In the Hour Before Midnight by Jack Higgins

other men. This man was Cerda, I was certain of that as he got to his feet and moved to the car.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, signor?” he asked as I got out to meet him.
    Burke was by now looking really ill. Great beads of sweat oozed from his face and he had a hand screwed tightly into his stomach.
    â€œWe’re on our way to Agrigento,” I said. “One of my passengers has been taken ill.” He leaneddown and looked at Burke and then Rosa and I added, “Are you the proprietor?”
    He nodded. “What is he, American?”
    â€œIrish. He put away a bottle of passito at the last stop. Wouldn’t be told.”
    â€œTourists.” He shook his head. “We’ll get him inside.”
    I said to Rosa, “Better to wait out here, signorina. Can I get you anything?”
    She hesitated, then smiled slightly. “Coffee and make certain they boil the water.”
    â€œI’ll send my wife out at once, signorina,” Cerda said. “Perhaps you would care to sit at one of the tables?”
    She got out of the car as we took Burke in between us. There was a cracked marble bar, half a dozen tables and a passage beyond. Cerda kicked open a door and we went into a small, cluttered bedroom, obviously his own. We eased Burke on to the bed and loosened his tie.
    â€œA couple of hours and he’ll be over the worst,” Cerda said. “A hell of a hangover, but he’ll be able to travel. I’ll be back in a minute.”
    He left, presumably to arrange about the coffee and I lit a cigarette and went to the window. A minute or so later, the door clicked open again and when I turned, he was leaning against it, a hand behind his back.
    â€œAnd now we talk. Who are you?”
    â€œYou’re quick,” I said.
    He shook his head. “No one in his right mind on the way to Agrigento turns off to drive ten miles over the worst road in Sicily for fun.”
    â€œYou’re right, of course. I’m going to take something out of my right-hand pocket so don’t shoot me. It isn’t a gun.”
    The handkerchief had roughly the same effect as a holy relic. I thought, for a moment, that he was going to kiss it. He took an old Colt .45 automatic from behind his back, probably a relic of the war, and put it down on top of a chest of drawers.
    â€œSo, you are from the capo ? I felt sure you were of the Society from the moment I saw you, but one can always be wrong. Strange that we have not met before. I’m in Palermo every month on business for the Society.”
    â€œI’ve been away for a few years. Just returned.” I decided to give him all guns. “I’m the capo’ s grandson.”
    His eyes widened and for a moment, I honestly thought he might genuflect. “But of course, I remember your mother, God rest her.” He crossed himself. “An American father, that was it. I thought there was something not quite Sicilian about you. What about your friend?”
    â€œHe’s working with me, but the story about the passito was true enough.”
    He grinned. “We’ll leave him to it. Cooler in the kitchen, anyway.”
    It was a large square room with one small window so that it was in semi-darkness in spite of the bright sun outside. He brought a bottle of wine to the table, filled a couple of glasses and motioned me to sit. His wife flitted from the stove like a dark wraith, a tray in her hands, and vanished through the door.
    â€œNow, what brings the capo’ s grandson to Bellona?”
    â€œSerafino Lentini,” I said.
    He paused, his glass half-way to his lips, then lowered it again. “You’d like to get your hands on Serafino?” He laughed. “Mother of God, so would I. And the capo told you to see me? I don’t understand. The Society has been after Serafino for nearly two years now. He’s given us a lot of trouble and the people round go for him in a big way.” He swallowed