"Eh?" The Sicilian started, his eyes leaped to the speaker, and the smile died from his heavy features. Recognizing the officer, however, he pulled at the visor of his cap, and said, brokenly: "No, no, Signore. My friend goes."

"Come, now," the Chief said, grimly. "I want you to tell me something about the Domenchino boy."

Narcone recoiled, colliding with Blake, who instantly locked his arm within his own. Simultaneously Donnelly seized the other wrist, repeating, "You know who stole the little Domenchino."

The tension which had leaped into the giant muscles died away; Narcone shrugged his shoulders, crying, excitedly, in his native tongue:

"Before G.o.d you wrong me."

It was the instant for which his captor had planned; the ruse had worked; there was a deft movement on Donnelly's part, something snapped metallically, and the manacles of the law were upon the murderer of Martel Savigno.

It had all been accomplished quietly, quickly; even those standing near by hardly noticed it, and those who did were unaware of the significance of the arrest. But once his man was safely ironed, the Chief's manner changed, and in the next instant the prisoner caught, perhaps from the eye of Corte, the stool-pigeon, some fleeting hint that he had been betrayed. Following that came the suspicion that he had been seized not for complicity in the Domenchino affair, but for something far more significant. With a furious, snarling cry he flung himself backward and raised his manacled hands to strike.

But it was too late for effective resistance. They took him across the gang-plank, screaming, struggling, biting like a maddened animal, while curious pa.s.sengers rushed to the rails above and stared at them, and another crowd yelled and hooted derisively from the dock.

A moment later they were in Corte's stateroom, panting, grim, triumphant, with their prisoner's back against the wall and their work done.

Now that Narcone realized the deception that had been practised upon him he began to curse his betrayer with incredible violence and fluency. As yet he had no idea whither he was being taken, nor for which of his many crimes he had been apprehended. But it seemed as if his rage would strangle him. With the unrestraint of a lifetime of lawlessness he poured out his pa.s.sion in a terrifying rush of vilification, anathema, and threat. He hurled himself against the walls of the stateroom as if to burst his way out, and they were forced to clamp leg-irons upon him. When Donnelly had regained his breath he savagely commanded the fellow to be silent, but Narcone only shifted his fury from his betrayer to the Chief of Police.

To the Pinkerton operative Donnelly said, gratefully: "That was good work, Corte. Wire me from New York. We'll have to go now, for the ship is clearing."

"Wait!" said Blake; then pushing himself forward, he addressed the captive in Italian, "Where is Belisario Cardi?"

The question came like a gunshot, silencing the outlaw as if with a gag. His bloodshot eyes searched his questioner's face; his lips, wet with slaver, were snarling like those of a dog, but he said nothing.

"Where is Belisario Cardi?" came the question for a second time.

"I do not know him," said the Sicilian, sullenly. "I am Vito Sabella, an honest man--"

"You are Gian Narcone, the butcher, of San Sebastiano," said Blake.

"You are going back to Sicily to be hanged for the murder of Martel Savigno, Count of Martinello, and his man Ricardo."

"Bah!" cried the prisoner, loudly. "I am not this Narcone of which you speak. I do not know him. I am Vito Sabella, a poor man, I swear it by the body of Christ. I have never seen this Cardi. G.o.d will punish those who persecute me."

Blake leaned forward until his face was close to Narcone's.

"Look closely," he said. "Have you ever seen me before?"

They stared at each other, eye to eye, and the Sicilian nodded.

"You were drinking chianti in the cafe on Royal Street, but I swear to you I am an innocent man and I curse those who betray me."

"Think! Do you recall a night four years ago? You were waiting beside the road above Terranova. There was a feast of all the country people at the castello, and finally three men came riding upward through the darkness. One of them was singing, for it was the eve of his marriage, and you knew him by his voice as the Count of Martinello. Do you remember what happened then? Think! You were called Narcone the Butcher, and you boasted loudly of your skill with the knife as you dried your hands upon a wisp of gra.s.s. You left two men in the road that night, but the third returned to Terranova. I ask you again if you have ever seen my face."

The effect of these words was extraordinary. The fury died from the prisoner's eyes, his coa.r.s.e lips fell apart, the blood receded from his purple cheeks, he shrank and shivered loosely. In the silence they could hear the breath wheezing hoa.r.s.ely in his throat. Blake made a final appeal.

"They will take you back to Sicily, to Colonel Neri and his carbineers, and you will hang. Before it is too late, tell me, where is Belisario Cardi?"

Narcone moistened his livid lips and glared malignantly at his inquisitors. But he could not be prevailed upon to speak.

"Well, that was easy," said Donnelly, when the _Philadelphia_ had cast off and the two friends were once more back in the rush and bustle of the water-front.

Norvin agreed. "And yet it seemed a bit unfair," he remarked. "There were three of us, you know. If he were not what he is, I'd feel somewhat ashamed of my part in the affair." Donnelly showed his contempt for such quixotic views by an expressive grunt. "You can take the next one single-handed, if you prefer. Perhaps it may be your friend Cardi."

"Perhaps," said Norvin, gravely. "If that should happen, I should feel that I had paid my debt in full."

"I'd like a chance to sweat Narcone," growled the Chief, regretfully.

"I'd find Cardi, or I'd--" He heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, well, we've done a good day's work as it is. I hope the papers don't get hold of it."

But the papers did get hold of it, and with an effect which neither man had antic.i.p.ated. Had they foreseen the consequences of this morning's work, had they even remotely guessed at the forces they had unwittingly set in motion, they would have lost something of their complacency. Throughout the greater part of the city that night the kidnapping of Vito Sabella became the subject of excited comment. In the neighborhood of St. Phillip Street it was received in an ominous silence.

XII

LA MAFIA

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,

NEW ORLEANS, LA.

DEAR SIR,--G.o.d 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.

"G.o.d!" 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?"