"Tell what you know of the Mafia so that we can destroy it. At every
turn we are thwarted by the secrecy of your people."
"They know what is good for them. As for me, my flesh will not turn the
point of a knife, Signore. Life is an enjoyable affair, and if I die I
can never marry. What would you have me tell?"
"The name of the Capo-Mafia, for instance."
"You think there is a Capo-Mafia?"
"I know it. What's more, I know who he is."
"Belisario Cardi? Bah! Few people believe there is such a man."
"You and I believe it."
"Perhaps. But what if I could lay hands upon him? Think you that I, or
any Sicilian, would dare? All the police of this city could never take
Belisario Cardi. It is to make laugh! Our friend Donnelly was unwise,
he was too zealous. Now--he is but a memory. He took a life, his life
was taken in return. This affair will mean more deaths. Leave things as
they are, my friend, before you too are mourned."
Norvin eyed his caller curiously.
"That sounds almost as much like a threat as a warning."
"God forbid! I simply state the truth for your own good and for the
good of all of us. Wherever Sicilians are found there your laws will be
ignored. For my own part, naturally, I do not approve--I am an American
now--but the truth is what I tell you."
"In other words, you think we ought to leave your countrymen alone?"
"Ah, I do not go so far. The laws should be enforced, that is certain.
But in trying to do what is impossible you stir up race hatred and make
it hard for us reputable Sicilians, who would help you so far as lies
in our power. You cannot stamp out the Mafia in a day, in a week; it is
Sicilian character. Already you have done enough to vindicate the law.
If you go on in a mad attempt to catch this Cardi--whose existence,
even, is doubtful--the consequences may be in every way bad."
"We have five of the murderers now, and we'll have the other man
soon--the fellow with the rubber coat. The grand jury will indict them.
But we won't stop there. We're on a trail that leads higher up, to the
man, or men, who directed Larubio and the others to do their work."
Maruffi shook his head mournfully. "And the Cressi boy--it was you who
found him?"
"It was."
"How did you do it?"
Norvin laughed. "If you'd only enlist in the cause I'd tell you all my
secrets gladly."
"Eh! Then he was betrayed!"
For the life of him Norvin could not tell whether the man was pleased
or chagrined at his secrecy, but something told him that the Sicilian
was feeling him out for a purpose. He smiled without answering.
"Betrayed!" said Maruffi. "Ah, well, I should not like to be in the
shoes of the betrayer." He seemed to lose himself in thought for a
moment. "Believe me, I would help you if I could, but I know nothing,
and besides it is dangerous. I am a good citizen, but I am not a
detective. You American-born," he smiled, "assume that all we Sicilians
are deep in the secrets of the Mafia. So the people in the street
insult us, and you in authority think that if we would only tell--bah!
Tell what? We know no more than you, and it is less safe for us to
aid." He rose and extended his hand. "Of course, if I learn anything I
will inform you; but there are times when it is best to let sleeping
dogs lie."
Norvin closed the door behind him with a feeling of relief, for he was
puzzled as to the object of this visit and wanted time to think it out
undisturbed. The upshot of his reflection was that Donnelly had been
right and that Caesar was indeed the author of the warning letters. As
to his want of knowledge, the Sicilian protested rather like a man who
plays a part openly. On the other hand, his fears for his own safety
seemed genuine enough. What more natural, then, than that he should
"wish to test Donnelly's successor with the utmost care before
proceeding with his disclosures?" Blake was glad that he had been
secretive, for if Maruffi were the unknown friend he would find such
caution reassuring.
As if to confirm this view of the case, there came, a day or two later,
another communication, stating that the assassin who was still at large
(he, in fact, who had worn the rubber coat) was a laborer in the parish
of St. John the Baptist, named Frank Normando. The letter went on to
say that in escaping from the scene of the crime the man had fallen on
the slippery pavement, and the traces of his injury might still be
found upon his body.
Norvin lost no time in consulting O'Neil.
"Jove! You're the best detective we have," said the Acting Chief,
admiringly. "I'd do well to turn this affair over to you entirely."
"Have you learned anything more from your prisoners?"
"Nothing. They refuse to talk. We're giving them the third degree;
but it's no use. There was another murder on St. Phillip Street last
night. The old woman who guarded the Cressi boy was found dead."
"Then they think she betrayed the lad?" Norvin recalled Maruffi's hint
that it would go hard with the traitor.
"Yes; we might have expected it. How many men will you need to take
this Normando?"
"I? You--think I'd better do the trick?" Blake had not intended to take
any active part in the capture. He was already known as the head of the
movement to avenge Donnelly; he had apprehended Larubio and the Cressi
boy with his own hand. Inner voices warned him wildly to run no further
risks.
"I thought you'd prefer to lead the raid," O'Neil said.
"So I would. Give me two or three men and we'll bring in Normando, dead
or alive."
Six hours later the last of Donnelly's actual assassins was in the
parish prison and the police were in possession of evidence showing his
movements from early morning on the day of the murder up to the hour of
the crime. His identification was even more complete than that of his
accomplices, and the public press thanked Norvin Blake in the name of
the city for his efficient service.
The anonymous letters continued to come to him regularly, and each one
contained some important clue, which, followed up, invariably led to
evidence of value. Slowly, surely, out of nothing as it were, the chain
was forged. Now came the names of persons who had seen or had talked
with some of the accused upon the fatal day, now a hint which turned
light upon some dark spot in their records. Again the letters aided in
the discovery of important witnesses, who, under pressure, confessed to
facts which they had feared to make public--until at last the history
of the six assassins lay exposed like an open sheet before the
prosecuting attorney.
The certainty and directness with which the "One Who Knows" worked was
a matter of ever-increasing amazement to Blake. He himself was little
more than an instrument in these unseen hands. Who or what could the
writer be? By what means could he remain in such intimate touch with
the workings of the Mafia, and what reason impelled him to betray its
members? Hour after hour the young man speculated, racking his head
until it ached. He considered every possibility, he began to look with
curiosity at every face. At length he came to feel an even greater
interest in the identity of this hidden friend than in the result of
the struggle itself. But investigations--no matter how
cautious--invariably resulted in a prompt and imperative warning to
desist upon pain of ruining everything.
Gradually in his mind the conviction assumed certainty that the
omniscient informer could be none other than Caesar Maruffi. He
frequented the Red Wing Club as Donnelly had done, and the more he saw
of the fellow the more firm became his belief. He had recognized at
their first meeting that Caesar was unusual--there was something
unfathomable about him--but precisely what this peculiarity was he
could never quite determine.
As for Maruffi, he met Norvin's advances half-way; but although he was
apparently more than once upon the verge of some disclosure, the terror
of the brotherhood seemed always to intervene. Feeling that he could
not openly voice his suspicions until the other was ready to show his
hand, Blake kept a close mouth, and thus the two played at
cross-purposes. Maruffi--if he were indeed the author of those
letters--had not shrunk from betraying the unthinking instruments of
the Mafia. Would he ever bring himself to implicate the man, or men,
higher up? Blake doubted it. A certain instinctive distrust of the
Sicilian was beginning to master him when a letter came which put a
wholly different face upon the matter.
"The men who really killed Chief Donnelly," it read, "are Salvatore di
Marco, Frank Garcia, Giordano Bolla, and Lorenzo Cardoni." Blake
gasped; these were men of standing and repute in the foreign community.
"Larubio and his companions were but parts of the machine; these are
the hands which set them in motion. These four men dined together on
the evening of October 15th, at Fabacher's, then attended a theater
where they made themselves conspicuous. From there they proceeded to
the lower section of the city and were purposely arrested for
disturbing the peace about the time of Donnelly's murder, in order to
establish incontestable alibis. Nevertheless, it was they who laid the
trap, and they are equally guilty with the wretches who obeyed their
orders. It was they who paid over the blood money, and with their
arrest you will have all the accessories to the crime, save one. Of him
I can tell you nothing. I fear I can never find him, for he walks in
shadow and no man dares identify him."
The importance of this information was tremendous, for arrests up to
date had been made only among the lower element. An accusation against
Di Marco, Garcia, Bolla, and Cardoni would set the city ablaze. O'Neil
was aghast at the charge. The Mayor was incredulous, the Committee of
Fifty showed signs of hesitation. But Blake, staking his reputation on
the genuineness of the letter, and urging the reliability of the writer
as shown on each occasion in the past, won his point, and the arrests
were made.
The Italian press raised a frightful clamor, the prisoners themselves
were righteously indignant, and Norvin found that he had begun to lose
that confidence which the public had been so quick to place in him.
Nevertheless, he pursued his work systematically, and soon the
mysterious agent proceeded to weave a new web around the four suspected
men, while he looked on fascinated, doing as he was bid, keeping his
own counsel as he had been advised, and turning over the results of his
inquiries to the police as they were completed.
Then came what he had long been dreading--a warning like those which
had foreshadowed Donnelly's death--and he began to spend sleepless
nights. His daylight hours were passed in a strained expectancy; he
fought constantly to hold his fears in check; he began sitting with his
face to doors; he turned wide corners and avoided side streets. He
became furtive and watchful; his eyes were forever flitting here and
there; he chose the outer edges of the sidewalks, and he went nowhere
after nightfall unattended. The time was past when he could doubt the
constancy of his purpose; but he did fear a nervous breakdown, and even
shuddered at the thought of possible insanity. Being in fact as sane a
man as ever lived, his irrational nerves alarmed him all the more. He
could not conceive that an event was immediately before him which,
without making his position safer, would rouse him from all thought of
self.
Our lives are swayed by trifles; a feather's weight may alter the
course of our destinies. A man's daily existence is made up of an
infinite series of choices, every one of which is of the utmost
importance, did he but know it. We follow paths of a million forkings,
none of which converge. A momentary whim, a passing fancy, a broken
promise, turns our feet into trails that wind into realms undreamed of.
It so happened that Myra Nell Warren yielded to an utterly reasonless
impulse to go calling at the utterly absurd hour of 10 A.M. Miss Warren
followed no set rules in her conduct, her mind reacted according to no
given formula, and, therefore, when it suddenly occurred to her to
visit a little old creole lady in the French quarter, she went without
thoughtful consideration or delay.
Madame la Branche was a distant cousin on Bernie's side--so distant, in
fact, that no one except herself had ever troubled to trace the precise
relationship; but she employed a cook whose skill was celebrated. Now
Myra Nell's appetite was a most ungovernable affair, and when she
realized that her complete happiness depended upon a certain
bouillabaisse, in the preparation of which Madame la Branche's Julia
had become famous, she whisked her hair into a knot, jammed her best
and largest hat over its unruly confusion, and went bouncing away in
the direction of Esplanade Street.
It was in the early afternoon that Norvin Blake received a note from a
coal-black urchin, who, after many attempts, had finally succeeded in
penetrating to his inner office.
Recognizing the writing, Norvin tore open the envelope eagerly, ready
to be entertained by some fresh example of the girl's infinite variety.
He read with startled eyes:
"I send this by a trusted messenger, hoping that it will reach you in
time. I am a prisoner. I am in danger. I fear my beauty is destroyed.
If you love me, come.
"Your wretched
"MYRA NELL."
The address was that of a house on Esplanade Street.
"How did you get this?" he demanded, harshly, of the pickaninny.
"A lady drap it from a window."
"Where? Where was she?"
"In a gre't big house on Esplanade Street. She seemed mighty put out
about something. Then a man run me away with a club."
A moment later Blake was on the street and had hailed a carriage. The
driver, reading urgency in the set face of his fare, whipped the horses
into a gallop and the vehicle tore across town, leaping and rocking
violently. The thought that Myra Nell was in danger filled Blake with a
physical sickness. Her beauty gone! Could it be that the Mafia had
taken this means of attacking him, knowing of his affection for the
girl? Of a sudden she became very dear, and he was smothered with fury
that any one should cause her suffering.
His heart was pounding madly as the carriage slowed into Esplanade
Street, threatening to upset, and he saw ahead of him the house he
sought. With a sharp twinge of apprehension he sighted another man
approaching the place at a run, and leaping from his conveyance, he
raced on with frantic speed.