In The Hour Before Midnight aka The Sicilian Heritage

invaded the island and yet the Americans had passed through unheeded, thanks, it was said, to the fact that most of the Italian troops had deserted after a Mafia directive.

The road narrowed, but we had it all to ourselves and I kept close to the wall, climbing slowly in second gear in a cloud of dust. The only living things we saw were a shepherd and his flock high up above a line of beech trees and then we rounded a shoulder and found Bellona a hundred yards away.

For many years, because of the constant state of anarchy and banditry in rural Sicily, the people have tended to congregate in villages much larger than are found elsewhere in Europe. Bellona was smaller than most, although that was probably to be expected in the sparsely populated high country.

Several streets slanted down to a square, mostly open sewers if the stench of urine was anything to go by, and thin children played listlessly in the dirt.

I pulled up outside the wineshop. There were three wooden tables with benches placed in the shade and two men sat drinking red wine. One of them was old, a typical peasant in a shiny dark suit. His companion was a different breed, a short, thick-set man of forty or so with the kind of face that doesn’t tan and dark, deep-set eyes.

Something makes a mafioso, the peculiar stare, the air of authority, a kind of detachment from other men. This man was Cerda, I was certain of that as he got to his feet and moved to the car.

“What can I do for you, signor?” he asked as I got out to meet him.

Burke was by now looking really ill. Great beads of sweat oozed from his face and he had a hand screwed tightly into his stomach.

“We’re on our way to Agrigento,” I said. “One of my passengers has been taken ill.” He leaned down and looked at Burke and then Rosa and I added, “Are you the proprietor?”

He nodded. “What is he, American?”

“Irish. He put away a bottle of passito at the last stop. Wouldn’t be told.”

“Tourists.” He shook his head. “We’ll get him inside.”

I said to Rosa, “Better to wait out here, signorina. Can I get you anything?”

She hesitated, then smiled slightly. “Coffee and make certain they boil the water.”

“I’ll send my wife out at once, signorina,” Cerda said. “Perhaps you would care to sit at one of the tables?”

She got out of the car as we took Burke in between us. There was a cracked marble bar, half a dozen tables and a passage beyond. Cerda kicked open a door and we went into a small, cluttered bedroom, obviously his own. We eased Burke on to the bed and loosened his tie.

“A couple of hours and he’ll be over the worst,” Cerda said. “A hell of a hangover, but he’ll be able to travel. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He left, presumably to arrange about the coffee and I lit a cigarette and went to the window. A minute or so later, the door clicked open again and when I turned, he was leaning against it, a hand behind his back.

“And now we talk. Who are you?”

“You’re quick,” I said.

He shook his head. “No one in his right mind on the way to Agrigento turns off to drive ten miles over the worst road in Sicily for fun.”

“You’re right, of course. I’m going to take something out of my right-hand pocket so don’t shoot me. It isn’t a gun.”

The handkerchief had roughly the same effect as a holy relic. I thought, for a moment, that he was going to kiss it. He took an old Colt.45 automatic from behind his back, probably a relic of the war, and put it down on top of a chest of drawers.

“So, you are from the capo? I felt sure you were of the Society from the moment I saw you, but one can always be wrong. Strange that we have not met before. I’m in Palermo every month on business for the Society.”

“I’ve been away for a few years. Just returned.” I decided to give him all guns. “I’m the capo’s grandson.”

His eyes widened and for a moment, I honestly thought he might genuflect. “But of course, I remember your mother, God rest her.” He crossed himself. “An American father, that was it. I thought there was something not quite Sicilian about you. What about your friend?”

“He’s working with me, but the story about the passito was true enough.”

He grinned. “We’ll leave him to it. Cooler in the kitchen, anyway.”

It was a large square room with one small window so that it was in semi-darkness in spite of the bright sun outside. He brought a bottle of wine to the table, filled a couple of glasses and motioned me to sit. His wife flitted from the stove like a dark wraith, a tray in her hands, and vanished through the door.

“Now, what brings the capo’s grandson to Bellona?”

“Serafino Lentini,” I said.

He paused, his glass half-way to his lips, then lowered it again. “You’d like to get your hands on Serafino?” He laughed. “Mother of God, so would I. And the capo told you to see me? I don’t understand. The Society has been after Serafino for nearly two years now. He’s given us a lot of trouble and the people round go for him in a big way.” He swallowed some of his wine and sighed. “Very discouraging.”

“What is he trying to be?” I said. “Another Guiliano – a Robin Hood?”

He spat on the floor. “Serafino’s just like the rest of us, out for number one, but he does the shepherds a few favours from time to time or stops some old woman from being evicted, so they think the sun shines out of his backside. Six months ago, near Frentini, he held up the local bus that was carrying wages to a cooperative, shot the driver, and a bank clerk. The driver died two days later.”

“A real hard man,” I commented.

“Wild,” he said. “Never grown up. Mind you he suffered greatly at the hands of the police when he was younger. Lost the sight of an eye. I personally think he’s never got over it. But what do you want with him?”

I told him as much as he needed to know and when I was finished, he shook his head. “But this is madness. You could never hope to get anywhere near Serafino. Here, I will show you.”

He opened a drawer and produced a large-scale survey map of the region. It showed the whole Monte Cammarata area in detail.

“Here is where Serafino is staying at the moment.” He indicated a spot on the map on the other side of the mountain about fifteen hundred feet below the summit. “There’s a shepherd’s hut up there beside a stream. He uses it all the time except when he’s on the run.”

I showed my surprise. “You’re certain?”

He smiled sadly. “Let me tell you the facts of life. Knowing where Serafino is and catching him there are two different things. Every shepherd on the mountains worships him, every goatherd. They have a signalling system from crag to crag that informs him of the approach of anyone when they’re still three or four hours hard climbing away. I’ve tried to catch him with local men who belong to us – mountain men. We’ve always failed.”

“How many men does he have with him?”

“At the moment, three. The Vivaldi brothers and Joe Ricco.”

I examined the map for two or three minutes, then asked him to describe the area in detail. I didn’t need to make notes, I’d done this sort of thing too often before.

In the end I nodded and folded the map. “Can I keep this?”

“Certainly. It’s impossible you realise that?”

“On the contrary.” I smiled. “I feel rather more confident than I did earlier. Now I think I’ll go for a walk. I’d like to have a look round. I’ll see you later.”

I paused in the street door, half-blinded by the sudden glare, and put on my sunglasses. Rosa was seated at the wooden table nearest the car, the tray in front of her. She wasn’t alone. The two specimens who lounged on the edge of the table were typical of the younger men still to be found in the region. Features brutalised and coarsened by a life of toil, shabby, patched clothing, broken boots, cloth caps that anywhere else in Europe belonged to another age.

Rosa’s back was stiff and straight and she smoked a cigarette and stared into space. One of them said