“Well, your face is sufficiently dirty,” he commented, “so that with the
overalls you don't look very much as you did the first time you went in.
I don't think they will recognise you. Do I look pretty good?”
“You look like a coal-heaver out of a job,” I said. “I can scarcely
restrain my admiration.”
“All right. Then take this little glass bottle. Go into the back room
and order something cheap, in keeping with your looks. Then when you are
all alone break the bottle. It is full of gas drippings. Your nose
will dictate what to do next. Just tell the proprietor you saw the gas
company's wagon on the next block and come up here and tell me.”
I entered. There was a sinister-looking man, with a sort of unscrupulous
intelligence, writing at a table. As he wrote and puffed at his cigar,
I noticed a scar on his face, a deep furrow running from the lobe of his
ear to his mouth. That, I knew, was a brand set upon him by the Camorra.
I sat and smoked and sipped slowly for several minutes, cursing him
inwardly more for his presence than for his evident look of the “mala
vita.” At last he went out to ask the barkeeper for a stamp.
Quickly I tiptoed over to another corner of the room and ground the
little bottle under my heel. Then I resumed my seat. The odour that
pervaded the room was sickening.
The sinister-looking man with the scar came in again and sniffed. I
sniffed. Then the proprietor came in and sniffed.
“Say,” I said in the toughest voice I could assume, “you got a leak.
Wait. I seen the gas company wagon on the next block when I came in.
I'll get the man.”
I dashed out and hurried up the street to the place where Kennedy was
waiting impatiently. Rattling his tools, he followed me with apparent
reluctance.
As he entered the wine-shop he snorted, after the manner of gas-men,
“Where's de leak?”
“You find-a da leak,” grunted Albano. “What-a you get-a you pay for? You
want-a me do your work?”
“Well, half a dozen o' you wops get out o' here, that's all. D'youse
all wanter be blown ter pieces wid dem pipes and cigarettes? Clear out,”
growled Kennedy.
They retreated precipitately, and Craig hastily opened his bag of tools.
“Quick, Walter, shut the door and hold it,” exclaimed Craig, working
rapidly. He unwrapped a little package and took out a round, flat
disc-like thing of black vulcanised rubber. Jumping up on a table, he
fixed it to the top of the reflector over the gas-jet.
“Can you see that from the floor, Walter?” he asked under his breath.
“No,” I replied, “not even when I know it is there.”
Then he attached a couple of wires to it and led them across the ceiling
toward the window, concealing them carefully by sticking them in the
shadow of a beam. At the window he quickly attached the wires to the
two that were dangling down from the roof and shoved them around out of
sight.
“We'll have to trust that no one sees them,” he said. “That's the best I
can do at such short notice. I never saw a room so bare as this, anyway.
There isn't another place I could put that thing without its being
seen.”
We gathered up the broken glass of the gas drippings bottle, and I
opened the door.
“It's all right, now,” said Craig, sauntering out before the bar. “Only
de next time you has anyt'ing de matter call de company up. I ain't
supposed to do dis wit'out orders, see?”
A moment later I followed, glad to get out of the oppressive atmosphere,
and joined him in the back of Vincenzo's drug-store, where he was again
at work. As there was no back window there, it was quite a job to lead
the wires around the outside from the back yard and in at a side window.
It was at last done, however, without exciting suspicion, and Kennedy
attached them to an oblong box of weathered oak and a pair of specially
constructed dry batteries.
“Now,” said Craig, as we washed off the stains of work and stowed the
overalls back in the suitcase, “that is done to my satisfaction. I can
tell Gennaro to go ahead safely now and meet the Black-Handers.”
From Vincenzo's we walked over toward Centre Street, where Kennedy and
I left Luigi to return to his restaurant, with instructions to be at
Vincenzo's at half-past eleven that night.
We turned into the new police headquarters and went down the long
corridor to the Italian Bureau. Kennedy sent in his card to Lieutenant
Giuseppe in charge, and we were quickly admitted. The lieutenant was a
short, fullfaced, fleshy Italian, with lightish hair and eyes that were
apparently dull, until you suddenly discovered that that was merely a
cover to their really restless way of taking in everything and fixing
the impressions on his mind, as if on a sensitive plate.
“I want to talk about the Gennaro case,” began Craig. “I may add that
I have been rather closely associated with Inspector O'Connor of the
Central Office on a number of cases, so that I think we can trust each
other. Would you mind telling me what you know about it if I promise you
that I, too, have something to reveal?”
The lieutenant leaned back and watched Kennedy closely without seeming
to do so. “When I was in Italy last year,” he replied at length, “I did
a good deal of work in tracing up some Camorra suspects. I had a tip
about some of them to look up their records--I needn't say where it came
from, but it was a good one. Much of the evidence against some of those
fellows who are being tried at Viterbo was gathered by the Carabinieri
as a result of hints that I was able to give them--clues that were
furnished to me here in America from the source I speak of. I suppose
there is really no need to conceal it, though. The original tip came
from a certain banker here in New York.”
“I can guess who it was,” nodded Craig.
“Then, as you know, this banker is a fighter. He is the man who
organised the White Hand--an organisation which is trying to rid the
Italian population of the Black Hand. His society had a lot of evidence
regarding former members of both the Camorra in Naples and the Mafia in
Sicily, as well as the Black Hand gangs in New York, Chicago, and other
cities. Well, Cesare, as you know, is Gennaro's father-in-law.
“While I was in Naples looking up the record of a certain criminal I
heard of a peculiar murder committed some years ago. There was an honest
old music master who apparently lived the quietest and most harmless
of lives. But it became known that he was supported by Cesare and had
received handsome presents of money from him. The old man was, as
you may have guessed, the first music teacher of Gennaro, the man who
discovered him. One might have been at a loss to see how he could have
an enemy, but there was one who coveted his small fortune. One day he
was stabbed and robbed. His murderer ran out into the street, crying
out that the poor man had been killed. Naturally a crowd rushed up in
a moment, for it was in the middle of the day. Before the injured man
could make it understood who had struck him the assassin was down the
street and lost in the maze of old Naples where he well knew the
houses of his friends who would hide him. The man who is known to have
committed that crime--Francesco Paoli--escaped to New York. We are
looking for him to-day. He is a clever man, far above the average--son
of a doctor in a town a few miles from Naples, went to the university,
was expelled for some mad prank--in short, he was the black sheep of the
family. Of course over here he is too high-born to work with his
hands on a railroad or in a trench, and not educated enough to work
at anything else. So he has been preying on his more industrious
countrymen--a typical case of a man living by his wits with no visible
means of support.
“Now I don't mind telling you in strict confidence,” continued the
lieutenant, “that it's my theory that old Cesare has seen Paoli here,
knew he was wanted for that murder of the old music master, and gave me
the tip to look up his record. At any rate Paoli disappeared right after
I returned from Italy, and we haven't been able to locate him since.
He must have found out in some way that the tip to look him up had been
given by the White Hand. He had been a Camorrista, in Italy, and had
many ways of getting information here in America.”
He paused, and balanced a piece of cardboard in his hand.
“It is my theory of this case that if we could locate this Paoli we
could solve the kidnapping of little Adelina Gennaro very quickly.
That's his picture.”
Kennedy and I bent over to look at it, and I started in surprise. It was
my evil-looking friend with the scar on his cheek.
“Well,” said Craig, quietly handing back the card, “whether or not he is
the man, I know where we can catch the kidnappers to-night, Lieutenant.”
It was Giuseppe's turn to show surprise now.
“With your assistance I'll get this man and the whole gang to-night,”
explained Craig, rapidly sketching over his plan and concealing just
enough to make sure that no matter how anxious the lieutenant was to get
the credit he could not spoil the affair by premature interference.
The final arrangement was that four of the best men of the squad were to
hide in a vacant store across from Vincenzo's early in the evening, long
before anyone was watching. The signal for them to appear was to be
the extinguishing of the lights behind the coloured bottles in the
druggist's window. A taxicab was to be kept waiting at headquarters
at the same time with three other good men ready to start for a given
address the moment the alarm was given over the telephone.
We found Gennaro awaiting us with the greatest anxiety at the
opera-house. The bomb at Cesare's had been the last straw. Gennaro had
already drawn from his bank ten crisp one-thousand-dollar bills, and
already had a copy of Il Progresso in which he had hidden the money
between the sheets.
“Mr. Kennedy,” he said, “I am going to meet them to-night. They may kill
me. See, I have provided myself with a pistol--I shall fight, too, if
necessary for my little Adelina. But if it is only money they want, they
shall have it.”
“One thing I want to say,” began Kennedy.
“No, no, no!” cried the tenor. “I will go--you shall not stop me.”
“I don't wish to stop you,” Craig reassured him. “But one thing--do
exactly as I tell you, and I swear not a hair of the child's head will
be injured and we will get the blackmailers, too.”
“How?” eagerly asked Gennaro. “What do you want me to do?”
“All I want you to do is to go to Albano's at the appointed time. Sit
down in the back room. Get into conversation with them, and, above all,
Signor, as soon as you get the copy of the Bolletino turn to the third
page, pretend not to be able to read the address. Ask the man to read
it. Then repeat it after him. Pretend to be overjoyed. Offer to set up
wine for the whole crowd. Just a few minutes, that is all I ask, and I
will guarantee that you will be the happiest man in New York to-morrow.”
Gennaro's eyes filled with tears as he grasped Kennedy's hand. “That is
better than having the whole police force back of me,” he said. “I shall
never forget, never forget.”
As we went out Kennedy remarked: “You can't blame them for keeping their
troubles to themselves. Here we send a police officer over to Italy to
look up the records of some of the worst suspects. He loses his life.
Another takes his place. Then after he gets back he is set to work on
the mere clerical routine of translating them. One of his associates is
reduced in rank. And so what does it come to? Hundreds of records have
become useless because the three years within which the criminals could
be deported have elapsed with nothing done. Intelligent, isn't it?
I believe it has been established that all but about fifty of seven
hundred known Italian suspects are still at large, mostly in this city.
And the rest of the Italian population is guarded from them by a squad
of police in number scarcely one-thirtieth of the number of known
criminals. No, it's our fault if the Black Hand thrives.”
We had been standing on the corner of Broadway, waiting for a car.
“Now, Walter, don't forget. Meet me at the Bleecker Street station of
the subway at eleven-thirty. I'm off to the university. I have some very
important experiments with phosphorescent salts that I want to finish
to-day.”
“What has that to do with the case?” I asked, mystified.
“Nothing,” replied Craig. “I didn't say it had. At eleven-thirty, don't
forget. By George, though, that Paoli must be a clever one--think of his
knowing about ricin. I only heard of it myself recently. Well, here's my
car. Good-bye.”
Craig swung aboard an Amsterdam Avenue car, leaving me to kill eight
nervous hours of my weekly day of rest from the Star.
They passed at length, and at precisely the appointed time Kennedy and I
met. With suppressed excitement, at least on my part, we walked over to
Vincenzo's. At night this section of the city was indeed a black enigma.
The lights in the shops where olive oil, fruit, and other things were
sold, were winking out one by one; here and there strains of music
floated out of wine-shops, and little groups lingered on corners
conversing in animated sentences. We passed Albano's on the other side
of the street, being careful not to look at it too closely, for several
men were hanging idly about--pickets, apparently, with some secret code
that would instantly have spread far and wide the news of any alarming
action.
At the corner we crossed and looked in Vincenzo's window a moment,
casting a furtive glance across the street at the dark empty store where
the police must be hiding. Then we went in and casually sauntered back
of the partition. Luigi was there already. There were several customers
still in the store, however, and therefore we had to sit in silence
while Vincenzo quickly finished a prescription and waited on the last
one.
At last the doors were locked and the lights lowered, all except those
in the windows which were to serve as signals.
“Ten minutes to twelve,” said Kennedy, placing the oblong box on the
table. “Gennaro will be going in soon. Let us try this machine now and
see if it works. If the wires have been cut since we put them up this
morning Gennaro will have to take his chances alone.”
Kennedy reached over and with a light movement of his forefinger touched
a switch.
Instantly a babel of voices filled the store, all talking at once,
rapidly and loudly. Here and there we could distinguish a snatch of
conversation, a word, a phrase, now and then even a whole sentence above
the rest. There was the clink of glasses. I could hear the rattle of
dice on a bare table, and an oath. A cork popped. Somebody scratched a
match.
We sat bewildered, looking at Kennedy for an explanation.
“Imagine that you are sitting at a table in Albano's back room,” was
all he said. “This is what you would be hearing. This is my 'electric
ear'--in other words the dictograph, used, I am told, by the Secret
Service of the United States. Wait, in a moment you will hear Gennaro
come in. Luigi and Vincenzo, translate what you hear. My knowledge of
Italian is pretty rusty.”
“Can they hear us?” whispered Luigi in an awe-struck whisper.
Craig laughed. “No, not yet. But I have only to touch this other switch,
and I could produce an effect in that room that would rival the famous
writing on Belshazzar's wall--only it would be a voice from the wall
instead of writing.”
“They seem to be waiting for someone,” said Vincenzo. “I heard somebody
say: 'He will be here in a few minutes. Now get out.'”
The babel of voices seemed to calm down as men withdrew from the room.
Only one or two were left.
“One of them says the child is all right. She has been left in the back
yard,” translated Luigi.
“What yard? Did he say?” asked Kennedy.
“No; they just speak of it as the 'yard,'” replied Luigi.
“Jameson, go outside in the store to the telephone booth and call up
headquarters. Ask them if the automobile is ready, with the men in it.”
I rang up, and after a moment the police central answered that
everything was right.
“Then tell central to hold the line clear--we mustn't lose a moment.
Jameson, you stay in the booth. Vincenzo, you pretend to be working
around your window, but not in such a way as to attract attention, for
they have men watching the street very carefully. What is it, Luigi?”
“Gennaro is coming. I just heard one of them say, 'Here he comes.'”
Even from the booth I could hear the dictograph repeating the
conversation in the dingy, little back room of Albano's, down the
street.
“He's ordering a bottle of red wine,” murmured Luigi, dancing up and
down with excitement.
Vincenzo was so nervous that he knocked a bottle down in the window,
and I believe that my heartbeats were almost audible over the telephone
which I was holding, for the police operator called me down for asking
so many times if all was ready.
“There it is--the signal,” cried Craig. “'A fine opera is
“I Pagliacci.”' Now listen for the answer.”
A moment elapsed, then, “Not without Gennaro,” came a gruff voice in
Italian from the dictograph.
A silence ensued. It was tense.
“Wait, wait,” said a voice which I recognised instantly as Gennaro's. “I
cannot read this. What is this, 23 Prince Street?”
“No. 33. She has been left in the backyard,” answered the voice.
“Jameson,” called Craig, “tell them to drive straight to 33 Prince
Street. They will find the girl in the back yard--quick, before the
Black-Handers have a chance to go back on their word.”
I fairly shouted my orders to the police headquarters. “They're off,”
came back the answer, and I hung up the receiver.
“What was that?” Craig was asking of Luigi. “I didn't catch it. What did
they say?”
“That other voice said to Gennaro, 'Sit down while I count this.'”
“Sh! he's talking again.”
“If it is a penny less than ten thousand or I find a mark on the bills
I'll call to Enrico, and your daughter will be spirited away again,”
translated Luigi.
“Now, Gennaro is talking,” said Craig. “Good--he is gaining time. He is
a trump. I can distinguish that all right. He's asking the gruff voiced
fellow if he will have another bottle of wine. He says he will. Good.
They must be at Prince Street now we'll give them a few minutes more,
not too much, for word will be back to Albano's like wildfire, and they
will get Gennaro after all. Ah, they are drinking again. What was that,
Luigi? The money is all right, he says? Now, Vincenzo, out with the
lights!”
A door banged open across the street, and four huge dark figures darted
out in the direction of Albano's.
With his finger Kennedy pulled down the other switch and shouted:
“Gennaro, this is Kennedy! To the street! Polizia! Polizia!”
A scuffle and a cry of surprise followed. A second voice, apparently
from the bar, shouted, “Out with the lights, out with the lights!”
Bang! went a pistol, and another.
The dictograph, which had been all sound a moment before, was as mute as
a cigar-box.
“What's the matter?” I asked Kennedy, as he rushed past me.
“They have shot out the lights. My receiving instrument is destroyed.
Come on, Jameson; Vincenzo, stay back, if you don't want to appear in
this.”
A short figure rushed by me, faster even than I could go. It was the
faithful, Luigi.
In front of Albano's an exciting fight was going on. Shots were being
fired wildly in the darkness, and heads were popping out of tenement
windows on all sides. As Kennedy and I flung ourselves into the crowd
we caught a glimpse of Gennaro, with blood streaming from a cut on his
shoulder, struggling with a policeman while Luigi vainly was trying to
interpose himself between them. A man, held by another policeman, was
urging the first officer on. “That's the man,” he was crying. “That's
the kidnapper. I caught him.”
In a moment Kennedy was behind him. “Paoli, you lie. You are the
kidnapper. Seize him--he has the money on him. That other is Gennaro
himself.”
The policeman released the tenor, and both of them seized Paoli. The
others were beating at the door, which was being frantically barricaded
inside.
Just then a taxicab came swinging up they street. Three men jumped
out and added their strength to those who were battering down Albano's
barricade.
Gennaro, with a cry, leaped into the taxicab. Over his shoulder I could
see a tangled mass of dark brown curls, and a childish voice lisped “Why
didn't you come for me, papa? The bad man told me if I waited in the
yard you would come for me. But if I cried he said he would shoot me.
And I waited, and waited--”
“There, there, Una; papa's going to take you straight home to mother.”
A crash followed as the door yielded, and the famous Paoli gang was in
the hands of the law.