‘Why do you not get him to show you the way?’ asked Tebaldo.
‘He lives in the house,’ answered Mauro. ‘The gates are shut at Ave Maria, and there is a roll-call of the servants and men. San Giacinto, or whichever of the Saracinesca is there, locks the gate himself and keeps the keys in his own room. They all go to bed early, and the house is always quiet between midnight and two o’clock. There is no moon just now, and if we can get round to the back without rousing the dogs, or attracting attention in any way, we can get possession of the place in five minutes. The carabineers sleep in a room on the court. They have to sleep sometimes, like other people. Barefooted we shall make no noise on the stones. Leave the rest to us.’
‘And have they no sentinels at night?’ enquired Tebaldo. ‘Do they keep no watch?’
‘No. The house would be hard to enter without a ladder at the one weak point. One would be sure to rouse everybody before one got in. But once in the court, we can silence the two carabineers in a moment, and then we shall be fifteen to one against San Giacinto. I would not give much for his safety, then. The main thing is to reach the ladder quietly and all together. The paths are difficult, there is water in the stream still, and we must know where to ford it in the dark, for we could not safely approach from the other side. Your help is absolutely necessary to this enterprise. As I said, I am quite sure that you will give it — quite sure.’
He emphasised the last words a little, and Tebaldo knew what he meant. There was no choice.
‘I will do as you wish,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I will come here before sunset, and when it is time I will lead you by the shortest way.’
The Moscio’s eyes were watching him and met his own as he looked up.
CHAPTER XXXV
THE TWO CARABINEERS who had met Tebaldo in the field had treated him with the greatest civility, but when he was out of hearing they discussed the rather singular meeting. The more they thought of it, the more strange it seemed to them that he should have been riding alone, without so much as a portmanteau, by way of luggage, towards the Maniace woods, and at such an hour. It must be remembered that before Francesco’s death, and since Ferdinando’s, the authorities had everywhere been warned against the Corleone family, in the expectation of some outrage against the Saracinesca or their property; and the impression was universal that Ippolito had not killed Francesco, while many who had known the brothers since they had been wild boys at Camaldoli believed that Tebaldo had done the deed, or that he had caused it to be done, and had cleverly managed to throw the guilt upon the priest. The carabineers quartered in the neighbourhood all believed this and scouted Tebaldo’s story of a race. They had no more opinion of the law’s wisdom than the outlaws whom they were continually hunting, for their experience had shown them how easily the law could be defeated in a country where the whole population was banded together to defy it.
The troopers discussed the question as they rode down to Randazzo. They had seen nothing else worth mentioning, on their patrol, and when they reported themselves to the sergeant at quarters, they told him exactly what had passed. The sergeant was the one who had at first accompanied the Saracinesca to Camaldoli. He dismissed the troopers to their supper, thought the matter over, and went to the inn to find the lieutenant. The latter was playing dominoes, as usual, with the deputy prefect, before going home to supper.
He was a grey-haired man of forty, prematurely aged by hard service and constant anxiety, a tall, spare figure, the perfection of military neatness in his dress, with a grave manner and a rare but kindly smile. For the rest, he was brave, honourable, and energetic, and, like the men under him, he was not much inclined to believe in the law on its own recommendation. He was as firmly persuaded as they that Tebaldo was a bad character, and had quietly watched him on the several occasions on which he had lately appeared at the inn.
He went outside with the sergeant and listened to his story attentively.
‘The brigands are in the Maniace woods,’ he said at last. ‘They left Noto some days ago. But one might as well try to find pins in a ploughed field, on a dark night. It would take at least five hundred men to beat the woods through and surround the fellows.’
‘A thousand, sir,’ suggested the sergeant, by way of comment. ‘It took a regiment to catch Leone alone, in the old days.’
The lieutenant broke off the end of a black cigar thoughtfully, but seemed to forget to light it, becoming suddenly absorbed in his own reflections. The sergeant stood patiently at attention.
‘Have we any information this evening?’ asked the officer, suddenly, as though he were looking for something.
‘No, sir.’
‘Any arrests to-day? Any suspicious characters?’
‘No, sir.’
The lieutenant seemed dissatisfied, and looked a long time at his unlighted, black cigar, in deep thought.
‘Very well. Good-night, sergeant.’ He nodded and turned away, but looked round before he had made two steps. ‘Have two men ready all night, in case I should need them,’ he added.
‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant saluted again, and went back to his quarters.
The officer returned to his game of dominoes. He made one or two moves and then called the servant.
‘Don Tebaldo Pagliuca is staying in the house, is he not?’ he enquired. ‘Present my compliments and ask if he will not come down and play a game.’
‘The signore is out, Signor Lieutenant,’ answered the servant.
‘Indeed? I am sorry. I suppose he is strolling in the town. It is cooler in the streets.’
‘I do not know,’ the man replied, though he knew very well that Tebaldo had the innkeeper’s horse.
The officer nodded, as though satisfied, and went on with his game. The deputy prefect looked at him enquiringly, but he vouchsafed no information. The official representative of the government was a rather foolish man, very much afraid of the Sicilians and of doing anything to attract the ill-will of the mafia.
The lieutenant sat over the game later than usual. The windows of the public room, which was at once the dining-room and the café of the clean little inn, looked upon the main street and were open, for the air was hot. It would have been impossible not to hear Tebaldo’s horse if he came back. But he had not come when the officer went home. The latter’s own lodging was also on the main street, towards the upper gate, and Tebaldo would have to pass it to reach the inn. The lieutenant sat up very late, but still Tebaldo did not come.
‘They have either taken him,’ reasoned the officer, ‘and in that case he will not come back at all. Or else he is on good terms with them and is spending the night with them, and will return in the morning.’
But at seven o’clock in the morning, being about to show himself at his window, the lieutenant heard the tread of a shod saddle horse in the street. It was Tebaldo, looking pale and weary, leaning a little forward and dangling his feet out of the stirrups, as though he had ridden far and wished to rest himself. He had the unmistakable look of a man who has worn his clothes twenty-four hours, and the soldier’s sharp eyes, looking after him when he had passed the window, saw little bits of bramble and leaf clinging to his coat.
The lieutenant shaved himself carefully and thoughtfully and dressed with his usual scrupulous care. When he had buckled on his heavy cavalry sabre, he opened a drawer in an old Sicilian cabinet and took out two little Derringer pistols, examined them to see that they were properly loaded, and slipped one into each pocket of his trousers. The tight swallow-tailed tunic of his uniform made it impossible to carry a revolver concealed. He might be going to risk his life as well as his reputation on that morning.
When he left his lodging, he went first to the quarters of the carabineers and gave the sergeant an order. Then he went straight to the inn, and asked to be shown to Tebaldo Pagliuca’s room. An hour had passed since the latter had come back. The servant looked up in surprise, for though the officer and Tebaldo were on terms of civility, the man knew that they were not
well acquainted. He had to obey, however, and led the way up one flight of stairs, and knocked at a door on the landing.
‘Come in,’ answered Tebaldo’s voice, indifferently, for he supposed it was the servant.
The officer entered at once, taking off his cap.
‘Good morning, Don Tebaldo,’ he said courteously, before the other could speak. ‘Pray forgive my intrusion, but could you lend me your revolver for a few hours? I suppose you have one? My only one is out of order, and I prefer to carry one for what I have to do. I should be extremely obliged.’
‘Certainly,’ answered Tebaldo, rather coldly, but a good deal surprised by the request.
He crossed the room and took the weapon from a table, with its leathern case.
‘I should be glad if you could return it by two o’clock,’ he said, ‘as I am going away.’
‘Certainly,’ replied the officer, quietly taking the revolver out of its case. ‘It is loaded, I see. Thank you. Now Don Tebaldo, will you kindly sit down for a few moments? I wish to speak to you.’
He held the revolver in his right hand, and his quiet gray eyes looked gravely at the man he had caught. Tebaldo started at the sudden change of tone, and faced him, in renewed surprise.
‘I borrowed your revolver in order to speak with you,’ said the lieutenant, ‘for I have heard that you have a sudden and violent temper. But I wish to speak in a quiet and friendly way. Shall we sit down?’ He took a chair with his left hand.
‘I am at a loss to understand you,’ answered Tebaldo, with rising anger. ‘What do you want?’
‘I will explain. I am aware that you have spent the night with the brigands, who are friends of yours. You will either lead me to them, or you will go to prison. I have a couple of men downstairs, waiting. Now choose.’
‘This is outrageous!’ Tebaldo’s voice rang high, as he sprang forward.
But the sight of the revolver’s muzzle close to his face stopped him, though his eyes blazed with fury.
‘It is of no use to be angry,’ said the officer, who was perfectly cool. ‘Choose, if you please.’
‘It is outrageous! You cannot prove anything against me!’
‘You are mistaken,’ answered the other, boldly. ‘I can prove many things.’
‘What? What can you prove?’
‘I do not intend to provide you with the means of defending your case by telling you what I know. But I give you your choice. I have full power to do so. Lead me and my men to a place where we can catch Mauro, and I give you my word of honour that no accusation shall be brought against you. Refuse to do so, and I give you my word that you will be handcuffed in five minutes and taken to Messina this afternoon. You know, of course, that complicity with a band of outlaws entails penal servitude.’
He saw plainly enough that he had not risked his reputation for nothing. Tebaldo was brave still, though he was unstrung and broken, but his face now showed the perplexity he could only feel if he were really in the situation the officer had prepared for him.
‘I deny the whole charge,’ he said, after a moment’s thought. ‘This is an outrage for which you will have to answer. Be good enough to stop threatening me and leave my room.’
The lieutenant drew a nickel whistle from the bosom of his tunic with his left hand.
‘If I whistle for my troopers,’ he said, ‘you will be in handcuffs in five minutes. I will count twenty while you make your choice. One, two, three—’ and he continued to count.
Tebaldo grew pale by quick degrees, as he listened, and his heart beat violently with excitement. The officer reached twenty in his counting, and raised the big whistle to his lips.
‘Stop!’ exclaimed Tebaldo, hardly able to speak.
‘Well?’ asked the officer, holding the whistle ready near his mouth.
‘You give me your word of honour that no accusation whatever shall be brought against me?’
‘None on the ground of complicity with the brigands,’ answered the lieutenant. ‘I give you my word as an officer.’
‘There is no other to bring.’ Tebaldo was white.
‘None that concerns me,’ replied the other, coolly. ‘There is a good deal of diversity of opinion about your brother’s death, as you must know.’
‘This is an insult—’
‘Oh no! I do not accuse you at all. I only wish to limit my own promise to the matter in hand. I have done so, and I understand that you agree, do you not?’
‘By force, for I suppose I must,’ replied Tebaldo, in a sullen tone. ‘You must further engage to protect me from the mafia, when you have caught the fellows,’ he added.
‘You shall have an escort wherever you go and as long as you please to remain in the country.’
‘That will not be long,’ said Tebaldo, almost to himself.
‘So much the better. And now, if you please, at what time shall we start this evening?’
Tebaldo inwardly cursed himself for having trusted the Moscio in the first instance, but he quickly reflected that he might still improve his position in the eyes of the officer and thereby, perhaps, have less to fear in the future.
‘Look here, lieutenant,’ he said, changing his tone and sitting down. ‘I have been forced into this, from first to last. I was riding by myself yesterday afternoon, in the country I know so well, and I had not the slightest idea that the outlaws were in the neighbourhood. I met a couple of your men, who at first took me for one of the brigands myself, and then recognised me and apologised, telling me that the band was in the neighbourhood. They rode off, and I took a short cut through the woods. I came upon the encampment unexpectedly.’
The officer listened attentively and gravely. Tebaldo proceeded.
‘In former years, even a year ago, when we lived at Camaldoli before selling the place, we were obliged, as a matter of personal safety, to put up with a great deal from these men, and if we had informed against them, we should have been murdered. That is how it happened that my brother Ferdinando knew some of them. You know the conditions of the country as well as I do.’
‘I wish I did!’ exclaimed the soldier, devoutly.
‘You know them well enough, at all events. Poor gentlefolk, as we were then, cannot always help themselves. Yesterday afternoon I found myself suddenly surrounded by the whole band. There are fifteen of them. One of them recognised me, and a long discussion began. They wish to get into Camaldoli to-night and carry off the Marchese di San Giacinto.’
‘Fifteen armed men might do it,’ observed the officer. ‘There are only two troopers there at night.’
‘Yes. But the brigands do not know the way to the weak point at the back. I will explain.’
Tebaldo told the whole truth now, for he saw that his best chance of safety lay in that direction. Then he proceeded to exculpate himself.
‘They also gave me my choice, something in your manner,’ he went on. ‘They offered, by way of alternative, to roast me alive, if I refused to show them the way to-night, and they assured me of what I knew perfectly well, namely, that if I did not keep the appointment they could murder me wherever I might be. This was because I insisted on coming here again before to-night. It was not easy, but they yielded at last. However, it was very late by the time we had come to an agreement, and I could not have got back to Randazzo, for there was no moon, and the woods are dark and full of pitfalls. I got back this morning, and intended to go down to Messina and catch the train at Reggio to-night, and take my chance of safety in Rome. They never could get up to the back of Camaldoli without me. There you have the whole story in a nutshell.’
‘I see,’ answered the officer, who only believed half of the plausible story. ‘You were in a most difficult position. But it is now in your power to do the country a great service. All that is necessary is that you should lead the band to the foot of the wall, as you promised. I will take care of the rest. In the woods it is impossible to catch them. But it is important that we should recognise you, in order not to kill you by mistake if there i
s any fighting, as there probably will be, though I hope to take most of them alive. The wisest thing would be that you should be the first to mount the ladder, by agreement, on the ground that you can lead them inside, whereas they might lose their way.’
‘Yes — that is best. It is a very complicated place, like a labyrinth, between the rampart and the court.’
‘You will pardon me for reverting to the conditions,’ said the lieutenant, suavely. ‘You realise, of course, that in case you should not wish to carry out your part of them, you are always in the power of the law, unless you turn outlaw yourself, which, in your position, you would hardly like to do.’
‘I understand my position perfectly,’ answered Tebaldo, coldly. ‘I shall lead the band to the foot of the ladder at about one o’clock, I fancy.’
‘Thank you,’ said the officer. ‘I am much obliged for the loan of your revolver, which I return to you, as you may need it this evening.’
He laid it on the table, bowed civilly, and went out, leaving the betrayer to his own reflections.
CHAPTER XXXVI
TEBALDO WOULD HAVE given half his life and all his soul to undo the work of the past twenty-four hours. But it was now absolutely impossible for him to draw back. His only chance of future safety lay in serving the government, though he did not like to think what his fate might be if he should fall into the hands of any friend of the outlaws after betraying them. Yet, short of joining them outright, he could not possibly escape arrest if he did not carry out the conditions of his agreement with the lieutenant; and, if once arrested, the latter would only need to tell exactly what had happened in order to convict him of complicity with brigands and send him to penal servitude. He was literally caught in a vice and could not move without ruining himself.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 916