Will Thomas: The Black Hand

It occurred to me that it was the first time he had actually asked my opinion on something. “No,” I replied after a moment. “It would ruin the aesthetics. Leave it as it is, I think. We can chase out whatever pests get in.”

Barker nodded and went upstairs, the dog tucked under his arm. I locked the door behind us and followed him.

The next morning, our lives had returned to normal, that is, the part of our lives that was like everyone else’s. We got up, dressed for church, and walked across the street to the Metropolitan Tabernacle. Or at least we tried. There was an obstacle between us and the tabernacle. It was Vincenzo Gigliotti, resplendent in a morning suit with a white boutonniere. He had not come to sell ice cream that day, but was waiting to speak to Barker. My employer frowned. He does not like to be diverted from a mission, which at that moment was to get to chapel on time and into our accustomed pew.

“Mr. Barker,” Gigliotti said, bowing slightly.

“You are not at mass this morning, sir?” the Guv asked, nodding his head.

“I am too occupied with arrangements. I bury my son tomorrow.”

“I will miss Victor and our little talks. Will the Neapolitan remain open?”

“For a while, at least. I understand that you have killed the man responsible for Victor’s death and that of the Serafinis.”

“It was Scotland Yard who killed him,” Barker pointed out.

“Oh, come,” he objected, as if my employer were merely being modest. “They are but hounds that bite whom you tell them to. I merely wish to inform you that the Camorra is satisfied and our vendetta ended. There will be no reprisal here against any Sicilians, unless they cause a new outrage.”

“That is for the best,” Barker stated. “Your community is too small to be divided into factions.”

“I believe Father Amati is satisfied with the outcome of this situation, save for the loss of my son.”

“How is your grandson?”

“He has retreated into himself. His mother is trying to teach him not to nurse anger in his heart, but Victor’s death has been a cruel blow to us all. I am glad my wife is not alive to see it.”

“And who shall run the Camorra now that Victor is gone?”

“That mantle is on my shoulders now. I gave it to him and now it comes back to me again.”

“It was a dangerous business he was in,” Barker said.

“It is a dangerous world, Mr. Barker.”

“I’ll not argue the point, sir. Is there another question I can answer for you? We must get to chapel.”

“Just one. These brothers, twins. I understand they actually killed Victor.”

“Aye. Both are seriously injured. I understand Scotland Yard is watching them carefully. Do you intend to go against them?”

Gigliotti frowned. “We have not decided. Are you still involved in this?”

“No, my involvement is at an end.”

I watched Gigliotti nod in thought. The truce with the Sicilians did not extend to the man who killed his son.

“Give our respects to your family,” the Guv said, tugging the brim of his bowler.

We parted company with Mr. Gigliotti. When he was gone, Barker turned to me. “The Camorra is dead, or very nearly. Most of their members joined because of Victor’s passion. With him gone, Vincenzo will most likely devote all his energy toward protecting his family.”

“Forgive me for asking, sir, but you didn’t plan this in any way, did you?”

“No, Victor brought it down upon his own shoulders. You saw him challenge the Sicilians openly on the docks. Why do you ask?”

“Everything worked to our advantage. You didn’t just bring down one criminal organization, you brought down three: the Mafia, the Camorra, and the Hooley Gang, since Patrick is bound for prison.”

The Guv gave a wintry smile. “Thomas, sometimes the best defense is simply to step out of the way and wait for the smoke to clear.”

Monday morning came all too soon. I got out of bed through sheer determination, shaved and dressed, and made my way downstairs. I went into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee, and took it to the deal table.

“You need eggs with that,” Etienne Dummolard stated critically. He was leaning against the stove with a cup of his own.

“Etienne! You’re back!”

Warmed by my response, Dummolard spat on the floor and lit one of his short French cigarettes. Now we can have proper meals again , I thought. No more rubber ham, hard cheese, and pickled onions.

“I’m glad they released you,” I told him.

“They didn’t. I snook out. That is good English, right? To snook?”

“Perfectly good,” I replied.

“I could take no more idiotic doctors and Mireille and Clothilde fussing over me. They buy half the flowers in Covent Garden. I hate flowers to death. What are they for? You cannot eat them. They die in a day. They are a complete waste of money.”

“Hear, hear.”

“Do you happen to know,” he asked, casually cracking eggs against the side of a bowl, “where my brothers are this morning?”

“Well …”

“Has your brain stopped working, Thomas?” he snapped. “It is a simple enough question. Where are my brothers?”

“I imagine they are still in jail. I heard they were put in darbies night before last.”

Etienne stood with his back to me, mixing the eggs. He stopped suddenly and then started again. He was going to explode any moment, I thought. Really, I had enough troubles of my own. I didn’t need the ill humor of my employer’s cook right after a harrowing case. Then Dummolard made a sound in his throat that resolved itself into chuckling.

“You’re not angry?”

“It is where they belong,” he said. “Good riddance. They are criminals. I hope they are deported back to France. I never asked them to come to my rescue, and I did not require their help.”

He poured the mixture into a pan already starting to bubble with butter. My stomach rumbled with anticipation. The things Etienne Dummolard can do with a common egg are miraculous. He began chopping chives and herbs from the garden that had been drying on a rack overhead, humming a tune to himself. It must have felt good to return to the work one was destined for.

In two minutes, he slid the plate in front of me. I ate as he watched, and made all the appreciative noises I knew. It was perfect, as always. Who could imagine that an oafish, bearlike Frenchman could produce such delicacies? Dummolard brought us each a fresh cup of coffee and then lit another cigarette.

“What happened the other night?” he asked.

I outlined the entire case. It took me almost twenty minutes. Outside the window, the Guv’s Chinese gardeners were discussing the state of the garden, but my employer was not among them. He’d been injured and had worked long hours on this case. If he were having a lie-in, he deserved one.

Dummolard brayed out a laugh. “You, hanging there on the end of his arm with his pistol stuck in the pocket of your waistcoat? Very droll, Thomas.”

“I didn’t intend it to end that way, it just happened.”

“I am sorry I did not get to see it.”

Suddenly Mac put his head in the door. “The Guv’s got a visitor. They’re going into the garden right now.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s Mr. Anderson of the Home Office.”

Etienne and I looked out the window. My employer and the spymaster were near the back gate, where the standard tour was still in progress. I don’t know whether the spymaster had any interest in gardening, but Barker’s is certainly unique, at least in this part of the world. By the time I caught up with them, they were stepping into the shade of the pavilion.

“Sorry I’m late, gentlemen,” I said. “How is your shoulder today, sir?”