The Black Hand (4 page)

“I slipped in the blood going into Craig’s Court,” I said, bristling. “That was real enough.”

“Stabbed twice, your clerk told me,” he went on, ignoring me as Anderson had. “I suppose someone crept up and stabbed him from behind, then when he turned, they got him a second time in the stomach.”

Poole acted out the motions, and being cursed with a vivid imagination, I clothed them with accompanying images.

Barker shook his head. “No, we have a pattern here. Serafini was murdered with two shots, one to the front and one to the back. His wife was probably killed in the same manner. Etienne is a savateur, a seasoned fighter. Being stabbed in the back would not stop him from defending himself. I think it more likely he was stabbed simultaneously in a surprise attack. It was why he said ‘front and back’ to us. He was defending his reputation as well as warning us to expect such an attack ourselves.”

“Hold on. You’re going too fast,” said Poole, who was scribbling in his notebook.

“You need lessons in Pitman’s shorthand,” I recommended, but all I received for my solicitous advice was a rude stare.

“You think Gigliotti is mixed up in this?” Poole went on.

“Not yet, but he knows about the Serafinis.”

“Oh, that’s just what we need,” Poole said. “An Italian gang war. At least they only kill one another.”

“Terence,” my employer pointed out, as if he were a child, “the fact that we are here now proves they’ve gone beyond killing one another. Bledsoe was a member of the gentry.”

“Blast. I suppose you’re right, but they’re all Latins, hot-blooded.”

“Gigliotti called the Sicilians a plague,” Barker said. “I’m afraid I concur with that assessment. Right now, the English gangs content themselves with sticks and coshes, but what if the Sicilian gangs arrive with daggers? All the English lads will want them in order to survive. Daggers will be smuggled across the Channel from the Continent, and soon every criminal in London will have one. Violent crimes and robberies at knifepoint shall rise. But the Sicilians will want to have the upper hand, so they’ll begin smuggling in pistols and carbines. The violence escalates, you see.”

“Meanwhile,” Poole noted, “London’s Finest are still patrolling the streets with truncheons and whistles. I’ll have to convince my superiors such is the case, if what you say is true.”

“Ask them how they’ll feel about the Thames being choked with barrels like the one this morning,” Barker said.

“I don’t know as the Yard can do a lot, however, until the Sicilians visibly break the law,” Poole went on. “We can’t arrest them for simply coming into the country or for congregating.”

“We must discourage them somehow—not the Sicilians as a whole but the criminal element.”

“Men armed with knives and the wherewithal to use them might be difficult to discourage,” I pointed out.

Cyrus Barker reached into his pocket and retrieved his old repeater. “Thomas, I’ve been remiss. Go to Le Toison d’Or and inform Madame Dummolard of her husband’s injury.”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes. I must stay to hear of Etienne’s condition when he gets out of surgery, and it would frighten Madame to death
if Inspector Poole arrived in the restaurant. Bring her,” he ordered, “though God help us all.”

It’s easier to stand on the tracks and argue with the approaching express train from Brighton than with Barker once his mind is made up. Not finding a cab, I walked to Soho, a matter of ten minutes. It was still too early for the restaurant to open, so I entered through the back door. Before I even knew what happened, Madame Dummolard had me by the shoulders and was shaking me.

“Thomas,
où est
Etienne? What has happened?”

Madame, a blond woman in her mid-thirties, is a true beauty, but she towers over most men. As she shook me, I clutched my hat to keep it out of the potage cooking nearby on one of the stoves and had to extricate myself from her clutches before I could speak.

“Etienne has been attacked. Stabbed. He stumbled into our offices half an hour ago. He is in surgery now.”

“He is not dead. Tell me he is not!”

“He was awake when I last saw him. He spoke to us.”

“Where is he?”

“Charing Cross Hospital.”

“Take me to him at once, Thomas.
Vite!”
She pushed me out the door again. There was no question of her walking the distance I had just come, but cabs congregate in Soho, even at that early hour. I hailed a hansom and told the driver to take us to Charing Cross Hospital.

“No!” Madame cried. “Clothilde! His stepdaughter must be by his side. It is but three streets south of here. Go!”

Madame can be difficult enough, but the thought of sharing a cab with her sharp-tongued daughter was even more daunting.

“Where was he stabbed?” Madame Dummolard continued, once we were safely ensconced in the cab and on our way.

“In the stomach and the back.”

“Ma pauvre!”
she cried. “Did he have the note with him?”

“The Black Hand note? Yes, Mr. Barker has it.”

“It was shoved under our door yesterday morning. It was from the Sicilians, I know it. They are trying to take over Soho,” she cried. “They want to shut down Le Toison d’Or and fill the district with cheap little coffee shops.”

There wasn’t much use arguing with her. The cab pulled to the curb in front of a row of town houses on the south edge of Soho in Old Compton Street. The Dummolards were doing well for themselves, I noted. They lived in a sand-colored three-story building with window boxes full of bougainvilleas. We sprang from the cab and I followed Madame into the hall.

Clothilde Dummolard is a miniature version of her mother. She’s the kind of girl that could swoop down upon one like an eagle, and suddenly one wakes up with three daughters, a position in the city, a house in the country full of furniture one wouldn’t sit on, and a mortgage it would take two lifetimes to pay. Luckily, I didn’t have an earldom to attract her, but I saw through her schemes and she found that vexing.

“Injured, you say?” she demanded. “How badly?”

“He’s been stabbed,” Madame cried. “Stabbed in the street, and is now in the hospital!”

“Don’t stand there like an idiot, Thomas,” Clothilde said, pushing me out the door. “Take us to him at once!”

I ushered the ladies into the waiting cab.

“Now, tell me everything from the beginning,” the girl ordered, once we were in the cab and on our way again. “How did Papa get stabbed?”

I explained in as much detail as I could what had occurred, but it only took up half the brief journey, leaving her plenty of time to sum up for the jury.

“If he wasn’t involved with Mr. Barker, this wouldn’t have happened,” she insisted. “He would not have been hurt if he just came straight to the restaurant in the mornings.”

“Madame, I deeply regret Etienne’s injury. Mr. Barker is anxiously waiting for him to get out of surgery.”

“We’se here, miss,” the cabman announced, pulling up to the curb, putting an end to my misery.

“Pay the man,” Madame replied, and the pair of them alighted from the vehicle. Clothilde stopped to fix me with a look of pure loathing. I sighed and reached into my pockets.

“Is she the missus?” the cabman asked when she was out of earshot.

“No, thank the Lord.”

“She’s a stunner, no mistake, but if I was you, I’d run in the uvver direction.”

“That remark,” I answered coldly, “is uncalled for. However, it has just earned you a tip.”

When I arrived inside, the Dummolards,
mère et fille
, were speaking in a mixture of voluble French and English to a doctor while Barker made his way around to me as warily as a man walking through a swamp infested with crocodiles.

“We’ve just been informed that Etienne’s out of surgery,” he said, as we watched the women remonstrate with the staff. “The wounds were deeper than I had suspected. I believe his attackers were armed with swords instead of daggers.
The doctor says the operation was successful, but Etienne has not yet awakened.”

“Should we leave Madame to look after her husband? I could use a cup of coffee after that cab ride. Perhaps there is a café in the area.”

“Good thinking, lad. A café is a perfect idea, but not in Charing Cross. Let us find one in Soho instead.”

W
E WERE COMING OUT OF OUR DOOR THE NEXT
morning when we heard the loud, braying voice of a street vendor a few streets away. We did not get many out here in Newington. I would not have noted it in passing, but Barker’s ears are more acute than mine, or perhaps he was listening for it. It made him turn and follow the voice to its source. At the corner of Brook Street, there stood a hokey-pokey man with his cart.

There were two of them, to be precise, a man in his fifties and a boy no more than twelve. The man was alternating between offering his wares and singing snatches of Verdi. He was talented enough to have attracted a handful of people so early in the morning.

“He is too well dressed to be a hokeypokey man,” Barker commented.

The man had a heavy mustache, black hair going gray at the temples, and wore an elegant frock coat. He did not touch the ice cream at all but left the messy work to the boy,
a cheerful lad with a halo of black curls and sleeves rolled to the elbows.

“Could he be training the boy?” I ventured.

“It is rather early in the day for ice cream and too much of a coincidence that he should appear on a corner so close to our home.”

“Tutti-frutti!” the man bawled. “Italian ices.
Ecco poco
, only a little!”

“Gigliotti runs most of the ice cream vendors in London, because he holds a monopoly in the ice trade here. The Neapolitan is only one of his enterprises.”

“What sort of criminal activities is he involved with?” I asked.

“Merely those that ensure his monopoly stays a monopoly. Any attempt to start a rival business is run off.”

“Are you going to speak to this fellow?”

“He’s not breaking the law, Thomas.”

“Gentlemen!” the man called out to us from across the street. “May I interest you in a bowl of cold ice cream on this warm morning?”

“Not at the moment, thank you, sir,” Barker answered, raising his hat.

The Italian broke into song again, while my employer turned into Newington Causeway. The incident left me with an unsettled feeling. It seemed to me that the man had sinister intentions, but then it’s easy to feel that way in the middle of a case. The pair could be no more than they appeared, ice cream vendors, but, in my opinion, the Italian looked just like the sort of man who could plan and operate a Sicilian takeover.

“Is he one of Gigliotti’s men, perhaps?” I asked.

“I find it no more comforting to think he’s a Camorran than a Sicilian. Let us be cautious, lad, and keep an eye on this corner either way.”

“What if the Serafinis had become a hindrance to Gigliotti and he has bigger plans?” I asked. “What if we can’t find the Sicilian leader because he does not, in fact, exist?”

Barker looked at me for a moment or two. “Now you’re thinking like an enquiry agent, Thomas.”

“Is it possible?”

“Aye, ’tis. But there are other scenarios that are equally possible.”

“For example?” I challenged.

“Suppose the Sicilians were actually hired by Mr. K’ing or the Irish criminal Seamus O’Muircheartaigh, who has a good quarter of the East End in his pocket. This may all be an attempt to wrest control from Gigliotti’s grasp.”

“My word,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And it could just as easily be something else we haven’t thought of.”

“That’s comforting,” I replied.

“Come, lad, we have an appointment,” Barker said.

“With whom, sir?”

“Mr. Dalton Green. He is in charge of the East and West India docks until a successor for Sir Alan is found.”

My employer hailed a cab with one of those piercing whistles of his. We were taking quite a number of hansoms, I noted, wondering if the Home Office could afford such extravagances.

“So has Dr. Vandeleur ruled that Sir Alan was murdered or not?” I asked once we were seated and rolling through Lambeth.

“Lad,” he replied solemnly, “you really need to read the newspapers every morning, rather than mooning about, ingesting coffee by the bucketful. There is a world out there with events of more than passing interest.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“If you had, you would have already discovered that he ruled that the death was due to natural causes. It was his only option, really. Claiming that Sir Alan was murdered without ironclad proof would create a scandal that would have certainly cost Vandeleur his position. The gentry doesn’t like unwelcome news. All the same, Vandeleur takes his work very seriously and must have hated to bring a false report.”

“So he did the next best thing,” I said. “He told you. This is just the sort of bee Vandeleur knew would get in your bonnet. He could soothe his conscience by knowing that you’d taken over the case.”