Part 18 (2/2)

”Does it mention an a.s.sociate of Narcone--a man named Cardi?”

”No. Who's he?”

”I dare say at least a hundred thousand people have asked that same question.” Briefly Norvin told what he knew of the reputed chief of the banditti, of the terrors his name inspired in Sicily, and of his supposed connection with the murder of Savigno. ”Once or twice a year I hear from Colonel Neri,” he added, ”but he informs me that Cardi has never returned to the island, so it occurred to me that he too might be in New Orleans.”

”It's very likely that he is, and if he was a Capo-Mafia there, he's probably the same here. Lord! I'd like to get inside of that outfit; I'd go through it like a sandstorm.”

By this time they had threaded the narrow thoroughfares of the old quarter, and were nearing the vicinity of St. Phillip Street, the heart of what Donnelly called ”Dagotown.” There was little to distinguish this part of the city from that through which they had come. There were the same dingy, wrinkled houses, with their odd little balconies and ornamental iron galleries overhanging the sidewalks and peering into one another's faces as if to see what their neighbors were up to; the same queer, musty, dusty shops, dozing amid violent foreign odors; the same open doorways and tunnel-like entrances leading to paved courtyards at the rear. The steep roofs were tiled and moss-grown, the pavements were of huge stone flags, set in between seams of mud, and so unevenly placed as to make traffic impossible save by the light of day. Alongside the walks were open sewers, in which the foul and sluggish current was setting not toward, but away from, the river-front. The district was peopled by shadows and mystery; it abounded in strange sights and sounds and smells.

At the corner of Royal and Dumaine they found O'Connell loitering in a doorway, and with a word he directed them to a small cafe and wine-shop in the next block.

A moment later they pushed through swinging doors and entered.

Donnelly nodded to the white-haired Italian behind the bar and led the way back to a vacant table against the wall, where he and Norvin seated themselves. There were perhaps a half-dozen similar tables in the room, at some of which men were eating. But it was late for supper, and for the most part the occupants were either drinking or playing cards.

There was a momentary pause in the babble of conversation as the two stalked boldly in, and a score of suspicious glances were leveled at them, for the Chief was well known in the Italian quarter. The proprietor came bustling toward the new-comers with an obsequious smile upon his grizzled features. Taking the end of his ap.r.o.n he wiped the surface of their table dry, at the same time informing Donnelly in broken English that he was honored by the privilege of serving him.

Donnelly ordered a bottle of wine, then drew an envelope from his pocket and began making figures upon it, leaning forward and addressing his companion confidentially, to the complete disregard of his surroundings. Norvin glued his eyes upon the paper, nodding now and then as if in agreement. Although he had taken but one hasty glance around the cafe upon entering, he had seen a certain heavy-muscled Sicilian whose face was only too familiar. It was Narcone, without a doubt. Blake had seen that brutal, l.u.s.t-coa.r.s.ened countenance too many times in his dreams to be mistaken, and while his one and only glimpse had been secured in a half-light, his mind at that instant had been so unnaturally sensitized that the photograph remained clear and unfading.

He could feel Narcone staring at him now, as he sat nodding to the senseless patter of the Chief in a sort of breathless, terrifying suspense. Would his own face recall to the fellow's mind that night in the forest of Terranova and set his fears aflame? Blake's reason told him that such a thing was beyond the faintest probability, yet the flesh upon his back was crawling as if in antic.i.p.ation of a knife-thrust.

Nevertheless, he lit a cigar and held the match between fingers which did not tremble. He was fighting his usual, senseless battle, and he was winning. When the proprietor set the bottle in front of him he filled both gla.s.ses with a firm hand and then, still listening to Donnelly's words, he settled back in his chair and let his eyes rove casually over the room.

He encountered Narcone's evil gaze when the gla.s.s was half-way to his lips and returned it boldly for an instant. It filled him with an odd satisfaction to note that not a ripple disturbed the red surface of the wine.

”Have you 'made' him?” Donnelly inquired under his breath.

Blake nodded: ”The tall fellow at the third table.”

”That's him, all right,” agreed the Chief. ”He doesn't remember you.”

”I didn't expect him to; I've changed considerably, and besides he never saw me distinctly, as I told you before.”

”You've got the policeman's eye,” declared Donnelly with enthusiasm.

”I wanted you to pick him out by yourself. We'll go, now, as soon as we lap up this dago vinegar.”

Out in the street again, Blake heaved a sigh of relief, for even this little harmless adventure had been a trial to his unruly nerves.

”We'll drift past the Red Wing Club; it's a hang-out of mine and I want to talk further with you,” said Donnelly.

They turned back towards the heart of the city, stopping a moment while the Chief directed O'Connell to keep a close watch upon Narcone.

The Red Wing Club was not really a club at all, but a small restaurant which had become known for certain of its culinary specialties and had gathered to itself a somewhat select clientele of bons vivants, who dined there after the leisurely continental fas.h.i.+on. Thither the two men betook themselves.

”I can't see what real good those extradition papers are going to do you, even now that you're sure of your man,” said Norvin as soon as they were seated. ”It won't be difficult to arrest him, but to extradite him will prove quite another matter. I'm not eager myself to take the stand against him, for obvious reasons.” Donnelly nodded his appreciation. ”I will do so, if necessary, of course, but my evidence won't counterbalance all the testimony Sabella will be able to bring.

We know he's the man; his friends know it, but they'll unite to swear he is really Vito Sabella, a gentle, sweet soul whom they knew in Sicily, and they'll prove he was here in America at the time Martel Savigno was murdered. If we had him in New York, away from his friends, it would be different; he'd go back to Sicily, and once there he'd hang, as he deserves.”

Donnelly swore under his breath. ”It's the thing I run foul of every time I try to enforce the law against these people. But just the same I'm going to get this fellow, somehow, for he's one of the gang that fired into the Pallozzos and killed Tony Alto. That's another thing I know but can't prove. What made you ask if that letter was written by a woman? Has Sabella a sweetheart?”

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