Vendetta for the Saint. (10 page)

“You
mean Tonio was hired from them?”

“That
cretino
is one of them, of
course. A small
one. But I
am sure that Al Destamio is a big one,
though I cannot prove it.”

“That,” said the Saint,
“makes it really interest
ing.”

Ponti sipped his
brandy.

“Do
you know anything about the Mafia?”

“Only what I’ve read in the papers,
like everyone
else. And some
more fanciful enlargements in pa
perback
novels. But on the factual side, I don’t
even know what
mafia
means.”

“It is a very old word, and no one can
be quite
sure where it
came from. One legend says that it
originated here in Palermo in the thirteenth cen
tury, when the French ruled the Two Sicilies.
The
story is that
a young man was leaving the church
after his wedding, and was separated from his bride
for a few minutes while he talked to the
priest. In
that time she
was seized by a drunken French sergeant, who dragged her away and assaulted
her—
and when she
tried to escape, killed her. The bride
groom arrived too late to save her, but he
attacked
and killed the
sergeant, shouting
‘Morte alia Fran
cia!
—Death to France!’ Palermo had suffered
cruelly during the occupation, and this was
all that
the people
needed to hear. A revolt started, and in
a few days all the French in the city had been
hunted down and slain.
‘Morte
alia Francia. Italia
anela!’
was the battle-cry:
Italy wishes death to
France!
Of course, soon after, the French came
back and killed most of the rebels, and the sur
vivors fled into the mountains. But they kept the
initials of their battle-cry,
M-A-F-I-A, as their
name
…
At
least, that is one explanation.”

“It’s hard to think of the Mafia as a
sort of thirteenth-century Resistance movement.”

“It is, now; but that is truly what
they were like
in the
beginning. Right up to the unification of Ita
ly, the Mafia was usually on the side of the
oppressed. Only after that it turned to extortion and
murder.”

“I seem to have heard that something
like that
happened to the original Knights
Templar,” said
the Saint reflectively.
“But aside from that, I don’t
see why you should connect them with
me.”

Ponti waited while the
caponata di
melanzane
was served and
the wine poured. Then he answered
as if there had been no interruption.

“It is very simple. Whether you knew
what you were doing or not, you have become involved with
the Mafia. A little while ago I told you that
justice
would be done
to Tonio. But if he was under the
orders of
Destamio, and not merely defending
himself
because you caught him picking your pocket, I should not be so optimistic.
Witnesses
will be found to swear
that it was you who attacked
him.
And nothing will make him confess that he
even knows Destamio. That is the
omerta,
the
noble silence. He will die before he speaks. Not
for
a noble reason, perhaps, but
because if he talked
there would be
no place for him to hide, no place in
the
world. There are no traitors to the Mafia—live
traitors, that is—and the death that comes to them
is not an easy one.”

Simon tasted the Ciclope dell’Etna. It was
light
and faintly
acid, but a cool and refreshing accom
paniment to
the highly seasoned eggplant.

“At the
questura,”
he said,
“Tonio already
seemed to be in better standing
than I was. Does
the Mafia’s long arm reach
even into the ranks of
the incorruptible police on this island?”

“Such things are possible,” Ponti
said with great
equanimity.
“The Mafia is very strong on this im
poverished island. That is why I gave you the
hint in the
questura
that if you had any more to say to
me we should talk elsewhere.”

“And I am supposed to know that you are
the
one member of
the police who is above suspicion.”

The detective took no umbrage, but only dis
pensed with his smile, so that Simon was
aware
again of what
an effective mask it was, behind
which anything
could be hidden.

“Let me tell you another story, Signor
Templar,
which is not a
legend. It is about a man who came
from Bergamo, in the north, to open a shop on this
sunny island. It was difficult at first, but
after a
time he had a
business that kept his family in
modest
comfort. Then the mafia came to demand
tribute, and through ignorance or pride he
refused
to pay. When
they sent an enforcer to beat him
with a club in his own shop, he took away the club and beat the
enforcer. But he was a little too strong and angry, and the enforcer died.
There is only one
thing that
happens then: the
vendetta
and murder.
The man and his wife and daughter were killed,
and only the little son escaped because he had
been
sent to visit his grandparents
in Bergamo, and
when they heard what
had happened they gave him
to
friends who took him to another town and pre
tended he was their own. But the boy knew all the
story, and he grew up with a hatred strong enough
to start a
vendetta
against
all the Mafia. But when
he was old
enough to do anything he knew that
that
was not the way.”

“And so he joined the police to try to
do some
thing
legally?”

“A poorly paid job, as I said before,
and a dan
gerous one if
it is done honestly. But do you think
a man with such memories could be on the side of
those murderers?”

“But if your police station is a nest of
mafiosi,
how can
you get anything done? That two-faced
maresciallo
almost had me
convicted of attempting
to
murder myself, before you came in. Then every
thing changed. Do they suspect that you may
be
investigating them
too?”

“Not yet. They think I am a happy fool
who
bumbles into
the wrong places—an honest fool
who
refuses bribes and reports any offer of one.
Men in my job are always being transferred,
and so
they hide what
they can from me and wait patiently
for me to be transferred again. But being from the
north, it has taken me many years and much
pull
ing of strings
to get here, and I have no intention of being moved again before I have
achieved some of
my
purpose.”

If ever the Saint had heard and seen
sincerity, he
had to feel that he was in the
presence of it now.

“So you want to hear what I can tell
you,” he
said slowly.
“But knowing my reputation, would
you believe me? And aren’t you a bit
interested in
the chance that
I might incriminate myself?”

“I am not playing a game,
signore,”
the detective
said
harshly. “I do not ask for any of your other secrets. You can tell me you
have murdered thir
teen
wives, if you like, and it would mean nothing
to me if you helped in the one other thing
that mat
ters more to me
than life.”

Perhaps the first commandment of any outlaw
should be,
Thou shall keep thy trap shut
at all times;
but on
the other hand he would not be plying his lonely trade if he were not a breaker
of rules, and
this sometimes
means his own rules as well. Simon
knew that this was one time when he had to
gamble.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s
see what you make of
this
…”

He related the events of the past few days
with
eidetic
objectiveness. He left nothing out and drew
no conclusions, waiting to see what Ponti
would
make of it.

“It is as clear as
minestrone,”
said the detective,
at
the end of the recital. “You thought the English
man Euston was killed in Naples because he
recog
nized Destamio
as being someone named Dino
Cartelli.
Yet Destamio showed you proof of his
identity, and you learned here in Palermo that
Cartelli has been dead for many years. That
seems
to show that
you are—as the Americans say—
woofing up the wrong
tree.”

“Perhaps.” Simon finished his meal
and his
wine. “But
in that case how do you explain the
coincidence of Euston’s murder, Destamio’s sud
den interest in me, the money he gave me,
and the
attempt to kill
me?”

“If you assume there is a connection,
only two
explanations
are possible. Either Destamio was
Cartelli, or Cartelli is Destamio.”

“Exactly.”

“But an imposter could not take the
place of
Destamio, one
of the chieftains of the Mafia. And
if the man who died in the bank was not Cartelli,
who was he?”

“Those are the puzzles I have to solve,
and I in
tend to keep
digging until I do.”

“Or until someone else digs for you—a
grave,”
Ponti snorted,
then puffed explosively on a
cigarette.

Simon
smiled, and ordered coffee.

“For me it is very good that you get
involved,”
Ponti
said after a pause. “You stir things up, and in the stirring things may
come to the surface which
may
be valuable to me. In my position, I am forced
to be too careful. You are not careful
enough. Per
haps you do
not believe how powerful and vicious
these people are, though I do not think that would
make any difference to you. But I will help
you as much as I can. In return, I ask you to tell me ev
erything you learn that concerns the Mafia.”

“With
pleasure,” Simon said.

He did not think it worth while to mention a
small mental reservation, that while he would be
glad to share any facts he gleaned, he would
consider any substantial booty he stumbled upon to be
a privateer’s legitimate perquisite.

“You could start by telling me how much
you
know about
Destamio,” he said.

“Not much that is any use. It is all
guessing and
association.
Everyone here is either a member of the Mafia or too frightened of them to
talk. But I
am forced to
deduce, from the people he meets,
and where he goes, and the money he can spend,
and the awe that he inspires, that he must
be in the upper councils of the organization. The rest of his
family does not seem to be involved, which is
un
usual; but I keep an eye on
them.”

“After seeing the niece, Gina, I can
understand
about that eye
of yours. What others are there?”

“His sister, Donna Maria, a real
faccia
tosta.
And an ancient
uncle well gone into senility. They
have a
country house outside the town, an old
baronial
mansion, very grim and run down.”

“You
must tell me how to get there.”

“You would like to see Gina again?”
Ponti
asked, with a knowing Latin grin.

“I might have better luck than
you,” said the
Saint
brazenly. “And that seems the most logical place to start probing into
Al’s family background
and
past life. Besides which, think how excited he’ll
be when he hears I have been calling at his an
cestral home and getting to know his folks.”

Ponti
looked at him long and soberly.

“One of us is mad, or perhaps
both,” he said.
“But
I will draw you a map to show you how to get
there.”

III