I accepted Holmes’s invitation to spend the night, and was heartened to learn that my old room had not been touched, except to provide a fresh razor, soap, and a dressing-gown that still bore the imprimatur of the finest tailor in Piccadilly. I slept well, having expended my reservations about our current endeavor during those forty-five minutes alone in the sitting-room; we’d retired late, and it was nearly eleven when I turned out. After a wash-up and shave, I was privileged to sit down to one of Mrs. Hudson’s homely but hearty breakfasts, accompanied by the strongest coffee this side of Turkey. Holmes, as was his wont, had risen after only a few hours’ rest and dined already. He slammed shut the hefty volume he’d been studying as I finished my kippers.
“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.
“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.”