By means of the tortuous twists of streets in old Greenwich village we came out at last on Bleecker Street and began walking east amid the hurly-burly of races of lower New York.We had not quite reached Mulberry Street when our attention was attracted by a large crowd on one of the busy corners, held back by a cordon of police who were endeavouring to keep the people moving with that burly good nature which the six-foot Irish policeman displays toward the five-foot burden-bearers of southern and eastern Europe who throng New York.
Apparently, we saw, as we edged up into the front of the crowd, here was a building whose whole front had literally been torn off and wrecked.The thick plate-glass of the windows was smashed to a mass of greenish splinters on the sidewalk, while the windows of the upper floors and for several houses down the block in either street were likewise broken.Some thick iron bars which had formerly protected the windows were now bent and twisted.Ahuge hole yawned in the floor inside the doorway, and peering in we could see the desks and chairs a tangled mass of kindling.
"What's the matter" I inquired of an officer near me, displaying my reporter's fire-line badge, more for its moral effect than in the hope of getting any real information in these days of enforced silence toward the press.
"Black Hand bomb," was the laconic reply.
"Whew!" I whistled."Anyone hurt?"
"They don't usually kill anyone, do they?" asked the officer by way of reply to test my acquaintance with such things.
"No," I admitted."They destroy more property than lives.But did they get anyone this time? This must have been a thoroughly overloaded bomb, I should judge by the looks of things.""Came pretty close to it.The bank hadn't any more than opened when, bang! went this gaspipe-and-dynamite thing.Crowd collected before the smoke had fairly cleared.Man who owns the bank was hurt, but not badly.Now come, beat it down to headquarters if you want to find out any more.--You'll find it printed on the pink slips--the 'squeal book'--by this time.'Gainst the rules for me to talk," he added with a good-natured grin, then to the crowd: "G'wan, now.You're blockin' traffic.Keep movin'."I turned to Craig and Luigi.Their eyes were riveted on the big gilt sign, half broken, and all askew overhead.It read:
CIRO DI CESARE & Co.BANKERS
NEW YORK, GENOA, NAPLES, ROME, PALERMO
"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 Ihad 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.
