The sword of wealth

by Henry Wilton Thomas

The place for which Tarsis was making lay a little farther on. It was a café of the cheap and gaudy grade; its large front windows bore the legend in yellow and green, “Café of the Ancient Colonnade.” Before he could traverse the Corso there swung into view from another street a vociferous collection of men and women marching without order of line. They were the striking silk-workers. Tarsis had no taste for breaking through their ranks, which he must have done to reach the point upon which he had his eye. He waited until they had gone by.

They made a great hubbub with their songs and outcries against facts of the existing order. At their head a blacksmith bore a huge banner inscribed “Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Men and Women.” Scattered through the jumbled mass of marchers were placards bearing such declarations as:

“We are the golden geese.”

“We want more of the golden eggs.”

“Down with the tax on bread.”

“Down with Tarsis and his gang.”

From windows and sidewalk the onlookers filled the air with their shouts of “Bravo!” Now and then a group of them would join the marchers. One placard read, “We Are the Heart-blood of Wealth,” but to Tarsis the demonstration did not seem a pulse-beat of society; in his view it was merely another howl from the ungrateful proletariat. He was annoyed because he had to wait and indignant that the authorities did not put a stop to the incendiary display. In due course it was broken up by the carbineers—ultima ratio legis. Grape shot was scattered freely, undertakers enjoyed a revival of trade, and the wards of the General Hospital were over-crowded. Tarsis heard the firing from a distance, and thought it high time the authorities took the case in hand. The last of the marching mob had passed before that act of the drama was played, leaving him free to cross to the Café of the Ancient Colonnade.

He saw the Panther—the man he sought—seated at a table by the window engrossed in a game of mora. While he had faith enough in his disguise as an outdoor device, he was unwilling to tempt fate by entering the café. It was possible, he reflected, that one of the rough fellows there, playful in his cups, might pull the goggles from his eyes. That the sound of his voice alone would be sufficient to make the one he wanted recognise him he felt sure, but it might reveal his identity to others as well. So he walked on, to return again and again. For two hours he passed and repassed the place, striving to catch the eye of his man and give the signal that would not fail to bring him forth. When at last his perseverance bore fruit, the fellow who came out did not look suitable for the employment that Tarsis had to offer. He was small of stature and of sickly mien. His eyes were those of a fish, but he moved with the tread of a panther. Tarsis kept on walking, and the other followed at a discreet distance. In that order they proceeded amid the throngs of the corsos and in the streets so quiet that they caught the sound of each other’s footfalls.

So certain was Tarsis of the Panther that he did not once glance behind. Before he turned to speak to him they had crossed Via Pier Capponi, the last illuminated street, and were beyond the roofs of the town standing in the great level plain of Army square. There was no mincing matters. In the Sicilian patter, which was the mother tongue of each, Tarsis unfolded his scheme. The wind had blown an opaque shade over the moon and stars. To the northward, where the long line of barrack buildings stood, they could discern lights flitting to and fro and the shadowy movements of men. They hushed their voices once or twice when there came out of the blackness near by the tramp of manœuvring soldiers, the clank of arms, the low-keyed commands of the officers.

When the affair had been arranged, to the smallest detail, the Panther closed his paw on a thousand-lira note and vanished in the darkness. Tarsis waited a minute before he made off; then took a path around by the cavalry barracks, and came into the light of the street lamps behind the Dal Verme Theatre. There he found a cabman dozing on his seat. He roused him and named a certain wine-shop hard by the Monforte Gate beyond the walls.