Part 6 (1/2)

”Read it,” says the Boss.

”I could play it better on a flute,” says I. ”You try.”

We didn't have to try hard. The minute he skinned his eye over that his jaw goes loose like he'd stopped a body wallop with his short ribs.

”It's Tuscan,” says he, ”and it means that someone's in trouble and wants help.”

”Do they take this for police headquarters, or a Charity Organization?”

says I. ”Looks to me like a new kind of wireless from the wash lady. Why don't you pay her?”

”That's one of my cuffs,” says the Boss.

”It's too well ventilated to get into the bag again,” says I.

”Shorty,” says he, lettin' my Joe-Weber go over his shoulder, ”do you know where I saw that cuff last? It was in North Italy!”

Then he figured out by the queer laundry marks just where he'd shed this identical piece of his trousseau. We'd left it, with a few momentoes just as valuable, when we made that quick move away from that punky old palace after our little monkey s.h.i.+ne with the brigands.

”You don't mean--?” says I. But there wa'n't no use wasting breath on that question. He was blus.h.i.+n'. We fiddled some on its having come from old Vincenzo, or maybe from Blue Beak, the Count that rented us the place; but the minute we tied that cuff up with the castle we knew that the one who sent it meant to ring up a hurry call on us for help, and that it wasn't anybody but the Lady Brigandess herself, the one that put us next and kept the Boss from being sewed up in a blanket.

”That's a Hey Rube for me,” says I. ”How about-cher?”

But the Boss was kicking off his gym. shoes and divin' through his s.h.i.+rt. In five minutes by the watch we were dressed for slootin'.

”I know a Dago roundsman--” says I.

”No police in this,” says the Boss.

”Guess you're right,” says I. ”Too much lime-light and too little headwork. We'll cut the cops out. Where to first?”

”I'm going to call on the Italian consul,” says the Boss. ”He's a friend of mine.”

So we opened the sloot business with a ride in one of those heavy weight 'lectric hansoms, telling the throttle pusher to shove her wide open.

Maybe we broke the speed ord'nance some, but we caught Mr. Consul on the fly, just as he was punchin' the time card. He wore a rich set of Peter Cooper whiskers, but barring them he was a well finished old gent, with a bow that was an address of welcome all by itself. The way that he shoved out leather chairs you'd thought he was makin' a present of 'em to us.

But the Boss hadn't any time to waste on flourishes. We got right down to cases. He wanted to know about where the Tuscans usually headed for when they left Ellis Island, what sort of gangs they had in New York and what kind of Black Hand deviltry they were most given to. He asked a hundred questions and never answered one. Then he shook hands with Mr.

Consul and we chased out.

”It looks like the Malabistos,” says the Boss. ”They have a kind of headquarters over a bas.e.m.e.nt restaurant. Perhaps they've shut her up there. We'll take a look at the place anyway.”

A lot of good it did us, too. The spaghetti works was in full blast, with a lot of husky lowbrows goin' in and out, smokin' cheroots half as long as your arm, and acting as if the referee had just declared a draw.

The opening for a couple of bare fisted investigators wasn't what you might call promisin'. Not having their grips and pa.s.swords, we didn't feel as though we could make good in their lodge.

”I could round up a gang and then we could rush 'em,” says I.

”That wouldn't do,” says the Boss. ”Strategy is what we need here.”

”I'm just out of that,” says I.