"Eh?"
"How do they take it?"
Again Maruffi shrugged. "How can they take it? My good countrymen are
delighted; others, perhaps, not so well pleased."
"But Sabella has friends. I suppose they've marked me for revenge?"
"No doubt! But what can they do? You are the law. With a private
citizen, with me, for instance, it would be different. My wife would
prepare herself for widowhood."
"How's that? You're not married," said Donnelly.
"Not yet. But I have plans. A fine Sicilian girl."
"Good! I congratulate you."
"Speaking of Sabella," Blake interposed, curiously, "I had a hand in
taking him, and I'm a private citizen."
"True!" Maruffi regarded him with his impenetrable eyes.
"You predict trouble for me, then?"
"I predict nothing. We say in my country that no one escapes the Mafia.
No doubt we are timid. You are an American, you are not easily
frightened. But tell me"--he turned to the Chief of Police--"who is to
follow this brigand? There are others quite as black as he, if they
were known."
"No doubt! But, unfortunately, I don't know them. Why don't you help me
out, Caesar?"
"If I could! You have no suspicions, eh?"
"Plenty of suspicions, but no proofs."
Maruffi turned back to Norvin, saying: "So, you identified the murderer
of your friend Savigno? Madonna mia! You have a memory! But were you
not--afraid?"
"Afraid of what?"
"Ah! You are American, as I said before; you fear nothing. But it was
Belisario Cardi who killed the Conte of Martinello."
"Belisario Cardi is only a name," said Norvin, guardedly.
"True!" Maruffi agreed. "Being a Palermitan myself, he is real to me,
but, as you say, nobody knows."
He rose and shook hands cordially with both men. When he had joined the
group of Italians at a near-by table, Donnelly said:
"There's the whitest dago in the city. I thought he might be the 'One
Who Knows,' but I reckon I was mistaken. He could help me, though, if
he dared."
"Have you confided in him?"
"Lord, no! I don't trust any of them. Say! The more I think about that
letter, the more I think it's a bluff."
"You can't afford to ignore it."
"Of course not. I'll plant O'Connell and another man outside on
Thursday night and see if anything suspicious turns up, but I'll take
my dinner elsewhere."
The two men had finished their meal when Bernie Dreux strolled in and
took the seat which Maruffi had vacated.
"Well, how goes your detecting, Bernie?" Norvin inquired.
"_Hist_!" breathed the little man so sharply that his hearers started.
He winked mysteriously and they saw that he was bursting with important
tidings. "There's something doing!"
"What is it?" demanded the Chief. But Mr. Dreux answered nothing.
Instead he lit a cigarette, and as he raised the match looked guardedly
into a mirror behind Donnelly's chair.
"I'm glad you took this table," he began in a low voice. "I always sit
where I can get a flash."
"A _what_?" queried the astonished Blake.
"Pianissimo with that talk!" cautioned the speaker. "You'll tip him
off."
"Tip who?" Donnelly breathed.
"My man! He's one of the gang. Do you see that fellow--that wop next to
Caesar Maruffi?" Bernie did not lower his eyes from the mirror, "the
third from the left."
"Sure!"
"Well!" triumphantly.
"Well?"
"That is he."
"That's who?"
"I don't know."
"What the--"
"He's one of 'em, that's all I know. I've been on him for a week. I've
trailed him everywhere. He has an accomplice--a woman!"
The Chief's face underwent a remarkable change. "Are you sure?" he
whispered, eagerly.
"It's a cinch! He comes to the fruit-stand every day. I think he's
after blackmail, but I'm not sure."
"Good!" Dan exclaimed. "I want you to trail him wherever he goes, and,
above all, watch the woman. Now tear back to your banana rookery or
you'll miss something. Better have a drink first, though."
"I'll go you; it's tough work on the nerves. I'm all upset."
"I thought you never drank whiskey," Norvin said, still amazed at the
extraordinary transformation in his friend.
"I don't as a rule, it kippers my stomach; but it gives me the courage
of a lion."
Donnelly nodded with satisfaction. "Don't get pickled, but keep your
nerve. Remember, I'm depending on you."
Dreux's slender form writhed and shuddered as he swallowed the liquor,
but his eyes were shining when he rose to go. "I'm glad I'm making
good," said he. "If anything happens to me, keep your eye skinned for
that fellow; there's dirty work afoot."
When he had gone Donnelly stuck his napkin into his mouth to still his
laughter. "'There's dirty work afoot,'" he quoted in a strangling
voice. "Can you beat that?"
"I--can't believe my senses. Why, Bernie's actually getting tough! Who
is this fellow he's trailing?"
"That? That's Joe Poggi, the owner of the fruit-stand. He's my best
dago detective, and I sent him here to-night in case anything blew off.
The woman is his wife--lovely lady, too. 'Blackmail!' Oh, Lord! I'll
have to tell Poggi about this. I'll have to tell him he's being
shadowed, too, or he'll stop suddenly on the street some day and Bernie
will run into him from behind and break his nose."
Thursday night passed without incident. Donnelly set a watch upon the
Red Wing Club, but nothing occurred to give the least color to the
written warning. In the course of a fortnight he had well-nigh
forgotten it, and when a third letter came he was less than ever
inclined to believe it genuine.
"You forestalled the first attempt upon your life," wrote the
informant, "but another will be made. You are to be shot at Police
Headquarters some night next week. Your desk stands just inside a
window which opens upon the street. A fight will occur at the corner
near by and during the disturbance an assassin will fire upon you out
of the darkness, then disappear in the confusion. Do not treat this
warning lightly or I swear that you will repent it.
"ONE WHO KNOWS"
Donnelly showed this to Blake, saying, sourly, "You see. It's just as I
told you. They're trying to run me out."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to move my desk, for one thing, then I'm going to run down
this writer. O'Connell is going through the stationery-stores now,
trying to match the water-mark on the paper. The post-office is on the
lookout for the next letter and will try to find which mail-box it is
dropped into."
"Then you think there will be other letters to follow this one?"
"Certainly! When they see that I've moved away from that window they'll
think they've got me going, then I'll be warned of another plot, and
another, and another. It might work with some people." The speaker's
lips curled in a wintry smile.
"You no longer think it came from one of the Pallozzo gang?"
"No! There's nobody in the outfit who can write a letter like that.
It's from the Mafia."
"How can you say that when the same writer betrayed Narcone?"
"Oh, I've asked myself the same question," Donnelly answered with a
trace of exasperation, "and I can't answer it unless that was merely a
case of revenge. Take it from me, I'll get another letter inside of ten
days. See if I don't."
True to his prediction, the tenth day brought another warning. The
writer advised him that his enemies had changed their plans once more,
but would strike, when the first opportunity offered. As to where or
when this would occur, no information was given. The Chief was merely
urged in the strongest terms to remove himself beyond the possibility
of danger.
Naturally the recipient took this as proof positive that the whole
affair was no more than a weak attempt to frighten him. Unfortunately,
the postal authorities could not determine where the letter had been
mailed, and O'Connell reported that the paper on which it was written
was of a variety in common use. There seemed to be little hope of
tracing the matter back to its source, so Donnelly dismissed the whole
affair from his mind and went about his duties undisturbed.
Norvin Blake, however, could not bring himself to take the same view.
As usual, he attributed his fears to imagination, yet they preyed upon
him so constantly that he was forced to heed them. His one frightful
experience with La Mafia had marked him, it seemed, like some prenatal
influence, and now the more he dwelt upon the subject, the more his
apprehension quickened. He was ashamed to confess to Donnelly, and at
the same time he was loath to allow the Chief to expose himself
unnecessarily. Therefore he made it a point to be with him as much as
possible. This, of course, involved a considerable risk to himself, and
he recalled with misgiving what Caesar Maruffi had said that night in
the Red Wing Club. Donnelly alone had been warned, but that did not
argue that vengeance would be confined to him.
October had come; the lazy heat of summer had passed and New Orleans
was awakening under its magic winter climate. The piny, breeze-swept
Gulf resorts had emptied their summer colonies cityward, the social
season had begun.
The preparations for the great February Carnival were nearing
completion, and Blake had the satisfaction of knowing that Myra Nell
Warren was to realize her heart's desire. He had forced a loan upon
Bernie sufficient to meet the requirements of any Queen, and had spent
several delightful evenings with the girl herself, amused by her plans
of royal conquest.
It was like a tonic to be with her. Norvin invariably parted from her
with a feeling of optimism and a gayety quite reasonless; he had no
fears, no apprehensions; the universe was peopled with sprites and
fairies, the morrow was a glad adventure full of merriment and promise.
He was in precisely such a mood one drizzly Wednesday night after
having made an inexcusably long call upon her. Nothing whatever had
occurred to put him in this agreeable humor, yet he went homeward
humming as blithely as a barefoot boy in springtime.
As he neared the neighborhood in which Donnelly lived he decided to
drop in on him for a few moments and smoke a cigar. Business had lately
kept him away from the Chief, and he felt a bit guilty.
But Donnelly had either retired early or else he had not returned from
Headquarters, for his windows were dark, and Norvin retraced his steps,
a trifle disappointed. In front of a cobbler's shop, across the street,
several men were talking, and as he glanced in their direction the door
behind them opened, allowing a stream of light to pour forth. He
recognized Larubio, the old Italian shoemaker himself, and he was on
the point of inquiring if Donnelly had come home, but thought better of
it.
Larubio and his companions were idling beneath the wooden awning or
shed which extended over the sidewalk, and in the open doorway, briefly
silhouetted against the yellow light, Blake noted a man clad in a
shining rubber coat. Although the picture was fleeting, it caught his
attention.
The thought occurred to him that these men were Italians, and therefore
possible Mafiosi, but his mood was too optimistic to permit of silly
suspicions. To-night the Mafia seemed decidedly unreal and indefinite.
He found himself smiling again at the memory of an argument in which he
had been worsted by Myra Nell. He had taken her a most elaborate box of
chocolates and she had gleefully promised to consume at least half of
them that very night after retiring. He had remonstrated at such an
unhygienic procedure, whereupon she had confessed to a secret,
ungovernable habit of eating candy in bed. He had argued that the
pernicious practice was sure to wreck her digestion and ruin her teeth,
but she had confounded him utterly by displaying twin rows as sound as
pearls, as white and regular as rice kernels. Her digestion, he had to
confess, was that of a Shetland pony, and he had been forced to fall
back upon an unconvincing prophecy of a toothless and dyspeptic old
age. He pictured her at this moment propped up in the middle of the
great mahogany four-poster, all lace and ruffles and ribbons, her
wayward hair in adorable confusion about her face, as she pawed over
the sweets and breathed ecstatic blessings upon his name.
Near the corner he stumbled over a boy hiding in the shadows. Then as
he turned north on Rampart Street he ran plump into Donnelly and
O'Connell.
"I just came from your house," he told Dan. "I thought I'd drop in and
smoke one of your bad cigars. Is there anything new?"
"Not much! I've had a hard day and there was a Police Board meeting
to-night. I'm fagged out."
"No more letters, eh?"
"No. But I've heard that Sabella is safe in Sicily. That means his
finish. I'll have something else to tell you in a day or so; something
about your other friend, Cardi."
"No! Really?"
"If what I suspect is true, it'll be a sensation. I can't credit the
thing myself, that's why I don't want to say anything just yet. I'm all
up in the air over it."
A moment later the three men separated, Donnelly and O'Connell turning
toward their respective homes, Blake continuing his way toward the
heart of the city.
But the Chief's words had upset Norvin's complacency. His line of
thought was changed and he found himself once more dwelling upon the
tragedy which had left such a mark upon his life. Martel had been the
finest, the cleanest fellow he had ever known; his life, so full of
promise, had just begun, and yet he had been ruthlessly stricken down.
Norvin shuddered at the memory. He saw the road to Martinello
stretching out ahead of him like a ghost-gray canyon walled with gloom;
he heard the creaking of saddles, the muffled thud of hoofs in the dust
of the causeway, the song of a lover, then--
Blake halted suddenly, listening. From somewhere not far away came the
sound again; it was a gunshot, deadened by the blanket of mist and
drizzle that shrouded the streets. He turned. It was repeated for a
third time, and as he realized whence it came he cried out,
affrightedly:
"Donnelly! Donnelly! Oh, God!"
Then he began to run swiftly, as he had run that night four years
before, with the lights of Terranova in the distance, and in his heart
was that same sickening, horrible terror. But this time he ran, not
away from the sound, but towards it.
As he raced along the slippery streets the night air was ripped again
and again with those same loud reverberations. He saw, by the
flickering arc-lamp above the crossing where he had just left Donnelly,
another figure flying towards him, and recognized O'Connell. Together
they turned into Girod Street.
They were in time to see a flash from the shed that stood in front of
Larubio's shop, then an answering spurt of flame from the side of the
street upon which they were. The place was full of noise and smoke. At
the farther crossing a man in a shining rubber coat knelt and fired,
then rose and scurried into the darkness beyond. Figures broke out from
the shadows of the wooden awning in front of Larubio's shop and
followed, some turning towards the left at Basin Street, others
continuing on through the area lighted by the sputtering street light
and into the night. One of them paused and looked back as if loath to
leave the spot until certain of his work.
Side by side Blake and O'Connell raced towards the Chief, whom they saw
lurching uncertainly along the banquette ahead of them. The detective
was cursing; Blake sobbed through his tight-clenched teeth.
Donnelly was down when they reached him, and his empty revolver lay by
his side. Norvin raised him with shaking arms, his whole body sick with
horror.
"Are you badly--hit, old man?" he gasped.
"I'm--done for!" said the Chief, weakly. "And the dagos did it."
From an open window above them a woman began to scream loudly:
"Murder! Murder!"
The cry was taken up in other quarters and went echoing down the street.
Doors were flung wide, gates slammed, men came hurrying through the wet
night, hurling startled questions at one another, but the powder smoke
which hung sluggishly in the dark night air was sufficient answer. It
floated in thin blue layers beneath the electric lights, gradually
fading and melting as the life ebbed from the mangled body of Dan
Donnelly.
It was nearing dawn when Norvin Blake emerged from the hospital whither
Donnelly had been taken. The air was dead and heavy, a dripping
winding-sheet of fog wrapped the city in its folds; no sound broke the
silence of the hour. He was sadly shaken, for he had watched a brave
soul pass out of the light, and in his ears the words of his friend
were ringing:
"Don't let them get away with this, Norvin. You're the only man I
trust."