Vendetta for the Saint. (33 page)

“But I thought those people would never
tell
anything. The
omerta,
and all that. You yourself
told me they would
die before they talked.”

“That
is the rule. But it has been broken, usually
by women. In 1955, one Francesca Serio de
nounced four of these salesmen for putting
her son out of business—permanently. They were sent to
prison for life. In 1962 another, Rose
Riccobono,
who lost her
husband and three sons to a vendetta
with the same Company, gave us a list of more
than 29 who were charged with controlling the
business in her village.
These women defied the
penalty
because of love, or grief. With Niccolo, I
used another argument. An inspiration.”

“Worse
than death?”

“For
him. And more permanent that torture.”

“Do
tell.”

“I put a white coat on the old man who
sweeps
the building—a
very distinguished old fellow, but
weak in the head—and laid out a row of butcher
knives, and one of the masks that are kept
for tear
gas. I told
Niccolo that we were going to
anesthetize him,
very humanely, but unless he talked”—Ponti leaned forward and dropped his
voice even lower, almost to a sepulchral depth—
“he would wake up and find he had been
castrated.”

Simon
regarded him with unstinted admiration.

“I felt there was a spark of genius in
you, from
our first
meeting,” he said sincerely. “So Niccolo
talked.”

“It is apparently common gossip
throughout the organization that Don Pasquale’s health will soon
force him to retire. And when the chairman
is on
his way out,
the other Directors gather to compete
for the succession. In such a crisis, an organization
becomes a little disorganized, and the
opposition
has a chance to
compete against weakness. All I
needed
was to know the meeting place. If you
know it, we
can proceed. Shall we go?”

The detective’s quietly controlled voice was
a contrast to the creased urgency of his earnest old-young face. The Saint
started to raise a quizzical
eyebrow, and left
it only half lifted.

“Whatever you say, Marco,” he
acquiesced, and
looked
around for a waiter and a bill.

In a few minutes they were outside, where
the
gleaming
masterpiece of Ettore waited at the curb;
but as Simon instinctively aimed himself
towards
the driver’s
seat, Ponti contrived to interpose
himself quite inoffensively.

“You will allow me? It will be easier, since I
know the way.”

“To
where?”

“What I learned from Niccolo was
interesting
enough for me
to send a prepared message to
Rome,
which has resulted in a picked company of
bersaglieri
being flown into Sicily. I wanted to have
some reliable help on hand whenever I
completed
the information
I needed to use them. You are
about
to do that.”

“Then
I’m the one who knows the way.”

“Not
to where the troops are.”

Simon nodded and went around the front of
the
car to crank it.
It started as it had before, at the
first turn
of the handle, with an instancy which
made
electric starters seem like effete fripperies;
and the Saint got in to the passenger seat.

“Do you intend to leave the police out
of this
altogether?” he asked, as they
thundered away.

“I am the police,” Ponti said.
“But I do not
know which
others I can trust. If I tried to work
through them there would be delays,
confusions,
and slow
mobilization. By the time we got to this
castello
it would be empty. I knew this before I ever
came to Sicily, and arrangements were made in
Rome to have these soldiers
prepared for an ‘emer
gency maneuver’
whenever I might need them.”

“And you know that they are
reliable?”

“
Completely. Only their commander knows
their mission here, but his men are absolutely loyal
to him and would follow him into hell on skis if
he
ordered it. As far as we can tell they have not been
penetrated by the Mafia, so they should look for
ward to the fun of roughing up these
canaglie.
Now
tell me everything you have
been doing.”

4

Ponti
himself was no slow-poke at the wheel, it
turned out, and he spurred the giant Bugatti
along
at a gait which would have had many
passengers
straining on imaginary brakes and
muttering silent prayers; but the Saint was fatalistic or iron-nerved enough to
tell his story without faltering or losing
the thread of it. The only things that he left out
were certain personal details which he did not
think
should concern Ponti or affect his official actions.

“So,” he concluded, “they
should still think
they have
me cordoned in at Cefal
ù
, and even when they hear from Lily they should believe
I’m making
for Catania.
Anyhow they ought not to have felt that they have to vacate their headquarters
in a
hurry. They think
I’m on the run and busy trying
to save my own skin. And Al would never expect
me to be talking to you like
this.”

“I have tried not to allow that
impression,” Pon
ti
said, “by putting out an order that I want you for
personal questioning about a political
conspiracy. I
did that partly
to try to find some trace of you, of
course, and to make sure that if you were picked up
you would not be beaten up by some stupid cop
who would take you for a common criminal. I have
found that when any political implications are
mentioned, the police are inclined to proceed with
caution.”

“When I think of some of my celebrated
rude
remarks about
policemen,” said the Saint, “your
thoughtfulness brings a lump to my throat.
And no
one would dream
you had an ulterior motive.”

“I have only one motive—to show these
fannulloni
that they are not bigger than the law. And
here we have the means to do it.”

The treacherous mountain road over which they
had last been bouncing
ended at a gap in a wire fence guarded by a sentry with rifle and bayonet.
As he barred the way, a young officer
appeared out
of the darkness
and saluted when Ponti gave his
name.

“Il
maggiore L’aspetta,”
he said.
“Leave your car over here.”

There was no illumination other than the
lamp
over the gate
and their own headlights, and when
the latter were switched off they stumbled through
rutted dirt until a vague hut shape loomed up
before them. A door opened
and a white wedge of
light
poured out; then they were inside the bare
wooden building.

“Ponti,” said an older officer in
an unbuttoned
field tunic,
grasping the detective’s hand, “it is
good to know we shall have some action.
Every
thing is
ready. When shall we move?”

“At once. This is Signor Templar, who knows
the location of our objective. Major
Olivetti.”

The commandant turned to Simon and acknowl
edged the introduction with a crunching grip.
The
top of his bald
head hardly came to the Saint’s
chin; but there was
nothing small about him. He
had a chest like
a barrel and arms like tree-trunks.
The
right side of his face was a webwork of scars
that stood out clearly on his swarthy skin, and a
black patch covered that eye, which would have
given him a highly sinister appearance but for the
merry twinkle in the other.

“Piacere!
I have heard of you, Signor Templar,
and I am glad to have you on our side. Over
here
I have maps of
all Sicily, on the largest scale. Can
you show me
on them where we have to go?”

“I think so,” said the Saint, and bent over the
table.

The lieutenant who had brought them from the
gate, together with another lieutenant and a
ser
geant who were
already in the hut, joined Olivetti
and Ponti
around the map and watched intently
while
Simon traced his way over the contours from
the junction on the coast where he had caught the
bus to Cefalu, back up the dry river bed to the
vil
lage and up over the mountain
ridge to the other
valley and the
combination of remembered land
marks
which enabled him to pinpoint the site of the
eyrie from which he had escaped.

“This road is unpaved,” he said,
running a fin
gernail along
the route down from the house. “I
haven’t been on this upper stretch, but their
car
came down it at
speed with no trouble. I don’t
know
anything about this other road marked along
the top of the cliff.”

Olivetti studied the terrain with
professional
minuteness.

“On
either road, there is a risk that they may
have outposts who would give warning of the
approach of a force like ours. You mentioned de
scending this cliff in the dark. Could we
send men
up that way?”

“Even Alpine troopes, I think, would
need to use
pitons, and
the hammering would make too much
noise. I came down that way because I had to, and
some of it was just dropping and sliding and
hop
ing for the best.”

“I could deploy my men from these
points and
let them make
it on foot, but then I could not guar
antee they would be ready to close in before
dawn.”

“I
know there is no logical reason why this convocation should panic and pack up
in the middle of
the
night,” Ponti said, “but I must admit that each
hour that we leave the trap open will make me
more afraid of finding it empty when we close
it.”

“May
I make a suggestion?” asked the Saint.

“Of course. You are the only one of us
who has
already seen this area in
daylight.”

“And I think it would be a commando’s
night
mare. On the
other hand, if you got there and
found
that the birds had flown, I should feel sillier
than anyone. So I think we should try for
speed
rather than
stealth. Of course, I would try to cut all
the telephone lines in the area—and
apologize to
the telephone
company afterwards, otherwise some
Mafia sympathizer among the operators would
certainly send out a warning. But after
that, I would
move in as fast
as possible, and hang the uproar. I
take it your company is mechanized,
maggiore?”

“Si.
That is, we have no tanks, but we have
trucks and troop carriers.”

Simon pointed to the two roads to the Mafia
hideout.

“Then if you split them into two units,
and send
one up by this
road and one by this, timed to meet
at the top—once they start, they themselves will be
blocking the only roads that the mobsters
could es
cape by, if they
still
are
up there. However, if
they find themselves cornered like that, the
jokers
might decide to
fight rather than surrender. Are
you
prepared to go as far as a shooting war?”

“I should welcome it!” Olivetti
bellowed, and
struck the
flimsy trestle table a great blow with his
fist that threatened the support of its
legs. “If Ponti
has
the authority—”

“That is quite a point,” Simon
admitted, turning
to the
detective. “Can you justify launching an offensive like this?”