In the Hour Before Midnight by Jack Higgins Page A

some of his wine and sighed. “Very discouraging.”
    â€œWhat is he trying to be?” I said. “Another Guiliano—a Robin Hood?”
    He spat on the floor. “Serafino’s just like the rest of us, out for number one, but he does theshepherds a few favours from time to time or stops some old woman from being evicted, so they think the sun shines out of his backside. Six months ago, near Frentini, he held up the local bus that was carrying wages to a cooperative, shot the driver, and a bank clerk. The driver died two days later.”
    â€œA real hard man,” I commented.
    â€œWild,” he said. “Never grown up. Mind you he suffered greatly at the hands of the police when he was younger. Lost the sight of an eye. I personally think he’s never got over it. But what do you want with him?”
    I told him as much as he needed to know and when I was finished, he shook his head. “But this is madness. You could never hope to get anywhere near Serafino. Here, I will show you.”
    He opened a drawer and produced a large-scale survey map of the region. It showed the whole Monte Cammarata area in detail.
    â€œHere is where Serafino is staying at the moment.” He indicated a spot on the map on the other side of the mountain about fifteen hundred feet below the summit. “There’s a shepherd’s hut up there beside a stream. He uses it all the time except when he’s on the run.”
    I showed my surprise. “You’re certain?”
    He smiled sadly. “Let me tell you the facts oflife. Knowing where Serafino is and catching him there are two different things. Every shepherd on the mountains worships him, every goatherd. They have a signalling system from crag to crag that informs him of the approach of anyone when they’re still three or four hours hard climbing away. I’ve tried to catch him with local men who belong to us—mountain men. We’ve always failed.”
    â€œHow many men does he have with him?”
    â€œAt the moment, three. The Vivaldi brothers and Joe Ricco.”
    I examined the map for two or three minutes, then asked him to describe the area in detail. I didn’t need to make notes, I’d done this sort of thing too often before.
    In the end I nodded and folded the map. “Can I keep this?”
    â€œCertainly. It’s impossible you realise that?”
    â€œOn the contrary.” I smiled. “I feel rather more confident than I did earlier. Now I think I’ll go for a walk. I’d like to have a look round. I’ll see you later.”
    I paused in the street door, half-blinded by the sudden glare, and put on my sunglasses. Rosa was seated at the wooden table nearest the car, the tray in front of her. She wasn’t alone. The twospecimens who lounged on the edge of the table were typical of the younger men still to be found in the region. Features brutalised and coarsened by a life of toil, shabby, patched clothing, broken boots, cloth caps that anywhere else in Europe belonged to another age.
    Rosa’s back was stiff and straight and she smoked a cigarette and stared into space. One of them said something. I couldn’t catch what, and got what was left of her coffee in his face.
    To a Sicilian male, a woman is there to be used, to do what she is told. To be publically humiliated by one would be unthinkable. Several of the watching children laughed and he reached across the table in a fury and yanked her to her feet, his other hand raised to strike.
    I grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him round. We stared at each other for a long moment and the expression on his face was already beginning to alter as I slapped him back-handed. I didn’t say a word. His hand went to his cheek, his friend plucked at his sleeve. They walked backwards, faces blank, turned and hurried away.
    Rosa joined me, buttoning her jacket. “What would you have done if they’d both had a go at you?