Leslie Charteris - Vendetta for the Saint

“Would you mind telling me just what you meant by ’ these people’?” he asked.

“The Mafia,” Ponti said calmly.

This time, Simon allowed himself to blink.

“You mean Tonio was hired from them?”

“That cretino is one of them, of course. A small one. But I am sure that Al Destamio is a big one, though I cannot prove it.”

“That,” said the Saint, “makes it really interesting.”

Ponti sipped his brandy.

“Do you know anything about the Mafia?”

“Only what I’ve read in the papers, like everyone else. And some more fanciful enlargements in paperback novels. But on the factual side, I don’t even know what mafia means.”

“It is a very old word, and no one can be quite sure where it came from. One legend says that it originated here in Palermo in the thirteenth century, when the French ruled the Two Sicilies. The story is that a young man was leaving the church after his wedding, and was separated from his bride for a few minutes while he talked to the priest. In that time she was seized by a drunken French sergeant, who dragged her away and assaulted her — and when she tried to escape, killed her. The bridegroom arrived too late to save her, but he attacked and killed the sergeant, shouting ‘ Morte alia Francia! — Death to France!’ Palermo had suffered cruelly during the occupation, and this was all that the people needed to hear. A revolt started, and in a few days all the French in the city had been hunted down and slain. ‘ Morte alia Francia. Italia anela!’ was the battle-cry: Italy wishes death to France! Of course, soon after, the French came back and killed most of the rebels, and the survivors fled into the mountains. But they kept the initials of their battle-cry, M-A-F-I-A, as their name... At least, that is one explanation.”

“It’s hard to think of the Mafia as a sort of thirteenth-century Resistance movement.”

“It is, now; but that is truly what they were like in the beginning. Right up to the unification of Italy, the Mafia was usually on the side of the oppressed. Only after that it turned to extortion and murder.”

“I seem to have heard that something like that happened to the original Knights Templar,” said the Saint reflectively. “But aside from that, I don’t see why you should connect them with me.”

Ponti waited while the caponata di melanzane was served and the wine poured. Then he answered as if there had been no interruption.

“It is very simple. Whether you knew what you were doing or not, you have become involved with the Mafia. A little while ago I told you that justice would be done to Tonio. But if he was under the orders of Destamio, and not merely defending himself because you caught him picking your pocket, I should not be so optimistic. Witnesses will be found to swear that it was you who attacked him. And nothing will make him confess that he even knows Destamio. That is the omerta, the noble silence. He will die before he speaks. Not for a noble reason, perhaps, but because if he talked there would be no place for him to hide, no place in the world. There are no traitors to the Mafia — live traitors, that is — and the death that comes to them is not an easy one.”

Simon tasted the Ciclope dell’Etna. It was light and faintly acid, but a cool and refreshing accompaniment to the highly seasoned eggplant.

“At the questura,” he said, “Tonio already seemed to be in better standing than I was. Does the Mafia’s long arm reach even into the ranks of the incorruptible police on this island?”

“Such things are possible,” Ponti said with great equanimity. “The Mafia is very strong on this impoverished island. That is why I gave you the hint in the questura that if you had any more to say to me we should talk elsewhere.”

“And I am supposed to know that you are the one member of the police who is above suspicion.”

The detective took no umbrage, but only dispensed with his smile, so that Simon was aware again of what an effective mask it was, behind which anything could be hidden.

“Let me tell you another story, Signor Templar, which is not a legend. It is about a man who came from Bergamo, in the north, to open a shop on this sunny island. It was difficult at first, but after a time he had a business that kept his family in modest comfort. Then the mafia came to demand tribute, and through ignorance or pride he refused to pay. When they sent an enforcer to beat him with a club in his own shop, he took away the club and beat the enforcer. But he was a little too strong and angry, and the enforcer died. There is only one thing that happens then: the vendetta and murder. The man and his wife and daughter were killed, and only the little son escaped because he had been sent to visit his grandparents in Bergamo, and when they heard what had happened they gave him to friends who took him to another town and pretended he was their own. But the boy knew all the story, and he grew up with a hatred strong enough to start a vendetta against all the Mafia. But when he was old enough to do anything he knew that that was not the way.”

“And so he joined the police to try to do something legally?”

“A poorly paid job, as I said before, and a dangerous one if it is done honestly. But do you think a man with such memories could be on the side of those murderers?”

“But if your police station is a nest of mafiosi, how can you get anything done? That two-faced maresciallo almost had me convicted of attempting to murder myself, before you came in. Then everything changed. Do they suspect that you may be investigating them too?”

“Not yet. They think I am a happy fool who bumbles into the wrong places — an honest fool who refuses bribes and reports any offer of one. Men in my job are always being transferred, and so they hide what they can from me and wait patiently for me to be transferred again. But being from the north, it has taken me many years and much pulling of strings to get here, and I have no intention of being moved again before I have achieved some of my purpose.”

If ever the Saint had heard and seen sincerity, he had to feel that he was in the presence of it now.

“So you want to hear what I can tell you,” he said slowly. “But knowing my reputation, would you believe me? And aren’t you a bit interested in the chance that I might incriminate myself?”

“I am not playing a game, signore,” the detective said harshly. “I do not ask for any of your other secrets. You can tell me you have murdered thirteen wives, if you like, and it would mean nothing to me if you helped in the one other thing that matters more to me than life.”

Perhaps the first commandment of any outlaw should be, Thou shall keep thy trap shut at all times; but on the other hand he would not be plying his lonely trade if he were not a breaker of rules, and this sometimes means his own rules as well. Simon knew that this was one time when he had to gamble.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s see what you make of this...”

He related the events of the past few days with eidetic objectiveness. He left nothing out and drew no conclusions, waiting to see what Ponti would make of it.

“It is as clear as minestrone,” said the detective, at the end of the recital. “You thought the Englishman Euston was killed in Naples because he recognized Destamio as being someone named Dino Cartelli. Yet Destamio showed you proof of his identity, and you learned here in Palermo that Cartelli has been dead for many years. That seems to show that you are — as the Americans say — woofing up the wrong tree.”

“Perhaps.” Simon finished his meal and his wine. “But in that case how do you explain the coincidence of Euston’s murder, Destamio’s sudden interest in me, the money he gave me, and the attempt to kill me?”