If there is one thing a Sicilian loves it is a good story, and by this time Hoffer had them by the throat.

“My stepdaughter was kidnapped some weeks ago by a bandit many of you know only too well – Serafino Lentini.”

The man in the braces spat on the floor at the name and there was a general stir.

“I didn’t come to the Council with my troubles because I knew it couldn’t help. As we all know, Serafino Lentini was no friend to the Society, even though he’s been used as a sicario on one or two occasions.”

“You speak of him in the past tense, Karl,” my grandfather remarked. “May we take it that is where he now belongs?”

“The only good news I bring the Council tonight,” Hoffer said. “The police, as we all know, are helpless in these affairs, so when Lentini sent a message demanding ransom, I scraped the necessary amount together, met him myself as stipulated on the Bellona road. He took the money and laughed in my face when I asked for my stepdaughter. He had decided to keep her for himself.”

“Strange,” my grandfather cut in smoothly. “I had always understood that Serafino lacked some of the essential equipment necessary to a Don Juan.”

Hoffer paused, glancing at him sharply, and countered with exactly the right remark. “It was not me he was attacking in behaving in this way. He was showing his contempt for the Society – for all of us.” He shrugged and spread his arms wide. “I couldn’t sit back and do nothing while the wretched girl suffered untold indignities at the hands of his men. In the past I have had the occasion to use the services of an Irish soldier of fortune, a Colonel Burke, well known for his exploits as a mercenary in the Congo. It seemed to me that a man of his stamp might be able to do what no one else could – penetrate the fastnesses of the Cammarata and bring my stepdaughter to safety. I flew to Crete where I met Burke, who agreed to take on this hazardous undertaking with the assistance of three men who had served under him in the Congo.”

He’d even got me interested now and the silence in the salon wouldn’t have been out of place in a cathedral cloister.

“It was when Colonel Burke and his men arrived that I discovered an amazing thing. One of them was the capo’s grandson, a young man named Wyatt.”

The ball was well into Barbaccia’s court. He caught it neatly; had, I suspected, been waiting for it.

He coughed and managed to look serious. “You all know my daughter and her son came to live with me after her American husband was killed in Korea. She died as the direct result of the action of some filthy assassin who had intended to end my days. Unfortunately my grandson blamed me in part for what had happened to his mother.” It was obviously the night for the baring of souls. “We became estranged and the boy, then aged nineteen, ran away. I lost sight of him for some time, then learned he was serving in the Congo as a mercenary. He came to see me the other night with this man Burke and told me why they were in Sicily. I was astonished at his story because I couldn’t understand why Karl had not come to me for help, but I presumed he had his reasons.”

“Help?” Hoffer spread his arms again, appealing to the assembled Council. “How could anyone help? My only hope lay in Burke and his men.” And then, as if it had only just occurred to him, he turned rather uncertainly to Barbaccia. “I had nothing to hide. It seemed to me, under the circumstances, that the fewer who knew about the affair, the better for the girl’s sake.”

“No question of that.” My grandfather nodded. “After all, my grandson gave me a full account of what they intended to do. Parachute into the Cammarata – a daring conception.”

By now, of course, the atmosphere had changed and there was not a man there who didn’t realise that beneath the surface something special was going on between Hoffer and my grandfather.

“I’m sorry the girl was killed,” Barbaccia said. “I know she was close to you, Karl. To lose a daughter gives more than pain. I know.”

“Capo!” Hoffer’s voice was hoarse. “God knows how, but I must tell you. In the fight – the gunfight between Colonel Burke’s party and Serafino’s men – your grandson also met his end, dying I understand in a vain attempt to save my stepdaughter’s life.”

I saw it all then, the reason for Hoffer’s performance, his detailed account of the whole affair leading up to this final, devastating blow delivered in public before everyone who counted.

My grandfather shrivelled, dropped his stick, became an old man in an instant. “Stacey?” he said hoarsely. “Stacey is dead?”

Hoffer didn’t actually smile in triumph, but even he couldn’t control the tiniest quiver at the corner of his mouth. My grandfather chose that precise moment to descend. He produced a fresh cigar and struck a match, his old self again.

“Very good, Karl, excellent. You could have gone a long way in the Society if only you hadn’t been so stupid.”

Marco tapped me on the shoulder, but I was already on my feet and moving into the salon. There was no thunderclap as Jove descended from heaven, but the result was about the same.

Hoffer had gone very pale, mostly from shock, but also, I suppose, at the instant realisation that his goose was cooked. To the other I was simply an intruder and the fattest, most harmless looking man there produced a Mannlicher automatic with all the speed of a real pro.

My grandfather waved him down. “My grandson, Stacey Wyatt, gentlemen, who, according to our friend here, died gallantly on Cammarata this morning in a vain attempt to save the life of Joanna Truscott. As a matter of interest, that young lady is under medical care in another part of the villa at this very moment.”

Hoffer’s hand dropped to his pocket and death stared out at him from the Smith and Wesson in my left hand.

“No, Stacey! Not here. Here he is inviolate,” my grandfather called. “It is the law.”

The gentleman in the flashy braces relieved Hoffer of a Walther and I pushed the Smith and Wesson back into its holster.

“And now the truth, my friends.” Barbaccia snapped a finger and Marco, who had moved in behind me, took a grey document from an envelope, unfolded it and laid it on the table.

“A photostat of the will Hoffer referred to which only came into my hands this afternoon.” I wondered how many of them believed that. “It is in English, but there are enough of you here who understand that language to satisfy the Council that Hoffer lied. That his wife left him nothing. That there were no business assets in America that he could realise to fulfil his debt to us.” He looked at Hoffer. “Would you deny this?”

“Go to hell!” Hoffer told him.

My grandfather continued, “His one hope was to murder the girl but Lentini double-crossed him. So he tried this man Burke but they needed someone who knew the country and spoke the language, and Burke produced my grandson. My grandson, who believed until the very moment that he was shot down in cold blood together with Serafino and the girl: believed, as I did until I read this will and heard his story, that he was on the mountain to save the girl. By the grace of God and the incompetence of this man Burke, he survived and managed to get the girl to Bellona.”

There was nothing Hoffer could say, nothing that would do him the slightest good with the hard-faced gentry standing around that table. He answered in the only way his animal nature would allow, striking to hurt.

“All right, Barbaccia, you win. But I put the bomb in your car that killed your daughter. With my own hands.”

He spat in my grandfather’s face. Marco took a quick step forward, my grandfather’s hands flattened against his chest. “No, Marco, leave it. He is a dead man walking.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief and dropped it on the floor. “The man, Burke. He is at your villa?”