Outside the station, he let himself be guided by the brighter lights and the busier flow of people, in order to melt as far as possible into the anonymous multitude, until the current drifted him by the kind of nook that he wanted to be washed into.
This was a small but cheerfully sparkling trattoria which provided him with a half-litre of wine and the small change for a phone call. He rang the number that Marco Ponti had given him, and knew that the cards were still running for him when the detective’s own crisp voice answered the buzz, even though it sounded tense and edgy.
“Pronto! Con chi parlo?”
“An old friend,” said the Saint, in Italian, “who has some interesting news about some older friends of yours.”
The phone booth is a refinement which has made little progress in Sicily, and he was well aware of the automatic neighborly interest of the padrone and any unoccupied customer within earshot. Even to have spoken a word of English would have aroused a curiosity which could ultimately have been fatal.
“Saint!” the earpiece rasped loudly. “What happened to you? Where are you! I was afraid you were dead. An impossibly large Bugatti was reported abandoned in the country, and was towed in here to the police garage. By a lucky accident I took the job of tracing the owner — who told me that you had hired it, and... Wait, what did you say about friends of ours? Do you mean—”
“I do. The ones we are both so fond of. But tell me first, where is the car now?”
“The owner came to the questura with an extra set of keys and wanted to take it away with him, but I did not want to release it until I found out what had happened to you, in case it should be examined again for clues, so I had it impounded.”
“Good! I was going to tell you to grab a taxi and join me, but the Bugatti might be more useful. I have a lot of news about our friends which would take too long to give you over the phone. So why not un-impound the Bug and drive it here? I am in a restaurant named Da Gemma, somewhere near the station — you probably know it. The food smells are making my mouth water, so I shall order something while I wait. But hurry, because I think we have a busy night coming up.”
The only answer was an energized click at the other end of the line; and the Saint grinned and returned to his table and an assay of the menu for some sustaining snack. Enough time and exercise had intervened since his picnic with Lily to create a fresh appetite; and fortunately, late as it was getting by northern standards, it was not at all an exceptional hour for supper in the meridional tradition.
He was chasing the last juicy morsels of a tasty lepre in salmi around his plate with a crust of bread when he heard the reverberant gurgle of an unmistakable exhaust outside, and Ponti burst through the pendant strips of plastic that curtained the door. Simon waved him to the place on the other side of the table, where a clean glass and a fresh carafe of wine had already been set up.
“I did not come here to get drunk with you,” the detective said, pouring himself a glass and draining half of it. “Be quick and tell me what has happened.”
“Among other things, I have been conked on the head, kidnaped, shot at, and chased all over by an assortment of bandits who must have a real grudge against your Chamber of Commerce. But I suppose it would bore you to hear all my private misadventures. The part that I know will interest you involves the location of a castello where you can find, if you move quickly enough, a beautiful sampling of the directors of that Company in full session, along with the chairman of the board himself, whose name seems to be Pasquale.”
Although they were talking in low voices that could hardly have carried to the nearest occupied table, it still seemed circumspect to make certain references only obliquely.
“I know all about that meeting,” Ponti said. “Everything, that is, except the location. Where is it?”
“I wouldn’t know how to give you the address, but I could take you there.” Simon refilled their glasses. “But you surprise me — you seem to know a lot more about this organization than you did the last time we talked.”
“I should claim to have done some extraordinary secret research, but I am too modest. I owe it all to the sample of one of their products that was left in your car, the one that was designed to make the loud noise. You remember, there was a certain kind of signature on the plastic. I photographed it myself, and checked it against the identification files while the clerk was at lunch. The Fates smiled, for a change, and I discovered that the marks were made by a local dealer named Niccolo who has been accused of handling similar goods before, but of course was absolved for lack of evidence. I brought him in to the office myself and managed to question him privately.”
“But I thought those people would never tell anything. The omerta, and all that. You yourself told me they would die before they talked.”
“That is the rule. But it has been broken, usually by women. In 1955, one Francesca Serio denounced four of these salesmen for putting her son out of business — permanently. They were sent to prison for life. In 1962 another, Rose Riccobono, who lost her husband and three sons to a vendetta with the same Company, gave us a list of more than 29 who were charged with controlling the business in her village. These women defied the penalty because of love, or grief. With Niccolo, I used another argument. An inspiration.”
“Worse than death?”
“For him. And more permanent that torture.”
“Do tell.”
“I put a white coat on the old man who sweeps the building — a very distinguished old fellow, but weak in the head — and laid out a row of butcher knives, and one of the masks that are kept for tear gas. I told Niccolo that we were going to anesthetize him, very humanely, but unless he talked” — Ponti leaned forward and dropped his voice even lower, almost to a sepulchral depth — “he would wake up and find he had been castrated.”
Simon regarded him with unstinted admiration.
“I felt there was a spark of genius in you, from our first meeting,” he said sincerely. “So Niccolo talked.”
“It is apparently common gossip throughout the organization that Don Pasquale’s health will soon force him to retire. And when the chairman is on his way out, the other Directors gather to compete for the succession. In such a crisis, an organization becomes a little disorganized, and the opposition has a chance to compete against weakness. All I needed was to know the meeting place. If you know it, we can proceed. Shall we go?”
The detective’s quietly controlled voice was a contrast to the creased urgency of his earnest old-young face. The Saint started to raise a quizzical eyebrow, and left it only half lifted.
“Whatever you say, Marco,” he acquiesced, and looked around for a waiter and a bill.
In a few minutes they were outside, where the gleaming masterpiece of Ettore waited at the curb; but as Simon instinctively aimed himself towards the driver’s seat, Ponti contrived to interpose himself quite inoffensively.
“You will allow me? It will be easier, since I know the way.”
“To where?”
“What I learned from Niccolo was interesting enough for me to send a prepared message to Rome, which has resulted in a picked company of bersaglieri being flown into Sicily. I wanted to have some reliable help on hand whenever I completed the information I needed to use them. You are about to do that.”
“Then I’m the one who knows the way.”
“Not to where the troops are.”
Simon nodded and went around the front of the car to crank it. It started as it had before, at the first turn of the handle, with an instancy which made electric starters seem like effete fripperies; and the Saint got in to the passenger seat.