Sons of Moriarty and More Stories of Sherlock Holmes

by Estleman, Loren D.

  “I procured the book this morning from my favourite stall in the Strand,” he said; “Yes, I’ve been out and about while you slept the sleep of the virtuous. It was published privately in Naples, and is quite a fine account of the history of the Mafia from ancient times to our own. The name is an acronym, derived from the slogan Morte alla Francia Italia anela, meaning ‘Death to the French is Italy’s cry,’ and dates back some five centuries, to when the Medieval Angevins of France engaged in the oppression of that country. My Italian is rusty, but evidently the society considered itself too well established to disband after the Angevins abandoned the practice, so it turned—as warriors often will, once the object of their training in battle has become obsolete—to crime; specifically to wrest tribute from the landed gentry, and eventually to hire itself out as mercenaries upon its behalf. At this point it arrogated the methods of oppression for its own ends, victimizing peasants, who could only be expected to buy it off through tribute earned at the sweat of their brow.”

  “Appalling,” said I, “but hardly shocking. Force will find its way, and it’s usually the path of least resistance.”

  “Excellent reasoning. Interestingly, the Mafia is regarded in some rural provinces as an improvement upon the local authorities, who are either unqualified by their lack of experience to deal with certain criminals, or corrupted by bribery, to provide sufficient service and protection to the populace. In such cases—for a price, Watson, always for a price—the society offers security not only from itself, but from independent interlopers. If a rough or a footpad who is unaffiliated with the Order preys upon those who have paid for protection, he’s dealt with summarily, and without the bother of a sluggish legal system. When Giovanni Public has a grievance, he applies to the local don, who sees to the matter without demanding further recompense: Unregulated brigandry represents a personal insult, and is dealt with.”

  “Machiavellian!”

  “Just so; but it helps to explain how so unprincipled a culture has managed to survive throughout half a millennium. It’s the difference between a privateer operating under an unofficial seal of approval and a common pirate. However, I’m more interested in a brief interview herein with a policeman of Italian birth, who’s pledged his efforts to eradicate the Black Hand in America. That glorious republic has offered shelter to hordes of Italian immigrants, who are prime targets for the Mafia’s methods of extortion. Even to apply for a lowly job paving the streets requires intervention by the neighbourhood don, who helps himself to a healthy portion of the wretches’ wages in return for finding them employment.”

  “I despair of the race.”

  “This policeman does not. He’s made it his personal responsibility to free it of this yoke. Giusseppe Petrosino is his name, and in his position as a detective in New York City, he appears to have learnt more about the Black Hand and its activities than anyone else, in the Old World as well as the new. He intrigues me. Were I more egocentric than I am, I’d suspect him of studying my own methods and applying them to an astounding degree. The tropical races, Watson, are capable of demonstrative emotion, but also of single-minded determination to set things right. He is unhampered by wife and family, and therefore in my own position of absolute devotion to his duty.”

  “I daresay he’s no prospect for a life policy.”

  “That he has lived long enough to answer this author’s queries indicates an extraordinary capacity for precaution. I quite like this fellow, based upon what I’ve read. He appears to know the dense quarter of New York City called Little Italy as well as I know London.”

  “Jealousy?” For I knew how to prick my friend’s vanity.

  “Call it admiration of a colleague.” He scooped the bowl of his brier into the worn Persian slipper he used to store his tobacco. “Idle speculation, at this point. Let us see what our pet tenor has to contribute beyond dusty scholarship.”

  As it developed, we hadn’t long to wait. Presently Mrs. Hudson tapped at our door, and was admitted bearing a silver tray upon which lay a telegram in its distinctive yellow envelope.

  Holmes thanked her, and read it upon her withdrawal. “The tenor writes!” He compared his watch to the clock on the mantel. “Two minutes’ variant. We still have half an hour to respond. More coffee?”

  “Thank you, no. Two cups of this brew will keep me awake for a week.”

  “It may be needed. I’ll fetch a cab while you dress. I regret your attire may be a bit formal, but we haven’t time to visit your lodgings. The Royal Guard will upstage you in all events.”

  I knew better than to press Holmes in his pawkish mood; all would be revealed in the course of time. But as our cab neared Buckingham Palace, and we elected to walk the rest of the way as our path was blocked by pedestrian traffic, I heard the brump and crash of a military band, and knew that we were in for the daily Changing of the Guard at the king’s palace.

  Like most Londoners, I had come to regard the spectacle as a massive waste of the treasury. No serious attempt had been made upon the life of a British monarch since the assassination of Charles I, and the sight of tall young men in scarlet tunics and tall bearskin shakoes straddling prancing white steeds to the air of “God Save the King” embarrassed me somewhat, and made me think of better ways to spend the inland revenue, such as settling the Irish Question and bringing certain unscrupulous foreign publishers to task for violating authors’ copyrights; in this last, I admit, I had a personal interest, with both the Americans and the Russians making free with my chronicles of Holmes’s adventures, translated onto the page by the sweat of my brow.

  However, when in the presence of the mighty revue, watching tourists from abroad craning their necks and snapping their Kodaks as those fine, straight-legged young men went about their business to precision, an Englishman would have to be made of stone not to feel his chest spreading with patriotic pride.

  Holmes, however, was interested in things more prosaic.

  “The Americans, in their superior idiom, refer to this exchange of cash for mercy as a ‘drop.’ Vulgar as it sounds, it’s most descriptive. Pray you, put not your faith in princes or their pomp, and look to the mundane: a streetsweep or some such invisible menial, attending to his office with somewhat more zeal than the common. He may come away with more in his homely canvas sack than a cigar-stub.”

  He compared the face of his watch to the palace tower. “By now, friend Caruso has done his bit, placing a parcel inside that telephone box upon the corner. They proliferate; giving unintended succor to the extortionist. Clever of these fellows to choose this hour for the transaction. Who will notice so ordinary a thing in the presence of majesty?”

  We chose a corner directly opposite the box, but it was a near enough thing with spectators shifting to and fro for a glimpse of the ceremony. Thrice at least I thought I saw our man creeping towards the “drop,” and said as much to Holmes; but he was impatient with my report.

  “If I understand this type, they won’t creep, but march boldly to the prize, like any honest citizen simply wishing to use the facility for its intended purpose. Mark you,” he said, gripping my sleeve; “speak of the devil, and he shall avail himself.”

  He was, as usual, right personified; for in that moment, the vagabond with varnish stains on his canvas trousers advanced to the box, hands sunk deep in his pockets and lips pursed, undoubtedly whistling some air from the concert halls. With a furtive look up and down and across the street, busy as it was with mounted grenadiers, he tugged open the door and ducked inside.

  My heart races still when I recall that dash, passing as close as we did to those arrogant horses to feel their hot breath upon the back of my neck, and an uncharacteristic “Cor, blimey!” from a rider in the saddle as he drew rein to avoid running us down. Betimes I awake in the middle of the night to the shrill sound of a constable’s whistle, seeking to stay us from our course. But Holmes would not be waylaid. He caught the fellow by the back of his collar just as he was quitting the telephone box.
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  “What is this?” The man’s accent was heavily Mediterranean. “Let go me.”

  “I would see that parcel beneath your arm,” said Holmes; “Failing that, you will see oblivion.” He shook the heavy leaded head of his stick in the man’s face.

  The whistle blew again. I saw the constable making his way across the street, obstructed by the consistent traffic of well-groomed horses boarded by guardsman similarly well treated.

  Holmes said, “The choice is yours: Surrender the parcel or yourself to the red-faced fellow in uniform.”

  “Dio mio! Sí!” He transferred the item, in brown paper wound with string, to Holmes’s hands, and prepared to leave. But my friend’s grip on his shoulder stayed him.

  “Come away, and you will be safe from arrest. We seek information only.”

  “Dio mio!” said he again. “Prego, signor; anything but that!”

  Holmes increased his grasp. The pin-setter (for I shall always think of him thus) struggled frantically, actually managing to free himself from his coarse overcoat, and sprinted away, weaving a path through the mass of spectators and leaving Holmes holding only his outer garment.

  Whereupon the constable, panting and florid of face, accosted us. Before he could speak, Holmes said, “This gentleman demonstrates all the symptoms of accelerated circulation. Do you concur, Doctor?”

  “I do indeed,” I said, catching his meaning. “When was the last time you were examined by a physician?”

  “If you please, sir—” He was too short of breath to press the point.

  “My name is Dr. Watson. This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes. We have at times been of assistance to Scotland Yard. I implore you, sir, to consult your department physician at once. We can’t have an officer of the public peace succumbing to apoplexy on the job.”

  We left the fellow pressing his fingers to his jugular. Holmes chuckled. “The underworld lost a fine pair of confidence men when we threw in with the law. How do you feel, Watson? Confess: You’re experiencing that same rush of adrenaline that comes to those who have just performed well onstage.”

  “I shan’t disagree. However, I don’t wish to repeat the experience until I’ve checked my own circulation. How much did we get?” I added archly.

  “A born thief, had you but the necessary disadvantages.” We’d turned a corner into a deserted neighbourhood, although one well enough illuminated by gaslight to discourage the common purse-snatcher. He opened the parcel, thumbed through the notes inside, and emitted a low whistle. “A thousand pounds. Caruso must be doing well indeed, to be able to afford such a tribute. We must be discreet in the matter of returning it. No hint of welshing must adhere to him.”

  “You are the soul of discretion, Holmes. Congratulations upon a job well done.”

  He held up the coat the extortionist had left behind.

  “Would that it were done. I’d pledge the same amount from my own small savings to have the man who belongs to this garment.”

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE PRICE OF FAILURE

  “Good news, Holmes! We’ve nabbed the fellow.”

  Lestrade, in a better humour than I’d seen him in since the last time he thought he’d stolen a march on Sherlock Holmes, was smoking an uncommonly fine cigar in his office; that it was a gift from the chief inspector no detective need deduce. We’d been summoned there by messenger, the day after our adventure before the palace.

  “You found my description helpful?” asked Holmes.

  “That, and the garment you were so thoughtful to leave with us. We traced the laundry mark to a place in the Tottenham Court Road, and from there to the customer, who resided above a butcher’s shop in Blackwall, square in the foreign quarter. Would you care to know his name?”

  “Luigi Pizarro. I spoke with the laundryman on my way to the Yard with the overcoat. I had faith you’d apprehend him without my assistance.”

  “Your faith was well placed. He’s in the cooling-room, assessing his chances. I find it helpful to let these fellows contemplate the error of their ways in private until they’re ripe to pluck. Would you care to have a go? Being interviewed by a citizen with no authority sometimes yields encouraging results.”

  “I would, if Dr. Watson is allowed to accompany me and record our conversation.”

  “Consider him invited. Not long ago we lost a prosecution because the stenographer couldn’t spell. I’ve read a thing or two of the doctor’s in The Strand, and found nary a participle misplaced.”

  “I’m blessed with able editors,” said I, not displeased by this praise, and somewhat surprised by his knowledge of the technicalities.

  Holmes appeared to agree. “I have always said, Inspector, that the College of English at Oxford is much the worse for your decision to enforce justice.”

  “Yes; well.” Lestrade seemed uneasy as to his intent. “We’ll see that Mr. Caruso is reunited with his thousand quid. Quite the state of affairs when a canary can part with such a sum while those of us who put our lives on the line to see to his well-being make do on twenty a month.”

  “If only life were as fair as fiction; but if you heard this particular canary trilling, you might surrender the point.”

  “Likely not. Mrs. Lestrade says my ears are hammered from lead.” He consulted his turnip watch. “Room B, second floor. Fifteen minutes?”

  “Ample.”

  The chamber was furnished with only a yellow-oak table upon which many initials had been carved and three straight chairs. A framed print of our late queen, still wreathed in black crepe, provided the sole decoration.

  “A fine portrait,” said Holmes. “I met the lady in the flesh, and observed that same obsidian gaze, overseeing an empire four times greater than Alexander’s. Parla inglese?”

  “Better, Guv’nor, than I warrant you speak Italiano.” Our charge, sitting hunched at the table with his hands resting palms-down on the top, kept his gaze on his thick and broken nails. Deprived of his bulky coat, he was slight, wearing a dirty shirt without a collar and a silver crucifix winking at his throat. His speech was Cockney, with a decided foreign accent.

  “I concur. I’ve never grasped just where to place the verb, and imagine I must sound to a native like a street merchant newly arrived from Milan extolling his wares to the passersby. You remember me, I think.”

  “Sí. I miss my overcoat. Your London winters are misery.”

  “It’s safe, and will be returned to you; not that you’ll be in a position to enjoy the outdoors for a season. Who directed your efforts?”

  “Myself. When I see one of my own countrymen pulling down by the week more than my father made laying brick in his lifetime, I give myself virtuous airs.”

  “Humbug.” Whereupon Holmes launched into an extended soliloquy in Italian so rapid I could not hope to capture it in my notebook even phonetically. I have but two languages, if you regard my pidgin understanding of the Afghani tongue among them, but I had the distinct impression he spoke the wretch’s native lingua as one to the manner born.

  Pizarro’s reaction bore me out; his swarthy features assumed an expression equal parts astonished and terrified. It’s no small thing, once one assumes a kind of immunity based upon his own encoded speech, to find that his interrogator is wise to its every nuance. He crossed himself, muttered something I could not catch, in whatever language it was couched, and met Holmes’s gaze for the first time.

  “Scusamenti, signor. If I was to answer your questions, my life wouldn’t be worth a penny-farthing.”

  “The Yard can protect you. These walls have never been breached. The charge as it stands against you is a trifle; we seek bigger game, and a word in that direction will make you a witness rather than a defendant, entitled to the full force of the Metropolitan Police in your preservation.”

  Holmes, seated across from him, leaned forward, seizing his left wrist. He tugged it free of its cuff, exposing a crude tattoo etched in blue ink: OMERTA.

  “A foolish oath, signor; etched recently. I
know something of body art, and the time it takes for the scab to fall away; I’ve written upon the subject for publication. Your responsibility to the human race goes back generations. Surely the latter must claim precedence over a wop with a dirty needle.”

  This hideous reference to the man’s heritage I found repugnant, and hesitated an instant before I set it down on paper. It was a gambit: Holmes’s only prejudice was directed against those who violated the laws of man and nature. He sought through crudity to draw the man out.

  “Diavolo!” Pizarro wrenched his wrist from Holmes’s grasp. He entwined the fingers of both hands in a wringing movement. Beads of sweat glittered on his forehead. “It’s death, I say! Do you really think your cumbersome machinery of justice is any defence against the stiletto, la pistola, the garrote? Men more prominent than Caruso have been slain in broad daylight, in a public place, and the politziotto made base clowns of in chasing the assassins. You British are children when it comes to Il Mano Negro! Take me to my cell, and to the devil with your promises! Life in prison is life, at least. There is no appeal from eternity.”

  Lestrade was waiting for us, hands in pockets, when we emerged. He was detective enough to read the result upon our faces. “A stone, what? These dregs will put their self-styled honour before their own self-interest. Daft.”

  “He was frightened,” said Holmes. “Anyone can be, under circumstances far less pressing. How long can you keep him in custody?”