"Of course."
"Then why don't you do it?"
"The very fact that people--well, that I know I ought to, perhaps.
Then, too, my situation. I have certain obligations which I must live
up to."
"Don't be forever thinking of yourself. There are others to be
considered."
"Exactly. Myra Nell, for instance."
"It seems to me you owe something to Felicite."
"My dear boy, you don't talk like a--like a--"
"Southern gentleman?" Blake smiled. "Nevertheless, Miss Delord is a
delightful little person and you can make her happy. If Myra Nell
should be Queen of the Mardi Gras it would round out her social career.
She will marry before long, no doubt, and then you will be left with no
obligations beyond those you choose to assume. Nobody knows of your
relations with Felicite."
"_You_ know," said the bachelor stiffly, "and therefore others must
know, hence it is quite impossible. I'd prefer not to discuss it if you
don't mind."
"Certainly. I want you to keep that loan in mind, however. I think you
owe it to your sister to accept. At any rate, I am glad we had this
opportunity of speaking frankly."
"Ah," said Bernie, suddenly, as if seizing with relief upon a chance to
end the discussion, "I think I heard some one in the outer office."
"To be sure," exclaimed Blake. "That must be Donnelly. I had an
appointment with him here which I'd forgotten all about."
"The Chief of Police? He's quite a friend of yours."
"Yes, we met while I was sheriff. He's a remarkably able officer--one
of those men I like to study."
"Well, then, I'll be going," said Bernie, rising.
"No, stay and meet him." Blake rose to greet a tall, angular man of
about Dreux's age, who came in without knocking. Chief Donnelly had an
impassive face, into which was set a pair of those peculiar smoky-blue
eyes which have become familiar upon our frontiers. He acknowledged his
introduction to Bernie quietly, and measured the little man curiously.
"Mr. Dreux is a friend of mine, and he was anxious to meet you, so I
asked him to stay," Norvin explained.
"If I'm not intruding," Bernie said.
"Oh, there's nothing much on my mind," the Chief declared. "I've come
in for some information which I don't believe Blake can give me." To
Norvin he said, "I remembered hearing that you'd been to Italy, so I
thought you might help me out."
Mr. Dreux sat back, eliminated himself from the conversation in his own
effective manner, and regarded the officer as a mouse might gaze upon a
lion.
"Yes, but that was four years ago," Norvin replied.
"All the better. Were you ever in Sicily?"
Blake started. The sudden mention of Sicily was like a touch upon an
exposed nerve.
"I was in Sicily twice," he said, slowly.
"Then perhaps you can help me, after all. I recalled some sort of
experience you had over there with the Mafia, and took a chance."
The Chief drew from his pocket a note-book which he consulted. "Did you
ever hear of a Sicilian named--Narcone? Gian Narcone?" He looked up to
see that his friend's face had gone colorless.
Blake nodded silently.
"Also a chap named--some nobleman--" He turned again to his
memorandum-book.
"Martel Savigno, Count of Martinello," Norvin supplied in a strained,
breathless voice.
"That's him! Why, you must know all about this affair."
Blake rose and began to pace his office while the others watched him
curiously, amazed at his agitated manner and his evident effort to
control his features. Neither of his two friends had deemed him capable
of such an exhibition of feeling.
As a matter of fact, Norvin had grown to pride himself upon his
physical self-command and above all upon his impassivity of
countenance. He had cultivated it purposely, for it formed a part of
his later training--what he chose to call his course in courage. But
this sudden probing of an old wound, this unexpected reference to the
most painful part of his life, had found him off his guard and with his
nerves loose.
After his return from Europe he had set himself vigorously to the task
of uprooting his cowardice. Realizing that his parish had always been
lawless, it occurred to him that the office of sheriff would compel an
exercise of whatever courage he had in him. It had been absurdly easy
to win the election, but afterward--the memory of the bitter fight
which followed often made him cringe. Strangely enough, his theory had
not worked out. He found that his cowardice was not a sick spot which
could be cauterized or cut out, but rather that it was like some humor
of the blood, or something ingrained in the very structure of his
nervous tissue. But although his lack of physical courage seemed
constitutional and incurable, he had a great and splendid pride which
enabled him to conceal his weakness from the world. Time and again he
had balked, had shied like a frightened horse; time and again he had
roweled himself with cruel spurs and ridden down his unruly terrors by
force of will. But the struggle had burned him out, had calcined his
youth, had grayed his hair, and left him old and tired. Even now, when
he had begun to consider his self-mastery complete, it had required no
more than the unexpected mention of Martel Savigno's name and that of
his murderer to awaken pangs of poignant distress, the signs of which
he could not altogether conceal.
When after an interval of several minutes he felt that he had himself
sufficiently in hand to talk without danger of self-betrayal, he seated
himself and inquired:
"What do you wish to know about--the Count of Martinello and Narcone
the bandit?"
"I want to know all there is," said Donnelly. "Perhaps we can get at it
quicker if you will tell me what you know. I had no idea you were
familiar with the case. It's remarkable how these old trails recross."
"I--I know everything about the murder of Martel Savigno, for I saw it.
I was there. He was my best friend. That is the story of which you
read. That is why the mention of his name upset me, even after nearly
five years."
Bernie Dreux uttered an exclamation and hitched forward in his chair.
This new side of Blake's character fascinated him.
"If you will tell me the circumstances it will help me piece out my
record," said the Chief, so Blake began reluctantly, hesitatingly,
giving the facts clearly, but with a constraint that bore witness to
his pain in the recital.
When he had finished, it was Donnelly's turn to show surprise.
"That is remarkable!" he exclaimed. "To think that you have seen Gian
Narcone! D'you suppose you would know him again after four years?" He
shot a keen glance at his friend.
"I am quite sure I would. But come, you haven't told me anything yet."
"Well, Narcone is in New Orleans."
"What?" Blake leaned forward in his chair, his eyes blazing.
"At least I'm informed that he is. I received a letter some time ago
containing most of the information you've just given me, and stating
that there are extradition papers for him in New York. The letter says
that some of his old gang have confessed to their part in the murder
and have implicated Narcone so strongly that he will hang if they can
get him back to Sicily."
"I believe that. But who is your informant?"
"I don't know. The letter is anonymous."
A sudden wild hope sprang up in Blake's mind. He dared not trust it,
yet it clamored for credence.
"Was it written by a--woman?" he queried, tensely.
"No; at least I don't think so. It was written on one of these
new-fangled typewriting machines. I left it at the office, or you could
judge for yourself."
"If it is typewritten, how do you know whether--"
"I tell you I don't know. But I can guess pretty closely. It was one of
the Pallozzo gang. This Narcone--he calls himself Vito Sabella, by the
way--is a leader of the Quatrones. The two factions have been at war
lately and some member of the Pallozzo outfit has turned him up."
The light died out of Norvin's face, his body relaxed. He had followed
so many clues, his quest had been so long and fruitless, that he met
disappointment half-way.
Up to this moment Bernie Dreux had listened without a word or movement,
but now he stirred and inquired, hesitatingly:
"Pardon me, but what is this Pallozzo gang and who are the Quatrones?
I'm tremendously interested in this affair."
"The Pallozzos and the Quatrones," Donnelly explained, "are two Italian
gangs which have come into rivalry over the fruit business. They unload
the ships, you know, and they have clashed several times. You probably
heard about their last mix-up--one man killed and four wounded."
"I never read about such things," Dreux acknowledged, at which the
Chief's eyes twinkled and once more wandered over the little man's
immaculate figure.
"You are familiar with our Italian problem, aren't you?"
"I--I'm afraid not. I know we have a large foreign population in the
city--in fact, I spend much of my time on the other side of Canal
Street--but I didn't know there was any particular problem."
"Well, there is, and a very serious one, too," Blake assured him. "It's
giving our friend Donnelly and the rest of the city officials trouble
enough and to spare. There have been some eighty killings in the
Italian quarter."
"Eighty-four," said Donnelly. "And about two hundred outrages of one
sort or another."
"And almost no convictions. Am I right?"
"You are. We can't do a thing with them. They are a law to themselves,
and they ignore us and ours absolutely. It's getting worse, too. Fine
situation to exist in the midst of a law-abiding American community,
isn't it?" Donnelly appealed to Dreux.
"Now that will show you how little a person may know of his own home,"
reflected Bernie. "Has it anything to do with this Mafia we hear so
much about?"
"It has. But the Mafia is going to end," Donnelly announced positively.
"I've gone on record to that effect. If those dagos can't obey our
laws, they'll have to pull their freight. It's up to me to put a finish
to this state of affairs or acknowledge I'm a poor official and don't
know my business. The reform crowd has seized upon it as a weapon to
put me out of office, claiming that I've sold out to the Italians and
don't want to run 'em down, so I've got to do something to show I'm not
asleep on my beat. I've never had a chance before, but now I'm going
after this Vito Sabella and land him. Will you look him over, Norvin,
and see if he's the right party?"
"Of course. I owe Narcone a visit and I'm glad of this chance. But
granting that he is Narcone, how can you get him out of New Orleans?
He'll fight extradition and the Quatrones will support him."
"I'm blamed if I know. I'll have to figure that out," said the Chief as
he rose to go. "I'm mighty glad I had that hunch to come and see you,
and I wish you were a plain-clothes man instead of the president of the
Cotton Exchange. I think you and I could clean out this Mafia and make
the town fit for a white man to live in. If you'll drop in on me at
eight o'clock to-night we'll walk over toward St. Phillip Street and
perhaps get a look at your old friend Narcone. If you care to come
along, Mr. Dreux, I'd be glad to have you."
Bernie Dreux threw up his shapely hands in hasty refusal. "Oh dear,
no!" he protested. "I haven't lost any Italian murderers. This
expedition, which you're planning so lightly, may lead to--Heaven knows
what. At any rate, I should only be in the way, so if it's quite the
same to you I'll send regrets."
"Quite the same," Donnelly laughed, then to Norvin: "If you think this
dago may recognize you, you'd better tote a gun. At eight, then."
"At eight," agreed Blake and escorted him to the door.