After his enforced idleness Blake was keen to resume his task, yet
there was little for him to do save study the one big problem which lay
at the root of the whole matter.
The evidence against the prisoners was in good shape; they were
indicted, and the trial date would soon be set. They had hired
competent lawyers and were preparing for a desperate fight. Where the
necessary money came from nobody seemed to know, although it was
generally felt that a powerful influence was at work to free them. The
district attorney expressed the strongest hopes of obtaining
convictions; but there came disturbing rumors of alibis for the
accused, of manufactured evidence, and of overwhelming surprises to be
sprung at the last moment. Detectives were shadowed by other
detectives, lawyers were spied upon, their plans leaked out; witnesses
for the State disappeared. Opposing the authorities was a master hand,
at once so cunning and so bold as to threaten a miscarriage of justice.
This could be none other then Belisario Cardi, yet he seemed no nearer
discovery than ever. Norvin had no idea how to proceed. He could only
wait for some word from his new ally, Vittoria Fabrizi. It might be
that she would find a clue, and he feared to complicate matters by any
premature or ill-judged action. Meanwhile, he encountered the results
of Bernie Dreux's garrulity. He found himself generally regarded as
Myra Nell's accepted suitor, and, of course, could make no denial. But
when he telephoned to the girl herself and asked when he might call he
was surprised to hear her say:
"You can't call at all Why, you've ruined all my enjoyment as it is!
There hasn't been a man in this whole neighborhood since I came home.
Even the policeman takes the other side of the street."
"All the more reason why I should come."
"I won't have you hanging around until I get my Carnival dresses
fitted. Oh, Norvin, you ought to see them. There's one-white brocaded
peau de soie, all frills and rosebuds; the bodice is trimmed with pearl
passementerie, and it's a dear." After a moment's hesitation she added:
"Norvin dear, what does it cost to rent the front page of a newspaper?"
"I don't know. I don't think it can be done."
"I wondered if you couldn't do it and--deny our engagement."
"Do you want to break it?" He could hardly keep the eagerness out of
his voice.
"Oh, no! But I'd like to deny it until after the Carnival. Now don't be
offended. I'll never get my dances filled if I'm as good as married to
you. Imagine a queen with an empty programme. I just love you to
pieces, of course, but I can't allow our engagement to interfere with
the success of the Carnival, can I?"
"Don't you know this is a thing we can't joke about?"
"Of course I do. It has taught me a good lesson."
"What?"
"I'll never be engaged to another man."
"Well! I should hope not. Do you intend to marry me, Myra Nell?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I think I will, then again I'm afraid nobody'd
ever come to see me if I did. I'll get old, like you."
"I'm not old."
"We'd both have gray hair and--I can't talk any more. Here comes Bernie
with an armful of dresses and a mouthful of pins. If he coughs I'll be
all alone in the world. No, you can't see me for a week. I don't even
want to hear from you except--"
"What?"
"Well, the strain of dress-fitting is tremendous. I'm nearly always
hungry--ravenous for nourishment."
"You mean you're out of candy, I suppose?"
"Practically. There's hardly a whole piece left. They've all been
nibbled."
Blake did not know whether to feel amused or ashamed. He was relieved
at the girl's apparent carelessness, yet this half-serious engagement
had put Myra Nell in a new light. He could not think of their relations
as really unchanged, and this was inevitable since his sentiment for
her was genuine. The grotesqueness of the affair--even Myra Nell's own
attitude toward it--seemed a violation of something sacred.
But nothing could subdue the joy he felt in his growing intimacy with
Vittoria, whom he managed to see frequently, although she never
permitted him to come to Oliveta's house. Little by little her reserve
melted, and more and more she seemed to forget her intention of
devoting herself to a religious life, while fears for her friend's
safety appealed to the deep mother instinct which had remained latent
in her.
She was unable, however, even with Oliveta's assistance, to put any
information in his way, and Blake could think of no better plan than to
try once more to sound Caesar Maruffi. If Caesar had really written the
letters, it would be strange if he could not be induced to go farther,
despite his obvious fear of Cardi. It was unbelievable that a man who
knew so much about the Mafia was really in ignorance of its leader's
identity, and Blake was convinced that if he acted diplomatically and
seized the right occasion he could bring the fellow to unbosom himself.
Discarding all thought of his own safety, he went often to the Red Wing
Club. But he found Caesar wary, and he dared not be too abrupt. Time
and again he was upon the verge of speaking out, but something
invariably prevented, some inner voice warned him that the man's mood
was unpropitious, that his extravagant caution was not yet satisfied.
He allowed the Sicilian to feel him out to his heart's content, and, at
last, seeing that he made no real progress, he set out one evening
resolved to risk all in an effort to reach some definite understanding.
He was delayed in reaching the foreign quarter, and the dinner-hour was
nearly over when he arrived at the cafe. Maruffi was there, as usual,
but he had finished his meal and was playing cards with some of his
countrymen, swarthy, eager-faced, voluble fellows whose chatter filled
the place. They greeted Norvin politely as he seated himself near by,
then went on with their amusement as he ordered and ate his dinner. He
was near enough to hear their talk, and to catch an occasional glimpse
of the game, so that he was not long in finding that they played for
considerable stakes. They were as earnest as school-boys, and he
watched their ever-changing expressions with interest, particularly
when he discovered that Maruffi was in hard luck. The big Sicilian sat
bulked up in a corner, black, silent, and sinister, his scowling brows
bespeaking his rage. Occasionally he growled a curse, then sent the
waiter scurrying with an order. Other Italians were drawn to the scene
and crowded about the players.
When Norvin had finished his meal he sat back to smoke and idly sip his
claret, thinking he would wait until the game broke up, so that he
might get Caesar to himself and perhaps put the issue to the test. He
began to study the fellow's face, thinking what force, what passion lay
in it, puzzling his brain for some means of enlisting that energy upon
his side. But as fortune continued to run against Maruffi, he began to
fear that the time was not favorable.
What a picture those laughing, hawk-like men formed, surrounding the
black, resentful merchant! Martel Savigno could have drawn a group like
that, he mused, for he had a rare appreciation of his own people, no
matter what might be said of his talent. He had done some very
creditable Sicilian sketches; in fact, Norvin had one framed in his
room. What a pity the Count had been stricken in the first years of his
promise! What a ruthless hand it was that had destroyed him! What a
giant mind it was which had kept all Sicily in terror and scaled its
lips!
In that very group yonder there probably was more than one who knew the
evil genius in person, and yet they were held in a thralldom of fear
which no offer of riches could break. What manner of man was this
Cardi? What hellish methods did he follow to wield such despotism?
Those card-players were impudent, unscrupulous blades, as ready to
gamble with death as with their jingling coins, and yet they dared not
lift a hand against him.
Blake saw that the game had reached a point of unusual intensity; the
players were deeply engrossed; the spectators had fallen silent, with
bright eyes fixed upon the mounting stakes. When the tension broke
Norvin saw that Caesar had lost again, and smiled at the excited
conversation which ensued. There was a babble of laughter, of curses,
of expostulation, shafts of badinage flew at the Sicilian merchant. In
the midst of it he raised a huge, hairy fist and brought it down,
smiting the table until the coins, the cards, and the glasses leaped.
His face was distorted; his voice was thick with passion.
[Illustration: "SILENZIO" HE GROWLED, "I PLAY MY OWN GAME, AND I LOSE"]
"_Silenzio!_" he growled, with such imperative fury that the others
fell silent; then hoarsely: "I play my own game, and I lose. That is
all! You are like old wives with your advice. It is my accursed luck,
which will some day bring me to the gallows. Now deal!"
That same nausea which invariably seized Norvin Blake in moments of
extreme excitement swept over him now. His whole body went cold, the
knot of figures faded from his vision, he heard the noisy voices as if
from a great distance. A giant hand had reached forth and gripped him,
halting his breath and his heart-beats. The room swam dizzily, in a
haze.
He found, an instant later, that he had risen and was gripping the
table in front of him as if for support. He had upset his goblet of
wine, and a wide red stain was spreading over the white cloth. To him
it was the blood of Martel Savigno. He stared down at it dazedly, his
eyes glazed with horror and surprise.
As the crimson splotch widened his heart took up its halting labors,
then began to race, faster and faster, until he felt himself
smothering; his frame was swept with tremors. Then the raucous voices
grew louder and louder, mounting into a roar, as if he were coming out
from a swoon, and all the time that red blotch grew until he could see
no other color; it blurred the room and the quarreling gamblers; it
steeped the very air. He was still deathly sick, as only those men are
whose blood sours, whose bones and muscles disintegrate at the touch of
fear.
He did not remember leaving the place, but found the cool night air
fanning fresh upon his face as he lurched blindly down the dark street,
within his eyes the picture of a scowling, black-browed visage; in his
ears that hoarse, unforgettable command, _"Silenzio!"_
A single word, burdened with rage and venom, had carried him back over
the years to a certain moment and a certain spot on a Sicilian
mountain-side. The peculiar arrogance, the harsh vibrations of that
voice permitted no mistake. He saw again a ghost-gray road walled in
with fearful shadows, and at his feet two silent, twisted bodies dimly
outlined against the dust. A match flared and Ricardo Ferara grinned up
into the night beneath his grizzled mustache, Narcone, the butcher, his
hands still wet, was whining for the blood of the American. He heard
Martel Savigno call, heard the young Count's voice rise and break in a
shriek, heard a thunder of hoofs retreating into the blackness.
Sicilian men were peering into his face, talking excitedly; through
their chatter came that same voice, imperative, furious, filled with
rage, and it cried:
"_Silenzio!_"
There was no mistaking it. The veil was ripped at last.
Blake recalled the dim outlines of that burly, bull-necked figure as it
had leaped into brief silhouette against the glare of the blazing
match, that night so long ago, and then he cried out aloud in the empty
street as he realized how complete was the identification. He
remembered Donnelly's vague prediction five minutes before he was
stricken:
"If what I suspect is true, it will cause a sensation,"
A sensation indeed! The surprise, the realization of consequences, was
too overpowering to permit coherent thought. This Maruffi, or Cardi, or
whoever he might prove to be, was tremendous. No wonder he had been
hard to uncover. No wonder his power was absolute. He had the genius of
a great general, a great politician, and a great criminal, all in one,
and he was as pitiless as a panther, more deadly than a moccasin. What
influence had perverted such intellect into a weapon of iniquity? What
evil of the blood, what lesion of the brain, had distorted his
instincts so monstrously?
Caesar Maruffi, rich, respected, honored! It was unbelievable.
Blake halted after a time and took note of the surroundings into which
his feet had led him. He was deep in the foreign quarter, and found,
with a start, that he had been heading for Vittoria Fabrizi's dwelling
as if guided by some extraneous power. By a strong exercise of will he
calmed himself. What he needed above all things was counsel, some one
with whom he could share this amazing discovery. Perhaps his presence
here was a sign; at any rate, he decided to follow his first impulse,
so hastened onward.
Inside the house his brain cleared in a measure, as he waited; but his
agitation must have left plain traces, for no sooner had Vittoria
appeared than she exclaimed:
"My friend! Something has happened."
He rose and met her half-way. "Yes. Something tremendous, something
terrible."
"It was unwise of you to come here--you may be followed. Tell me
quickly what has made you so indiscreet?"
"I have found Belisario Cardi."
She paled; her eyes flamed.
"Yes--it's incredible." His voice shook. "I know the man well, that's
the marvel of it. I've trusted him; I've rubbed shoulders with him; I
went to him to-night to enlist his aid." He paused, realizing for the
first time that the mystery of those letters was now deeper than ever.
If Maruffi had not written them, who then? "He's the best and richest
Italian in the city. God! The thing is appalling."
"He must go to justice," said Vittoria, quietly. "His name?"
"Caesar Maruffi!"
The girl's eager look faded into one of blank dismay.
"No!" she said, strangely. "No!"
"Do you know him?"
In a daze she nodded; then cast a hurried, frightened look over her
shoulder.
"Madonna mia! Caesar Maruffi!" Disbelief and horror leaped into her
eyes. "You are mad! Not Caesar. I do not believe it."
"Caesar, _Caesar_." he cried. "Why do you call him that? Why do you
doubt? What is he to you?"
She drew away with a look that brought him to his senses.
"There is no mistake," he mumbled. "He is Cardi. I know it. I--"
"Wait, wait; don't tell me." She went groping uncertainly to the door.
"Don't tell me yet."
A moment later he heard her call:
"Oliveta! Come quickly, sorella mia. A friend. Quickly!"
Oliveta--recognizably the same girl that he had known in
Sicily--entered with her black brows lifted in anxious inquiry, her
dark eyes wide with apprehension.
"Some evil has befallen; tell me!" she said, wasting no time in
greeting.
"No. Nothing evil," Blake assured her.
"Our friend has made a terrible discovery," said Vittoria, in a faint
voice. "I cannot believe--I--want you to hear, carina." She motioned to
Norvin.
"I have been seeking our enemy, Belisario Cardi, and--I have found him."
Oliveta cried out in fierce triumph: "God be praised! He lives; that is
enough. I feared he had cheated us."
"Listen!" exclaimed Vittoria, in such a tone that the peasant girl
started. "You don't understand."
"I understand nothing except that he lives. His blood shall wash our
blood. That is what we swore, and I have never forgotten, even though
you have. He shall go to meet his dead, and his soul shall be
accursed." She spoke with the same hysterical ferocity as when she had
cursed her father's murderer in the castello of Terranova.
"He calls himself Caesar Maruffi," Blake told her.