In the Hour Before Midnight (12 page)

T
HE
M.I. .30 calibre is the semi-automatic rifle that got most American infantrymen through the Second World War, which meant that the one which was about to blow a hole in me now had been around for quite a while. On the other hand, it had obviously been cared for like a lover. The stock was polished, the gunmetal shone with oil and the whole thing looked as lethal as anyone could wish, just like the man who was holding it, Serafino Lentini.

“Serafino, stop!” the girl shouted in Italian. “You mustn't shoot him—you mustn't!”

He was wearing an old corduroy suit, leather leggings to his knees and the face beneath the cloth cap was recklessly handsome in spite of the
week-old stubble of beard and the dirty black patch over the right eye. A gay lad, this, a bravo straight out of the sixteenth century. I could almost see him in doublet and hose. A kiss for a woman, a blow for a man. I smiled, remembering the old joke. Very funny, except that with this boy you'd probably get a knife in the gut if you got in his way.

The two men behind him were just a blur, it was his face that loomed large for me in all the world at that moment. He grinned wolfishly and pushed off the safety.

“Careful,” I said. “Cursed is the man who spills the blood of his own.”

The old Sicilian proverb had about the same effect as a good stiff hook to the chin. His eye, that one good eye of his, seemed to widen, but most important of all, the barrel of the M.I. was removed from my neck.

“Quick,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Barbaccia's grandson. We're kin through my grandmother's family.”

“Mother of God, but I remember you as a boy.” The safety catch clicked on again, the most reassuring thing to happen for some time. “Once when I was fourteen, my old man went to see the
capo
on family business. I had to wait at the gate. I saw you walking in the garden playing with a dog. All
white with black spots. I forget what they call them.”

“Dalmatians,” I said and remembered old Trudi for the first time in years.

“The
capo
's American grandson in his pretty clothes. God, how I hated you that day. I wanted to rub mud in your hair.” He produced a stub of cigar from one pocket, lit it and squatted in front of me. “I heard you and the
capo
didn't get on after they got your mother that way.” He spat. “Mafia pigs. Still, from what I hear, he's almost swept the board clean.”

I wanted to ask him what he meant, but the occasion didn't seem appropriate. He reached over and fingered my jump suit.

“What's all this? When I first saw you through the trees I thought they'd brought the troops in again.”

By now I had everything in focus including the girl and the two specimens who were examining the assault rifle with interest. They were in the same unshaven condition as Serafino, the same ragged state. Each of them had a shotgun slung from the shoulder.

I sat up wearily. “I can't go through all that again. Ask her.”

He didn't argue, simply turned and went to
Joanna Truscott. They moved away a little, talking in low tones, and I got my cigarettes out. As I lit one, the man who was taking a sight along the barrel of the A.K. lowered it and snapped a finger.

I tossed the packet across. There was a definite physical resemblance between them and I said, “You're the Vivaldi boys, I suppose.”

The one with the rifle nodded. “That's right. I'm August—he's Pietro. Don't expect much from him, though.” He tapped his head. “He has his difficulties and he can't speak.”

Pietro did a semblance of a jig and his mouth opened, exposing half a dozen black stubs and nothing else. He had a great foolish grin that reminded me strongly of the Cheshire cat. I suppose he had exactly the same smile on his face as he blew someone's head off.

In fact the head might very well be mine, which was a cheering thought and then Serafino came back and I could tell from the look on his face that everything was going to be all right.

“It's ironic,” he said. “When I remember how often old Barbaccia has tried to have me put down. But then, we are not of the blood.”

A nice distinction, but sufficient
.

“Can I have my weapons back?” I asked.

“I don't know about that, we could do with them
ourselves.” He was obviously unwilling, but decided to make a gesture. “Give him the pop-gun back. Hang on to the others.”

August handed me the Smith and Wesson, looking more than happy, and I pushed it into the spring holster. Had they only known it, at that range I could have given each of them a bullet in the head within the second.

We went down through the trees in a line, Serafino and I together at the rear. Apparently he still had Hoffer's twenty-five thousand buried in an old biscuit tin somewhere in the area. He thought the whole thing very funny and laughed frequently in the telling.

“So, I've killed a few people in my time. That's life.” He scratched his face vigorously. “I did a couple of jobs for Hoffer when he was having trouble with construction workers on the new road through the mountains. Leaned on one or two and then we dumped some trade unionist down a crevasse. And then he gets in touch with me through a friend and lays out this job concerning the girl.”

“Did you know who she was?”

“Not a hint. He told me she was a blackmailer—that she could ruin him unless she had her mouth closed for keeps. I'd insisted on payment in advance so I had the cash anyway and when I saw
her, I liked her.” He grinned ruefully. “Not that I'm half the man I used to be so she'd nothing to worry about there.”

“Yes, I heard about that.”

He laughed uproariously. “Life, it's a bastard, eh? No, I liked her for the way she stuck out her chin and stood up straight when she thought I was going to shoot her. It put me off, her standing there like some princess from Rome. Then it struck me as how funny it might be to put one over on Hoffer, seeing I already had the cash. He's a rat and anyway I don't like Mafia.”

He spat again, I stumbled, put off my stroke to such an extent that I almost lost my balance. I grabbed him by the arm. “Hoffer is Mafia?”

“Didn't you know? One of those American syndicate boys the Yanks deported during the last few years.”

And my grandfather hadn't said a word
. “Does the girl know?”

“Not really.” He shook his head. “Oh, she thinks he's a swine all right, but this is only her second visit to Sicily. To her, Mafia is the two lines in the tourist handbook that says it's a romantic memory.”

Which was reasonable enough. What would she know, spending the greater part of the year at some
fancy English boarding school and most of the rest following the social round in France, Switzerland and the usual places. We had something in common there.

“So Hoffer is working for the Society over here?”

“Do me a favour.” Serafino seemed surprised. “You know the rule. Once in, never out. He's the last of half a dozen similar.”

“What happened to the others?”

“Two pressed the starters in their Alfas and went straight to hell. The rest were ventilated in one way or another as I remember. They had the knife out for Barbaccia, but they made a big mistake. The old wolf was a match for all of them.”

“The attempt on his life,” I said. “The bomb which killed my mother, who was responsible for that?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged. “Any one of them. Does it matter? Barbaccia will have had all of them before he is through.”

My flesh crawled at the enormity of it. Vito Barbaccia, Lord of Life and Death. He was well named. I shuddered and went after Serafino who was striding ahead, whistling cheerfully.

 

The shepherd's hut looked as if it had been there since time began. It was constructed of rocks and
boulders of various sizes, the gaps in between filled with dried mud and the low roof consisted of sods on top of oak branches.

At that point the stream had turned into a brawling torrent, descending rapidly through several deep pools, disappearing over an apron of stone about fifty yards below.

The hut was built into a sloping bank in a clearing beside the stream and looked remarkably homely. A couple of donkeys grazed nearby with three goats and half a dozen chickens moved in and out of the undergrowth, pecking vigorously at the soil.

A boy of eighteen or nineteen, presumably the Joe Ricco Cerda had mentioned, crouched over a small fire, feeding the flames beneath a cooking pot with sticks. Except for his youth and red Norman hair, he was depressingly similar in appearance to the rest of them. The same cloth cap, patched suit and leather leggings, the same sullen, brutalised features. He got up, staring at me curiously, and the Vivaldi brothers joined him, crouching to help themselves with a dirty and chipped enamel mug to what vaguely smelled like coffee.

Serafino and Joanna Truscott sat on a log by the stream and he produced from somewhere another piece of cigar and lit it. He looked up into the grey
morning. “Still it doesn't make sense.” He shook his head. “I'd give a lot to know what Hoffer is playing at.”

“Perhaps the whole thing is simpler than we think,” Joanna said. “Maybe he assumed you would do anything for money.”

“He could be right there,” I agreed, but somehow it didn't sound too funny because it sent me off on another train of thought, one I wanted to avoid, but Serafino wouldn't let it alone.

“These friends of yours, you can trust them? They're not making a monkey out of you?”

I thought about it hard and tried to sound confident. “Anything is possible in this life, but I don't think so. There's one way to find out, of course.”

“And what is that?”

“I'll go and see them.”

He nodded, biting on his cigar, a frown on his face. Joanna Truscott said, “You could make them an offer on my behalf if you like. It would be nice to turn the tables on my stepfather for once.” She picked up a stick, snapped it between her hands. “He married my mother for money, did you know that? When she wouldn't give him any more, he got rid of her.”

“Are you certain of that?”

She nodded. “Not that I could prove it. He
thought he'd get everything because he knew she loved him—loved him to distraction—but he made a mistake. She left me everything, and now he's in trouble—bad trouble.”

“What kind?”

“He needs money—a great deal of money. He's frightened, too.”

So Mafia was in this after all?

“All right, wait for me here.” I looked at my watch, saw that it was an hour since I had left Burke and the others which meant they would already be on their way down. “I'll be about half an hour.”

I thought they might stop me from going, but nobody moved. When I looked back from the edge of the trees, Joanna Truscott had taken off her red scarf and the blonde hair gleamed as the first rays of the early morning sun broke through the clouds.

 

I ploughed up the steep slope, pushing through the undergrowth and the going was so hard that I had little time to concentrate on anything else except making progress. But I wasn't happy. The trouble was that, in my heart, I'd never believed Hoffer's story for a moment. Certain aspects of it were always manifestly impossible and if I'd seen the flaws, why hadn't Burke?

But then I couldn't believe the second possibility. He'd done many things in his time—aided and abetted by me on occasion. Killed ruthlessly and often without compassion, but as a soldier. It was inconceivable that he would have agreed to murder a young girl for money. In any case, it would not have been possible with the rest of us there.

So deep in thought was I that it was with a sense of surprise that I found myself at the spot by the stream where I had met the Honourable Joanna earlier. I paused to catch my breath and a stick cracked behind me.

“Hold it right there.” Piet Jaeger stepped from behind a tree, his assault rifle levelled at my belt.

 

“Stacey, what happened? We were getting worried.”

Burke moved out of the trees with Legrande and Piet Jaeger went to stand point at the edge of the little clearing automatically. He was a good soldier, always had been, I'll say that for him.

“Well, what happened?” Burke said again. “Did you have any luck?” He frowned suddenly. “Where's your rifle?”

“In custody,” I said. “One of Serafino's boys took a fancy to it.”

He went very still. “You'd better explain.”

I moved to the side of the stream away from Jaeger and Legrande and sat on a boulder. Burke lit a cigarette and squatted before me, his rifle across his knees.

“Okay, what happened? You were supposed to scout, not make contact.”

“I found the girl up here on her own having a swim. No guards, no restraint. When I told her who I was from, she expected me to kill her.”

“She what?” A look of astonishment appeared on his face.