"That's him, all right," agreed the Chief. "He doesn't remember you."
"I didn't expect him to; I've changed considerably, and besides he
never saw me distinctly, as I told you before."
"You've got the policeman's eye," declared Donnelly with enthusiasm. "I
wanted you to pick him out by yourself. We'll go, now, as soon as we
lap up this dago vinegar."
Out in the street again, Blake heaved a sigh of relief, for even this
little harmless adventure had been a trial to his unruly nerves.
"We'll drift past the Red Wing Club; it's a hang-out of mine and I want
to talk further with you," said Donnelly.
They turned back towards the heart of the city, stopping a moment while
the Chief directed O'Connell to keep a close watch upon Narcone.
The Red Wing Club was not really a club at all, but a small restaurant
which had become known for certain of its culinary specialties and had
gathered to itself a somewhat select clientele of bons vivants, who
dined there after the leisurely continental fashion. Thither the two
men betook themselves.
"I can't see what real good those extradition papers are going to do
you, even now that you're sure of your man," said Norvin as soon as
they were seated. "It won't be difficult to arrest him, but to
extradite him will prove quite another matter. I'm not eager myself to
take the stand against him, for obvious reasons." Donnelly nodded his
appreciation. "I will do so, if necessary, of course, but my evidence
won't counterbalance all the testimony Sabella will be able to bring.
We know he's the man; his friends know it, but they'll unite to swear
he is really Vito Sabella, a gentle, sweet soul whom they knew in
Sicily, and they'll prove he was here in America at the time Martel
Savigno was murdered. If we had him in New York, away from his friends,
it would be different; he'd go back to Sicily, and once there he'd
hang, as he deserves."
Donnelly swore under his breath. "It's the thing I run foul of every
time I try to enforce the law against these people. But just the same
I'm going to get this fellow, somehow, for he's one of the gang that
fired into the Pallozzos and killed Tony Alto. That's another thing I
know but can't prove. What made you ask if that letter was written by a
woman? Has Sabella a sweetheart?"
"Not to my knowledge. I--" Norvin hesitated. "No, Sabella has no
sweetheart, but Savigno had. I haven't told you much of that part of my
story. It's no use my trying to give you an idea of what kind of woman
the Countess of Terranova was, or is--you wouldn't understand. It's
enough to say that she is a woman of extraordinary character, wholly
devoted to Martel's memory, and Sicilian to the backbone. After her
lover's death, when the police had failed, she swore to be avenged upon
his murderers. I know it sounds strange, but it didn't seem so strange
to me then. I tried to reason with her, but it was a waste of breath.
When I returned to Sicily after my mother died, Margherita--the
Countess--had disappeared. I tried every means to find her--you know,
Martel left her, in a way, under my care--but I couldn't locate her in
any Italian city. Then I learned that she had come to the United States
and took up the search on this side. It's a long story; the gist of it
is simply that I looked up every possibility, and finally gave up in
despair. That was more than four years ago. I have no idea that all
this has any connection with our present problem."
Donnelly listened with interest, and for a time plied Blake with shrewd
questions, but at length the subject seemed to lose its importance in
his mind.
"It's a queer coincidence," he said. "But the letter was mailed in this
city and by some one familiar with Narcone's movements up to date. If
your Countess was here you'd surely know it. This isn't New York.
Besides, women don't make good detectives; they get discouraged. I dare
say she went back to Italy long ago and is married now, with a dozen or
more little counts and countesses around her."
"I agree with you," said Blake, "that she can't be the 'One Who Knows.'
There are too many easier explanations, and I couldn't hope--" He
checked himself. "Well, I guess I've told you about all I know. Call on
me at any time that I can be of assistance."
He left rather abruptly, struggling with a sense of self-disgust in
that he had been led to talk of Margherita unnecessarily, yet with a
curious undercurrent of excitement running through his mood.
X