Barker 05 - Black Hand (6 page)

“So, what can I do for you?” asked Barker.

“Word is you’re recruitin’.”

“What word?”

Hooligan shrugged and dropped into the visitor’s chair. He never explained where he got the information that brought him to our door. “Word.”

“I might be recruiting,” the Guv admitted. “It’s all in the planning stage, contingent upon certain conditions. I may require your services at the last minute.”

“Last minute will cost you double. What ’zactly do you need?”

“A handful of your best men, and you yourself, of course.”

Hooligan frowned, considering the request. “Do you want the ones that look dangerous or that are dangerous?”

“A compromise between the two. I’m hoping to scare them off, if possible.”

“Scare who off?” Hooligan cut the end of the cigar with a small jackknife he’d pulled from his boot and lit a vesta against the ceramic striker on Barker’s desk.

“What does the word in the street say?”

“Something I-talian. That’s all I know.”

“Do you know the Sicilians?”

Hooligan nodded. “Dockworkers, mostly, ain’t they?”

“Yes. Have you heard of an organization called the Mafia?”

“Never.”

“It’s a criminal organization based in Palermo. Very nasty. It is a state of perpetual warfare there. They use weapons—shotguns, knives, whatever comes to hand. They prefer weapons to hand fighting.”

“Who wouldn’t? So, d’you ’spect my lads to go in empty-handed against these blokes, or will you provide us some protection?”

“What sort of protection would you require?”

“I dunno. A half dozen pistols wouldn’t come amiss, for starters.”

“I don’t wish to provoke a bloodbath, nor would I want to be the means whereby a London gang, even one such as yours, received firearms.”

Hooligan shrugged. “Can’t blame a man for trying. What about knives, then?”

“I’m sure your lads are well armed, and you’ll receive compensation afterward for any knives you purchase.”

“Not good enough. I need to see the color of your money first.”

“Mr. Llewelyn, give Mr. Hooligan ten pounds.”

I pulled out my wallet, which interested the gang leader exceedingly, counted out ten pounds, then handed them over and entered the amount in my accounts book.

“Now, what about the guns? For my own safety, I’d like to know if we have artillery of our own.”

“We won’t,” Barker stated emphatically. “No guns.”

Hooligan knocked off his cigar ash. Then he puffed and looked at my employer speculatively through the smoke.

“Who else you got workin’ wif us? Will K’ing be there?” he asked.

“Would it bother you if he were? I haven’t decided yet.”

“It might be a problem. The lads are a bit touchy. We’ve had a skirmish or three wif his Mongol horde.”

“And now you’d be working together. It is a basis for amity.”

Hooligan snorted. “Amity? I ain’t looking for no bleedin’ amity. I’ll have to ask my lads if they’re willin’ to work with the slants. Who else are you bringin’ in?”

“It’s possible I may engage another group. I haven’t formalized my plans.”

“But I’m in,” Hooligan said.

“If you’re willing.”

“Always willin’. Now all we ’ave to do is agree on a price. Step into my office.”

So saying, the young gang leader stood, pulled off his long coat, and hung it over his arm. Barker reached under the coat and the two haggled silently using the arcane hand signals originated by horse traders in Ireland. Every time I think I’ve got leverage on what my employment entails, something like this comes along and proves how deluded I am. Where did Barker learn the language of horse traders?

“Done,” Hooligan finally said, “providin’ I can convince the lads. I’ll send word by the end of workin’ hours. Pleasure doin’ business with you gents as always—Mr. Barker, Mr. Llewelyn. I’ll see myself out.”

“This entire Sicilian situation reminds me of the condottiere, the mercenaries that the old city-states of Italy hired when they were at war,” I said after Hooligan had left.
“They prospered enough from the killing to purchase large villas and become a threat to everybody else.”

“Exactly,” the Guv replied. “There is nothing more dangerous than a mercenary, trained in the art of war, who is cunning enough to use the political situation to his own economic advantage.”

It occurred to me that Cyrus Barker was something of a mercenary himself. Trained in the art of war, yes. A cunning foreigner, aye, laddie. Economic advantage, certainly, the last I looked at our bank account. And as for using the political situation, it was something we did often in our work, though I’ll say in his defense that he genuinely had the Empire’s best interests at heart. A reformed mercenary, then.

“What are you thinking, lad?” Barker asked gruffly. Sometimes I swear he can read minds.

“I was wondering if there is a Sicilian political group here in London,” I went on, “or an Italian one. Is there an Italian newspaper published here?”

“No, there isn’t. They’re not as large a group as the Jews with their
Chronicle
. It’s a good idea about the political group, though. You must ask Gallenga about it when you see him again. How did the blade fighting go?”

“You’d have to ask Mr. Gallenga about that, sir. Do you really think it necessary?”

“Aye. My blade has saved my life half a dozen times. Why? Don’t you like the dagger?”

“If you must know, it worries me a little. I can pull out a gun and shoot a man if I know he’s trying to kill me, and I have no trouble defending myself with a stick, but a blade … to gut a man as if he were a mackerel, it makes me pause.”

“Don’t pause too long, lad,” Barker said, crossing his arms, “or he’ll be the one gutting you.”

“Being stabbed would be terrible,” I went on. “I’d rather be shot. There’s something about that sharp blade that sets my teeth on edge, even to think of it.”

“There is,” he admitted. “I think most would agree with you, even though the gun is more fatal. I’ve suffered both wounds, and the former is more clearly in my memory than the latter. Let us be off, Thomas. One more stop before we go home. I want to visit Clerkenwell.”

Demo version limitation

Demo version limitation

I
T IS MY HUMBLE OPINION THAT IF ONE HANDS OUT
enough money to keep a solicitor on retainer that said solicitor should have the decency to be prompt and not leave a poor fellow wasting away in prison with nothing to do save watch his nails grow. After four hours, I’d managed to dredge up all my old feelings and insecurities about prison life. At least the solicitor Thad Cusp was able to get us off completely, which only went to prove the Yard had had no evidence to hold us in the first place.

“None the worse for wear?” Barker asked when I saw him again. I found him oversolicitous, but then, I was in a foul mood. Did he think I would climb the walls or try to swallow my pillow?

“No, sir,” I replied. We were standing in the corridor of the Criminal Investigation Department. “Did you have an interview with Commissioner Henderson?”

“Aye. ’Twas like facing down a nor’easter. But it was all bluff and bounce, nothing he hasn’t threatened me with in the past. It was Poole who tried to get under my fingernails.
He wanted me to tell him everything based upon our friendship.”

“But you
have
told him everything.”

“Precisely. It’s all a matter of public record. I didn’t give him my private conclusions, of course, which are my own and what I trade upon, but the facts are right there in plain sight.”

“Perhaps he recalls the previous cases when you were not so forthcoming.”

“I genuinely wish to be of service to Scotland Yard when I can, despite the fact that they shut down my antagonistics classes.”

“Technically, sir, they didn’t shut them down,” I pointed out. “They were blown up. Scotland Yard merely took the opportunity to turn the new rooms into offices. According to
The Times
, they are full to the brim and considering moving somewhere else.”

“I must apologize, lad,” Barker responded. “Apparently you
have
been reading the newspapers.”

“As for your antagonistics classes,” I went on, “Inspector Poole is very anxious to have you start them up again.”

“If he’s trying to get on my good side, he’s got an odd way of showing it. Four hours wasted. With four productive hours in Clerkenwell, I might have solved the murder of Inspector Pettigrilli. Let’s stop in at our chambers before we go home for dinner.”

“I think Mac’s run through the larder, sir. We’ll have to dine out.”

“Damn and blast it, I forgot. I don’t have time to waste worrying where my next meal is coming from. Mac will
have to get the Elephant and Castle to cater until Etienne returns to work. I shall speak to him on the telephone set. People are being slaughtered left and right by Sicilian assassins and all must grind to a halt while I decide what I find toothsome for dinner.”

He was silent and irritable during the short walk back to our offices.

“The last post is on your desk, sir,” Jenkins said as we came through the door.

Still in his coat and hat, Barker selected one envelope from the stack, slit it with the Italian dagger he kept in his desk. Absently, he stroked his mustache as he read.

“What is it, sir?” I asked, as I sat down at my desk.

He offered the letter to me. From across the room I could see the large handprint inked in the center of it. Wordlessly, I took it and read.

Il Brutto, you see what has happened to another detective who stood in our way. Sometimes an example must be made. What we are doing here does not concern you. Should you continue, we assure you that you and yours will suffer a fate no less public. You are warned
.

“You know what this means, lad. We shall have to leave town.”

“Leave town?” I asked. “But why?”

“We must marshal our forces and come in from another angle they’re not expecting. Besides, I have responsibilities I must see to. I am not alone in the world.”

“Where will we go?”

“Ah, there’s the question. It would be best not to take a direct route in case we’re followed, though ’twill mean we’ll be forced to go miles out of our way. Jenkins!”

Apparently I wasn’t going to get an answer just yet, but that was nothing new. Jenkins came shambling around the corner and stopped at the desk.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“We have received a death threat.”

“Ah,” came the lackadaisical response. “Battle conditions, then. Prepare to repel all boarders.”

“Llewelyn and I shall be going out of town for a day or two. Can you alter your routine?”

“It’ll be a hardship down at the Sun, sir,” he pointed out.

Our clerk reigned at a table at the Rising Sun each night, where I take it his personal conviviality had everything it lacked during the day. I’d never had an audience there, and would not try to do so. He liked to keep his professional and private lives separate.

“If it is not too much trouble,” Barker continued, “I’d like to send Thomas along to see you settled.”

“As you wish, sir,” Jenkins replied a trifle neutrally.
Why send me along?
I wondered.

“Where will you be, sir?” I asked Barker directly.

“I’m going home. Mac must get everything packed and see to the security of the house.”

“Will it be shut up?”

“No, it would only encourage the blighters to set it afire or some such nonsense. Mac knows how to take in the sails.”

“What about Mr. L., sir? How will he get home?” Jenkins asked. Our routine was utterly changed if our clerk was questioning his master.

Barker looked at me appraisingly. “Mr. Gallenga has trained him,” he said. “The lad’ll have to make it back to Newington as best he can.”

“Your vote of confidence quite chokes me up,” I said, wiping an eye.

“Cheek,” Barker responded, shaking his head.

At five thirty, Jenkins put a printed sign on the door that said the agency was temporarily closed and suggested another detective within our little court. I saw that all the shutters were securely fastened and the back door locked and barred. It isn’t every establishment that requires a three-inch wooden beam to secure a door, I thought, or that has standard “battle conditions.” We bade our adieus and left the Guv to lock the front door.

“Where to, Mr. Jenkins?” I asked.

“Right acrost the river, Mr. L., in Lambeth.”

Newington is a respectable, if unfashionable, neighborhood across the river in Surrey, but Lambeth, just to its north, was not much different from the East End. In Shakespeare’s time, this was where the theatres were located, outside the burgeoning city, as well as where the brothels and other unsavory establishments were allowed to be built. Our century had done its best to suppress such vice, but the district still had a reputation as a dangerous place at night when the shops are closed. As we walked over Westminster Bridge, I reasoned that it was a logical place for Jenkins to live on a clerk’s salary, within staggering distance of Whitehall, but I was a little vexed with myself that I had never bothered to ask him where he lived. After all, I worked with the man from one day to the next. I should have tried to take an interest in his life. All I knew of him for certain was that
he was a lazy rascal with a taste for cigarettes, a local public house, and the
Police Gazette
.