Free Vendetta for the Saint. by Leslie Charteris

then: the vendetta and murder. The man and his wife and daughter were killed, and only the little son escaped because he had
been sent to visit his grandparents
in Bergamo, and when they heard what
had happened they gave him to
friends who took him to another town and pre tended he was their own. But the boy knew all the story, and he grew up with a hatred strong enough to start a vendetta against
all the Mafia. But when he was old
enough to do anything he knew that that
was not the way.”
    “And so he joined the police to try to
do some thing
legally?”
    “A poorly paid job, as I said before,
and a dan gerous one if
it is done honestly. But do you think a man with such memories could be on the side of those murderers?”
    “But if your police station is a nest of mafiosi, how can
you get anything done? That two-faced maresciallo almost had me
convicted of attempting to
murder myself, before you came in. Then every thing changed. Do they suspect that you may
be investigating them
too?”
    “Not yet. They think I am a happy fool
who bumbles into
the wrong places—an honest fool who
refuses bribes and reports any offer of one. Men in my job are always being transferred,
and so they hide what
they can from me and wait patiently for me to be transferred again. But being from the north, it has taken me many years and much
pull ing of strings
to get here, and I have no intention of being moved again before I have
achieved some of my
purpose.”
    If ever the Saint had heard and seen
sincerity, he had to feel that he was in the
presence of it now.
    “So you want to hear what I can tell
you,” he said slowly.
“But knowing my reputation, would you believe me? And aren’t you a bit
interested in the chance that
I might incriminate myself?”
    “I am not playing a game, signore,” the detective said
harshly. “I do not ask for any of your other secrets. You can tell me you
have murdered thir teen
wives, if you like, and it would mean nothing to me if you helped in the one other thing
that mat ters more to me
than life.”
    Perhaps the first commandment of any outlaw should be, Thou shall keep thy trap shut
at all times; but on
the other hand he would not be plying his lonely trade if he were not a breaker
of rules, and this sometimes
means his own rules as well. Simon knew that this was one time when he had to gamble.
    “All right,” he said. “Let’s
see what you make of this
…”
    He related the events of the past few days
with eidetic
objectiveness. He left nothing out and drew no conclusions, waiting to see what Ponti
would make of it.
    “It is as clear as minestrone,” said the detective, at
the end of the recital. “You thought the English man Euston was killed in Naples because he
recog nized Destamio
as being someone named Dino Cartelli.
Yet Destamio showed you proof of his identity, and you learned here in Palermo that Cartelli has been dead for many years. That
seems to show that
you are—as the Americans say— woofing up the wrong
tree.”
    “Perhaps.” Simon finished his meal
and his wine. “But
in that case how do you explain the coincidence of Euston’s murder, Destamio’s sud den interest in me, the money he gave me,
and the attempt to kill
me?”
    “If you assume there is a connection,
only two explanations
are possible. Either Destamio was Cartelli, or Cartelli is Destamio.”
    “Exactly.”
    “But an imposter could not take the
place of Destamio, one
of the chieftains of the Mafia. And if the man who died in the bank was not Cartelli, who was he?”
    “Those are the puzzles I have to solve,
and I in tend to keep
digging until I do.”
    “Or until someone else digs for you—a
grave,” Ponti snorted,
then puffed explosively on a cigarette.
    Simon
smiled, and ordered coffee.
    “For me it is very good that you get
involved,” Ponti
said after a pause. “You stir things up, and in the stirring things may
come to the surface which may
be valuable to me. In my position, I am forced to be