“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 thirteen wives, if you like, and it would mean nothing to me if you helped in the one other thing that matters 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 Englishman Euston was killed in Naples because he recognized 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 sudden 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 intend 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. Perhaps 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 everything 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 unusual; 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 ancestral 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
How Simon Templar hired a museum piece,
and Gina Destamio became available
1
His decision made, Simon Templar intended to pay his call on the Destamio manor with the least possible delay — figuring that the faster he kept moving, the more he would keep Destamio off balance, and thus gain the more advantage for himself. But to make himself suitably presentable, his slashed jacket first had to be repaired.
The cashier directed him to the nearest sartoria, where the proprietor was just unlocking after the three-hour midday break. After much energetic and colorful discussion, a price was agreed on that made allowance for the unseemly speed demanded, yet was still a little less than the cost of a new coat. Half an hour was finally set as the time for completion; and the Saint, knowing that he would be lucky to get it in three times that period, proceeded in search of his next requisite.
The tailor directed him around the next corner to where a welcoming sign announced Servizio Eccellento di Autonoleggio. But for once in the history of advertising, the auto rental service may truly have been so excellent that all its cars had been taken. At any rate, perhaps with some help from the sheer numbers of seasonal tourists, the entire fleet of vehicles seemed to be gone. The only one left in sight was an antique and battered Fiat 500 that had been largely dismembered by the single mechanic who crawled from its oily entrails and wiped his hands on a piece of cotton waste as Simon approached.
“You have cars to rent?” said the Saint.
“Sissignore.” The man’s sapient eye took in his patently un-Italian appearance. “I guess mebbe you like-a rent-a one?”
“I guess I would,” said the Saint, patiently resigning himself to haggling down a price that would be automatically doubled now that the entrepreneur had identified him as a visiting foreigner.
“We got-a plenty cars, but all-a rent-a now, gahdam, except-a dis sonovabitch.”
It was evident that the mechanic’s English had been acquired from the ubiquitous font of linguistic elegance, the enlisted ranks of the American armed services.
“You mean that’s your very last machine?” Simon asked, nodding at the disembowelled Fiat.
“Sissignore. Cute-a little turista, she built like a brick-a gabinetto. I ’ave ’er all-a ready dis evening.”
“I wouldn’t want her, even if you do get her put together again. Not that I want to hurt her feelings, but she just wasn’t built to fit me. So could you perhaps tell me where I might find something my size?”
“Mebbe you like-a drive-a da rich car, Alfa-Romeo or mebbe Ferrari?”
There was a trace of a sneer in the question which Simon chose to ignore in the hope of saving time in his search.
“I have driven them. Also Bentleys, Lagondas, Jaguars, and in the good old days a Hirondel.”
“You drive-a da Hirondel, eh? How she go, gahdam?”
“Like a sonovabitch,” said the Saint gravely. “But that has nothing to do with the present problem. I still need a car.”
“You like-a see sumping gahdam especial, make-a you forget Hirondel?”
“That I would like to see.”
“Come-a wid me.”
The man led the way to a door at the rear of the garage, and out into the dusty yard behind. Apart from the piles of rusty parts and old threadbare tires, there was a large amorphous object shrouded in a tarpaulin. With an air of reverence more usually reserved for the lifting of a bride’s veil preparatory to the nuptial kiss, he untied the binding cords and gently drew back the canvas. Sunlight struck upon blood-red coachwork and chromed fittings; and the Saint permitted himself the uncommon luxury of a surprised whistle.