turned into the Via Roma and walked toward the central station.
The Via San Marco was a narrow cobbled street, old eighteenth-century houses five or six stories high towering up on either side. It was a quiet place, somehow cut off from the noise of city traffic. About halfway along, an old-fashioned horse-drawn hearse waited at the curb, draped in black crepe, black plumes on the horses' heads wilting in the rain. The driver wore a caped greatcoat and a top hat, banded with more black crepe, the tails hanging down over his neck. It was the kind of thing you still saw in Sicily and probably nowhere else on earth.
Four men in green baize aprons manhandled an ornate coffin with gilt handles out of a doorway and into the hearse. One of them closed the glass door and crossed himself. The driver flicked his whip and the horses moved away, plumes nodding.
The sign over the door was discreet and simple. Aldo Barzini -- Undertaker. Gold leaf on a black background. The Mercedes pulled into the curb and we got out and passed inside.
The hall was panelled in mahogany and lit by candles. There was an image of the Virgin in an alcove on the right, grave, unsmiling, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers and incense. Strangely unpleasant, that smell, as if it were trying to hide something.
I rang a small brass handbell that stood on a table. It echoed faintly and almost immediately, a tiny, desiccated man in an old-fashioned dark suit and winged collar, appeared noiselessly from a door to the right.
He adjusted his spectacles and blinked nervously. "Signors! How may I be of service?"
I said in my best Italian, "I'm looking for Signor Barzini. A personal matter. We're old friends."
He shrugged helplessly. "What can I say, signor, you've just missed him. Each week at this time he takes flowers to his nephew's grave at the Capuchin cemetery on Monte Pellegrino."
"How long will he be?"
"Who knows, signor. An hour, maybe two. Perhaps you gentlemen would care to wait."
"For God's sake, not that, old stick," Langley said hurriedly. "I don't think I could stand the smell."
I expressed my thanks to the old man, told him we'd be back, and we got out quickly.
The cemetery was deserted in the rain, but a yellow Alfa Romeo was parked in the outer courtyard, a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel. He had the face of a good middleweight fighter and he glanced up casually as Langley and I got out of the Mercedes, then returned to his magazine.
"Is he Barzini's man?" Langley asked me as we moved through the entrance into the cloisters.
"I don't know. I've never seen him before."
An Arab fountain lifted into the air, trying to beat the rain at its own game and failed. We moved on through another archway and found ourselves in the cemetery itself. It was not very large and was ringed by cypress trees, the whole area crowded with fantastic monuments, ornate gothic shrines, and family vaults in marble and bronze.
We found him with no trouble, standing in front of a black marble tomb with bronze eternity doors. He was wearing a white Burberry trenchcoat and rain hat, which didn't surprise me. Buying all his clothes in England was one of his affectations.
I said to Langley, "You stay here," and started forward and in the same moment the chauffeur, whom I'd last seen sitting behind the wheel of the Alfa, stepped from behind a tomb on my right holding a Sterling sub-machine gun in both hands.
Barzini swung round and I raised my hands and called in English, "It's me, Aldo. Oliver Grant."
He smiled instantly. "Oliver, baby, what's new?"
He spoke English with a strong American accent, relic of a boyhood spent in New York where his parents had emigrated for a time and laced with strange, anachronistic slang like something out of a pulp magazine of the thirties.
He said to the chauffeur, "It's all right, Luigi. Back to the car."
The chauffeur moved away and when he was close enough, Barzini gave me the full embrace including a smacking kiss
The Via San Marco was a narrow cobbled street, old eighteenth-century houses five or six stories high towering up on either side. It was a quiet place, somehow cut off from the noise of city traffic. About halfway along, an old-fashioned horse-drawn hearse waited at the curb, draped in black crepe, black plumes on the horses' heads wilting in the rain. The driver wore a caped greatcoat and a top hat, banded with more black crepe, the tails hanging down over his neck. It was the kind of thing you still saw in Sicily and probably nowhere else on earth.
Four men in green baize aprons manhandled an ornate coffin with gilt handles out of a doorway and into the hearse. One of them closed the glass door and crossed himself. The driver flicked his whip and the horses moved away, plumes nodding.
The sign over the door was discreet and simple. Aldo Barzini -- Undertaker. Gold leaf on a black background. The Mercedes pulled into the curb and we got out and passed inside.
The hall was panelled in mahogany and lit by candles. There was an image of the Virgin in an alcove on the right, grave, unsmiling, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers and incense. Strangely unpleasant, that smell, as if it were trying to hide something.
I rang a small brass handbell that stood on a table. It echoed faintly and almost immediately, a tiny, desiccated man in an old-fashioned dark suit and winged collar, appeared noiselessly from a door to the right.
He adjusted his spectacles and blinked nervously. "Signors! How may I be of service?"
I said in my best Italian, "I'm looking for Signor Barzini. A personal matter. We're old friends."
He shrugged helplessly. "What can I say, signor, you've just missed him. Each week at this time he takes flowers to his nephew's grave at the Capuchin cemetery on Monte Pellegrino."
"How long will he be?"
"Who knows, signor. An hour, maybe two. Perhaps you gentlemen would care to wait."
"For God's sake, not that, old stick," Langley said hurriedly. "I don't think I could stand the smell."
I expressed my thanks to the old man, told him we'd be back, and we got out quickly.
The cemetery was deserted in the rain, but a yellow Alfa Romeo was parked in the outer courtyard, a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel. He had the face of a good middleweight fighter and he glanced up casually as Langley and I got out of the Mercedes, then returned to his magazine.
"Is he Barzini's man?" Langley asked me as we moved through the entrance into the cloisters.
"I don't know. I've never seen him before."
An Arab fountain lifted into the air, trying to beat the rain at its own game and failed. We moved on through another archway and found ourselves in the cemetery itself. It was not very large and was ringed by cypress trees, the whole area crowded with fantastic monuments, ornate gothic shrines, and family vaults in marble and bronze.
We found him with no trouble, standing in front of a black marble tomb with bronze eternity doors. He was wearing a white Burberry trenchcoat and rain hat, which didn't surprise me. Buying all his clothes in England was one of his affectations.
I said to Langley, "You stay here," and started forward and in the same moment the chauffeur, whom I'd last seen sitting behind the wheel of the Alfa, stepped from behind a tomb on my right holding a Sterling sub-machine gun in both hands.
Barzini swung round and I raised my hands and called in English, "It's me, Aldo. Oliver Grant."
He smiled instantly. "Oliver, baby, what's new?"
He spoke English with a strong American accent, relic of a boyhood spent in New York where his parents had emigrated for a time and laced with strange, anachronistic slang like something out of a pulp magazine of the thirties.
He said to the chauffeur, "It's all right, Luigi. Back to the car."
The chauffeur moved away and when he was close enough, Barzini gave me the full embrace including a smacking kiss
Similar Books
The Bitter Road to Freedom: The Human Cost of Allied Victory in World War II Europe
William I. Hitchcock
