Read Online In the Hour Before Midnight by Jack Higgins - Free Book Online Page B

another.”
    â€œThen why are you bothering?”
    He looked surprised, then frowned as if it hadn’t occurred to him before. “A good question—certainly not because of any great affection. She’s no good, she never has been and I honestly don’t think she ever will be. Maybe it isn’t her fault, but that’s the way it is. No, I suppose when it all comes down to it I owe it to my wife. She was a wonderful woman. The seven years she gave me were the best, Wyatt. Anything else can only be afters.”
    He certainly sounded sincere and the presence of Rosa Solazzo didn’t alter my judgement in theslightest. I was certainly the last man in the world to hold the fact that he needed a woman around against him.
    â€œOne thing puzzles me,” I said. “I can understand you not going near the police. In Sicily they are worse than useless in a case like this, but didn’t it ever occur to you to approach Mafia?”
    â€œWhat good would that do?” Burke laughed. “Stacey has this Mafia thing on the brain, Mr. Hoffer. There are reasons.”
    Hoffer waved him down. “Sure I tried Mafia. They’re still behind most things here. Don’t believe all this crap you hear about Rome having stamped it out. That’s just for the tourist trade. They don’t want to scare anyone away.”
    â€œDid you get anywhere?”
    He shook his head. “It seems Serafino Lentini doesn’t like the Mafia. The impression I got was that they’d like to get their hands on him, too.”
    â€œStacey’s grandfather is something to do with this Mafia thing,” Burke said. “Isn’t that so, Stacey? He’s going to see him tonight.”
    Hoffer frowned. “Your grandfather?”
    â€œVito Barbaccia,” I said, I think for effect more than anything.
    Rosa Solazzo sucked in her breath and dropped her glass. Hoffer stared at me incredulously in thefollowing silence. “You are Vito Barbaccia’s grandson?”
    â€œYou’ve heard of him, I take it?”
    â€œHeard of him? Who hasn’t? And you are seeing him tonight?”
    I nodded and he shook his head. “I can’t get over it.”
    â€œYou’ve met him?” Burke asked.
    Hoffer smiled. “Twice—at parties, but never to speak to. Only royalty gets that close.”
    Burke looked at me, a frown on his face and I realised that everything I had told him at the cemetery hadn’t really registered, certainly not the fundamental fact of just how important my grandfather was.
    I drained my glass and got to my feet. “Well, I think I’ll take a turn round the garden before dinner.”
    â€œWhy not.” Hoffer nodded to Rosa. “Show him the sights, angel. There’s a fish pond round the back that’s quite a showpiece, Mr. Wyatt.”
    Now he was calling me Mr. again . Strange how the Barbaccia affected people. And Rosa? Rosa had gone very pale and when I smiled at her, she dropped her gaze, fear in those dark eyes.
    Barbaccia—mafioso . I suppose that to her, the two were interchangeable. When I tucked her arm in mine, she was trembling.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Hoffer obviously used a first-rate local chef. We had narbe di San Paolo which is a kind of ravioli filled with sugar and ricotta cheese and fried and cannolo , probably the most famous sweet in Sicily, consisting of a tube of flour and egg filled with cream. The others drank Marsala which is too sweet for me and I had a bottle of Zibibbo from the island of Pantellaria, a wine which is flavoured with anis. The sort of thing you either like at once or not at all.
    We dined on the terrace, a rather conventional little group with Piet and Legrande very much on their best behaviour. Later—the wine having taken effect—things livened up a little. Piet gave all his attention to Rosa though strictly at a superficial level, and even Legrande unwound enough to smile