Bloody Passage - Jack Higgins [25]
There was no sign of anyone when we got there, only a verger in soiled black cassock who swept the floor.
"I'll wait here," Barzini said. "You two might as well have a look below while you're here. You'll find it very interesting."
We went down some steps into a high room--an enormously high room. I think it was one of the most horrible sights I have ever seen in my life. The shelves were piled high with desiccated corpses, all with name plates around their necks. Some were skeletons, some had flesh on their bones, eyes that stared, tufted hair.
We left in a hurry and I think Langley was fractionally ahead as we went up the stairs. Barzini was standing in the centre of the church making a note in a pocket diary.
"You lousy bastard," Langley said.
"Didn't you like it?" Barzini shrugged. "The aristocracy of Palermo. Do you know that people come on Sundays to point out their ancestors?"
"To hell with their bloody ancestors," Langley said. "What's happened to this guy you were supposed to see?"
"You mean the verger?" Barzini said. "I've already spoken to him. He's just gone. Nino will be waiting at a trattoria on the other side of the village of Misilmeri on the road to Agrigento. Better to make it after dark so I said ten o'clock. That gives us nice time to see Angel Carter."
He turned and walked out and we followed, utterly defeated.
You could hear Club Tabu from a long way away and the car park was almost full in spite of the fact that it was so early in the evening.
Once inside, you could have been in London, Paris or Las Vegas. The decor and design of such places is the same the world over along with the steaks straight from the freezer and the packaged food. There was a casino which seemed to be doing good business and up on the stage a trio played modern jazz brilliantly although nobody seemed to be paying much attention.
We settled ourselves at the bar and had a drink. Barzini glanced at his watch. "Not long now, then you'll see what I mean."
A few moments later there was a drum roll and a compere came on stage to announce the commencement of the floor show. The effect was remarkable. The casino emptied of all but the most hardened gamblers and there was a general rush for seats.
A larger orchestra now took their places on the stand and someone checked the mike. A moment later the compere ran on to a drum roll and announced in four languages that the Club Tabu was proud and happy to present, straight from her sensational run at the Moulin Rouge in Paris, Miss Angel Carter.
He ran for the wings, the lights went out completely. A single spot picked her out of the darkness, one of the most beautiful girls I'd ever clapped eyes on, long blonde hair hanging straight to the shoulders, a simple green silk mini dress with pleated skirt, black stockings, gold shoes with enormously high heels.
When she started to sing, you'd have thought it was Judy Garland come down to earth again. The same emotion deep in the throat, the same way of breaking a note in two so that it sent something crawling up your spine.
She started to work her way through all the old standards. A Foggy Day, September Song, The Lady is a Tramp, and had them eating out of her hand, especially the men when she moved out along the boardwalk above the heads of the audience.
I said to Barzini, "Listen, she's fantastic, but what in the hell am I supposed to do with her except the obvious thing? She wouldn't last five minutes on the kind of caper we're contemplating."
"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that," he said.