# The Hand of Peril/Part 2/Chapter 1

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It was two weeks later that, after the docking of a Navigazione Generale Italiana steamer at Palermo, an old woman wearing amber-coloured spectacles stepped solemnly ashore.
As this old woman had taken the pains to await the departure of all other passengers, and as she carried only a hand-bag of the same faded hue as her attire, her visit to the Dogana was a brief one. Then, for all her humped shoulders and a somewhat sidling method of progression suggestive of sciatic rheumatism, she proceeded with a melancholy briskness along the Via del Molo. It was not until she had entered the Piazza Ucciardone that she encountered an idle vettura.
After looking peevishly about her in all directions, she signalled to the driver. The dilapidated vehicle swung about and drew up beside her with a mingled clatter of wheels and hooves. The long arm in faded black thrust up to the cabman a scratch-pad on which a city address was written.
The small and swarthy man of the reins, having scrutinised this address, blithely nodded his understanding. Then he showed his teeth in a still broader grin. For his Saracenic black eye had swept the dowdy figure, noting the well-worn metal ear-trumpet hanging from one arm by a frayed black cord, the ​antiquated silver-mounted black cane, the gloves of faded black silk, and the shimmer of jet spangles arrayed along the somewhat opulent breast. He was murmuring the all-condoning word of "Inglese!" when he made note of a further and more compelling fact. The black-gloved hand was holding out to him a ten lire note. Thereupon, having promptly pocketed the same, he sent his long-lashed Sicilian whip whistling about his pony's ears and his cab-wheels went rattling up through the streets of the city.
Arrived at the desired address, his fare stepped painfully and lumberingly from the little open cab, watched hesitatingly until that vehicle was out of sight, and then rounded a corner. This eccentric-minded tourist then walked six doors southward, limping stolidly into the entrance-court of a grey-stone house, as silent and sepulchral of aspect as a mediæval mausoleum.
Here, after being accosted by a rotund and mild-eyed little man in grass slippers and after writing certain words on the pad which she carried, the newcomer was given a key and instructed, in Italian, to mount the stairs.
This she did, unlocking the first door on the left, withdrawing the key, and again carefully locking the door after she had stepped inside.
Once there, she surveyed the chamber with much deliberation. Then she sighed, took off the amber-coloured glasses, divested herself first of the black silk gloves and later of the faded widow's-bonnet. Then she placed her hand-bag on the bed beside them, consulted a watch, and with a second deep sigh ​unbuttoned the jet-spangled waist and groped about the voluminous corsage.
With a still deeper sigh the hand was withdrawn, bringing with it a cigar. A match was struck, the cigar was lighted, and the figure in dowdy black sank into a chair, resting its boot-heels high on the end of the bed.
Before six luxurious puffs had been taken at that cigar a quiet knock sounded on the door. This knock was oddly repeated, translating itself to the attentive ear into a sort of organised tattoo.
The smoker arose, crossed the room and unlocked the door. Then he opened it, but without showing himself. His right hand, as he did so, was thrust through a slit in the black silk skirt, resting on the grip of a revolver half withdrawn from a padded hip-pocket.
The man who stepped into the room exhibited no surprise at either the scene or the figure confronting him. Like the first-comer, in fact, he scrutinised the chamber with the utmost care.
"Speak quietly," said the first occupant of the room as he re-locked the door.
"You can trust Maresi," explained the other, with a head-nod towards the outer passage.
"Then what's new?" was the prompt inquiry.
"Nothing of importance," answered the other, "since my last wire."
"Anything of Lambert?"
"Not a sign!"
"Morello?"
"Still under cover!"
​"The Wimpel woman?"
"Not a trace of her so far!"
There was a moment's pause.
"And the other woman?" asked the man in the half-demolished make-up, "the woman called Maura?
The other man permitted himself the luxury of a smile.
"Has set up a miniature-painting studio on the other side of this block, as I first wired you. A showcase of 'em in the window! And not even a stab at secrecy!"
"And you say she's put in a telephone?"
"The wiring goes to the top of the house, across a couple of others, and from there rounds south to the street-main. I've traced it out. It can be reached from the roof of this building!"
"That's worth a mint to us," murmured the other. "And it hasn't been interfered with?"
"I left that expert work for you."
"Then the sooner we get a loop in that circuit the better!"
"You may be right, but, Kestner, I think your gang has flown the coop!"
It was Wilsnach who spoke, but not the shabby and self-effacing Wilsnach of the rue de la Paix. Instead, it was a dandified, edition-de-luxe Wilsnach as a tourist in peg-top trousers and pointed patent leathers, a Wilsnach with a waist line and a waxed imperial.
Kestner pulled off the iron-grey wig that had been making his head uncomfortably warm.
"I think you're wrong," he replied without ​emotion, "and later on I'll tell you why. But did you get the girl?"
"Yes. Not as young as I wanted, though."
"Where have you quartered her?"
"She's at the Hotel des Palmes with her mother."
"With her mother?"
"Couldn't get her alone—she's only twelve. But she's small for her age. I gathered them up in Taormina. The mother was working at the Hotel Trinacria there. The father's a German named Vandersmissen, a tubercular chef, sent South, on his last legs. They're glad of the money!"
"But that mother!" demurred Kestner.
"I've rigged the woman out in a uniform as a German nurse."
"And the child?"
"Is dolled up the best the island could do. Neither speak a word of English. They're here waiting, meek but mystified. They'll do anything we want, in reason. And she's a pretty kid, yellow hair, blue eyes, German type. But they're costing us sixty francs a day."
"They'll be worth it!"
"But what's your plan?"
"My plan is simply this: Lambert knows I'm after him. He isn't quite sure how much I've found out about him and this daughter of his. He can't be certain if he's shadowed or not. And that's what he wants to make sure of. So he's posted the girl here at this miniature-painting business. He's made her into a wooden decoy-duck."
"But I can't see what he gains by that."
​"Well, here's his game, as I figure it out: People in hiding don't usually advertise their whereabouts. They don't post markers. So don't you see what they're driving at? They simply intend her for the fly, and I am the trout that's to jump at it. They can't even be sure the trout's in this particular pool. But they know that trout have a habit of rising to flies!"
"And this is sure a handsome one!"
"I'm going to rise to it, at any rate. Only, in this case, let's hope we're big enough fish to carry the fly off with us when we go!"
"Now I'm beginning to see daylight," acknowledged Wilsnach. "But what must I do?"
Kestner smoked in silence for several moments.
"Where have you put up?"
"At the Hotel de France, in the Piazza Marina. I thought it best for us to scatter a bit."
"Good! I'm a widow from Hamburg, remember, named Vendersmissen—we can't improve on that name. I've a room at the Hotel des Palmes, next to my grandchild and her nurse. I'm deaf, and I'm eccentric, but I've got money."
"I understand all that, but what does it lead to?"
"Simply that I'm going to take my little blue-eyed grandchild and have her miniature painted on ivory. And I want to be with Maura Lambert when she's doing it."
"She's pretty keen, that young woman!"
"Well, I worked for a week on this make-up. I tried it out on Todaro, in Naples, and on Coletta, at the wharf. It passed both of them."
​"And when you're getting the portrait?"
"When the first chance comes, I'll plant a dictograph. I'll toss a metal spool from the window and you'll get the wires and run them across the roofs to this room. Keep them under cover. Then I want to get the lay-out of that house, and ward-impressions for the different door-keys. And in the meanwhile I'll be feeling my way for still the next step."
"But why are you so sure the gang's here in Palermo?"
"Where the treasure is there also is the heart! Those people 've got a plant somewhere in this city. It's something more than a desk and an etching outfit. It's a big plant for doing their business in a big way. It's going to be hidden, naturally, and hidden deep. But it's our business to dig it out."
"And when we dig it out?"
"It will be no earthly use to us. But I want to know where it is and what it is. In the meantime, I also want a canvass of every printing place in this town. You're a political refugee, with a revolutionary pamphlet to print. And you want an anarchist printer to do this job. That will get you next to anything that looks suspicious."
"And supposing we find their plant?"
"If we get the plant, we'll get them! They won't be far away from where their work comes from."
"They'll fight like cornered rats!"
"Then we'll keep 'em cornered. And while we're at it, I want to look into that olive-oil export business of Morello's. I imagine some of those cans of his hold stuff that never came out of an olive-press."
​Kestner was on his feet again, readjusting the iron-grey wig.
"You're sure this man Maresi is to be relied on?" he was asking.
"As true as steel," was Wilsnach's answer. "He's been doing Department work for us."
Kestner stopped to consult his watch.
"I've got to get back to that hotel. We can't leave here together. You have Maresi tip you off when the court is clear, and get away. Then I'll meet you in thirty minutes at Beppino's. You've got to plant me in that hotel. You see I'm deaf, and don't speak the language."
One half hour later, as the two drove away from Beppino's in a clattering carrozza, Wilsnach stared up through the soft-aired Sicilian evening with a shrug of vague apprehension.
"I hate this country," he said.
"It's a very beautiful place," retorted the old lady in dowdy black, as she stared out through her amber-coloured spectacles.
"You remember what happened just about here?" casually inquired the other.
They were crossing a square bathed in the soft golden light of a tropical evening. This square lay before them as calm and peaceful as a garden. But a small and ominous silence fell over the two of them, for Kestner remembered it was the square where a great man and a brave officer, once known as Petrosini, had been shot down.