“No, blast it. I knocked over the table to avoid the shot and didn’t right it again until after he was gone. What did he look like?”
“Tall and thin, with light-colored hair. Clean shaven, sharp features. I won’t forget the look he gave me. I think he regretted wasting all his ammunition on poor Mr. Gigliotti.”
“You may be the only witness, then,” he said.
Barker shook his head. The waiters stood about, murmuring to each other, confounded. The livelihoods of a thousand people had suddenly been put at peril.
“Should we go, sir?” I asked. “I don’t relish going back to Scotland Yard.”
“You may, if you wish,” the Guv replied, “but there’s no chance the witnesses outside will not remember me.”
He was right, of course. I’m relatively insignificant, and if I slipped out, might go unnoticed, but no one forgets Cyrus Barker, all six feet two and fifteen stone of him, with his fierce mustache and his black-lensed Chinese spectacles. It was his only liability as a private enquiry agent, but then he played upon it often as well. Would I cut and run on him? Of course I wouldn’t.
It was in the nature of waiters to want to pick up things and begin restoring the restaurant to some order. It was cathartic for them, and it gave them something to do. A few, I noticed, were crying.
“Touch nothing!” Barker ordered. They all stopped and looked at him. He was not their employer, but it was good to be told what to do, to have someone in charge. They willingly obeyed.
“All of you go back to that table in the corner,” he continued, pointing to the large banqueting table at the far back. “Open a bottle of wine, but don’t get drunk. Scotland Yard is coming soon.”
“You’re sure of that?” I asked.
“A window being blown out by shotgun is going to be reported, lad. This is not Palermo yet. Besides, I’m sure Poole is having the restaurant watched. It’s what I would do in his shoes.”
It took all of five minutes for the first blue helmet to arrive, and another ten before Poole showed his bewhiskered face.
He stepped in and looked about, not saying a word, though there was a spot of color on his cheek. He took in the body laying supine on the black-and-white tiled floor, the scattered glass everywhere, and the upturned tables and chairs. He walked over and regarded the waiters as if they were part of a tableau, and then he finally came to us. The inspector reached into his pocket and put something into his mouth. It was a lozenge for his ulcer. I’ve heard him say Barker was responsible for it.
“Back in town again, eh, Cyrus?” he asked gruffly.
“As you see.”
“You haven’t wasted any time.”
He went over and spoke to one of the officers in a low voice, who turned and hurried out the door. “Sicilians again, I take it.”
“Two men, as before,” my employer answered. “Thomas saw one of them.”
Poole scrutinized me as if I’d done something clever, or beneath contempt, I’m not certain which. Obviously, I hadn’t saved Gigliotti’s life, and I’d only locked eyes with the killer unintentionally. It wasn’t in my mind, as my chair was falling back and the plate glass window shattering in front of me, to decide to help further this case along by identifying one of the assassins.
“Why do I always find you in the thick of the action, Cyrus?” Poole complained.
“I don’t know. Why does Scotland Yard always arrive last? The commissioner should have hired me years ago, when I offered him the chance.”
It may have been sunny outside, but there were storm clouds forming in the room just then. It never occurred to me that Barker might have offered his services to Scotland Yard at one time and been refused.
“The C.I.D. is not in the habit of hiring inspectors with shady spectacles and even shadier pasts.”
“Your loss,” I said.
“I’ll have no word out of you,” Poole warned.
Barker was glowering at me, but then, he was glowering at everything. “I have been forthcoming, Terry,” he said. “I know you wish to bring in the killer of Inspector Pettigrilli, but I cannot help you if you intend to continue locking me up and questioning me. You are impeding my investigation.”
Poole removed his hat and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “You were present during two murders in the last week!” he shouted.
“No, only the last one. I was nearby during the other.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. You’ve blasted my stomach beyond what it can endure. Pray don’t speak to me for ten minutes. In fact, be so good as to step outside but don’t go away yet. If you do, I’ll only have to come looking for you.”
Barker stepped into the street and looked up and down it. I followed. There were close to thirty people watching as the inevitable handcart arrived to transport Victor Gigliotti’s body. I had grown heartily sick of handcarts.
Five minutes later, a Black Maria pulled up to the front door, obstructing everyone’s view. It was an old vehicle, its paint chipped at the corners, rather dusty from lack of use. It amply shut off the view of the gawkers, but that was not its only use. Poole opened the door and ushered the Neapolitan’s waiters directly into the van. Some of them had not heeded Barker’s advice and were clearly drunk, while others gestured and argued all the way into the vehicle. I felt sorry for them, having just lost their employer, their livelihoods, and now, momentarily at least, their freedom. I hoped for their sakes there was a solicitor in London who spoke Italian. Had they been English, I thought, there would have been no need for the van.
“You next,” Poole said to me.
“What? Are you serious?” I asked. “Didn’t you just hear-”
“In!” The inspector seized my arm and propelled me into the van before closing the door in my face. Cyrus Barker, I noted, was not being arrested, nor was he doing anything to save me. I stood up and peered out the small barred window of the back door.
“Why is he getting special privileges?”
“It’s the way of the world,” Poole explained. “Get used to it.” Behind him, Barker turned and gave one of his sharp whistles for a cab. Under my feet, the vehicle shuddered and began to move.
I heaved a sigh and sat down in what little space there was. There were seven of us in the small vehicle, not counting the driver. It smelled like a vineyard in the close quarters. Someone nearby used too little soap and too much eau de cologne. Beneath it all, I smelled old varnish and the sweat of fear from hundreds of people over the years. Perhaps that included my own. It was hot in there and very close. This was no way to treat witnesses.
Another cell, I told myself. This was definitely becoming a habit. I had to admit that Poole was right. We’d appeared at the wrong place at the wrong time twice now. The Guv should not expect them to simply let him go on the grounds that he had an investigation to run. As a rule, police officers do not respect their private brethren. As Barker said, we are a part of London’s underworld, not much better than the criminals we apprehend.
Before I knew it, the van drew to a halt. Looking out the little window, I saw that we were in Whitehall already. The door opened and I hopped down into Great Scotland Yard Street where we were herded inside immediately.
“We’re home!” I intoned as we crossed the threshold. “Put the kettle on.”
22
Once inside Division A, we were taken down a hallway and directed to a bench, where we sat for a good half hour, and then I was called first into one of the interrogation rooms, presumably because my English was better than my compatriots’. However, no sooner had the door opened than I caught the aroma of Barker’s tobacco, which I would know anywhere. I stepped in and sat down in the chair provided, and explained to Poole, Barker, and a constable taking notes all that had happened at the Neapolitan, excluding the parts I knew the Guv wanted kept secret, while he sat in a shadowy corner away from the oil lamp in front of me.