Better The Devil

© 2016 M J H Simmonds. All Rights Reserved

“The waiter, of course!” declared Holmes, with obvious agitation. “Really, inspector, you bring me cases a child could solve.”

“But we searched everyone, and he had absolutely nothing on him. No trace of having carried any poison, and anyway, why on earth would he do it? He did not even know the man. He had only been in the country for a week or two, and as far as we can ascertain, they had never even previously met.” Inspector Lestrade defended himself staunchly against Holmes’ verbal assault.

Holmes sighed. “The poison was spent. It had achieved its purpose. What kind of assassin would carry with him, extra poison? Did he have a list of intended victims and this poor devil was merely the first?”

Holmes’ sarcasm was met with silence from a reddening Lestrade.

“At least you examined the flowers,” Holmes added, resignedly. Lestrade opened his mouth to reply, but stopped and said nothing.

“Oh Inspector, did you not look into the vases? If I were to pour poison into a man’s drink, I would want to be rid of the sachet that contained the hateful powder as soon as I possibly could. Crushing it in hand and dropping it into a flower vase could be achieved almost in the same motion as adding the poison to a glass of wine. Remember, Lestrade, the victim never left the table. The only moment when he would have been blind to the waiter was when he held the menu before him, an oversized single sheet of card, which would have momentarily blocked the waiter’s lower half from view. It would have appeared as if the waiter was simply moving the vase into a more convenient position when he was, in fact, administering the fatal dose and also disposing of the pouch which held this terrible agent.”

“Well, all this is merely speculation,” stammered Lestrade. “Even if we find said sachet in the vase, we still have no motive for the crime. Look, Holmes, nobody saw what happened, so without a motive, or any witnesses, we have to accept that we are unlikely ever to get a conviction, everything else is circumstantial.”

“But we do have more data, Inspector,” Holmes countered. “What was the victim’s name?”

“Let me see.” Lestrade examined his notebook. “Luca Cinquemani.”

“And the waiter?”

“Francesco di Trapani. Yes, I do realise that they were both Italian. However, that is hardly surprising, it is an Italian restaurant, after all,” Lestrade responded, with more than a hint of a sneer.

“And, anyway,” he added with a trace of triumphalism, “Cinquemani, despite his fancy name, was born and bred in the East End of London. He was as local as you or I.”

“Inspector, what do you know of the island of Sicily?” Holmes asked, calmly.

“Well, not a great deal,” struggled Lestrade. “There is much talk of secret societies and vendettas, but that is surely of no relevance here, is it?”

“What if I told you that Cinquemani is an old Sicilian name, literally meaning ‘five hands’? It was a name often given to the families of thieves.”

“Thank you for the lesson in history, Mr Holmes, but a man’s surname is hardly proof of guilt or, indeed, a reason for murder,” replied Lestrade, gruffly.

Holmes ignored Lestrade’s tone and continued. “Trapani is a fishing port on the west coast of Sicily. Coincidences do certainly occur and, yes, many are innocent. However, when a crime has been committed, all deserve, and indeed require, investigation.”

“So, we have a connection. I admit, Holmes, I am impressed, but I still do not have enough to charge the waiter.”

“Nor, I suspect, will you ever have,” announced Holmes, to our complete surprise.

“Really, Holmes,” spluttered Lestrade. “I thought you were certain that the waiter was our man. What on earth has changed your mind so suddenly?” begged Lestrade.

“Why, Inspector, I must apologise. While I am indeed certain that di Trapani is indeed the killer, I, like you, can offer no absolute proof. I am also frustrated that this murder may well go unresolved and a killer will most likely walk free. My only solace is in my, admittedly scant, knowledge of Sicilian affairs. If a man has made the effort to travel one and a half thousand miles to commit a murder, then it must surely have been for a good reason.”

“To kill a man,“ Holmes continued, “essentially in public, is a huge risk and therefore has to have been done for a good reason. It was carefully planned and, please forgive the expression, executed. This whole terrible business had two purposes. Firstly, to make a statement, to demonstrate that, wherever one may try to run, anyone, anywhere can be reached. This is very much a signature of Sicilian killings. Secondly, this was almost certainly a revenge killing. Sometime in the past, Cinquemani was, almost certainly, responsible for an outrage that personally affected di Trapani or his family. The young man has probably long plotted his revenge and, once he was able, ventured here to London where he finally exacted his revenge.”

“Be that as it may, we still have an unsolved crime here. How do you suggest we proceed?” asked Lestrade, all hint of sarcasm now long gone from his voice.

“I suggest that we each take a large brandy and one of Watson’s excellent Hoyo de Monterrey cigars, newly arrived from H&S.”

Holmes’ reply was as shocking as it had been unexpected.

“Do you mean that we should do nothing, Holmes?” I asked, incredulously.

“Anything that we now do can only lead to more suffering and, very possibly, even death,” Holmes replied, seriously.

“We have stumbled across a crime of revenge, one which will be protected by the sworn oath of ‘omerta’. Any, and all, of our future investigations would be in vain. We would only be risking our own lives, and those of others, with no possible hope of success,” continued Holmes.

Lestrade left shortly afterwards, refusing the offer of both brandy and cigar. I was also in no mood to relax with a drink and a smoke and turned on Holmes once we were alone.

“Sometimes, Holmes, I simply do not understand you. How can you let a killer escape so easily?” I demanded.

Holmes sighed, sadly. His face seemed to drop and he suddenly appeared to gain many years as he slumped back into his chair.

“My dear Watson. I do not always communicate with you all that I know. Sometimes for selfish reasons, but occasionally because I fear exactly what you would do if you knew the whole truth.”

“Holmes, old chap, you can tell me anything. You know that,” I replied, not a little hurt at Holmes’ admission.

“Very well. There have been rumours circulating regarding the activities of Cinquemani, for some time. Nothing approaching actual proof has ever been forthcoming, although that is no surprise in such a tight knit community. However, the rumours have persisted.”

“By God, what sort of rumours, Holmes?” I could barely dare to think of what terrible things might cause even Holmes to baulk at their very existence.

We smoked two cigars each as Holmes shared with me his knowledge of the activities of Luca Cinquemani. That night I retired to my bed in silence, a sadder, angrier man than I had been before Holmes had shared his confidence with me.

A week later, Holmes and I watched from a distance as di Trapani safely boarded a ship in the East End docks, heading for Naples.

Once he was up on deck, every member of the crew formed a line and waited to shake his hand.

We watched in silence before, finally, turning and heading back into the thick London fog.

The End