“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.