The Black Hand by Will Thomas

evident. His hair was thinner than I had first perceived, and it was possible he dyed it, for the line between the black and the gray of his temples was too severe. He was older than I had thought. Our visitor seemed tired and dispirited and sank down into the chair in front of Barker without a word, and without any display of firearms.
    “Good afternoon, sir,” Barker said. “This is my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn. Thomas, this is Vincenzo Gigliotti.”
    “Gigliotti!” I cried.
    “At your service,” the man replied with quiet dignity.
    “Would you care for a cigar, sir?” Barker offered.
    He shook his head. “No, thank you. I don’t wish to intrude. I understand you are planning a confrontation with the Sicilians.”
    “Have you come, sir,” Barker rumbled, “to claim vendetta against the people who killed your son?”
    “I am sixty-eight years old, Mr. Barker, and have retired from the life of secret societies and murder. My sonattempted to draw me back into it in order to stop these Sicilians, and look where it got him. His children have no father now, and Concetta is a widow.”
    “Why were you selling Italian ices outside our home, Mr. Gigliotti?” Barker asked.
    “My grandson Alonzo and I were watching you, for your protection. Victor asked me to keep an eye on you. He said you are a good detective, but your weakness is your personal safety. He did not want you to be killed before your plan was carried out.”
    I thought of Philippa Ashleigh, who had said much the same thing about my employer. I had to admit, he had more scars on his body than any five men I knew combined. He trusted his ability to fight his way out of any situation.
    “I had other men in the area if I needed them,” the old man continued, “even two watching overnight, should the Sicilians attempt to attack then.”
    “I thank you for your concern, since I can no longer thank Victor. Was it you who stopped the intruder on my grounds?”
    “Yes. We caught the fellow two streets away. That’s one less Sicilian to worry about. Your young man here seemed very comfortable with the dagger.”
    “Maestro Gallenga trained him.”
    The Italian gave a wan smile. “Ah, Gallenga, yes. He’s gone, you know. He got out of town quickly once the bullets began to fly.”
    “What do you mean?” I asked.
    “He and his wife left the city. He wished to spend his remainingyears in peace. He never had much of a stomach for violence.”
    I didn’t either, I had to admit, but I didn’t have that luxury in my line of work.
    “What brings you to my office?” my employer asked.
    Vincenzo Gigliotti moved forward in his chair and leaned an elbow on Barker’s desk. “I have come to find out what you will do, Mr. Barker. I do not thirst for revenge. That is for young men. Yet even now the Sicilians threaten my family’s livelihood. I wish to run my son’s business interests until such time as Alonzo is full grown and can assume his rightful position. I don’t want to see it driven into the ground by Sicilians. Also, I wish to see the killers of my son brought to justice.”
    “Our wishes are the same, then,” Barker said. “I also want to see the Italians and Sicilians at peace again.”
    “You go to war in order to make peace? You have an odd way of doing things, Mr. Barker.”
    “If I crush the serpent’s head, Mr. Gigliotti, then I need not crush the whole snake. I need something from you that you will have a hard time giving me.”
    “You have but to name it.”
    “What I want from you, sir, is to stay out of it completely. I don’t want a single Italian on the dock tomorrow night.”
    Gigliotti’s face grew red, and his eyes nearly bulged from their sockets.
    “Do you trust me?” Barker went on. “Do you see that unless the Sicilians face a completely English force, it will only lead to more vendettas? The only way to stop the Mafiais to cut it off from the Italian community, to isolate it like a contagion, and to destroy the