Will Thomas - The Black Hand

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” I admitted.

“Put your stick down,” Gallenga ordered.

I put it down beside a bench in the garden, then came forward at his bidding and reached for the dagger he presented.

“Ow!” I cried, as the point entered the fleshy webbing between my thumb and forefinger. He’d done it on purpose.

Gallenga raised the blade he still held in his hand and watched as the drop of blood slicked the blade and puddled at the hilt.

“This is your blade now, Thomas Llewelyn. It has tasted your blood and now it knows its master. I make it a gift to you, for I cannot stand between you now.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Gallenga cut his own hand in the same place with his personal blade, then reached out to me. We shook hands and in so doing, a blood covenant was made between us.

“You must promise not to teach what you learn here to anyone save your own son, when the time is right. I assume you have none at the moment.”

“No, sir. I promise.”

He raised his hand like a soothsayer. “A benediction from an old man, then. May you have a houseful of sons.”

I had not asked for a houseful. In fact, I hadn’t asked for any, but I knew sons were important in Italian culture, and so I merely thanked him.

“And now, let the lesson begin. This is how to hold a Sicilian dagger.”

Barker decided that before the day ended he must stop and see how Etienne was progressing. It was perhaps coincidental that he chose an hour at which Le Toison d’Or was just opening its doors for the dinner crowds and Madame Dummolard was occupied.

When we arrived at Charing Cross Hospital, we buttonholed the admitting orderly to see about Dummolard’s condition.

“He’s not allowed visitors, sir,” the young man told us.

“What? Is he still gravely ill?”

“No, sir, but he boxed the ear of the last doctor what got near him. The hospital cannot be liable for your safety, I’m afraid.”

“I know his temper,” Barker said with a chuckle. “I’ve been acquainted with it for many years. I’ll take my chances. Come, lad.”

When we entered Etienne’s room, we narrowly missed the chamber pot shied at our heads.

“Good afternoon, Etienne,” Barker replied, as if flying pots were our cook’s standard form of greeting.

“Mon capitaine!” Dummolard roared from his bed. “Get me out of here. These cochons don’t realize I have a restaurant to run. London must have a choice beside le Yorkshire pud.”

“You stay until the doctor says you can leave,” the Guv ordered. “I won’t have you collapsing over your roux.”

Dummolard crossed his bare arms and cursed, but it was obvious he would comply. He was used to taking orders from his former captain, if no one else.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“Comme ci, comme ca,” Dummolard replied. “Mireille made such a nuisance of herself that they have restricted her visits to two hours a day. I have not had so much rest since before my wedding day. I must warn you my brothers came to pay a visit.”

“Your brothers?” Barker asked, frowning.

“Oui . All five of them: Robert, Thierry, Francois, Martin, and Jean. The family honor has been bes-, bes-, oh, damn, what is the word?”

“Besmirched?” I offered.

“Besmirched! Merci.”

“They are apache, as I recall,” Barker said. “Is that not so?”

“Oui.”

“Apache?” I queried.

“Not Indians, lad,” Barker explained. “French gang members. Good fighters, savateurs, for the most part. Normally I’d chase them back across the Channel, but I might have use for them now. You say there are only five?”

“Oui , but they despise Sicilians. They would cross a desert to fight them.”

“Do you know where they are staying?”

Dummolard picked up a slip of paper from a table beside his bed and gave it to Barker.

“How long have they been here?”

“They arrived this morning. Smuggled themselves in from Dieppe.”

My employer sighed and put his hands on his hips. “And how much trouble have they gotten into since then?”

“Not much, not for them, anyway. They broke up one of the Sicilian cafes in Soho and had a good fight with the Irish in Seven Dials. They say this London of mine is very tame and that I was more likely attacked by a child in a perambulator armed with a rattle. They said I am getting old. I intend to thrash them all when I get out of here.”

“When will you be released? Have they said?”

“Two days if I agree to stay in bed at home for a while. Two weeks if I intend to go back to work.”

“They know you too well, Etienne,” I couldn’t help but say. “Are you eating the food they serve you here?”

“Of course not. Are you mad? Mireille brings me lunch and dinner from Le Toisin d’Or, so I can be certain they don’t make a shambles of the meals in my absence. You think I would eat the poison they serve in this place? I have no wish for the suicide.”

“So I take it Robert is the next eldest brother, and in charge of the others?” our employer asked, changing the subject.

“He is. You will find him in front of this hospital somewhere. He has convinced himself that the Sicilians intend to finish the work they started.”

“Has he reason to be convinced?”

Dummolard shrugged and then winced in pain. Being stabbed twice seriously impedes a Frenchman’s ability to express himself. “Some fellows resembling Sicilians attempted to enter the hospital yesterday but left when my brothers made a show of strength.”

“And you considered this not noteworthy enough to mention until now?”

“I was hoping for a chance at them myself, if you must know. They caught me unawares once. I will not let them do so again.”

“You’d fight them with a chamber pot?” I couldn’t help but ask. Dummolard was fearless, but that was going too far, even for him.

“No, you idiot,” he replied, reaching behind his pillow and pulling out a wicked-looking pistol.

“A gift from one of your brothers,” my employer commented.

“A man has a right to defend himself, non?”

“It’s a wonder you merely boxed the doctor’s ear,” I commented.

“I’ll leave you to your convalescence, Etienne,” Barker said drily. “Try not to shoot anyone.”

As soon as we came out of Charing Cross Hospital, Cyrus Baker came to the curb and stopped, his hand resting on the head of his stick. He stood immobile among the stream of citizens passing by and I was reminded of an old motto of one of the Scottish clans: Stand Fast. The nation to our north produces rough men like my employer; it was no wonder Hadrian tried to keep them out with a wall from sea to sea.

The Guv’s head turned as he scanned the crowd. He hadn’t bothered to ask what Robert Dummolard looked like. It was something of an intellectual exercise, picking Etienne’s brother out of a crowd, so I attempted to find him as well. It was a variation on Mr. Gallenga’s “eye.” I glanced from face to face, looking for similar features to our cook, similar build, wondering if there was a way to recognize Frenchness in a person.

“I don’t see him, I’m afraid.”

“Look lower,” Barker said, then gave a short summons with his hand before turning and moving south. I had just enough time to see a fellow stand before I followed my employer. Dummolard’s brother had been seated on some steps going down to a basement across the street, and smoking a cigarette.

There is an unwritten code of behavior that goes with being an enquiry agent. I knew I would show myself to be a rank amateur were I to turn my head to see if the Frenchman was following us. The mere act of looking back might raise his scorn and we’d lose him, so I forced myself to keep looking forward.