“This is the reminder so that Gennaro and his father-in-law will not
forget,” I gasped.
“Yes,” added Craig, pulling us away, “and Cesare himself is wounded,
too. Perhaps that was for putting up the notice refusing to pay. Perhaps
not. It's a queer case--they usually set the bombs off at night when
no one is around. There must be more back of this than merely to scare
Gennaro. It looks to me as if they were after Casare, too, first by
poison, then by dynamite.”
We shouldered our way out through the crowd and went on until we came to
Mulberry Street, pulsing with life. Down we went past the little shops,
dodging the children, and making way for women with huge bundles of
sweatshop clothing accurately balanced on their heads or hugged up under
their capacious capes. Here was just one little colony of the hundreds
of thousands of Italians--a population larger than the Italian
population of Rome--of whose life the rest of New York knew and cared
nothing.
At last we came to Albano's little wine-shop, a dark, evil, malodorous
place on the street level of a five-story, alleged “new-law” tenement.
Without hesitation Kennedy entered, and we followed, acting the part of
a slumming party. There were a few customers at this early hour, men out
of employment and an inoffensive-looking lot, though of course they eyed
us sharply. Albano himself proved to be a greasy, low-browed fellow who
had a sort of cunning look. I could well imagine such a fellow spreading
terror in the hearts of simple folk by merely pressing both temples with
his thumbs and drawing his long bony fore-finger under his throat--the
so-called Black Hand sign that has shut up many a witness in the middle
of his testimony even in open court.
We pushed through to the low-ceilinged back room, which was empty, and
sat down at a table. Over a bottle of Albano's famous California “red
ink” we sat silently. Kennedy was making a mental note of the place. In
the middle of the ceiling was a single gas-burner with a big reflector
over, it. In the back wall of the room was a horizontal oblong window,
barred, and with a sash that opened like a transom. The tables were
dirty and the chairs rickety. The walls were bare and unfinished, with
beams innocent of decoration. Altogether it was as unprepossessing a
place as I had ever seen.
Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, Kennedy got up to go,
complimenting the proprietor on his wine. I could see that Kennedy had
made up his mind as to his course of action.
“How sordid crime really is,” he remarked as we walked on down the
street. “Look at that place of Albano's. I defy even the police news
reporter on the Star to find any glamour in that.”
Our next stop was at the corner at the little store kept by the cousin
of Luigi, who conducted us back of the partition where prescriptions
were compounded, and found us chairs.
A hurried explanation from Luigi brought a cloud to the open face of the
druggist, as if he hesitated to lay himself and his little fortune open
to the blackmailers. Kennedy saw it and interrupted.
“All that I wish to do,” he said, “is to put in a little instrument here
and use it to-night for a few minutes. Indeed, there will be no risk to
you, Vincenzo. Secrecy is what I desire, and no one will ever know about
it.”
Vincenzo was at length convinced, and Craig opened his suit-case. There
was little in it except several coils of insulated wire; some tools, a
couple of packages wrapped up, and a couple of pairs of overalls. In a
moment Kennedy had donned overalls and was smearing dirt and grease over
his face and hands. Under his direction I did the same.
Taking the bag of tools, the wire, and one of the small packages, we
went out on the street and then up through the dark and ill-ventilated
hall of the tenement. Half-way up a woman stopped us suspiciously.
“Telephone company,” said Craig curtly. “Here's permission from the
owner of the house to string wires across the roof.”
He pulled an old letter out of his pocket, but as it was too dark to
read even if the woman had cared to do so, we went on up as he had
expected, unmolested. At last we came to the roof, where there were some
children at play a couple of houses down from us.
Kennedy began by dropping two strands of wire down to the ground in the
back yard behind Vincenzo's shop. Then he proceeded to lay two wires
along the edge of the roof.
We had worked only a little while when the children began to collect.
However, Kennedy kept right on until we reached the tenement next to
that in which Albano's shop was.
“Walter,” he whispered, “just get the children away for a minute now.”
“Look here, you kids,” I yelled, “some of you will fall off if you get
so close to the edge of the roof. Keep back.”
It had no effect. Apparently they looked not a bit frightened at the
dizzy mass of clothes-lines below us.
“Say, is there a candy-store on this block?” I asked in desperation.
“Yes, sir,” came the chorus.
“Who'll go down and get me a bottle of ginger ale?” I asked.
A chorus of voices and glittering eyes was the answer. They all would. I
took a half-dollar from my pocket and gave it to the oldest.
“All right now, hustle along, and divide the change.”
With the scamper of many feet they were gone, and we were alone. Kennedy
had now reached Albano's, and as soon as the last head had disappeared
below the scuttle of the roof he dropped two long strands down into the
back yard, as he had done at Vincenzo's.