into our accustomed pew.

  “Mr. Barker,” Gigliotti said, bowing slightly.

  “You are not at mass this morning, sir?” the Guv asked, nodding his head.

  “I am too occupied with arrangements. I bury my son tomorrow.”

  “I will miss Victor and our little talks. Will the Neapolitan remain open?”

  “For a while, at least. I understand that you have killed the man responsible for Victor’s death and that of the Serafinis.”

  “It was Scotland Yard who killed him,” Barker pointed out.

  “Oh, come,” he objected, as if my employer were merely being modest. “They are but hounds that bite whom you tell them to. I merely wish to inform you that the Camorra is satisfied and our vendetta ended. There will be no reprisal here against any Sicilians, unless they cause a new outrage.”

  “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.”

  31

  MONDAY 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 p
istol, 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.”