Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  Lucia clung to my arm as we swept along on the tide of humanity. The Oyster Bar was in the square. So was the church. All we had to do was follow the crowd, or so the cab driver said back at the Verdala. I looked in vain for Kaufman and Lino Cassar. Finding them, finding anyone, would have been impossible in that crowd. The sky turned yellow and green and red as another cluster of fireworks soared high above the house tops. People sang and shouted and chanted "St Paul, St Paul" with the fervour of a football crowd at a cup final.

  The noise in the square was deafening. Another brass band played on a raised bandstand in one corner, but they need not have bothered - I doubt that even the musicians heard a note. Everything was drowned by the clamour of the bells and the roaring chant of the crowd - "St Paul, St Paul".

  Lucia tugged my arm and pointed across the square to a neon sign which proclaimed the Oyster Bar to be open for business. I nodded and edged sideways, drawing her behind me, easing and shoving my way through a crowd packed more tightly than ever. The entire left hand side of the square was taken up by the brooding black bulk of the church. Every line of architecture was vividly outlined against the night sky by strings of coloured lights. Crowds swayed at the foot of the steps and the massive doors opened to reveal a brilliantly illuminated interior of purple and gold.

  It took fifteen minutes to cross the square, though I doubt it was more than thirty yards wide. The sky changed colour, but the fireworks were no longer audible. Nothing could be heard above the bells and the roar of the crowd, but tracers of myriad colours arched endlessly upwards before bursting into balls of dazzling light. The effect was strangely dreamlike, people stood rooted to the spot, twice Lucia's hand slipped from my grasp, and twice I dived back into the mob to find her.

  We arrived breathless, bruised from contact with people determined to stand their ground for fear of losing a vantage point. The only entrance to the bar appeared to be a hanging curtain of strings of beads. I glanced upwards, looking for the neon sign to check my whereabouts. Above me the Oyster Bar announced itself in letters two feet high, green one moment and red the next. I drew Lucia behind me and we passed through the screen to find ourselves at the top of a flight of stone steps.

  "Is this it?" Lucia asked.

  I shrugged. "The cab driver said it wasn't much of a place."

  We descended. The steps curved in a spiral to reveal a cellar bar much larger than the entrance suggested. The main room accommodated at least a dozen tables, and archways opened on either side to reveal others - many occupied by men playing cards. A bar counter ran the length of the far wall, while giant fans overhead turned slowly enough to leave the flies undisturbed. Noise from the square faded to a buzz which murmured like surf on a distant beach.

  Kaufman watched us from his stool at the bar. He turned away, disinterested, picking his teeth with a match as he listened to Lino Cassar next to him. I got the message, even without Lucia squeezing my arm. I steered her to the counter, where we sat far enough away from Kaufman not to be with him but close enough to hear his every word. An old woman glanced up from rinsing glasses in a sink, and a young barman in a grubby sweatshirt asked what we were drinking.

  I ordered, then swivelled on my stool to take in the rest of the place. It was rough and ready; cheap furniture, white-washed walls, fly-blown mirrors and an Air Malta poster showing the Tower of London on a summer night. The lively Italian music coming from the jukebox seemed inappropriate for the clientele who were mainly middle-aged men, either talking or playing cards. They had looked up when Lucia arrived. Not just because she was a pretty girl, I realised that now, but because - discounting the old crone at the sink - she was the only woman there. The Oyster Bar, it seemed, was male territory, Maltese male territory, off limits to tourists and women alike. As if to emphasise the point the barman served my scotch warm and in a cracked glass.

  A man laughed at a nearby table. I turned, sensing his laughter was directed at us, but all I saw were men playing cards. They argued volubly in Maltese, in a rough good-humoured fashion.

  Money lay in bundles amid the beer bottles, but that wasn't what caught my eye. What startled me was seeing a shotgun propped against the wall - and catching sight of another one leaning against a chair. And the fact that some of the men wore ammunition belts and at least three bandoliers of cartridges were hooked over a broken chair. I counted seven shotguns in all. None of it would have suited the British Gaming Board, and right at that moment it worried me sick.

  Lucia asked me to light her cigarette. I wondered if she had seen the guns. Especially I wondered if Kaufman had noticed them. What had he said? "If Darmanin holds back I'll beat him to death personally." I took another look round at the Oyster Bar. It seemed a bad place to try.

  Kaufman beat a tattoo on the counter with a coin. "I'd like a word with the owner," he told the barman, "Salvio Darmanin. Is he around?"

  The barman showed his surprise. "You have a complaint?"

  Kaufman's knowing smile conveyed the impression that he had taken inventory of every chipped glass and bottle of watered down scotch in the place. "Nothing like that," he said. "It's a personal matter."

  The old woman raised her head from the sink. She stared at Kaufman, making no effort to conceal her interest. Finally she said. "Salvio cannot be disturbed." She withdrew her red hands from the water and dried them on a stained towel. "He's had some very bad news."

  I stifled my gasp of surprise. Bad news! Darmanin knew. He knew about his father and brother. But of course he would - even if the police had not informed him as next of kin, somebody in the Maltese community in London would have contacted him. Bad news travels fast. But it had not occurred to me.

  Kaufman, on the other hand, showed no sign of surprise. "I know," he said softly. "That's what I want to see him about."

  The woman's lips tightened. She said something in Maltese to the barman, then they both stared at Kaufman. Eventually the barman shook his head. "It is impossible," he told Kaufman. He glanced at Lino Cassar with a look loaded with suspicion. Men who earn a living in bars learn to recognise trouble early.

  Suddenly a man called from the steps. "Buona Sera Mario."

  I glanced over my shoulder. Several of the men with shotguns were leaving. In fact all of the men with shotguns were leaving.

  "Ciao Tony - Grazie Phillip," the barman called back. He waved casually, but a look in his eyes said he wished that his friends were staying. "Ciao Joe, Vincent."

  Kaufman watched the men depart, then he tapped the counter again - but not with a coin this time - Darmanin's diamond ring was in his hand. "This was given me by a friend of mine," he said, displaying the ring. "The man who gave it him was dying - but he said to bring it to Salvio Darmanin."

  The old woman gasped and reached out a claw of a hand - but Kaufman avoided her. He slipped the ring onto his finger, closed his hand, then offered his fist for inspection. It was the woman, not the barman, who recognised the ring. She cried out, several words, a name perhaps? One of the card-players looked up from his game. He crossed to the bar, where he took Kaufman's fist in his hands to inspect the ring closely.

  Lino Cassar slid down from his stool. He moved casually, as if stretching his legs, but I knew what he was doing. Counting the house, just as I was. Eight of them, including the man at the bar but not counting the barman or the old woman. I breathed a sigh of relief. The younger men, the men with shotguns, had all left. Those who remained were older men, some in their sixties, some even older. Except for one, sitting alone, with a newspaper masking most of his face. Maybe it was the way he kept reading which gave me a clue, but something told me that he was the man Cassar had left to keep an eye on Darmanin's movements.

  The man at the counter released Kaufman's fist. He spoke sharply in Maltese, turning from the barman to the old woman. She answered quickly, urgently. The man frowned, then turned to Kaufman. "Is there an inscription? Inside the band?"

  "Are you Salvio Darmanin?" Kaufman asked pleasantly.

>   The man shook his head:

  Kaufman shrugged. "Sorry - I'll tell Salvio Darmanin - nobody else."

  The barman stepped backwards towards the door behind the bar, but the old woman stopped him. She was mesmerised by the ring. Her fingers itched to touch it. I could almost feel the effort it cost her to wrench her eyes away. With a sigh she shuffled to the back of the bar and vanished behind the strips of plastic which screened the opening. I heard her climbing some stairs, a step at a time, pausing on each one to catch her breath.

  "It's the heat," the barman explained, "her legs give her trouble in the heat."

  "That right?" Kaufman eyed the strips of plastic. "Well, they're unlikely to trouble anyone else."

  The man who had inspected the ring returned to his table - but not to play cards. And the games ceased at the other tables. The music from the juke-box stopped, but nobody made a move to restart it. Every eye in the place watched Kaufman drop the ring back into his pocket. Lino Cassar climbed back onto his stool, but his action did little to relieve the sudden tension. The atmosphere, never welcoming, soured to a hostile silence.

  Kaufman glanced down the counter and appeared to notice us for the first time. "Well, if it isn't the honeymoon couple," he beamed. "Me and my buddy were so engrossed soaking up all this atmosphere that we never saw you. Have a drink with us."

  Lucia accepted prettily, while I had another warm scotch from a different cracked glass, and I was wondering why Kaufman had drawn us into things at that moment when the screen parted behind the bar. The young man who entered was dark-haired and brown-eyed, and wore an open-necked shirt over a pair of jeans - but that went for most other Maltese. What made this one different was being a cripple. He hopped along on a pair of aluminium crutches. I would have put him in his late twenties but for the silver threads in his hair. Maybe he was older - or perhaps had suffered more than his share of pain.

  Some people are clumsy on crutches, but this one was as agile as a mountain goat. Crutches were an advantage to him, not a disability. He reached our side of the counter with surprising speed and as he passed I noticed his left leg was bent at the knee, and his left foot never touched the ground.

  "Which one of you has the ring?" he demanded.

  Now he was closer I could see the puffiness about his eyes. He had been weeping. I had little doubt that we had found Salvio Darmanin - and none at all that he knew about the deaths in his family.

  Kaufman turned to face him. "Are you Salvio Darmanin?"

  "What if I am?" Darmanin's manner was petulant, like a frightened juvenile putting on a defiant act of courage. Everyone in the bar was watching. The men furthest away stood up to improve their view.

  Kaufman regarded Darmanin steadily. "Is there somewhere we can talk - in private?"

  "So that you can kill me too?" Darmanin's voice rose to a scream. The onlookers gasped, shock registered on their faces and their voices combined into a growl of sympathy. Several stepped forward, to stand shoulder to shoulder with the young man.

  "Nothing like that," Kaufman said softly.

  "Let me see the ring," Darmanin demanded.

  Kaufman reached into his pocket. Darmanin went white as he took the ring. He peered to read the inscription, holding it up to the light to see better. A half suppressed sob muffled his cry of pain.

  Then the old woman started to shout. Nobody had noticed her return behind the bar. Not until she began to scream. She gesticulated wildly and pointed at Kaufman. Her shrieks galvanised Darmanin into action. He erupted into a torrent of Maltese - turning to his audience, shouting, indicating first the ring and then Kaufman, as if asking them to witness something. Other men appeared from an alcove, drawn by the noise. Three more emerged from the opposite side. The atmosphere was charged with the menace of suppressed violence. Now it would be fourteen against us - fifteen counting the barman - plus a cripple and an old woman - unless the man with the paper was Cassar's man.

  Kaufman cocked his head attentively to Lino Cassar. I guessed

  Cassar was translating Darmanin's excited Maltese. Kaufman registered astonishment. He threw a quick glance at me, but I was too far away to hear Cassar's words. Everyone was talking at once. Darmanin and the old woman were shouting at the top of their voices. Not that I understood - it was all in Maltese - but one word, two perhaps, were repeated more than the rest - Is-sajjied, Is-sajjied.

  "Is-sajjied," Darmanin screamed, "I spit on him!" He was looking at Kaufman but edging backwards at the same time - screening himself behind a protective line of onlookers. Kaufman stretched out a hand as if to correct a misunderstanding - but Darmanin misinterpreted. Planting his right foot firmly on the floor, he balanced his weight, and swung the right crutch upwards as an extension of his arm. The solid aluminium pole caught-Kaufman across the face, knocking him sideways into Lino Cassar.

  "And I spit on the messengers from Is-sajjied" Darmanin shouted, while the old crone added cries of incitement from behind the bar. Men shouted on all sides, but expressions of shock were as numerous as angry looks. Only a few were willing to fight. Most were too old - the three or four who clustered around Kaufman were more intent on restraining than attacking him. Cassar called out to Darmanin, obviously disputing what had been said. Men shouted back - the old hag continued to scream and wave - and Darmanin started to hop towards the steps at the entrance.

  Lucia and I were at the other end of the counter, a few yards clear of the main drama. Kaufman fought to free himself of restraining hands. "Darmanin! Wait — you're wrong! Quite wrong-" But his words were drowned in a babble of noise.

  Darmanin reached the foot of the steps.

  "Sam," Kaufman shouted, "stop him. He knows something - he thinks we're from The Fisherman."

  Cassar shouted, "Is-sajjied. It means The Fisherman."

  My mind raced, but understood nothing. The Fisherman? Lew Douglas owned The Fisherman. Had owned The Fisherman. Kay had spent a lot of time there. But what on earth had that to do with Darmanin?

  "Stop!" I shouted, but Darmanin was already mounting the curved steps with that curious hopping gait of his. The men from the nearby alcove turned towards me. I avoided outstretched hands and dodged round a table. Lucia was a pace behind me. Two more men blocked my path. I elbowed one, ground my heel into the other's instep. A third man lunged, Lucia knocked a chair across his path. Darmanin had already disappeared up the spiral staircase. At the other end of the bar Kaufman and Cassar were throwing punches to drive a path through the onlookers. The man with the newspaper joined in, intercepting the barman and throwing him to the floor. Lucia slipped neatly between two tables to reach the foot of the steps. It all happened so quickly. The clientele of the bar were more surprised than we were, and certainly less desperate. Lucia was already on the third step by the time I reached the bottom one. Kaufman was treading on my heels, while Lino Cassar was shaking off another man a yard behind. Then we were climbing and the old woman's screams were drowned by the roar of the crowd in the square - "St Paul, St Paul".

  It took me a second or two to catch sight of Darmanin's head as he bobbed among the crowd. He was ten or twelve yards away. I shouted to Kaufman and plunged into the mob. Lucia was to my left. I tried to get a hand to her but she was too far away. She must have seen Darmanin too, because she was striking out in the same direction, squeezing and shoving her way through the packed throng. It should have been easy to catch him. I doubt he had more than a ten second start on us - he was a cripple and we were all reasonably fit. But although the crowd pressed on all sides, gaps seemed to open for Darmanin - perhaps because he was a cripple, or perhaps simply because he was a local whom everyone knew.

  The noise was even more deafening. Massed batteries of fireworks lit the sky - the church bells pealed with unceasing clamour - and people shouted and screamed "St Paul, St Paul" as if their very lives depended on it.

  I risked a glance over my shoulder. Kaufman was perhaps eight yards behind, separated by a dozen or more people. His face was yellow in
the glare from the fireworks. He shouted something, but should have saved his breath. I saw no sign of Lino Cassar, or his assistant. To my left Lucia was ahead of me, and further away than when we started - we were still swimming in the same direction, but no longer on a parallel course and more than fifty people stood between us. I looked ahead, craning my neck for that tell-tale hop which identified Darmanin - and cursed when I realised he was drawing away from me.

  We were half way to the church when the firing started. Even so the sounds of gunshots were not immediately identifiable above the fireworks. But suddenly the unmistakable stench of cordite was everywhere, far too strong to have been caused by a solitary shot. Clouds of smoke as thick as mist rolled over our heads. The shouting ceased momentarily and above the ringing of the bells came a colossal salvo of shots. I flinched, expecting to hear screams all around me, bracing myself against a stampede of panic-stricken people, wondering if I could reach Lucia before she was trampled underfoot. But there were no screams. Not even when another salvo threatened to burst my eardrums. Then I saw the hunters the men who had been in the Oyster earlier - flanked on either side of the church doors, perhaps twenty of them - firing round after round into the night sky. I heaved a sigh of relief. It was another feature of the feast - and as if in confirmation people on all sides shouted triumphantly - "St Paul, St Paul".

  The thin khaki line of policemen sweated at their task of keeping people back from the church steps. But they broke ranks for Darmanin. I saw him scuttle up the steps, first to one hunter, then another, shouting and pointing back into the crowd. Men hesitated with their fingers on triggers, turning their heads, eyes searching the crowd. Then Darmanin was darting forward again, through the doors and into the church.

  As I started up the steps I caught sight of Kaufman and Lino Cassar struggling furiously with policemen on the far side. Lucia was somewhere to my left, but I had no chance to find her. One of the policemen grabbed the tail of my jacket and heaved me back. I jinked sideways before turning and bringing both hands down on his wrist to break the grip. Then I was climbing again, side-stepping one of the hunters as he attempted to stop me. I reached the top of the steps and ran into the church.