Will Thomas - The Black Hand

“He told us at Scotland Yard that his given name was Umberto.”

Poole raised a hand to his long, ginger-colored side-whiskers and looked in danger of pulling them out. “I missed that,” he admitted.

“So where is the real Pettigrilli?” I asked.

“Long dead, I’m afraid,” Barker said. “I’ll wager Faldo assassinated the inspector on the boat to France and assumed his identity. It was an excellent cover, and he must have laughed to himself when the Surete took him at face value and began to train him under Alphonse Bertillon himself.”

“If his system makes any actual sense, I’ll eat my hat,” Poole said.

“Sir Francis Galton swears that the markings on the tips of the fingers can be used to identify a criminal,” Barker said, “but his theories are often unreliable.”

“I certainly don’t believe in eugenics,” I put in. “No doubt he considers Scots and Welshmen little more advanced than red Indians.”

“That makes perfect sense to me,” Poole pronounced, looking down his slightly pointed English nose at us.

“It would. So who was found dead in the cab with the constable?”

“The wound was so fresh, the victim must have been one of Faldo’s associates, dressed in identical clothing. He’d planned the whole thing down to the last detail, and he was ruthless.”

“Why didn’t you suspect anyone else of the crimes?”

“I did,” Barker said. “I suspected everyone for a time. Give me some examples.”

“The Gigliottis.”

“Victor Gigliotti didn’t want competition from the Sicilians-and he was a reasonable suspect-but he had everything to lose by getting involved with them. His small empire was what Faldo was after in the first place-complete power over the Italian community. Had he succeeded, he’d have taken over the ice factory and the hokeypokey carts, and been producing an income within the week. He would have taken over the other Italian enterprises-the docks and the cafes-and then I imagine he would have purchased influence among the gambling fraternity, both boxing and horse racing. Coming from Palermo, where several families are jockeying for positions of power, he must have felt it would be an easy task with only the Gigliottis to oppose him.”

“He was awfully heavy-handed,” I said. “All those threatening notes and murders.”

“He was not faint of heart,” the Guv agreed.

“So what about Hooligan? How was he involved? And how did you know he would become a turncoat?”

“In his position, it made sense. He wanted to control the East End. If he allied himself with Faldo, they could have brought down the Chinese power base together; and as his lieutenant, Hooligan might have been placed in charge of it. Of course, if I know him, his next step would have been to kill Faldo.”

“I doubt he would have succeeded there,” I said. “Perhaps putting him in jail is more of a kindness than he would have given himself. He’d have been as dead as Gigliotti within the year.”

“You’d have a hard time convincing him of that,” Poole said. “The Hooley Gang is without a leader now. It will either choose a new one or disband.”

“Did you ever suspect Gallenga?” I asked my employer.

“Of course,” he replied. “Once one is a member of the Honored Society, one never leaves it.”

“Who is this Gallenga fellow?” Poole asked quickly.

“He was a radical in his youth and a supporter of Mazzini’s Young Italy party, but his recent years have been spent as a correspondent with The Times and an expert on Italian matters. He has recently left London.”

Poole finished his pint and called for another, but one was my limit and I was but halfway through it.

“The Sicilian threat is done, then,” the inspector finally said. “There are no more criminals among the Italians now, correct?”

“No more so than among any other group of people in London. Their youth are high-spirited and liable to get into trouble, but there is no organized crime.”

“What of the Camorra?”

“It is broken,” Barker pronounced. “Vincenzo Gigliotti will have his hands full running the factory and the businesses. Unless Palermo sends another would-be Napoleon our way, I suspect Clerkenwell shall be quiet enough for a while.”

“I could do with quiet,” Poole said.

“So could I,” I said, raising my glass. “Here’s to quiet.”

Our glasses clinked and we each took a long sip, though I wondered exactly what Mr. Anderson would have to say about Scotland Yard getting all the glory.

I gave a long, shuddering sigh and let my body float in the bathhouse behind my employer’s house. I lay to the side, my head resting on a towel on the cedar slats, but my limbs were buoyant due to the Epsom salts Mac had thoughtfully put in the water. The salts stung a little, for I had sustained a half dozen cuts and bruises during the last week; but taken altogether, it felt marvelous. Give me a comfortable bathhouse over a dockside any day.

Barker suddenly breached like a sperm whale. He didn’t even remove his spectacles when he went underwater. He stood and waded to the side, where he dried himself, sitting on the ledge.

“You should get that looked after,” I said, regarding the bullet wound near his shoulder. “It could go septic.”

“I’ll have Mac disinfect and bandage it in the morning,” he said, drying his arms. He stretched and gave a yawn.

“It’s finally over,” I remarked. “Another successful case.”

“It’s a wee bit early for that, lad. Let’s wait to hear from Mr. Anderson.”

“To what could he object?” I countered. “True, Scotland Yard got involved at the last minute, but surely the government knows we were working for the Home Office.”

“I’ve never known a Home Office man who was completely satisfied about anything.”

I stood up, because I was getting a crick in my neck. “Let them fight their own battles, then. I doubt we shall clear expenses when the check finally arrives.”

“It’s not always about the money, lad.”

“It is for me. I’ve got a burial to pay for.”

Barker soaked his feet in the warm water. “There is a streak of pessimism in you.”

“It comes from the Llewelyns having their kingdom taken away, I suppose.”

“Aye, well, you don’t see me crying over Culloden.” He stood and pulled on one of the thick white robes. That’s Barker all over. Be optimistic and he cautions you. Be pessimistic and he’ll blame your entire race. I got out and threw on my own robe, following him into the garden.

“At least the heat is past,” I remarked, as I hopped across the white gravel that the Guv’s gardeners were obliged to rake every couple of days. One of the black ornamental stones suddenly moved. I reached down and scratched one of Harm’s ears, to stop him from biting my exposed ankles. It was cool enough for me to wish I’d dried myself more thoroughly before venturing outside.

“Are you going down to Sussex tomorrow?” I asked.

“I’ll go soon,” he said. “She’ll expect a report.”

I nodded and left it at that. I wouldn’t pester him with more questions, nor would I invite myself along. If he wanted me to come, he would ask me.

My employer walked barefoot across the bridge and past the standing rocks to the corner where his potted Penjing trees stood on shelves against a slatted wall. It was dark here, but he stuck his fingers into the soil of each. He must have considered them dry because he took up a watering can and plied it thoroughly. Then he gave a low whistle to Harm and led us into the house.

“Nice that the garden is safe again,” I said.

“Do you think we should fortify the back gate?” he asked.