In the town of Culiano, in the province of Salano, in Italy, there dwelt
a widow by the name of Torsielli, with her two sons, Vito and Antonio.
The boys loved their mother devotedly and were no less fond of each
other, the height of their ambition being to earn enough money to
support her in comfort without need of working in her old age. As it
was, she arose before light, made the fire, cooked their breakfast and
labored in and about the house all day until they returned from the
fields. But she was getting old and at last became bedridden and infirm.
She could no longer cook the meals, and the boys had to shift for
themselves. Moreover, instead of finding her standing at the door with a
smile on her wrinkled face, welcoming them to supper on their return,
the fire was always out and their mother lay on her couch, no less glad
to see them, to be sure, but no longer able to amuse them or minister to
their comfort. Then the taxes were increased and hard times came. By
twos and threes the men of the village packed their bundles, bade
good-by to their friends and families, and left the town, some to seek
work in other parts of Italy, but most of them to take the big iron
steamships for America, where work was easy and money plentiful. Sadly
the boys watched their comrades depart. They would have liked to go,
too, to seek their fortunes in this new land of promise, but they could
not leave their mother. The following year some of the men who had gone
away to America returned in fine clothes and with full purses to tell of
the wonderful country beyond the seas, where one could always earn his
ten _lire_ every day and do as he liked. "Viva la liberta!" they cried,
pounding the tables in the café. "Come, comrades! We have plenty of
money. Drink to the great country of America!"
Vito and Antonio listened with envy. One evening the elder brother asked
Antonio to come to walk with him. When they had gone a little way he
said suddenly:
"Toni, I think I shall go to this America. We need more money to make
our mother comfortable. If we wait until she is dead the money will be
of no use. You can stay here, and when I have made a place for you and
her, you shall bring her on the ship to the new country."
Vito was five years older than Antonio, and his word had always been
law to the younger brother, so although he was sick at heart at the
thought of being left behind, he said nothing against the project, but
tried to make it easy for Vito with their mother. The old woman could
not bear the thought of her firstborn leaving her, and declared, with
the tears running down her face, that she should never see him again,
but at last she yielded to their persuasions and gave Vito her blessing.
It would be only a little while before she and Toni would join him, and
they would be happy ever after.
Then Toni was left alone with his mother. Every day he arose at the
first streak of dawn, prepared breakfast, cleaned the house, saw that
his mother was comfortable and then started off for the fields. A month
went by, two months, three, a year, but no word came from Vito. Toni
assured the poor old woman that they would certainly hear from him the
next week or the next, but cruel fear had taken possession of him.
Something had happened to his brother! The years swept on. Their mother
became more and more helpless. Antonio was obliged to hire a woman to
care for her as nurse for a small sum, but it was just enough to leave
only a pittance for them to live on. Toni grew thin and haggard. Where
could Vito be? Was he alive or dead? Next to his love for Nicoletta
Lupero it became the great passion of his life to learn what had become
of Vito.
He had known Nicoletta from a child and their love had followed as
naturally as summer follows spring. It had always been "Toni" and
"Nicoletta" ever since he could remember. But she was growing up, and
from a boy he had become a man. Yet how could he marry when he could
hardly earn enough to support his mother and himself? They talked it
over time and time again. If Vito would only return or good times come
it might be possible. But meantime there was nothing to do but wait.
Nicoletta blossomed into womanhood. Had she not been betrothed she would
have been called an old maid. Neither she nor Toni took any part in the
village merrymakings. Why should they? He was thirty and she
twenty-five. They might have married ten years ago had not the elder
brother gone away. Toni secretly feared that the time would never come
when they would be man and wife, but he patiently labored on earning his
two _lire_, or at most two _lire_ and a half, a day.
Then a man returned from America just for the harvest to see his family.
He said that Vito was alive. He had not seen him himself, but others had
seen him and he was rich. He told of the plentifulness of gold in
America, where every one was comfortable and could lay up a fortune. He
himself had saved over five thousand _lire_ in four years and owned a
one-third interest in a fruit store. He was going to take his brother's
family back with him--all of them. They would be rich, too, in a little
while. A man was a fool to stay in Italy. Why did not Toni come back
with him? He would get him a place on the railroad where one of his
friends was padrone.
Toni discussed it all with Nicoletta, and she talked with the man
herself.
"Toni," she said at length, "why do you not go? Here you are earning
nothing. There you could save in a month enough to keep your mother in
comfort for a year. You have to pay the nurse, and that takes a great
deal. While you are here it would cause talk if I came to live in your
home to care for your mother but if you go away I can do so without
comment and it will cost nothing. Perhaps you will find Vito. If not you
will soon make enough to send for both your mother and me."
"You are a good girl," he answered, kissing her, "but I could not shift
the responsibility of my mother to your shoulders. Still, I will talk to
Father Giuseppi about it."
The priest thought well of the plan (he was a little excited over
America himself), and agreed to break the matter to the mother.
She begged Toni piteously not to go. He was her only surviving son. Vito
was dead. Let him but wait a little while and she would not be there to
stand in his way. Then the priest added his personal assurance that it
would be for the best, and the mother finally gave way. Toni was obliged
to tear himself away by force from the arms of the old woman lying upon
the bed, and her feeble sobs echoed in his ears as he trudged down the
road with the scarf Nicoletta had worked about his neck, and a small
bundle of his tools and most precious possessions on his shoulder. A
couple of miles farther on came another harrowing parting with his
betrothed, and from the top of the next rise beyond he could see
Nicoletta still standing at the crossroads gazing pitifully after him.
Thus many an Italian, for good or ill, has left the place of his birth
for the mysterious land of the Golden West.
The voyage was for Antonio an unalloyed agony of seasickness and
homesickness, and when at last the great vessel steamed slowly up the
North River, her band playing and the emigrants crowding eagerly to her
sides, he had hardly spirit enough left to raise his eyes to the
mountains of huge buildings from whose craters the white smoke rose
slowly and blew away in great wind-torn clouds. Yet he felt some of the
awakening enthusiasm of his comrades, and when once his feet touched
earth again it was not long before he almost forgot his sufferings upon
the ocean in his feverish anxiety to lose no time in beginning to save
the money which should reunite him to Nicoletta and his mother. As soon
as the vessel had docked a blustering Italian came among the emigrants
and tagged a few dozen of them, including Antonio, with large blue
labels, and then led them in a long, straggling line across the
gangplank and marched them through the muddy streets to the railroad
train. Here they huddled in a dirty car filled with smoke and were
whirled with frightful speed for hours through a flat and smiling
country. The noise, the smoke and the unaccustomed motion made Antonio
ill again, and when the train stopped at Lambertville, New Jersey, the
padrone had difficulty in rousing him from the animal-like stupor into
which he had fallen.
The Italians crowded together upon the platform, gazing helplessly at
one another and at the padrone, who was cursing them for a lot of stupid
fools, and bidding them get upon a flat car that stood upon a siding.
Antonio had to be pushed upon it by main force, but the journey this
time was short, and in half an hour he found himself upon an embankment
where hundreds of Italians were laboring with pick and shovel in the
broiling sun. Here he also was given a pick and told to go to work.
Toni soon became accustomed to his new surroundings. Every night he and
the rest were carried to Lambertville on flat cars and in the mornings
were brought back to the embankment. The work was no harder than that to
which he had been used, and he soon became himself again. Moreover, he
found many of his old friends from Culiano working there. In the
evenings they walked through the streets of the town or sat under the
trees playing _mora_ and _tocco_. His letters home were quite
enthusiastic regarding the pleasant character of the life. To be sure he
could not write himself, but his old friend Antonio Strollo, who had
lived at Valva, only a mile from Culiano, acted as his amanuensis. He
was very fond of Strollo, who was a dashing fellow, very merry and quite
the beau of the colony, in his wonderful red socks and neckties of many
colors. Strollo could read and write, and, besides, he knew Antonio's
mother and Nicoletta, and when Toni found himself unable to express his
thoughts Strollo helped him out. When the answers came he read them to
Toni and joined in the latter's pleasure. Toni himself soon became a
favorite in Lambertville, for he was simple and gentle, and full of
good-will for everybody. He was very good-looking, too, with his
handsome Roman profile, snapping black eyes and black curly locks. Yet
he was sad always, especially so as since his arrival in America he had
made no progress toward finding Vito. From time to time he met other
Italians who had been working elsewhere, who thought they had seen him
or some one that looked like him. But inquiry always elicited the fact
that their desire to give him encouragement was greater than the
accuracy of their memories. Of course Antonio Strollo, who had become
Toni's inseparable friend, shared all his eagerness to find Vito. In
fact, Toni had no thought that he did not confide to his friend, and it
was really the latter who composed the love letters to Nicoletta and the
affectionate epistles to the mother.
Every month Toni divided what he earned into three parts. One of them he
deposited in the savings-bank, another he invested in a money order
which was sent by Strollo to Nicoletta for the mother, and the last he
kept for himself. It was astounding how fast one really could make money
if one was industrious. Forty dollars a month, sometimes! That made
nearly seventy _lire_ to send to Nicoletta. His bank account grew
steadily, and he often saved something out of the money he allowed
himself to live upon.
Antonio Strollo, on the other hand, was lazy and spent all his wages on
_chianti_, neckties, waistcoats, and gambling. Sometimes he would do
nothing for a whole month but loiter around the streets smoking cigars
and ogling the village girls. These last were afraid of him and called
him "The Dare Devil."
Toni worked on the embankment for three years, sending his money with a
letter to Nicoletta every month. The mother still lived and Nicoletta
was giving up her own life to take care of her, but the old woman was
very feeble and no longer had any hope of seeing either of her sons
again. Moreover, she was now so bedridden that it was useless to think
of trying to move her, even if Toni had plenty of money. No, as soon as
he was satisfied that Vito could not be found and had saved enough money
he must return. How she begged him to return! As Strollo read him the
girl's letters Toni wept bitter tears and Strollo wept likewise in
sympathy. But no word came of Vito.
Toni, anxious about his mother, despairing of ever finding his brother,
pining for Nicoletta and with three hundred dollars lying in the
savings-bank, decided to return to Italy. But if only he could find Vito
first! Then Antonio Strollo had an idea. Why not advertise, he
suggested. He wondered that they had never thought of it before. They
would put a notice in _Il Progresso_, the Italian paper in New York, and
see what would come of it. Toni agreed that the idea was good, so
Strollo wrote the notice offering a reward for news of Vito.
Two months passed, once more Toni gave up hope, and then,
O-never-to-be-forgotten day! a letter came from the post-office from
Vito! Toni threw his arms about Strollo and kissed him for joy. Vito was
found at last! The letter, dated Yonkers, New York, told how Vito had by
chance heard of Toni's notice and learned that he was in America. He
himself, he said, had prospered and was a padrone, employing many
workmen on the water-works. He begged Toni for news of their mother. He
confessed himself an ungrateful son never to have written, but he had
married and had had children, and he had assumed that she was being
cared for by his brother. Toni must forgive him and come to him at once.
"O Dio!" cried Toni, the tears in his eyes. "Forgive him? Of course I
will forgive him! Come, Antonio, let us write my dear brother a letter
without delay and tell him that our mother is still alive. How should I
like to see his wife and babies!"
So they prepared a long letter which Strollo took to the post-office
himself and mailed. Toni went back to work with joy in his heart and
whistled and sang all day long, and, of course, he wrote all about it to
Nicoletta. He was only waiting for his month to be up before starting.
Then he would go to Yonkers, make Vito a little visit, and return home
to Italy. It would be easy enough, after that, for Vito would send them
money, if necessary, to live upon.
Several letters passed between the brothers, and at the end of the month
Toni drew out his money from the bank, received his wages in full, and
prepared to leave Lambertville. Meantime a letter had come from
Nicoletta telling of his mother's joy at learning that Vito was still
alive.
As Toni had doubts as to his ability to find his way to Yonkers, Strollo
kindly offered to accompany him. Toni had made many friends during his
three-years' stay in Lambertville, and he promised to write to them and
tell them about Vito and his family, so it was agreed that the letter
should be sent to Sabbatto Gizzi, in whose house he had lived, and that
Gizzi should read it to the others. The address was written carefully on
a piece of paper and given to Toni.
So early in the morning of August 16th, 1903, Toni and Strollo took the
train for New York. It was a hot day, and once again the motion and
speed made Toni feel ill, but the thought of seeing Vito buoyed him up,
and by the time they had crossed the ferry and had actually reached New
York he was very hungry. In his excitement he had forgotten to eat any
breakfast and was now beginning to feel faint. But Strollo said it was a
long way to Yonkers and that they must not stop. For many hours they
trudged the streets without getting anywhere and then Strollo said it
was time to take the cars. Toni was very tired, and he had to climb many
flights of stairs to the train. It carried them a long distance, past
miles of tenement houses and vacant lots, and at last into a sort of
country. Strollo said they should get out. It was very hot and Toni was
weak from weariness and lack of food, but his heart was light and he
followed Strollo steadily down the wilting road. After going about a
mile they crossed some fields near where people were playing a game at
hitting little balls with sticks. It was astonishing how far they could
strike the balls--entirely out of sight.
"Is this Yonkers?" asked Toni.
"It is near here," answered Strollo. "We are going by a short way."
They entered some thick woods and came out upon another field. Toni was
now so faint that he begged his friend to stop.
"Can we not get some food?" he inquired; "I can hardly walk."
"There is a man in that field," said Strollo. "Go and ask him."
So Toni plodded over to the man who was digging mushrooms and asked him
in broken English where they could get something to eat. The man told
him that it was a long way. They would have to take the trolley to
Yonkers. There was a restaurant there called the "Promised Land," where
one could get Italian dishes. He seemed to take a kindly interest in
Toni and in Strollo, who had remained some distance behind, and Toni
gave him a cigar--a "Cremo"--the last one he had. Then Strollo led the
way back into the woods.
It was almost sunset, and the long, low beams slanting through the tree
trunks made it hard to see. They went deeper and deeper into the woods.
Presently Strollo, who was leading the way, stopped and said:
"We are going in the wrong direction. We must turn around and go back."
Toni turned. As he did so Strollo drew a long knife and plunged it again
and again through Toni's body.
* * * * *
Strollo spent that night, under an assumed name, at the Mills Hotel in
Bleecker Street. He had stabbed himself accidentally in the knee and
also in the left hand in the fury of his attack, and when he arose in
the morning the sheets were covered with blood. There was also blood on
his shoes, which had been new, but he took his knife and scraped it off.
He had experienced a strange sort of terrified exaltation the night
before, and in the early light as he crept downstairs and out of the
hotel he could not have told whether he were more glad or afraid. For he
had three hundred dollars in his pocket, more than he had ever seen at
any one time before--as much as a man could save in two whole years. He
would be a king now for a long time. He need not work. He could eat,
drink and play cards and read some books he had heard about. As for
finding him out--never! The police would not even know who Torsielli
was, to say nothing of who had killed him, for he had removed, as he
thought, everything in Toni's pockets. There would be a dead man in the
morgue, that was all. He could go back to Lambertville and say that he
had left Toni with his brother, at Yonkers, and that would be the end of
it. First, though, he would buy some new clothes.
It was very early and the shops were hardly open, but he found one place
where he could buy a suit, another some underclothes, and a third a pair
of shoes. The shoemaker, who was a thrifty man, asked Strollo what was
the matter with the shoes he had on, so Strollo craftily said they hurt
his feet. Then he ate a hearty breakfast, and bought a better cigar than
he had ever smoked before. There was a bookstore near by and he
purchased some books--"Alto Amore" and "Sua Maestá e Sua Moneta" ("The
Height of Love" and "His Majesty and His Money"). He would read them on
the train. He felt warm and comfortable now and not afraid at all. By
and by he went back on the train to Lambertville and smoked and read all
the way, contented as the tiger is contented which has tracked down and
slain a water-buffalo.
The same afternoon about sunset, in a lonely part of Van Cortlandt Park,
the mushroom digger stumbled over Torsielli's body lying face downward
among the leaves. He recognized it as that of the man who had asked the
way to something to eat and given him a cigar. He ran from the sight
and, pallid with fear, notified the nearest police officer. Then things
took the usual course. The body was removed to the morgue, an autopsy
was performed, and "Headquarters" took charge of the case. As the
deceased was an Italian, Detective Sergeant Petrosini was called in.
Torsielli's pockets were empty save for the band of a "Cremo" cigar in
one waistcoat pocket and a tiny slip of paper in another, on which was
penciled "Sabbatto Gizzi, P.O. Box 239, Lambertville, New Jersey."
Whether this last was the name of the deceased, the murderer, or some
one else, no one knew. Headquarters said it was a blind case, but
Petrosini shrugged his shoulders and bought a ticket to Lambertville.
Here he found Sabbatto Gizzi, who expressed genuine horror at learning
of Toni's death and readily accompanied Petrosini to New York, where he
identified the body as indeed that of Torsielli. He told Petrosini that
Toni had left Lambertville in the company of Strollo on Thursday, August
16th. This was Saturday, August 18th, and less than thirty-six hours
after the murder. Strollo, reading "Alto Amore," and drinking in the
saloon, suspected nothing. New York was seventy miles away--too far for
any harm to come. But Monday morning, walking lazily down the street
near the railroad station, Strollo found himself suddenly confronted by
a heavily-built man with a round, moon-shaped face thickly covered with
pockmarks. Strollo did not like the way the latter's gimlet-like eyes
looked him over. There was no time to turn and fly, and, besides,
Strollo had no fear. They might come and ask him questions, and he might
even admit almost all--_almost_ all, and they could do nothing, for no
one had seen what he had done to Toni in the wood. So Strollo returned
Petrosini's gaze unflinchingly.
"Are you Antonio Strollo?" asked the detective, coming close to the
murderer.
"Yes, certainly, I am Antonio Strollo," replied the latter.
"Do you know Antonio Torsielli?" continued Petrosini.
"To be sure," answered Strollo. "I knew him well," he added almost
insolently.
"Why did you accompany him to New York?" inquired Petrosini sharply.
Strollo paled. He had not known that the police were aware of the fact.
"I had errands in the city. I needed clothes," said Strollo.
"He has been murdered," said Petrosini quietly. "Will you come to New
York to identify the body?"
Strollo hesitated.
"Why--yes--certainly. I will go to New York." Then he added, thinking
that his words seemed insufficient, "I am sorry if Torsielli has been
murdered, for he was a friend of mine."
There was a wait of several hours before the train started for New York
and Strollo utilized it by giving Petrosini a detailed account of his
trip with Torsielli. He took his time about it and thought each
statement over very carefully before he made it, for he was a clever
fellow, this Strollo. He even went into the family history of Torsielli
and explained about the correspondence with the long-lost brother, in
which he acted as amanuensis, for he had come to the conclusion that in
the long run honesty (up to a certain point) would prove the best
policy. Thus he told the detective many things which the latter did not
know or even suspect. Strollo's account of what had happened was briefly
as follows:
He and Toni had reached New York about twelve o'clock and had spent an
hour or so in the neighborhood of Mott Street looking at the parade of
"San Rocco." Then they had started for Yonkers and gone as far as the
terminal of the Second Avenue El. It was about five o'clock in the
afternoon. They had got out and started to walk. As they proceeded they
suddenly had seen a man standing under a tree and Torsielli had said to
Strollo:
"That man standing under that tree looks like my brother."
Strollo had replied:
"You know I am not acquainted with your brother."
As they reached the tree the stranger had stepped forward and said to
Torsielli:
"Who are you?"
"Who? Me? My name is Antonio Torsielli," had been the reply. "Who are
you?"
"I am Vito Torsielli," had answered the stranger. Then the two had
rushed into each other's arms.
"And what did _you_ do?" inquired Petrosini, as Strollo naïvely
concluded this extraordinary story.
"Me?" answered Strollo innocently. "Why, there was nothing for me to do,
so I went back to New York."
Petrosini said nothing, but bided his time. He had now several important
bits of evidence. By Strollo's own account he had been with the deceased
in the general locality of the murder shortly before it occurred; he had
given no adequate explanation of why he was in New York at all; and he
was now fabricating a preposterous falsehood to show that he had left
his victim before the homicide was committed. On the train Petrosini
began to tie up some of the loose ends. He noticed the wound on
Strollo's hand and asked where it had been obtained. The suspect replied
that he had received it at the hands of a drunken man in Mott Street. He
even admitted having stayed at the Mills Hotel the same evening under an
assumed name, and gave as an excuse that his own name was difficult for
an American to pronounce and write. Later, this information led to the
finding of the bloody bedclothes. He denied, however, having changed his
clothes or purchased new ones, and this the detective was obliged to
ferret out for himself, which he did by visiting or causing to be
visited almost every Italian shop upon the East Side. Thus the incident
of the shoes was brought to light.
Strollo was at once taken to the morgue on reaching the city, and here
for the first time his nerve failed him, for he could not bring himself
to inspect the ghastly body of his victim.
"Look," cried Petrosini; "is that the man?"
"Yes, yes," answered the murderer, trembling like a leaf. "That is he."
"You are not looking at him," said the detective. "Why don't you look at
him. Look at the body."
"I _am_ looking at him," replied Strollo, averting his eyes. "That is
he--my friend--Antonio Torsielli."
The prisoner was now taken to Police Headquarters and searched. Here a
letter was found in his hip pocket in his own handwriting purporting to
be from Antonio Torsielli to his brother Vito at Yonkers, but enclosed
_in an envelope addressed to Antonio at Lambertville_.
This envelope bore a red two-cent stamp and was inscribed:
ANTONIO TORSIELLI, BOX 470,
Lambertville, New Jersey.
The letter as later translated in court by the interpreter read as
follows: