The surprising ease with which the capture of Narcone had been effected gratified Norvin Blake immensely, for it gave him an opportunity to jeer at the weaker side of his nature. He told himself that the incident went to prove what his saner judgment was forever saying—that fear depends largely upon the power of visualization, that danger is real only in so far as the mind sees it. Moreover, the admiration his conduct aroused was balm to his soul. His friends congratulated him warmly, agreeing that he and Donnelly had taken the only practical means to rid the community of a menace.
In our Southern and Western States, where individual character stands for more than it does in the over-legalized communities of the North and East, men are concerned not so much with red-tape as with effects, and hence there was little disposition to criticize.
Blake was amazed to discover what a strong public sentiment the Italian outrages had awakened. New Orleans, it seemed, was not only indignant, but alarmed.
His self-satisfaction received a sudden shock, however, when Donnelly strolled into his office a few days later, and without a word laid a letter upon his desk. It ran as follows:
DANIEL DONNELLY, Chief of Police,
DEAR SIR,—God be praised that Gian Narcone has gone to his punishment! But you have incurred the everlasting enmity of the Mala Vita, or what you term La Mafia, and it has been decided that your life must pay for his. You are to be killed next Thursday night at the Red Wing Club. I cannot name those upon whom the choice has fallen, for that is veiled in secrecy.
I pray that you will not ignore this warning, for if you do your blood will rest upon, ONE WHO KNOWS.
P. S. Destroy this letter.
The color had receded from Norvin's face when he looked up to meet the smoke-blue eyes of his friend.
"God!" he exclaimed. "This—looks bad, doesn't it?"
"You think it's on the level?"
"Don't you?"
Donnelly shrugged. "I'm blessed if I know. It may have come from the very gang I'm after. It strikes me that they wanted to get rid of Narcone, but didn't know just how to go about it, so used me for an instrument. Now they want to scare me off."
"But—he names the very place; the very hour."
"Sure—everything except the very dago who is to do the killing! If he knew where and when, why wouldn't he know how and who?"
"I—that sounds reasonable, and yet—you are not going to the Red WingClub any more, are you?"
"Why not? I've got until Thursday and—I like their coffee. Here is the other letter, by the way." Donnelly produced the first communication. The paper was identical and the type appeared to be the same. Beyond this Norvin could make out nothing.
"Well," Dan exclaimed, when they had exhausted their conjectures, "they've set their date and I reckon they won't change it, so I'm going to eat dinner to-night at the Red Wing Club as usual, just to see what happens."
After a brief hesitation Norvin said, "I'd like to join you, if you don't mind."
Donnelly shook his gray head doubtfully. "I don't think you'd better.This may be on the square."
"I think it is, and therefore I intend to see you through."
"Suit yourself, of course. I'd like to have you go along, but I don't want to get you into any fuss."
Seven o'clock that evening found the two friends dining at the little cafe in the foreign quarter, but they were seated at one of the corner tables and their backs were toward the wall.
"I've had my reasons for eating here, and it wasn't altogether the coffee, either," the elder man confessed.
"I suspected as much," Norvin told him. "At least I couldn't detect anything remarkable about this Rio."
"You see, it's a favorite hang-out of the better Italian class, andI've been working it carefully for a year."
"What have you discovered?"
"Not much, and yet a great deal. I've made friends, for one thing, and that's considerable. Here comes one now. You know him, don't you?" Dan indicated a thick-necked, squarely built Italian who had entered at the moment. "That's Caesar Maruffi."
Norvin regarded the new-comer with interest, for Maruffi stood for what is best among his Americanized countrymen. Moreover, if rumor spoke true, he was one of the richest and most influential foreigners in the city. In answer to the Chief's invitation he approached and seated himself at the table, accepting his introduction to Blake with a smile and a gracious word.
"Ah! It is my first opportunity to thank you for the service you have done us in arresting that hateful brigand," he began.
"Did you know the fellow?" Norvin queried.
"Very well indeed."
"Maruffi knows a whole lot, if he'd only open up. He's a Mafioso himself—eh, Caesar?" The Chief laughed.
"No, no!" the other exclaimed, casting a cautious glance over his shoulder. "I tell you everything I learn. But as for this Sabella—I thought him a trifle sullen, perhaps, but an honest fellow."
"You don't really think there has been any mistake?"
"Eh? How could that be possible? Did not Signore Blake remember him?" Norvin was about to disclaim his part in the affair, but the speaker ran on:
"I fear you must regard all us Italians as Mafiosi, Signore Blake, but it is not so. No! We are honest people, but we are terrorized by a few bad men. We do not know them, Signore. We are robbed, we are blackmailed, and if we resist, behold! something unspeakable befalls us. We do not know who deals the blow, we merely know that we are marked and that some day we—are buried." Maruffi shrugged his square shoulders expressively.
"Do you suffer in your business?" Norvin asked.
"Per Dio! Who does not? I have adopted your free country, Signore, but it is not so free as my own. Maledetto! You have too damned many laws in this free America."
Maruffi spoke hesitatingly, and yet with intense feeling; his black eyes glittered wickedly, and it was plain that he sounded the note of revolt which was rising from the law-abiding Italian element. His appearance bore out his reputation for leadership, for he was big and black and dour, and he gave the impression of unusual force.
"Your home is in Sicily, is it not?" Blake inquired.
"Si! I come from Palermo."
"I have been there."
"I remember," said Maruffi, calmly.
Donnelly broke in, "What do you hear regarding our capture of Sabella?"
"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 wasBelisario 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."
"Awhat?" 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.
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."
At the Central Station Norvin found a great confusion. City officials and newspaper men were coming and going, telephones were ringing, patrolmen and detectives, summoned from their beds, were reporting and receiving orders; yet all this bustling activity affected him with a kind of angry impatience. It seemed, somehow, perfunctory and inadequate; in the intensity of his feeling he doubted that any one else realized, as he did, the full significance of what had occurred.
As quickly as possible he made his way to O'Neil, the AssistantSuperintendent of Police, who was deep in consultation with MayorWright. For a moment he stood listening to their talk, and then, at thefirst pause, interposed without ceremony:
"Tell me—what is being done?"
O'Neil, who had not seemed to note his approach, answered without a hint of surprise at the interruption:
"We are dragging the city."
"Of course. Have you arrested Larubio, the cobbler?"
"No!" Both men turned to Blake now with concentrated attention.
"Then don't lose a moment's time. Arrest all his friends and associates. Look for a man in a rubber coat. I saw him fire. There's a boy, too," he added, after a moment's pause, "about fourteen years old. He was hiding at the corner. I think he must have been their picket; at any rate, he knows something."
The Assistant Superintendent noted these directions, and listened impassively while Norvin poured forth his story of the murder. Before it was fairly concluded he was summoned elsewhere, and, turning away abruptly, he left the room, like a man who knows he must think of but one thing at a time. The young man, wiping his face with uncertain hand, turned to the Mayor.
"Dan was the second friend I've seen murdered by these devils," he said. "I'd like to do something."
"We'll need your help, if it was really the dagoes."
"What? There's no doubt on that score. Donnelly was warned."
"Well, we ought to have them under arrest in short order."
"And then what? They've probably arranged their alibis long ago. The fellows who did the shooting are not the only ones, either. We must get the leaders."
"Exactly. O'Neil understands."
"But he'll fail, as Donnelly failed."
"What would you have us do?"
Blake spoke excitedly, his emotions finding a vent.
"Do? I'd rouse the people. Awaken the city. Create an uprising of the law-abiding. Strip the courts of their red tape and administer justice with a rope. Hang the guilty ones at once, before delay robs their execution of its effect and before there is time to breed doubts and distrust in the minds of the people."
"You mean, in plain words—lynch them?"
"Well, what of that? It's the only—"
"But, my dear young man, the law—"
"Oh, I know what you're going to say, well enough, yet there are times when mob law is justified. If these men are not destroyed quickly they will live to laugh at our laws and our scheme of justice. We must strike terror into the heart of every foreign-born criminal; we must clean the city with fire, unless we wish to see our institutions become a mockery and our community overridden by a band of cutthroats. The killing of Dan Donnelly is more than a mere murder; it is an attack on our civilization."
"You are carried away by your personal feelings."
"I think not. If this thing runs through the regular channels, what will happen? You know how hard it is to convict those people. We must fight fire with fire."
"Personally, I agree with a good deal you say; officially, of course. I can't go so far. You say you want to help. Will you assume a large responsibility? Will you take the lead in a popular movement to help the enforcement of the law—organize a committee?"
"If you think I'm the right man?"
"Good! Understand"—the Mayor spoke now with determined earnestness—"we must have no lynchings; but I believe the police will need help in the search, and I think you are the man to stir up the public conscience and secure that aid. If you can help in apprehending the criminals we shall see that the courts do their part. I can trust you in so delicate a matter where I couldn't trust—some others."
O'Neil appeared at that moment with two strange objects in his hands.
"See what we've just found on the Basin Street banquette."
He displayed a pair of sawed-off shotguns the stocks of which were hinged in such a manner that the weapons could be doubled into a length of perhaps eighteen inches and thus be concealed upon the person. Blake examined them with mingled feelings. Having seen the body of the Chief ripped and torn in twenty places by buckshot, slugs, and scraps of iron, he had tried to imagine what sort of firearms had been used. Now he knew, and he began to wonder whether death would come to him in the same ugly form.
"Have you sent for Larubio?" he asked.
"The men are just leaving."
"I'll go with them."
O'Neil intercepted the officers at the door, and a moment later Norvin was hurrying with them toward Girod Street. Mechanically his mind began to review the events leading up to the murder, dwelling on each detail with painful and fruitless persistence. He repictured the scene that his eye had so swiftly and so carelessly recorded; he saw again the dark shed, the dumb group of figures idling beneath it, the open door and the flood of yellow light behind. But when he strove to recall a single face or form, or even the precise number of persons, he was at a loss. Nothing stood out distinctly but the bearded face of Larubio, the silhouette of a man in a gleaming rubber coat, and, a moment later, a slim stripling boy crouched in the shadows near the corner.
As the party turned into Girod Street he saw by the first streaks of dawn that the curious had already begun to assemble. A dozen or more men were morbidly examining the scene, re-enacting the assassination and tracing the course of bullets by the holes in wall and fence—no difficult matter, since the ground where Donnelly had given battle had been swept by a fusillade.
Larubio's shop was dark.
The officers tried the door quietly, then at a signal from Norvin they rushed it. The next instant the three men found themselves in an evil-smelling room furnished with a bench, some broken chairs, a litter of tools and shoes and leather findings. It was untenanted, but, seeing another door ahead of him, Blake stumbled toward it over the debris. Like the outer door, it was barred, but yielded to his shoulder.
It was well that the policemen were close upon his heels, for they found him locked in desperate conflict with a huge, half-naked Sicilian, who fought with the silent wickedness of a wolf at bay.
The chamber was squalid and odorous; a tumbled couch, from which the occupant had leaped, showed that he had been calmly sleeping upon the scene of his crime. Through the dim-lit filth of the place the cobbler whirled them, struggling like a man insane. A table fell with a crash of dishes, a stove was wrecked, a chair smashed, then he was pinned writhing to the bed from which he had just arisen.
"Close the front door—quick!" Norvin panted. "Keep out the crowd!"
One of the policemen dashed to the front of the hovel barely in time to bar the way.
Larubio, as he crouched there in the half-light, manacled but defiant, made a striking figure. He was a patriarchal man. His hairy, naked chest rose and fell as he fought for his breath, a thick beard grew high upon his cheeks, lending dignity to his fierce aquiline features, a tangled mass of iron-gray hair hung low above his eyes. He looked more like an Arab sheik than a beggarly Sicilian shoemaker.
"Why are you here?" he questioned, in a deep voice.
Blake answered him in his own language:
"You killed the Chief of Police."
"No. I had no part—"
"Don't lie!"
"As God is my judge, I am innocent. I heard the shooting; I looked out into the night and saw men running about. I was frightened, so I went to bed. That is all."
Norvin undertook to stare him down.
"You will hang for this, Larubio," he said.
The fierce gray eyes met his unflinchingly.
"You had a hand in the killing, for I saw you. But you acted against your will. Am I right?"
Still the patriarch flung back his glance defiantly.
"You were ordered to kill and you dared not disobey. Where is BelisarioCardi?"
The old man started. Into his eyes for the briefest instant there leaped a look of terror, then it was gone.
"I do not know what you are talking about," he answered.
"Come! The man with the rubber coat has confessed."
Larubio's gaze roved uncertainly about the squalid quarters; but he shook his head, mumbling:
"God will protect the innocent. I know nothing, your Excellency."
They dragged him, still protesting, from his den as dogs drag an animal from its burrow. But Norvin had learned something. That momentary wavering glance, that flitting light of doubt and fear, had told him that to the cobbler the name of Cardi meant something real and terrible.
Back at headquarters O'Neil had further information for him.
"We've got Larubio's brother-in-law, Caspardo Cressi. It was his son, no doubt, whom you saw waiting at the corner."
"Have you found the boy?"
"No, he's gone."
"Then make haste before they have time to spirit him away. These men won't talk, but we might squeeze something out of the boy. He's the weakest link in the chain, so youmustfind him."
The morning papers were on the street when Norvin went home. New Orleans had awakened to the outrage against her good name. Men were grouped upon corners, women were gossiping from house to house, the air was surcharged with a great excitement. It was as if a public enemy had been discovered at the gates, as if an alien foe had struck while the city slept. That unformed foreign prejudice which had been slowly growing had crystallized in a single night.
To Norvin the popular clamor, which rose high during the next few days, had a sickening familiarity. At the time of Martel Savigno's murder he had looked upon justice as a thing inevitable, he had felt that the public wrath, once aroused, was an irresistible force; yet he had seen how ineffectually such a force could spend itself. And the New Orleans police seemed likely to accomplish little more than the Italian soldiers. Although more than a hundred arrests were made, it was doubtful if, with the exception of Larubio and Cressi, any of the real culprits had been caught. He turned the matter over in his mind incessantly, consulted with O'Neil as to ways and means, conferred with the Mayor, sounded his friends. Then one morning he awoke to find himself at the head of a Committee of Justice, composed of fifty leading business men of the city, armed with powers somewhat vaguely defined, but in reality extremely wide. He set himself diligently to his task.
There followed through the newspapers an appeal to the Italian population for assistance, and offers of tremendous rewards. This resulted in a flood of letters, some signed, but mostly anonymous, a multitude of shadowy clues, of wild accusations. But no sooner was a promising trail uncovered than the witness disappeared or became inspired with a terror which sealed his lips. It began to appear that there was really no evidence to be had beyond what Norvin's eyes had photographed. And this, he knew, was not enough to convict even Larubio and his brother-in-law.
While thus baffled and groping for the faintest clue, he received a letter which brought him at least a ray of sunshine. He had opened perhaps half of his morning's mail one day when he came upon a truly remarkable missive. It was headed with an amateurish drawing or a skull; at the bottom of the sheet was a dagger, and over all, in bright red, was the life-size imprint of a small, plump hand.
In round, school-girl characters he read as follows:
"Beware! You are a traitor and a deserter, therefore you are doomed.Escape is impossible unless you heed this warning. Meet me at the oldhouse on St. Charles Street, and bring your ransom."THE AVENGER."
At the lower left-hand corner, in microscopic characters, was written:
"I love chocolate nougat best."
Norvin laughed as he re-read this sanguinary epistle, for he had to admit that it had given him a slight start. Being a man of action, he walked to the telephone and called a number which had long since become familiar.
"Is this the Creole Candy Kitchen? Send ten pounds of your best chocolate nougat to Miss Myra Nell Warren at once. This is Blake speaking. Wait! I have enough on my conscience without adding another sin. Perhaps you'd better make it five pounds now and five pounds a week hereafter. Put it in your fanciest basket, with lots of blue ribbon, and label it 'Ransom!'"
Next he called the girl himself, and after an interminable wait heard a breathless voice say:
"Hello, Norvin! I've been out in the kitchen making cake, so I couldn't get away. It's in the oven now, cooking like mad."
"I've just received a threatening letter," he told her.
"Who in the world could have sent it?"
"Evidently some blackmailing wretch. It demands a ransom."
"Heavens! You won't be cowardly enough to yield?"
"Certainly. I daren't refuse."
He heard her laughing softly. "Why don't you tell the police?"
"Indeed! There's an army of men besieging the place now."
"Then you must expect to catch the writer?"
"I've been trying to for a long time."
"I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about," she said, innocently.
"Could I have sent the ransom to the wrong address?"
He pretended to be seized with doubt, whereupon Myra Nell exclaimed, quickly:
"Oh, not necessarily." Then, after a pause, "Norvin, how does a person get red ink off of her hands?"
"Use a cotton broker. Let him hold it this evening."
"I'd love to, but Bernie wouldn't allow it. It was his ink, you know, and I spilled it all over his desk. Norvin—is it really nougat?"
"It is, the most unhealthy, the most indigestible—"
"Youduck! Youmayhold my gory hand for—Wait!" Blake heard a faint shriek. "Don't ring off. Something terrible—" Then the wire was dead.
"Hello! Hello!" he called. "What's wrong, Myra Nell?" He rattled the receiver violently, and getting no response, applied to Central. After some moments he heard her explaining in a relieved tone:
"Oh,sucha fright as I had."
"What was it? For Heaven's—"
"The cake!"
"You frightened me. I thought—"
"It's four stories high and pasted together with caramel."
"You should never leave a 'phone in that way without—"
"Bernie detests caramel; but I'm expecting a 'certain party' to call on me to-night. Norvin, do you think red ink would hurt a cake?"
"Myra Nell," he said, severely, "didn't you wash your hands before mixing that dough?"
"Of course."
"I have my doubts. Will you really be at liberty this evening?"
"That depends entirely upon you. If I am, I shall exact another ransom—flowers, perhaps."
"I'll send them anyhow, Marechal Neils."
"Oh, you are a—Wait!"
For a second time Miss Warren broke off; but now Norvin heard her cry out gladly to some one. He held the receiver patiently until his arm cramped, then rang up again.
"Oh, I forgot all about you, Norvin dear," she chattered. "Vittoria has just come, so I can't talk to you any more. Won't you run out and meet her? I know she's just dying to—She says she isn't, either! Oh, fiddlesticks! You're not so busy as all that. Very well, we'll probably eat the cake ourselves. Good-by!"
"Good-by, Avenger," he laughed.
As he turned away smiling he found Bernie Dreux comfortably ensconced in an office chair and regarding him benignly.
"Hello, Bernie! I didn't hear you come in."
"Wasn't that Myra Nell talking?" inquired the little man.
"Yes."
"You called her 'Avenger.' What has she been up to now?"
Blake handed him the red-hand letter. To his surprise Bernie burst out angrily:
"How dare she?"
"What?"
"It's most unladylike—begging a gentleman for gifts. I'll see that she apologizes."
"If you do I'll punch your head. She couldn't do anything unladylike if she tried."
"I don't approve—"
"Nonsense!"
"I'll see that she gets her chocolates."
"Oh, I've sent 'em—a deadly consignment—enough to destroy both of you. And I've left a standing order for five pounds a week."
"But that letter—it's blackmail." Bernie groaned. "She holds me up in the same way whenever she feels like it. She's getting suspicious of me lately, and I daren't tell her I'm a detective. The other day she set Remus, our gardener, on my trail, and he shadowed me all over the town. Felicite thinks there's something wrong, too, and she's taken to following me. Between her and Remus I haven't a moment's privacy."
"It's tough for a detective to be dogged by his gardener and his sweetheart," Norvin sympathized. He began to run through his mail, while his visitor talked on in his amusing, irrelevant fashion.
"I'm rather offended that I wasn't named on that Committee of Fifty,"Bernie confessed, after a time. "You know how the Chief relied on me?"
"Exactly."
"Well, I'm full of Italian mysteries now. What I haven't discovered by my own investigations, Vittoria Fabrizi has told me. For instance, I know what became of the boy Gino Cressi."
"You do?" Blake looked up curiously from a letter he had been eagerly perusing.
"He's in Mobile."
"Are you sure?"
"Certainly."
"I think you're wrong."
"Why am I wrong?"
"Read this. My mail is full of anonymous communications." He passed over the letter in his hand, and Mr. Dreux read as follows:
The Cressi boy is hidden at 93 1/2 St. Phillip Street. Go personally and in secret, for there are spies among the police.
"Good Lord! Do you believe it?"
"I shall know in an hour." In reality Norvin had no doubt that his informant told the truth. On the contrary, he found that he had been waiting subconsciously for a hint from this mysterious but reliable source, and now that it had come he felt confident and elated. "A leak in the department would explain the maddening series of checkmates up to date." After a moment's hesitation he continued: "If Gino Cressi proves to be the boy I saw that night, we will put the rope around his father's and his uncle's necks, for he is little more than a child, and they evidently knew he would confess if accused; otherwise they wouldn't have been so careful to hide him." He rose and, eying Dreux intently, inquired, "Will you go along and help me take him?"
Bernie fell into a sudden panic of excitement. His face paled, he blinked with incredible rapidity, his lips twitched, and he clasped his thin, bloodless hands nervously.
"Why—are you—really—going—and alone?"
Norvin nodded. "If they have spies among our own men the least indiscretion may give the alarm. Besides, there is no time to lose; it would be madness to go there after dark. Will you come?"
"You—b-b-bet," Mr. Dreux stuttered. After a painful effort to control himself he inquired, with rolling eyes, "S-say, Norvin, will there be any fighting—any d-d-danger?"
Blake's own imagination had already presented that aspect of the matter all too vividly.
"Yes, there may be danger," he confessed. "We may have to take the boy by force." His nerves began to dance and quiver, as always before every new adventure.
"Perhaps, after all, you'd better not go. I—understand how you feel."
The little man burst out in a forceful expletive.
"Pudding!Iwantto fight. D-don't you see?"
"No. I don't."
"I've never been in a row. I've never done anything brave or desperate, like—like you. I'm aching for trouble. I go looking for it every night."
"Really!" Blake looked his incredulity.
"Sure thing! Last night I insulted a perfectly nice gentleman just to provoke a quarrel. I'd never seen him before, and ordinarily I hesitate to accost strangers; but I felt as if I'd have hysterics if I couldn't lick somebody; so I walked up to this person and told him his necktie was in rotten taste."
"What did he say?"
"He offered to go home and change it. I was so chagrined that I—cursed him fearfully."
"Bernie!"
Dreux nodded with an expression of the keenest satisfaction. "I could have cried. I called him a worm, a bug, a boll-weevil; but he said he had a family and didn't intend to be shot up by some well-dressed desperado."
"I suppose it's the blood of your ancestors."
"I suppose it is. Now let's go get this dago boy. I'm loaded for grizzlies, and if the Mafia cuts in I'll croak somebody." He drew a huge rusty military revolver from somewhere inside his clothes and flourished it so recklessly that his companion recoiled.
Together the two set out for St. Phillip Street. Blake, whose reputation for bravery had become proverbial, went reluctantly, preyed upon by misgivings; Dreux, the decadent, overbred dandy, went gladly, as if thirsting for the fray.
Number 93 1/2 St. Phillip Street proved to be a hovel, in the front portion of which an old woman sold charcoal and kindling. Leaving Bernie on guard, Blake penetrated swiftly to the rooms behind, paying no heed to the crone's protestations. In one corner a slender, dark-eyed boy was cowering, whom he recognized at once as the lad he had seen on the night of Donnelly's death.
"You are Gino Cressi," he said, quietly.
The boy shook his head.
"Oh, yes, you are, and you must come with me, Gino."
The little fellow recoiled. "You have come to kill me," he quavered.
"No, no, my little man. Why should I wish to do that?"
"I am a Sicilian; you hate me."
"That is not true. We hate only bad Sicilians, and you are a good boy."
"I did not kill the Chief."
"True. You did not even know that those other men intended to kill him.You were merely told to wait at the corner until you saw him come home.Am I right?"
"I do not know anything about the Chief," Gino mumbled.
But it was plain that some of his fear was vanishing under this unexpected kindness. Blake had a voice which won dumb animals, and a smile which made friends of children. At last the young Sicilian came forward and put his hand into the stranger's.
"They told me to hide or the Americans would kill me. Madonna mia! I am no Mafioso! I—I wish to see my father."
"I will take you to him now."
"You will not harm me?"
"No. You are perfectly safe."
But the boy still hung back, stammering:
"I—am afraid, Si'or. After all, you see, I know nothing. Perhaps I had better wait here."
"But you will come, to please me, will you not? Then when you find that the policemen will not hurt you, you will tell us all about it, eh, carino?"
He led his shrinking captive out through the front of the house, whence the crone had fled to spread the alarm, and lifted him into the waiting cab. But Bernie Dreux was loath to acknowledge such a tame conclusion to an adventure upon which he had built high hopes.
"L-let's stick round," he shivered. "It's just getting g-g-good."
"Come on, you idiot." Blake fairly dragged him in and commanded the driver to whip up. "That old woman will rouse the neighborhood, and we'll have a mob heaving bricks at us in another minute."
"That'll be fine!" Dreux declared, his pride revolting at what he considered a cowardly retreat. He had come along in the hope of doing deeds that would add luster to his name, and he did not intend to be disappointed. It required a vigorous muscular effort to keep him from clambering out of the carriage.
"I don't understand you at all," said Norvin, with one hand firmly gripping his coat collar, "but I understand the value of discretion at this moment, and I don't intend to take any chances on losing our little friend Gino before he has turned State's evidence."
Dreux sank back, gloomily enough, continuing for the rest of the journey to declaim against the fate that had condemned him to a life of insipid peace; but it was not until they had turned out of the narrow streets of the foreign quarter into the wide, clean stretch of Canal Street that Blake felt secure.
Little Gino Cressi was badly frightened. His wan, pinched face was ashen and he shivered wretchedly. Yet he strove to play the man, and his pitiful attempt at self-control roused something tender and protective in his captor. Laying a reassuring hand upon his shoulder, Blake said, gently:
"Coraggio! No harm shall befall you."
"I—do not wish to die, Excellency."
"You will not die. Speak the truth, figlio mio, and the police will be very kind to you. I promise."
"I know nothing," quavered the child. "My father is a good man. They told me the Chief was dead, but I did not kill him. I only hid."
"Who told you the Chief was dead?"
"I—do not remember."
"Who told you to hide?"
"I do not remember, Si'or." Gino's eyes were like those of a hunted deer, and he trembled as if dreadfully cold.
It was a wretched, stricken child whom Blake led into O'Neil's office, and for a long time young Cressi's lips were glued; but eventually he yielded to the kind-faced men who were so patient with him and his lies, and told them all he knew.
On the following morning the papers announced three new arrests in the Donnelly case, resulting from a confession by Gino Cressi. On the afternoon of the same day the friendly and influential Caesar Maruffi called upon Blake with a protest.
"Signore, my friend," he began, "you and your Committee are doing a great injustice to the Italians of this city."
"How so?"
"Already everybody hates us. We cannot walk upon your streets withoutinsult. Men curse us, children spit at us. We are not Jews; we areItalians. There are bad people among my countrymen, of course, but,Signore, look upon me. Do you think such men as I—"
"Oh, you stand for all that is best in your community. Mr. Maruffi. I only wish you'd help us clean house."
The Sicilian shrugged. "Help? How can I help?"
"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.