"You walked into a gun that day when you knew he'd use it."
"He didn't, though--at least not much. Perhaps he was as badly rattled
as I was."
"Have it your own way," the Chief said. "But that reminds me, he's out
again."
"Indeed! I hadn't heard."
"You knew, of course, we couldn't convict him for that killing. We had
a perfect case, but the Mafia cleared him. Same old story--perjury,
alibis, and jury-fixing. We put him away for resisting an officer,
though; they couldn't stop us there. But they've 'sprung' him and he's
back in town again. Damn such people! With over two hundred Italian
outrages of various kinds in this city up to date, I can count the
convictions on the fingers of one hand. The rest of the country is
beginning to notice it."
"It is a serious matter," Blake acknowledged, "and it is affecting the
business interests of the city. We see that every day."
"If I had a free hand I'd tin-can every dago in New Orleans."
"Nonsense! They're not all bad. The great majority of them are good,
industrious, law-abiding people. It's a comparatively small criminal
element that does the mischief."
"You think so, eh? Well, if you held down this job for a year you'd be
ready to swear they're all blackmailers and murderers. If they're so
honest and peaceable, why don't they come out and help us run down the
malefactors?"
"That's not their way."
"No, you bet it isn't," Donnelly affirmed. "Things are getting worse
every day. The reformers don't have to call my attention to it; I'm
wise. So far, they have confined their operations to their own people,
but what's to prevent them from spreading out? Some day those Italians
will break over and tackle us Americans, and then there will be hell to
pay. I'll be blamed for not holding them in check. Why, you've no idea
of the completeness of their organization; it has a thousand branches
and it takes in some of their very best people. I dare say you think
this Mafia is some dago secret society with lodge-rooms and grips and
passwords and a picnic once a year. Well, I tell you--"
"You needn't tell me anything about La Mafia," Blake interrupted,
gravely. "I know as much about it, perhaps, as you do. Something ought
to be done to choke off this flood of European criminal immigration.
Believe me, I realize what you are up against, Dan, and I know, as you
know, that La Mafia will beat you."
"I'm damned if it will!" exploded the officer. "The policing of this
city is under my charge, and if those people want to live here among
us--"
The telephone bell rang and Donnelly broke off to answer it.
"Hello! Is that you, O'Connell? Good! Stick around the neighborhood.
We'll be right over." He hung up the receiver and explained: "O'Connell
has him marked out. We'd better go."
It was not until they were well on their way that Norvin thought to
mention the letter, which he had wished to see.
"Oh, yes, I meant to show it to you," said Donnelly.
"But there's nothing unusual about it, except perhaps the signature."
"I thought you said it was anonymous."
"Well, it is; it's merely signed 'One who Knows.'"
"Does it mention an associate of Narcone--a man named Cardi?"
"No. Who's he?"
"I dare say at least a hundred thousand people have asked that same
question." Briefly Norvin told what he knew of the reputed chief of the
banditti, of the terrors his name inspired in Sicily, and of his
supposed connection with the murder of Savigno. "Once or twice a year I
hear from Colonel Neri," he added, "but he informs me that Cardi has
never returned to the island, so it occurred to me that he too might be
in New Orleans."
"It's very likely that he is, and if he was a Capo-Mafia there, he's
probably the same here. Lord! I'd like to get inside of that outfit;
I'd go through it like a sandstorm."
By this time they had threaded the narrow thoroughfares of the old
quarter, and were nearing the vicinity of St. Phillip Street, the heart
of what Donnelly called "Dagotown." There was little to distinguish
this part of the city from that through which they had come. There were
the same dingy, wrinkled houses, with their odd little balconies and
ornamental iron galleries overhanging the sidewalks and peering into
one another's faces as if to see what their neighbors were up to; the
same queer, musty, dusty shops, dozing amid violent foreign odors; the
same open doorways and tunnel-like entrances leading to paved
courtyards at the rear. The steep roofs were tiled and moss-grown, the
pavements were of huge stone flags, set in between seams of mud, and so
unevenly placed as to make traffic impossible save by the light of day.
Alongside the walks were open sewers, in which the foul and sluggish
current was setting not toward, but away from, the river-front. The
district was peopled by shadows and mystery; it abounded in strange
sights and sounds and smells.
At the corner of Royal and Dumaine they found O'Connell loitering in a
doorway, and with a word he directed them to a small cafe and wine-shop
in the next block.
A moment later they pushed through swinging doors and entered. Donnelly
nodded to the white-haired Italian behind the bar and led the way back
to a vacant table against the wall, where he and Norvin seated
themselves. There were perhaps a half-dozen similar tables in the room,
at some of which men were eating. But it was late for supper, and for
the most part the occupants were either drinking or playing cards.
There was a momentary pause in the babble of conversation as the two
stalked boldly in, and a score of suspicious glances were leveled at
them, for the Chief was well known in the Italian quarter. The
proprietor came bustling toward the new-comers with an obsequious smile
upon his grizzled features. Taking the end of his apron he wiped the
surface of their table dry, at the same time informing Donnelly in
broken English that he was honored by the privilege of serving him.
Donnelly ordered a bottle of wine, then drew an envelope from his
pocket and began making figures upon it, leaning forward and addressing
his companion confidentially, to the complete disregard of his
surroundings. Norvin glued his eyes upon the paper, nodding now and
then as if in agreement. Although he had taken but one hasty glance
around the cafe upon entering, he had seen a certain heavy-muscled
Sicilian whose face was only too familiar. It was Narcone, without a
doubt. Blake had seen that brutal, lust-coarsened countenance too many
times in his dreams to be mistaken, and while his one and only glimpse
had been secured in a half-light, his mind at that instant had been so
unnaturally sensitized that the photograph remained clear and unfading.
He could feel Narcone staring at him now, as he sat nodding to the
senseless patter of the Chief in a sort of breathless, terrifying
suspense. Would his own face recall to the fellow's mind that night in
the forest of Terranova and set his fears aflame? Blake's reason told
him that such a thing was beyond the faintest probability, yet the
flesh upon his back was crawling as if in anticipation of a
knife-thrust. Nevertheless, he lit a cigar and held the match between
fingers which did not tremble. He was fighting his usual, senseless
battle, and he was winning. When the proprietor set the bottle in front
of him he filled both glasses with a firm hand and then, still
listening to Donnelly's words, he settled back in his chair and let his
eyes rove casually over the room. He encountered Narcone's evil gaze
when the glass was half-way to his lips and returned it boldly for an
instant. It filled him with an odd satisfaction to note that not a
ripple disturbed the red surface of the wine.
"Have you 'made' him?" Donnelly inquired under his breath.