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The Black Hand
by
“And your father-in-law?”
“My father-in-law, he has been among you long enough to be one of you. He has fought them. He has put up a sign in his banking-house, ‘No money paid on threats.’ But I say it is foolish. I do not know America as well as he, but I know this: the police never succeed–the ransom is paid without their knowledge, and they very often take the credit. I say, pay first, then I will swear a righteous vendetta–I will bring the dogs to justice with the money yet on them. Only show me how, show me how.”
“First of all,” replied Kennedy, “I want you to answer one question, truthfully, without reservation, as to a friend. I am your friend, believe me. Is there any person, a relative or acquaintance of yourself or your wife or your father-in-law, whom you even have reason to suspect of being capable of extorting money from you in this way? I needn’t say that that is the experience of the district attorney’s office in the large majority of cases of this so-called Black Hand.”
“No,” replied the tenor without hesitation: “I know that, and I have thought about it. No, I can think of no one. I know you Americans often speak of the Black Hand as a myth coined originally by a newspaper writer. Perhaps it has no organisation. But, Professor Kennedy, to me it is no myth. What if the real Black Hand is any gang of criminals who choose to use that convenient name to extort money? Is it the less real? My daughter is gone!”
“Exactly,” agreed Kennedy. “It is not a theory that confronts you. It is a hard, cold fact. I understand that perfectly. What is the address of this Albano’s?”
Luigi mentioned a number on Mulberry Street, and Kennedy made a note of it.
“It is a gambling saloon,” explained Luigi. “Albano is a Neapolitan, a Camorrista, one of my countrymen of whom I am thoroughly ashamed, Professor Kennedy.”
“Do you think this Albano had anything to do with the letter?”
Luigi shrugged his shoulders.
Just then a big limousine was heard outside. Luigi picked up a huge hamper that was placed in a corner of the room and, followed closely by Signor Gennaro, hurried down to it. As the tenor left us he grasped our hands in each of his.
“I have an idea in my mind,” said Craig simply. “I will try to think it out in detail to-night. Where can I find you to-morrow?”
“Come to me at the opera-house in the afternoon, or if you want me sooner at Mr. Cesare’s residence. Good night, and a thousand thanks to you, Professor Kennedy, and to you, also, Mr. Jameson. I trust you absolutely because Luigi trusts you.”
We sat in the little dining-room until we heard the door of the limousine bang shut and the car shoot off with the rattle of the changing gears.
“One more question, Luigi,” said Craig as the door opened again. “I have never been on that block in Mulberry Street where this Albano’s is. Do you happen to know any of the shopkeepers on it or near it?”
“I have a cousin who has a drug-store on the corner below Albano’s, on the same side of the street.”
“Good! Do you think he would let me use his store for a few minutes Saturday night–of course without any risk to himself!”
“I think I could arrange it.”
“Very well. Then to-morrow, say at nine in the morning, I will stop here, and we will all go over to see him. Good night, Luigi, and many, thanks for thinking of me in connection with this case. I’ve enjoyed Signor Gennaro’s singing often enough at the opera to want to render him this service, and I’m only too glad to be able to be of service to all honest Italians; that is, if I succeed in carrying out a plan I have in mind.”