The Mafia Emblem Read online

  - 15 -

  The Fiat pulled out of the airport entrance and was immediately embroiled in the Naples midday traffic jam. The driver didn’t take the ring road where the traffic at least appeared to be moving, even though it was nose to tail at about twenty miles an hour. Instead they crossed straight over at the junction and dived into the city itself. They were soon in a long broad street full of noise and action.

  It was Ben’s first experience of Naples traffic which he discovered was like nowhere else on earth that he had ever seen before. Drivers were constantly pulling out, turning off, crossing over, making U-turns, stopping for chats with friends or arguments with other drivers. They didn’t bother to give any indication of their intentions. Between the cars and vans there hurtled innumerable scooters and mopeds, driven by young and old. None of the riders appeared to have heard of safety helmets. Some had old ladies sitting side-saddle on the pillion and carrying massive shopping baskets on their laps. Others had livestock in cages. From this activity rose a cacophony of sound made up of revving engines, screaming drivers and a bewildering variety of horns. The pitiless sun beat down into this narrow canyon of babel through a haze of petrol vapour and pollution. The whole experience was exhausting.

  It was a relief when the driver turned off the main street into one of the narrow, shady side streets. Here the tall flats towered above them, their balconies seeming almost to meet above their heads. Shutters were closed against the noise and dust of the street. Lines of washing criss-crossed between the balconies like strings of tatty bunting.

  The Fiat speeded up. It weaved between the scattered, parked cars, bouncing over rubbish and debris and disturbing urchins playing in the gutters. In this way they made irregular but better progress. The little Italian driver certainly seemed to know his way around Naples. He swung from right to left and back again through the network of narrow streets, plunging across main thoroughfares and threading his way round small piazzas until Ben was utterly bewildered and had lost all sense of direction. In the end he just sat back to observe the motley collection of humanity which peopled the worst slums of Western Europe.

  Some of the impressions remained vivid long after he had returned to London. In one of the main streets he watched people stepping uncaringly over the body of an old woman with a small dog seated by her head. No one seemed to bother whether she was alive or dead. Wherever they went there were emaciated animals with ribs showing through their fur, picking around the heaps of rubbish or squabbling over scraps of food. It was common to see adults urinating in the gutters. Flat dwellers threw bowls of fluid into the streets from upstairs balconies. Everywhere was rubbish and filth and detritus.

  Ben scarcely noticed as the car turned into another short, dingy street lined with the same high buildings either side. About halfway along it suddenly came to a halt. The little man jumped out and ran round to the other side of the car. He opened Ben’s door.

  “You get out here,” he commanded in a none-too-friendly tone.

  He opened the front door, took out Ben’s case and stood it in the road, slamming the car door behind it.

  “What’s this?” asked Ben, emerging into the heat and the smells. “This isn’t Posillipo.”

  The Italian was already getting back into the driver’s seat. “You wait here,” he repeated.

  He shut his door, let the car into gear and accelerated away with what seemed like a desperate urgency. Ben’s still open door banged against his case, sending it flying into the gutter, before it rebounded shut. The Fiat raced off and squealed round the corner at the end of the street on two wheels.

  As the roar of the engine dwindled away to nothing an almost tangible silence settled on the street, broken only by the distant sounds of the city seeping round the corners. Here there were no happy noises of children skylarking. Somewhere near at hand a solitary dog barked, lazily but regularly, like a creaking sign swinging in the wind.

  Ben walked over and rescued his case from the gutter. Mystified by his sudden abandonment, he looked around him. This street was hardly more than a wide alleyway. On both sides the buildings were like many others in the area. They were four or five stories high with narrow metal balconies projecting from the upper floors. The shutters were closed tight to bar the entrance of the slanting rays of the sun.

  There was a solitary old car parked against a wall towards the far end of the alley. As far as he could see it was empty. There was no sign in the whole street of any person and no other feature to relieve the monotony, save the usual piles of rubbish. It seemed as though this place had been forgotten by humanity.

  Why had he been abandoned here? What was he supposed to be waiting for? It seemed an odd sort of a place to arrange a meeting. Perhaps the other car was actually waiting for him. The driver might have fallen asleep in the heat. It was an unlikely prospect, since the vehicle was old and tatty, but it was worth a try.

  He picked up his case and started down the street in the direction of the car. As he did so two men, who had previously been out of sight, moved out of the shadow of a doorway near the vehicle and began to walk towards him. They were big, tough-looking men, dressed in dark clothes. One had sunglasses on. Their step was slow and purposeful and their arms hung free by their sides as though ready for action. Ben felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  He had heard about the multitude of petty criminals who were supposed to people the poor quarters of Naples, taking advantage of foolish tourists who strayed from the safe main streets. He decided to try the other way.

  He turned round and started to retrace his steps. He remembered that the road they had come from was wider than this one. A couple of hundred yards to the left along that street was one of the main boulevards which they had crossed in the little car.

  A quick glance behind told him that the men had quickened their pace. Ben began to hurry. Perhaps they would simply turn out to be the carriers of a message from the Cimbroni. However he preferred to receive it where there were other people around.

  It was then that a third man came round the corner in front of him. Although the fellow was twenty yards away, Ben picked him out clearly. He was dressed in a suit made of a black, shiny material. He was hunched forward and the jacket seemed to rest on the back of his shoulders. It had narrow lapels which framed a black tee shirt. His greasy hair was slicked close to his head. His trousers were tight to his legs and his shoes had pointed toes. The American term “hood” floated into Ben’s mind.

  The man halted and his hand came out of his pocket. Ben’s heart seemed to stop as he saw the man was holding a small knife. The hood waved the knife in front of him, daring him to come any closer. Ben halted. He didn’t want to end up like Toni’s grotesquely murdered body in the office in London.