Barker 05 - Black Hand (13 page)

Cyrus Barker blocked both blows and then attacked, but his reach was not long enough. Caught between them, he could fight only within a limited half circle, whereas they had the full length of their bodies, six feet or so, in which to swing an arc. Barker fended off each new blow, but even as I thought this, the silver ball of a stick struck him on the shoulder, making him wince. It didn’t stop him, however, but made him change positions with his back to me.

They attacked again, the exchange coming so swiftly that I couldn’t see it. The assassins’ sticks were silver arcs in the moonlight, spinning dangerously close to my employer. One of the brothers came too close and received an elbow in the face that drew blood. He wiped it with a handkerchief, and then gave a tug on his stick, pulling out a sword that must have been the weapon used on Etienne Dummolard. His brother followed suit and now, Barker faced not two weapons but four.

“That’s not fair!” I cried, but a clap on the head from the butt of Faldo’s pistol was all the response I received.

Barker was hard-pressed on both sides as the brothers moved as if they had one mind between them. I thought it likely that they must have trained together for hours every day to be so good. The Guv was defending himself adequately
so far, but it could not go on much longer. He would soon be overwhelmed. One of the brothers pressed forward but was rebuffed again. He dared press a second time. Then Barker raised a foot and brought it around behind the other, almost too quickly for my eye to follow. It caught one brother on the knee as he was retreating, and there was an audible snap as it broke. I wouldn’t have noticed the move if Barker hadn’t once shown it to me and tried to teach me its mechanics. The shadowless kick, it’s called, one of those mystical names the Chinese find so attractive. The injured man fell back with a look of pain and consternation; but Barker moved toward him, pulling him forward as a shield, just as his brother drove home his blade. It went through the man’s upper chest, possibly puncturing a lung. Then my employer seized the sword from nerveless fingers and lunged forward, driving the blade through the side of the remaining brother, tenting the fabric of his cape behind. The Guv stood as both adversaries fell to the ground at his feet, too injured to fight any longer.

Faldo’s pistol came away from my head, and I knew he was about to shoot Barker. I raised my left arm to keep him from aiming, the dagger in my sleeve giving added force to the block. The pistol went off by my ear, but I seized his wrist and we struggled together. I had promised Mrs. Ashleigh that I would look after my employer. I wasn’t about to let go. The Sicilian tried to push his weapon toward me so it would discharge in my face, while I tried the same thing with him. I struggled into a position where I could flip him, when something fluttered by my head. A length of rope wrapped around Faldo’s wrist, jerking his gun away. I recognized that rope, but it took a few seconds to recall just where. It was
part of Ho’s rope dart. The Chinaman stood in an alley a few yards away, attempting to control Faldo’s arm with his long length of rope.

Marco Faldo was a powerful man, as I soon found out. He strained against both of us, trying to switch his gun to his other hand and fire again. Ho pulled the rope, and I hung onto Faldo’s arm for dear life, but the Sicilian was still able to raise both arms over my head and transfer the pistol to his left hand. I leapt for the other arm now, but I was too slow. The pistol went off and Barker grabbed his shoulder with a grunt.

We both had our hands on the pistol now, and it wavered back and forth in an arc with Barker at its center. There were crates nearby, but I realized they were too far away for him to dive behind. I pulled Faldo’s hand down hard toward my own stomach, thrusting it into the pocket of my waistcoat. If he wanted to shoot Barker again he was going to have to kill me first. Faldo had untangled himself from Ho’s rope and was now using his free hand to tear at my newly plastered cut. Blood trickled down my cheek and into my eye. Clumsily, I tripped over Faldo’s foot and staggered to the side. I was going to fail in my mission to save Barker.

Suddenly I felt the Mafia leader jump once, twice, thrice. I heard the shots after, and turned to Barker in wonder as the man I was grappling with sagged, but the Guv had only our sticks in his hands and was looking behind me. I let Faldo fall to the dock and turned awkwardly. Ten feet away, pistol still aimed toward me, stood Terence Poole. It took a moment for my mind to register what had happened. First, Ho had come out of nowhere, then the inspector. Where had they
come from? It didn’t matter. I was never so glad to see the inspector in my life.

Suddenly police whistles were sounding everywhere, and men on both sides scurried away like rats. Constables were laying about right and left with their truncheons, and I heard the clicks of derbies being applied to wrists.

“It’s a good thing you finally moved,” Poole commented to me, opening his regulation pistol and shaking out the cartridges. “I was about to think I’d have to shoot through you.”

Barker handed me my cane, and we both pulled handkerchiefs from our breast pockets, I to stanch my cheek and he his shoulder. “It’s just a scratch,” he said. “That was a close thing, lad. Why ever did you get in the way?”

“Get in the way?” I shouted. “Get in the way? I was just trying to save your life, is all! I didn’t know you and Ho had this set up between you.” I turned to Inspector Poole. “Were you in on this as well? Of course you were. Did everyone know what was going to happen but me?”

“He’s babbling,” Barker commented to Poole. “It’s shock.”

“Is that Chinaman here?” the inspector asked, looking about. He’d have loved to arrest Ho, whose association with Mr. K’ing made him suspect; but the restaurant owner had vanished, as stealthily as he had come, taking his rope dart with him.

“No,” Barker said innocently. “Of course not.”

“Do you plan to explain to me how the late Inspector Pettigrilli was suddenly alive again and how I’ve managed to shoot a guest of this country and a brother officer?”

“You may relax, Terence,” the Guv replied. “This is not Alberto Pettigrilli. This, in fact, was the notorious
mafiusu
,
Marco Faldo. You’ve not only stopped a dispute on the docks but also silenced a dangerous criminal.”

Poole wasn’t quite buying this pat answer. He crossed his arms and looked at my employer skeptically.

“So, you pulled it off, did you? You and the nipper, here?”

“I have a name, you know,” I insisted, “a perfectly good one.”

“I’ll learn it someday when I can spare the time,” Poole said.

Barker reached into his pocket and filled his pipe with tobacco while Poole rolled his eyes. It seemed to me the little meerschaum effigy of its master was smirking at me, but perhaps it was only a shadow. Barker lit a match, not hurrying, and set about properly igniting his pipe before blowing out the match.

“I’m just a citizen who saw a potential dispute at the docks and did his duty by alerting the police. I’d prefer to remain anonymous in this matter, if you don’t mind. As far as I’m concerned, the Yard lost Pettigrilli, and the Yard tracked him down again. My agency had nothing to do with the matter.”

“You nearly got yourself killed instead,” Poole said.

Barker puffed calmly on his pipe. While our backs were turned, most of the dockworkers had melted away. Some had jumped in the river. The South East India Dock was full of constables arresting Sicilians.

“ ’Pon my soul, Terry. You’re a dour man for someone who’s just saved London from being overrun with killers.”

“Don’t try to play me, Cyrus. You haven’t told me everything about this, yet.”

“I’ll tell you all you need to know,” Barker offered, “but
it’s thirsty work, and these river vapors are doing no good for the lad’s throat.”

“Blast the lad’s poxy throat,” Terence Poole said suspiciously. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’ve heard that the Bread and Treacle serves a very tolerable porter not two streets from here. It’s more comfortable than the interrogation room in A Division.”

Poole frowned. His hands were still on his hips as if welded there and his nostrils flared as if he smelled something unpleasant. Finally he licked his lips.

“Done,” he relented, “against my better judgment. Let me speak to my sergeant and I’ll meet you there. I suppose after an evening like this, a pint of good English porter couldn’t hurt anything.”

Demo version limitation

I
GAVE A LONG, SHUDDERING SIGH AND LET MY
body float in the bathhouse behind my employer’s house. I lay to the side, my head resting on a towel on the cedar slats, but my limbs were buoyant due to the Epsom salts Mac had thoughtfully put in the water. The salts stung a little, for I had sustained a half dozen cuts and bruises during the last week; but taken altogether, it felt marvelous. Give me a comfortable bathhouse over a dockside any day.

Barker suddenly breached like a sperm whale. He didn’t even remove his spectacles when he went underwater. He stood and waded to the side, where he dried himself, sitting on the ledge.

“You should get that looked after,” I said, regarding the bullet wound near his shoulder. “It could go septic.”

“I’ll have Mac disinfect and bandage it in the morning,” he said, drying his arms. He stretched and gave a yawn.

“It’s finally over,” I remarked. “Another successful case.”

“It’s a wee bit early for that, lad. Let’s wait to hear from Mr. Anderson.”

“To what could he object?” I countered. “True, Scotland Yard got involved at the last minute, but surely the government knows we were working for the Home Office.”

“I’ve never known a Home Office man who was completely satisfied about anything.”

I stood up, because I was getting a crick in my neck. “Let them fight their own battles, then. I doubt we shall clear expenses when the check finally arrives.”

“It’s not always about the money, lad.”

“It is for me. I’ve got a burial to pay for.”

Barker soaked his feet in the warm water. “There is a streak of pessimism in you.”

“It comes from the Llewelyns having their kingdom taken away, I suppose.”

“Aye, well, you don’t see me crying over Culloden.” He stood and pulled on one of the thick white robes. That’s Barker all over. Be optimistic and he cautions you. Be pessimistic and he’ll blame your entire race. I got out and threw on my own robe, following him into the garden.

“At least the heat is past,” I remarked, as I hopped across the white gravel that the Guv’s gardeners were obliged to rake every couple of days. One of the black ornamental stones suddenly moved. I reached down and scratched one of Harm’s ears, to stop him from biting my exposed ankles. It was cool enough for me to wish I’d dried myself more thoroughly before venturing outside.

“Are you going down to Sussex tomorrow?” I asked.

“I’ll go soon,” he said. “She’ll expect a report.”

I nodded and left it at that. I wouldn’t pester him with more questions, nor would I invite myself along. If he wanted me to come, he would ask me.

My employer walked barefoot across the bridge and past the standing rocks to the corner where his potted Penjing trees stood on shelves against a slatted wall. It was dark here, but he stuck his fingers into the soil of each. He must have considered them dry because he took up a watering can and plied it thoroughly. Then he gave a low whistle to Harm and led us into the house.

“Nice that the garden is safe again,” I said.

“Do you think we should fortify the back gate?” he asked.

It occurred to me that it was the first time he had actually asked my opinion on something. “No,” I replied after a moment. “It would ruin the aesthetics. Leave it as it is, I think. We can chase out whatever pests get in.”

Barker nodded and went upstairs, the dog tucked under his arm. I locked the door behind us and followed him.

The next morning, our lives had returned to normal, that is, the part of our lives that was like everyone else’s. We got up, dressed for church, and walked across the street to the Metropolitan Tabernacle. Or at least we tried. There was an obstacle between us and the tabernacle. It was Vincenzo Gigliotti, resplendent in a morning suit with a white boutonniere. He had not come to sell ice cream that day, but was waiting to speak to Barker. My employer frowned. He does
not like to be diverted from a mission, which at that moment was to get to chapel on time and into our accustomed pew.

“Mr. Barker,” Gigliotti said, bowing slightly.

“You are not at mass this morning, sir?” the Guv asked, nodding his head.

“I am too occupied with arrangements. I bury my son tomorrow.”

“I will miss Victor and our little talks. Will the Neapolitan remain open?”

“For a while, at least. I understand that you have killed the man responsible for Victor’s death and that of the Serafinis.”

“It was Scotland Yard who killed him,” Barker pointed out.

“Oh, come,” he objected, as if my employer were merely being modest. “They are but hounds that bite whom you tell them to. I merely wish to inform you that the Camorra is satisfied and our vendetta ended. There will be no reprisal here against any Sicilians, unless they cause a new outrage.”