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Authors: Leslie Charteris
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means.”
“It is a very old word, and no one can
be quite sure where it
came from. One legend says that it originated here in Palermo in the thirteenth cen tury, when the French ruled the Two Sicilies.
The story is that
a young man was leaving the church after his wedding, and was separated from his bride for a few minutes while he talked to the
priest. In that time she
was seized by a drunken French sergeant, who dragged her away and assaulted
her— and when she
tried to escape, killed her. The bride groom arrived too late to save her, but he
attacked and killed the
sergeant, shouting ‘Morte alia Fran cia! —Death to France!’ Palermo had suffered cruelly during the occupation, and this was
all that the people
needed to hear. A revolt started, and in a few days all the French in the city had been hunted down and slain. ‘Morte
alia Francia. Italia anela!’ was the battle-cry:
Italy wishes death to France!
Of course, soon after, the French came back and killed most of the rebels, and the sur vivors fled into the mountains. But they kept the initials of their battle-cry,
M-A-F-I-A, as their name … At
least, that is one explanation.”
“It’s hard to think of the Mafia as a
sort of thirteenth-century Resistance movement.”
“It is, now; but that is truly what
they were like in the
beginning. Right up to the unification of Ita ly, the Mafia was usually on the side of the
oppressed. Only after that it turned to extortion and murder.”
“I seem to have heard that something
like that happened to the original Knights
Templar,” said the Saint reflectively.
“But aside from that, I don’t see why you should connect them with
me.”
Ponti waited while the caponata di
melanzane was served and
the wine poured. Then he answered as if there had been no interruption.
“It is very simple. Whether you knew
what you were doing or not, you have become involved with the Mafia. A little while ago I told you that
justice would be done
to Tonio. But if he was under the orders of
Destamio, and not merely defending himself
because you caught him picking your pocket, I should not be so optimistic.
Witnesses will be found to swear
that it was you who attacked him.
And nothing will make him confess that he even knows Destamio. That is the omerta, the noble silence. He will die before he speaks. Not
for a noble reason, perhaps, but
because if he talked there would be
no place for him to hide, no place in the
world. There are no traitors to the Mafia—live traitors, that is—and the death that comes to them is not an easy one.”
Simon tasted the Ciclope dell’Etna. It was
light and faintly
acid, but a cool and refreshing accom paniment to
the highly seasoned eggplant.
“At the questura,” he said,
“Tonio already seemed to be in better standing
than I was. Does the Mafia’s long arm reach
even into the ranks of the incorruptible police on this island?”
“Such things are possible,” Ponti
said with great equanimity.
“The Mafia is very strong on this im poverished island. That is why I gave you the
hint in the questura that if you had any more to say to me we should talk elsewhere.”
“And I am supposed to know that you are
the one member of
the police who is above suspicion.”
The detective took no umbrage, but only dis pensed with his smile, so that Simon was
aware again of what
an effective mask it was, behind which anything
could be hidden.
“Let me tell you another story, Signor
Templar, which is not a
legend. It is about a man who came from Bergamo, in the north, to open a shop on this sunny island. It was difficult at first, but
after a time he had a
business that kept his family in modest
comfort. Then the mafia came to demand tribute, and through ignorance or pride he
refused to pay. When
they sent an enforcer to beat him with a club in his own shop, he took away the club and beat the
enforcer. But he was a little too strong and angry, and the enforcer died.
There is only one thing that
happens
“It is a very old word, and no one can
be quite sure where it
came from. One legend says that it originated here in Palermo in the thirteenth cen tury, when the French ruled the Two Sicilies.
The story is that
a young man was leaving the church after his wedding, and was separated from his bride for a few minutes while he talked to the
priest. In that time she
was seized by a drunken French sergeant, who dragged her away and assaulted
her— and when she
tried to escape, killed her. The bride groom arrived too late to save her, but he
attacked and killed the
sergeant, shouting ‘Morte alia Fran cia! —Death to France!’ Palermo had suffered cruelly during the occupation, and this was
all that the people
needed to hear. A revolt started, and in a few days all the French in the city had been hunted down and slain. ‘Morte
alia Francia. Italia anela!’ was the battle-cry:
Italy wishes death to France!
Of course, soon after, the French came back and killed most of the rebels, and the sur vivors fled into the mountains. But they kept the initials of their battle-cry,
M-A-F-I-A, as their name … At
least, that is one explanation.”
“It’s hard to think of the Mafia as a
sort of thirteenth-century Resistance movement.”
“It is, now; but that is truly what
they were like in the
beginning. Right up to the unification of Ita ly, the Mafia was usually on the side of the
oppressed. Only after that it turned to extortion and murder.”
“I seem to have heard that something
like that happened to the original Knights
Templar,” said the Saint reflectively.
“But aside from that, I don’t see why you should connect them with
me.”
Ponti waited while the caponata di
melanzane was served and
the wine poured. Then he answered as if there had been no interruption.
“It is very simple. Whether you knew
what you were doing or not, you have become involved with the Mafia. A little while ago I told you that
justice would be done
to Tonio. But if he was under the orders of
Destamio, and not merely defending himself
because you caught him picking your pocket, I should not be so optimistic.
Witnesses will be found to swear
that it was you who attacked him.
And nothing will make him confess that he even knows Destamio. That is the omerta, the noble silence. He will die before he speaks. Not
for a noble reason, perhaps, but
because if he talked there would be
no place for him to hide, no place in the
world. There are no traitors to the Mafia—live traitors, that is—and the death that comes to them is not an easy one.”
Simon tasted the Ciclope dell’Etna. It was
light and faintly
acid, but a cool and refreshing accom paniment to
the highly seasoned eggplant.
“At the questura,” he said,
“Tonio already seemed to be in better standing
than I was. Does the Mafia’s long arm reach
even into the ranks of the incorruptible police on this island?”
“Such things are possible,” Ponti
said with great equanimity.
“The Mafia is very strong on this im poverished island. That is why I gave you the
hint in the questura that if you had any more to say to me we should talk elsewhere.”
“And I am supposed to know that you are
the one member of
the police who is above suspicion.”
The detective took no umbrage, but only dis pensed with his smile, so that Simon was
aware again of what
an effective mask it was, behind which anything
could be hidden.
“Let me tell you another story, Signor
Templar, which is not a
legend. It is about a man who came from Bergamo, in the north, to open a shop on this sunny island. It was difficult at first, but
after a time he had a
business that kept his family in modest
comfort. Then the mafia came to demand tribute, and through ignorance or pride he
refused to pay. When
they sent an enforcer to beat him with a club in his own shop, he took away the club and beat the
enforcer. But he was a little too strong and angry, and the enforcer died.
There is only one thing that
happens
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