“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.”
8
The next morning, Cyrus Barker and I attended service as usual at the Baptist Tabernacle, while Mac crept surreptitiously across the street to that den of iniquity, the Elephant and Castle public house, for our Sunday lunch. The Reverend Spurgeon’s sermon was up to its usual standard, but the meal in no way made up for the loss of our cook.
“What are you doing today, lad?” Barker asked over his bowl of tepid brown Windsor soup.
“I need to write a letter, sir, but I had no further plans beyond that. What about you?”
“I’ve got to think this problem through. Would you mind doing a favor for me today? I need you to take Juno to Victoria Station and put her in a horse carriage. I’m sending her south, out of harm’s way. She’d make a large target for the Mafia’s wrath.”
“How far south?” I asked.
“All the way to the coast, a town called Seaford. I’ve already made arrangements for her to be picked up there.”
“I’ll take care of it as soon as my letter is done.”
“Good. Cusp, is it?” the Guv asked.
“Yes, sir.” Thad Cusp was our solicitor. He was Barker’s until recently, but now he worked for me as well. Recently I had hired my employer to find the grave of my late wife, who had died of consumption while I was still in prison. Her mother, the most disagreeable specimen of womanhood I’d ever met, had buried her in an unmarked grave and packed up for parts unknown. Once I was freed, I tried to locate Jenny’s grave to no avail. Now, with more than a year’s salary in my bank account, I had turned to my employer. It took him little more than a day to find it, going from constabulary to mortuary to church. It was difficult for me to be in Oxford again, the site of my former disgrace, but finally I stood over the grave of my dear girl and could begin the task of having her buried properly. To do so required the services of Mr. Cusp. Jenny’s mother had put her in the ground and I could not move her without the woman’s consent, which meant a settlement of some sort, much as it galled me. Thad Cusp, a man as sharp as his name sounds, was now in the process of scouring the country for my former mother-in-law. I began to fear the case would end up in Chancery before it was finished.
Having sent off my letter with the inevitable accompanying bank draft, I made my way to the stable and saddled Juno. As we trotted through the streets, I wondered who would pick her up at the end of the line and what sort of treatment she would receive there. The south coast is full of racing stables, any one of which was capable of looking after the mare, but I’m rather particular about her care and wished I could have seen her settled in. I led her into the horsebox myself and watched as the express pulled out of sight, gathering speed as she steamed away. At loose ends, and feeling rather unsettled, I admit, I took a hansom back to Newington.
On the ride back, I began to fret. Together, Barker and I had taken on terrorists and murderers, but facing organized criminals was another matter. From where would Barker recruit enough men to face these mafiusi who traveled about armed with shotguns and swords? Matters were clearly coming to a head if Barker felt it necessary to send his horse out of town. I began to wish he’d sent his assistant along with it.
When I arrived at the house, Mac met me in the hallway, giving me a look that said I’d been dawdling and wasting his time. He held a paper in his hand.
“Mr. Barker has asked that you go to this address in Soho,” he said. “You are to meet a Mr. Antonio Gallenga there.”
“Gallenga?” I asked, taking the slip of paper that held the address in Barker’s illegible scrawl. “Did he-No, I know. You wouldn’t presume to say.”
“Exactly, sir.”
“A font of information, a regular oracle of Delphi you are, Mac.”
“I endeavor to give satisfaction, sir.”
“Yes, but to whom?”
He ignored the gibe. “Mr. Barker has asked not to be disturbed for the next few hours.”
So that was that. I wouldn’t be getting any more information out of Mac. Grumbling to myself, I turned and went in search of another cab. It took half a mile before my brain, like a cog, engaged and began to turn. Where was Barker sending me? It couldn’t be an interview, for I had no knowledge of what to say. I had no message to deliver. No, I thought with a groan, it could only mean more blasted training.
My employer is of the opinion that everyone-man, woman, or child-should be able to protect themselves, at least to the point that they can break away and run. As his assistant, he expected a good deal more of me than that. So far, I had endured lessons in both English and Chinese boxing, Japanese wrestling in canvas jackets on mats, stick fighting of various sorts, and techniques from a dozen other defensive arts that the Guv found useful. Barker may well have been the most highly trained fighter in Europe, which was why Poole and others were eager for him to teach them. It was difficult enough being trained in all these arts, often by cramming courses, and going to bed with bruises and sore muscles. I wasn’t anxious to add another dangerous art to the list.
The address was a comfortable little semidetached villa, a trifle overgrown with browning wisteria, but pleasant enough in its aspect. It seemed to be drowsing in the late summer sun. I might almost have been standing in front of a villa in Palermo itself.
I rang the doorbell and was greeted by a stark, old Italian woman in a jet-black dress, with unnaturally black hair and an even blacker mood. I explained what little I knew about why I was there, while she frowned at me, debating whether or not to let me in. Finally I heard a man behind her speaking in Italian; and she left with a sigh, like a guard dog that had missed the chance to bite an intruder.
“Come in,” the man said, pulling me inside. I would have called him an old man, but then I was not much more than twenty at the time. He was in his seventies, of that type of hale, masterful men one sometimes meets whose years rest lightly. His hair was iron gray, shot with white at the temples, and he wore a short beard shaven from his lower lip to the point of his chin. I’d never seen whiskers carved in such a fashion, but then I’d never met Antonio Gallenga before.