Stephen Barr - Best of the best detective stories - 25th anniversary collection

“Travel light, live off the country. I was one of only two white men in my graduating class at Ah Chu’s College of Thieves in Canton. Took my graduate work at Kaffir All’s, Cairo. I suppose you little reck, miserable fellow that you are, that I was the last man to be tried by a jury of his peers before the House of Lords! True, I did take the Dowager’s Daimler, and, true, I sold it — lost the money at baccarat — never trust an Azerbaijanian at cards, but—”

He stopped, harkened to some sound in the outer darkness. “I fancy I hear my saucy Sauncepeur returning. ‘What gat ye for supper. Lord Randall, my son?’ — eh? Chops, steak, Cornish rock hen, what? Curious custom you Americans have — charcoal grills on your balconies. Though, mind, I’m not complaining. Bread ready? Ahhh , my pretty!”

The steak was just fine, as far as Denny the Dip was concerned, though Lord Grue and Groole complained there was a shade too much garlic. “Mustn’t grumble, however — the taste of the Middle Classes is constantly improving.”

The man who called himself Tosci rose to his feet.

“Don Alexander Borgia, I presume?” he inquired.

“No, no, excuse me — Borjia — with a ‘j’,” the Grand Master corrected him. The Grand Master was a tall, dark, handsome man, with a head of silvery gray hair. “The Grand Council is waiting,” he said, “to hear your proposition. This way.”

“I had no idea,” Tosci murmured, impressed, “that the headquarters of the Mafia were quite so — quite so—” He waved his hand, indicating an inability to find the mot juste to fit the high-toned luxury and exquisite good taste of the surroundings.

“This is merely the Chamber of the Grand Council,” said Don Alexander. “The actual headquarters, which we are required by our charter to maintain, is in back of a candy store on Mulberry Street. The dead weight of tradition, huh? Well, pretty soon that time will come of which the political philosophers have predicted, when the State shall wither away. ‘No more Tradition’s chains will bind us,’ yeah? After you.” Don Alexander took his seat at the head of the table and gestured the visitor to begin.

The latter gazed at the assembled Masters of the Mafia, who gazed back, unwinking, unblinking, but not — he was quite sure — unthinking.

After a moment he began, “Signori—” and paused; “then, Fratelli— ”

— and was interrupted by Grand Master Borjia.

“Excuse me. Hare Tosci, or Monsoon Tosci, or however you may in your country, but evidently you have fallen victim to the false delusion that the Mafia is a strictly Eyetalian organization, which I have no hesitation in saying it is an erroneous concept and a misinformation disseminated by the misinformed press, see? I would like it clearly understood that you should get it through your head we of the sorely misconstrued and much maligned Mafia do not discriminate in any way, shape, or form, against race, creed, color, national origin, or, uh, what the hell is the other thing which we don’t discriminate against in any way, shape, or form, somebody?”

“Previous kahn-dition of soivitood,” said a stocky Grand Councilor, wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, two cauliflower ears, and an eyepatch.

“Yeah. Thanks very much, Don Lefty McGonigle.”

“Nat a-tall,” said Don Lefty, with a slight blush, as he bent his slightly broken nose toward the orchid in his buttonhole — one of three flown up for him daily from Bahia. “ ‘Rank is but d’guinea stamp, an’ a man’s a man for all dat,’ ” he added. “A quotation from d’ poet Boyns; no offensive ettnic connotations intended.”

“Exactly,” said the Grand Master, a slight scowl vanishing from his distinguished features. “Our Grand Council is a veritable microcosm of American opportunity, as witness, besides myself, Don Lefty McGonigle, Don Shazzam X — formerly Rastus Washington — Don Gesú-Maria Gomez, Don Leverret Lowell Cabot, Don Swede Swanson, Don Tex Thompson, Don Morris Caplan, and Don Wong Hua-Fu, which he’s the Temporary Member of the Permanent Representation of the Honorable Ten Tongs — in a word, a confraternity of American business and professional men devoted to the study of the Confucian classics, the Buddhist Scriptures, and the art of horticulture as it might be exemplified by the peaceful cultivation of the ah-peen poppy.”

He paused and drew breath. “The Mafia,” he continued, “despite the innumerous slanders and aspersions cast upon it by scoffers, cynics, and the ever-present envious, is no more than a group of humble citizens of the world, determined to provide, besides certain commercial services, a forum wherein or whereby to arbitrate those differences which the Jack of communication — alas, all too prevalent in our society — might otherwise terminate untowardly; as to its supposed origins in romantic Sicily, who, indeed, can say? What’s on your mind, Tosci?” he concluded abruptly.

Mr. (or Herr, or Monsieur, or whatever way they say in his country) Tosci blinked. Then he smiled a small noncommittal smile, appropriate to the citizen of a neutral nation.

“As you are aware, my country is landlocked,” he began. “Despite, or perhaps because of this situation, the question of providing a merchant marine of our own arises from time to time. It has arisen lately. My company, the Societé Anonyme de la Banque de la Commerce et de I’Industrie et pour les Droites des Oeuvriers et des Paysans, known popularly and for convenience as Paybanque , is currently interested in the possibilities of such a project.

“It is those ‘certain commercial services’ of the Mafia, of which you spoke, that we propose to engage. Our merchant marine headquarters in the New World would naturally be located in the New York City port area. Although at the present time the North River, or such New Jersey areas as Hoboken or Bayonne are most heavily favored by shipping, it was not always so. It is our opinion that excellent possibilities exist along the East River side of Manhattan, particularly the lower East River.

“It is our desire therefore that you provide us with a land, sea, and air survey, largely but not exclusively photographic in nature, engaging for the duration of the survey more or less centrally located quarters on the waterfront area in this locale. Something in the neighborhood of the Williamsburg Bridge would be ideal. Our representatives would participate with you, though the home office, so to speak, would remain aboard my yacht.

“This portfolio,” he went on, placing it on the table and opening it, “contains a more detailed description of our proposal, as well as the eleven million dollars in United States Treasury Notes which your Northern European contact informed us would be your fee for considering the proposal. If you are agreeable to undertake the work, we can discuss further terms.”

He ceased to speak. After a moment the Grand Master said, “Okay. We will leave you know.” After Tosci had departed, Don Alexander asked, “Well, what do you think?”

“An Albanian Trotskyite posing as a Swiss Stalinist. If you ask me, I think he wants to blow up the Brooklyn Navy Yard,” Don Morris Caplan said.

“Of course he wants to blow up the Brooklyn Navy Yard,” Borjia snapped. “That was obvious right from the beginning — I can spot them Albanian deviationists a mile away. Now the point is: Do we want the Brooklyn Navy Yard blown up? It is to this question, my esteemed fellow colleagues, which we must now divert our attention.”

Events went their traditional way in the Goodeycoonce household. Granny had dressed herself up as though for a masquerade, the principal articles of costume consisting of a tasseled cap, a linen blouse with wide sleeves, a pair of even wider breeches, and wooden shoes; all these articles were very, very old. She next picked up a pipe of equally antique design, with a long cherrywood stem and a hand-painted porcelain bowl, and this she proceeded to charge with genuine Indian Leaf tobacco which she had shredded herself in her chopping bowl. The tobacco was purchased at regular intervals from the last of the Manahatta Indians — that is, he was one-eighth Last-of-the-Manahatta-Indians, on his mother’s side — who operated the New Orleans Candle and Incense Shop on Lexington Avenue. (“ I don’t know what them crazy White folks want with that stuff,” he often said; “they could buy grass for the same price.”) Granny struck a kitchen match, held it flat across the top of the pipe bowl, and began to puff.