“No,” Rogan said. He was looking at Bari with pity. The man weighed no more than seventy pounds. His face was a skin-covered skull.
Genco Bari said musingly, as if talking to himself, “You were searching for me when you were in Palermo. Then the American agent Bailey set you on my trail. Tullio here”-he jerked his head at the armed guard-“tells me that at his wine booth you were inquiring where I lived and that I had invited you here. So we must know each other.” He leaned toward Rogan. “Have you been sent here to kill me?” He smiled his ghastly smile. He flung out his arms jestingly. “You are too late,” he said. “I am dying. There is no point in your killing me.”
Rogan said quietly, “When you remember who I am, I’ll answer that question.”
Bari shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “But until I do remember, I insist that you remain a guest here at my villa. Take a little holiday. You will amuse my wife, and perhaps you can spare an hour each day to chat with me. I am always curious about America. I have many friends there. Say yes to my request; you won’t be sorry for it.”
Rogan nodded, then shook the hand outstretched to him. When Bari and his guards had left the bedroom Rogan asked Lucia, “How long does your husband have to live?”
Lucia shrugged. “Who knows? A month, a week, an hour. I feel sorry for him, but I am young; I have my life to live, so perhaps it is better for me if he dies soon. But I will weep for him. He is a very kind man. He has given my parents a farm, and he has promised to leave his whole estate to me when he dies. I would have gone without lovers. It was he who insisted. Now I am glad.” She came and sat on Rogan’s lap, ready for more of the same.
Rogan spent the next week at Genco Bari’s villa. It became obvious that he could never hope to escape Sicily after he killed Bari. The Mafia organization would intercept him easily at the Palermo airport. His only hope was to kill Bari in such a way that his body would not be discovered for at least six hours. That would give him time to get on the plane.
He spent part of each day making plans and cultivating Bari. He found the Mafia Don extremely likeable, courteous, and helpful. They became almost good friends in that week. And although he went horseback riding and on amorous picnics with Lucia, he found his conversations with Genco Bari more entertaining. Lucia’s sexual appetite and grape smell were overwhelming. It was with relief that Rogan settled down every evening to share Genco Bari’s light supper and glass of grappa. Bari had changed completely from the murderer he had been ten years before. He treated Rogan like a son, and he was extremely interesting, especially when telling strange stories about the Mafia in Sicily.
“Do you know why no stone wall in Sicily is over two feet high?” he asked Rogan. “The government in Rome felt that too many Sicilians were ambushing each other from behind stone walls, so they thought that if they reduced the height of the walls they would reduce the number of murders. How foolish. Nothing will stop people from killing each other. Don’t you agree?” And he gave Rogan a sharp look. Rogan merely smiled. He did not want to be led into any philosophical discussions about murder.
Bari told Rogan stories about the old Mafia feuds and protection rackets. How every branch of industry had its own Mafia branch clinging like a leech and sucking blood. That there was even a branch of the Mafia that collected protection money from young men who serenaded their ladies beneath their balconies. The whole island was unbelievably corrupt. But you could live in peace-if you, too, were a member of the Mafia.
Bari had become a farmer in 1946, because he had refused to have anything to do with the traffic in narcotics that sprang up after the war. “I was an evil man in those days,” Genco Bari told Rogan with a deprecating smile. “I was violent. But I never harmed a woman, and I would never deal in narcotics. That is infamità. I always kept my honor. Even murderers and thieves have their honor.”
Rogan smiled politely. Bari had forgotten about the Munich Palace of Justice, and he had forgotten the screams of Christine preserved on the brown wax phonograph cylinder. It was time to remind him.
By the end of the week Rogan had thought of a plan that would let him kill Bari and make a clean getaway. He proposed to the Mafia Don that they both go for a picnic in Rogan’s car. They would drive out into the country with a basket of food and jugs of wine and grappa and sit in the shade of a tree. The outing would do the ailing man good.
Bari smiled at Rogan. “That would be very fine. It is very thoughtful of you to waste your time on an old wreck like me. I’ll give orders to have your car stocked with food and drink. Shall we take Lucia with us?”
Rogan frowned and shook his head. “She’s too lively, and men can’t talk with women around. I like your company too much to have it spoiled by a female’s idle chatter.” Bari laughed and they were agreed; they would leave early the next morning and return late in the evening. Genco Bari had some business in a few small villages that could be taken care of along the way. Rogan was glad to see that these villages were on the road to Palermo.
They started off the next morning with Rogan driving and Genco Bari, his skull-like face shielded by his inevitable cream-colored Panama hat, seated next to him. They drove a few hours on the main road to Palermo, and then Bari directed Rogan to take a side road that wound up in the hilly regions. The road ended in a narrow trail, and Rogan had to stop the car.
“Bring the food and wine,” Genco Bari said. “We’ll picnic beneath the rocks.”
Rogan carried the basket to where Bari was standing in the shadow of the hill. There was a red-checked tablecloth to spread over the ground, and on top of that he put the covered dishes of fried aubergine, cold sausage, a loaf of crusty bread wrapped in a white napkin. There were wide short glasses for the wine, and Bari poured from the jug. When they had finished eating, Bari offered Rogan a long, thin black cigar. “Sicilian tobacco, rare, but the best in the world,” Bari said. He flared his lighter and lit Rogan’s cigar for him, then said in exactly the same tone of voice, “Why are you going to kill me today?”
Rogan, surprised, took a quick glance to see if he had been led into a trap. Genco Bari shook his head. “No, I have not taken any precautions to guard my life. It is of no value to me any longer. But I still like to satisfy my curiosity. Who are you and why do you wish to kill me?”
Rogan said slowly, “You told me once that you had never done violence to a woman. But you helped to kill my wife.” Bari looked puzzled, so Rogan went on. “On Rosenmontag, 1945, in the Munich Palace of Justice. You fixed my tie before Eric Freisling shot me in the back of the head. But you never killed me. You never killed me. I stayed alive. The Freisling brothers are dead, Moltke and Pfann are dead. After I kill you I have only Pajerski and von Osteen to punish, and then I can die happy.”
Genco Bari puffed on his cigar, stared at Rogan for a long time. “I knew you would have an honorable motive for killing me. You are so obviously an honorable man. All week I could see you planning how to kill me and then get safely on your plane in Palermo. So I’ve helped you. Leave my body here and go forward. Before anyone knows what has happened, you will be in Rome. Then I suggest you leave Italy as quickly as possible. The Mafia has a long arm.”
“If you hadn’t straightened my tie, if you hadn’t distracted me so that Eric could sneak up behind me, I might not kill you,” Rogan said.
On Bari’s emaciated face was a look of surprise. Then he smiled sadly. “I never meant to trick you,” he said. “I thought you knew you were going to die. And so I wanted you to feel a human touch, to comfort you in those last few moments without betraying myself to my fellow murderers. You see, I do not excuse myself from that deed. But I must insist to you now: I had nothing to do with your wife’s death or with her screams.”