Kennedy and I had been dining rather late one evening at Luigi's, a
little Italian restaurant on the lower West Side. We had known the place
well in our student days, and had made a point of visiting it once a
month since, in order to keep in practice in the fine art of gracefully
handling long shreds of spaghetti. Therefore we did not think it strange
when the proprietor himself stopped a moment at our table to greet us.
Glancing furtively around at the other diners, mostly Italians, he
suddenly leaned over and whispered to Kennedy:
"I have heard of your wonderful detective work, Professor. Could you
give a little advice in the case of a friend of mine?"
"Surely, Luigi. What is the case?" asked Craig, leaning back in his
chair.
Luigi glanced around again apprehensively and lowered his voice. "Not so
loud, sir. When you pay your check, go out, walk around Washington
Square, and come in at the private entrance. I'll be waiting in the
hall. My friend is dining privately upstairs."
We lingered a while over our chianti, then quietly paid the check and
departed.
True to his word, Luigi was waiting for us in the dark hall. With a
motion that indicated silence, he led us up the stairs to the second
floor, and quickly opened a door into what seemed to be a fair-sized
private dining-room. A man was pacing the floor nervously. On a table
was some food, untouched. As the door opened I thought he started as if
in fear, and I am sure his dark face blanched, if only for an instant.
Imagine our surprise at seeing Gennaro, the great tenor, with whom
merely to have a speaking acquaintance was to argue oneself famous.
"Oh, it is you, Luigi," he exclaimed in perfect English, rich and
mellow. "And who are these gentlemen?"
Luigi merely replied, "Friends," in English also, and then dropped off
into a voluble, low-toned explanation in Italian.
I could see, as we waited, that the same idea had flashed over Kennedy's
mind as over my own. It was now three or four days since the papers had
reported the strange kidnapping of Gennaro's five-year-old daughter
Adelina, his only child, and the sending of a demand for ten thousand
dollars ransom, signed, as usual, with the mystic Black Hand--a name to
conjure with in blackmail and extortion.
As Signor Gennaro advanced toward us, after his short talk with Luigi,
almost before the introductions were over, Kennedy anticipated him by
saying: "I understand, Signor, before you ask me. I have read all about
it in the papers. You want someone to help you catch the criminals who
are holding your little girl."
"No, no!" exclaimed Gennaro excitedly. "Not that. I want to get my
daughter first. After that, catch them if you can--yes, I should like to
have someone do it. But read this first and tell me what you think of
it. How should I act to get my little Adelina back without harming a
hair of her head?" The famous singer drew from a capacious pocketbook a
dirty, crumpled letter, scrawled on cheap paper.
Kennedy translated it quickly. It read:
Honourable sir: Your daughter is in safe hands. But, by the
saints, if you give this letter to the police as you did the
other, not only she but your family also, someone near to you,
will suffer. We will not fail as we did Wednesday. If you want
your daughter back, go yourself, alone and without telling a
soul, to Enrico Albano's Saturday night at the twelfth hour.
You must provide yourself with $10,000 in bills hidden in
Saturday's _Il Progresso Italiano_. In the back room you will
see a man sitting alone at a table. He will have a red flower
on his coat. You are to say, "A fine opera is 'I Pagliacci.'"
If he answers, "Not without Gennaro," lay the newspaper down
on the table. He will pick it up, leaving his own, the
_Bolletino_. On the third page you will find written the place
where your daughter has been left waiting for you. Go
immediately and get her. But, by the God, if you have so much
as the shadow of the police near Enrico's your daughter will
be sent to you in a box that night. Do not fear to come. We
pledge our word to deal fairly if you deal fairly. This is a
last warning. Lest you shall forget we will show one other
sign of our power to-morrow.