Part 13

(_a_) Things given to allow wedding procession to proceed; (_b_) A hoe or goat is demanded at the door of the bridegroom; and (_c_) A goat has to be given to the bride to induce her to sit down. Another goat and kid must be presented to her in order to make her eat, and a hoe before she puts her hand to the dish, so that the "wedding breakfast" must come rather expensive to the young Benedict. Speaking of dowries, the price of a cow is about two pounds; of an ox, twenty-five shillings; and goats vary from one and fourpence to four shillings each, according to size and condition.

On the fourth day after marriage the bride and bridegroom go on a visit to the parents of the former, accompanied by a young man and young woman as attendants.

Extraordinary methods are adopted by the Wagogo in securing wives in addition to the ways described above. For instance, when a man is poor, and has not sufficient means to procure a wife, he may resort to what is called "kupanga." He betakes himself to the house of his lady-love and stands or sits in the porch without eating until the girl's father gives him a reply, which may not be for days. If the old gentleman likes the young man, he forthwith sends messengers to his home to negotiate with his relations; but if he dislikes the idea of having him for a son-in-law, he hunts him away without ceremony. When the former is the case, the messengers, on arriving at the man's home, ask whether anyone is missing from the family circle; and on being told that a male member has been absent for some days, they inform the people that he is at the house of a certain man looking for a wife. The former affect great astonishment, exclaiming: "Just fancy! It is there that our bull has gone!" All the parties being agreeable to the match, the day of the palaver is fixed; and when the amount of dowry (usually, in this case, twenty goats and two head of cattle) has been settled, the wedding day is named.

When a man secures a girl's consent to marry him, and has the wherewithal to pay a dowry, but cannot get the consent of the girl's parents, he adopts another plan.

He whispers into his lady-love's ear that he will "pula" (run away with her), or, rather, send some of his friends to catch her on her way to draw water and carry her to his house. Should she consent to his proposal, he employs a few of his friends to go and capture her. Should she resist (to show her modesty), they carry her on their shoulders to her lover's house, where she remains with him until the following day, when her relations come and claim six goats as a trespass-offering for having carried the girl away. In addition to these, the usual dowry is twenty goats and five head of cattle. One goat is on account of the betrothal; one as a fine for the covetous eye which spied the girl out; two (one for each parent) for the stool on which the lover sat when he came to court her; two as payment for the relatives' trouble in looking for her when kidnapped; two on account of the palaver; and two for entering the house to make love to her. A marriage nearly always ensues in the case of "pula"; so that an ardent lover who has tried every other way in vain may, as a last resource, adopt this method with success.

Wives are also obtained by inheritance. It is the custom for a man to inherit the wife of a deceased brother or father, and the man so marrying is expected to give three goats (one of which is eaten at the inevitable palaver) to the wife's relations. Should he be so miserly as not to pay this customary fee, they upbraid him, and say that the wife is only his slave, and that his meanness has forfeited their friendship for evermore! A widow, however, may refuse to marry the man who inherits her, as there may be someone else whom she likes better who wishes to marry her. When this happens, the latter has to pay the dowry to the former as if the woman were his daughter!

It is an understood thing amongst the different tribes that a woman is only taken on trial, and may, after a few months of married life, be sent back to her parents. As with the advertising tradesman, it is a case of "All goods not approved may be exchanged."

+------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | The Capture of Antonio Barracola. | | | | A STORY OF THE "BLACK HAND." | | | +------------------------------------------------------------------+

+By Stephen Norman+.

In our issue for May last we published an authoritative article setting forth the methods and crimes of the "Black Hand," a secret society organized for the purpose of blackmail and murder, which has caused a veritable reign of terror amongst Italian residents in America. The engrossing story here given forms a remarkable sequel to our article, for it deals with the patient running-down and final arrest red-handed of a prosperous Italian banker, who is believed by the police to be the actual head of the whole dread organization. He is said to have been responsible for no fewer than fifty-one murders, while his "system" netted for the "Black Hand" a sum estimated at two million dollars! The narrative gives one a vivid idea of how the real-life detective--as opposed to his prototype of fiction--goes to work to build up a case and secure his evidence.

Every country in the world which possesses a detective department has men in its service who specialize in the capture of criminals who themselves are specialists in different lines. For instance, one officer may be peculiarly efficient in running down "stone-getters," or jewel thieves, another is clever at ferreting out "wanted" burglars, while yet another division give their attention to Anarchists and alien criminals. In America, owing to the great number of foreigners who make that country their place of residence, temporary or otherwise, the detective staff is largely composed of men who have made themselves familiar with the particular branch of work colloquially known us "Dago piping" (watching Italians). This service has lately been considerably augmented, owing to the great strength and powerful connections of the "Black Hand" Society. Murder after murder has been committed by members of this sinister fraternity, and hundreds of well-to-do Italians have been threatened, most of them paying tribute, as they feared the consequences in the event of failure to obey the mandates of the dreaded "Mano Nera." The detective and police departments could make absolutely no headway against this far-reaching organization, even the large rewards offered by public bodies, the Government, and private persons having no effect. It was impossible to obtain the services of an informer, and the machinery of the law was practically at a standstill. True, now and again some suspect was arrested, but sufficient evidence could never be obtained to secure a conviction. Two detectives named Sechetti and Maltino were dismissed the force, not because they were suspected of being members of the "Black Hand," but because it was believed they possessed certain knowledge which fear prevented them from making known at police head-quarters. Sure enough, after their dismissal, both men returned to their native Italy, where, it was learned, they appeared to be possessed of considerable money, presumedly given them by somebody or other for "keeping quiet."

On the staff of the Boston, U.S.A., detective department was a young Englishman named Walter Collins. Fair, sturdy of build, and brave as the proverbial lion, Collins, a man some thirty-two years of age, had gone to America with his parents when quite a boy. After a public-school education he obtained a position as stenographer in the Seventh Division Police Court, and later entered the force as a patrolman. His intelligence and the clever capture of "Kid Skelly," a famous burglar, gained him promotion, and in 1903 Collins became a full-fledged detective officer. Again his ability was made manifest, for in 1905 he captured Roth and Murray, the men who robbed Mrs. Van Rensselaer, a prominent American lady, of twenty thousand dollars' worth of jewels, the gems being recovered in London. Collins was now made a sergeant, which is, in the American police, a very superior position.

When the doings of the "Black Hand" first began to attract public attention, Collins interested himself in the matter in a quiet way, apart from his duties. He read everything available about other Italian secret societies, such as the Mafia and the Camorra, visited the Italian quarter of the city, and familiarized himself with the ways of the "Dagoes," as members of the Latin races are called in America. Meanwhile murder after murder was committed, blackmail was levied on all sides, and a virtual reign of terror was established among respectable Italians, no one knowing where the terrible scourge would strike next. Then, one morning after roll-call, Sergeant Collins presented himself before Inspector Ross, his chief, and said, "Inspector, I should like to be placed on detail duty in the Italian quarter."

Inspector Ross, however, informed him that this was impracticable. Collins was fair, and not a bit like an Italian; moreover, he could neither speak nor understand the language. The officer saluted and went about his usual business of guarding the banks.

That evening the door-bell rang at the private house of the detective-inspector and a beetle-browed, ill-clad Italian presented himself and asked to see Mr. Ross on important business. Mr. Ross saw the man, who, after some conversation in broken English, said, "I'm Sergeant Collins, sir!" He had dyed his hair and moustache, and convinced the inspector that he had for months been studying Italian and was quite proficient in the language. Ross, a very keen man, had quite failed to recognise his subordinate, and the next day Collins was given the job he had asked for, where he soon rendered useful service. Dozens of "wanted" Italian malefactors--coiners, pickpockets, and thieves--were run to earth, Collins himself never appearing in the matter, the arrests being made by other detectives. Nothing could be gleaned, however, about the subject that most interested him--the dreaded "Black Hand." The Italians mentioned the name of this terrible society in whispers, when they mentioned it at all, for one's very neighbour might be a member, and under such circumstances it was best to say nothing. From every city in the Union there came news of terrible murders--all after attempts had first been made to blackmail the victims. Reward after reward was offered, but not the faintest clue reached the police, and meanwhile public excitement grew intense.

One day Sergeant Collins--who, still in pursuit of information, had taken a situation with a firm of fruit shippers where many Italians were employed--was sent to New York to arrange there for a consignment of bananas. He was given a draft on an Italian private bank, to be drawn on only in case the deal went through. Arriving in New York, he mingled as usual with Italians, and wrote his letters to his firm from the offices of the bank on which his draft was drawn. A day or two afterwards he was seated at a small writing-desk in the bank, reading an Italian newspaper, when there entered a man whom Collins thought he knew. Glancing up guardedly, he recognised the visitor as an Italian who kept a small public-house in Boston, a rendezvous for shady characters. He saw that the man was immediately ushered into the private office of the banker, and this struck him as peculiar. Here was a man who could not possibly have a large banking account, yet he was treated with the greatest deference.

The saloon-keeper was in private consultation with the banker for over an hour, and on his departure Collins followed him. The man made straight for the railway station, where he was met by another Italian. There was an exchange of envelopes; then the first man booked a ticket for Boston.

Collins promptly wrote out a telegram and sent it to police head-quarters, and when the train left he followed the second man, who had been earnestly talking meanwhile to the first suspect. Collins was now taken up-town to One Hundred and Sixtieth Street, to what is known as "Little Italy," a locality entirely given over to Italians. Just near the famous "Gas House" the followed man stopped and looked carefully about him. He saw Collins, but took him to be only another Italian like himself. Reassured, he crossed the street and entered a saloon known as the "Slaughter-House," because of the many "knifings" which had taken place there. Collins walked right into the place and called for a drink. His man was nowhere to be seen, but the detective noticed that several men who had been seated at different tables slowly walked to the rear of the place and ascended a stairway leading above.

After a minute or two he turned to the bar-tender. "Have you seen So-and-so"--mentioning some imaginary person--"about to-day?" he inquired. The man replied that he did not know the man referred to.

"That's strange," continued Collins. "He told me down at the bank to meet him here."

"What bank?" queried the bar-tender.

"Barracola's," replied the detective.

In an instant the young Italian had grasped Collins by the arm, and, pulling him toward him, whispered fiercely, "You confounded fool! Don't you know that name is forbidden? You must be an outsider."

Collins professed ignorance of what was meant, and the youth, evidently fearing he had said too much, then tried to turn the matter off. One of the loungers in the place now walked forward and engaged the detective in conversation, trying to discover whether he was a member of any one of the various legitimate societies formed by Italian workmen. Collins, however, returned nothing but stupid answers, and the man turned away disgustedly, saying, half to himself, "He's only some fool!"

Having finished his drink, the officer left the place. No thought of the "Black Hand" had entered his mind in all this, but he seemed to scent something wrong, and the detective instinct in him was aroused. He was curious to know what the Boston saloon-keeper's business with so prominent and respected a man as Antonio Barracola, the Italian banker, could be; and so, his business in New York finished, Collins returned to Boston. His chief there, on receipt of the New York telegram, had placed a watch on the saloon-keeper's movements from the moment he had arrived back in town. The man, whose name was Guido Conto, had, after leaving the railway station, gone direct to his place of business, and his movements ever since had been quite in keeping with his usual demeanour. Nothing whatever of a suspicious nature had been noted.

Three days later Collins was sent to New York again, this time by the chief of detectives, to identify a man arrested by the police of that city, and who was wanted in Boston for forgery. On being searched the forger was found to have in his possession a pass-book showing a deposit at Barracola's bank. The Boston detective, still hoping to unravel the mystery which he was convinced lay behind the banker's acquaintance with low-class saloon-keepers and other doubtful characters, called at this institution in the guise of a friend of the arrested man and asked to see the banker himself. After explaining his business he was shown into the private office. Here, at a flat-topped desk so placed that the light from the window must fall on the face of a visitor, while leaving his own in shadow, sat a short, stout man with a heavy black moustache, a thick bull-neck, deep black eyes, and a head of close-cropped black hair, combed straight back from the forehead.

"What do you want?" asked the banker, sharply. Collins replied that his friend Casati was under arrest, that the latter had entrusted him with the keeping of his bank-book, and that he (Collins) did not know exactly how to act. He did not want the police to get possession of the book, he added.

"Give me the pass-book," said Barracola, curtly.

"I have not brought it with me," replied Collins.

"Oh," said Barracola, "well, in that case, you don't require my advice. I should have looked after my customer's interest, but you had better take the book to Casati himself or give it to this gentleman."

Barracola now wrote something on a piece of paper, which he folded and gave to Collins, who was then shown out. In the street the officer looked at the paper, and, to his intense astonishment, read the following: "Detective-Sergeant Collins, either at police head-quarters here or in Boston."

The detective could hardly believe his eyes at seeing his own name written in a large, clear hand. Did Barracola know him? he wondered, and had he taken this roundabout way of letting him see that his purpose was understood?

Collins hesitated for a moment, thinking hard; then he went direct to head-quarters, where he had a hurried talk with Inspector O'Brien. The latter promptly called Mr. Barracola up on the telephone, and told him that a pass-book had just been delivered up to him by an Italian who said he had been directed there by Mr. Barracola.

"Yes; that's quite right," replied Barracola. "I did send someone."

The inspector asked a question: "But why direct the man to Sergeant Collins?" he queried.

"I read in the morning papers of Casati's arrest," answered Barracola, "and that Officer Collins was coming here to extradite him."

The explanation was reasonable enough, and there was nothing for Collins to do but accept it. Thinking quietly over the matter, however, the detective came to the conclusion that Mr. Antonio Barracola, the eminently respectable Italian banker, was a remarkably shrewd man, and he became more than ever determined to discover what lay behind his ordinary business. That there was something behind it he felt confident, but for some time his investigations were without result.

On January 4th of this year a man called at the Boston detective office and asked to see the chief inspector. On being shown into Mr. Ross's room the caller took from his pocket a half-sheet of common note-paper, on which were written the following words:--

"_You have plenty; you have been prosperous. Five thousand dollars is nothing to you. That sum, enclosed in an envelope, in bills, directed to Mr. Gargani, will reach those who can shield you from much trouble. The money will be called for at the General Post Office by an innocent messenger. Don't be foolish._--+Mano Nera+."

"I am Luigi Pelloti, manufacturer of paper bags," said the caller to Inspector Ross, "and that reached me by post this morning."

The inspector learned that Mr. Pelloti was in affluent circumstances, a much-respected merchant, and a very charitable man. Pelloti said he knew perfectly well that the "Black Hand" would carry out any threat they made, but he was determined not to be blackmailed, and would fight to a finish. A "dummy" parcel was accordingly made up and sent to the post-office addressed to "Mr. Gargani." Four of the inspector's best officers were stationed there to see the matter through. The packet was not called for until another day had passed; then, just at the busy hour, about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, a youth of sixteen or seventeen asked a mail clerk for "a letter addressed to Mr. Gargani." It was given him, and the boy was then followed. He entered a tram-car and rode to the railway station, where he waited until half-past one, boarding at that hour the New York train. The four detectives did likewise. American railway coaches differ from those on British lines, being in one large compartment, with all the seats facing the engine, a passage-way running down the centre of each coach. The Italian youth seated himself well forward in the smoking-car, the officers keeping well away from one another. No one approached the bearer of the letter, who sat quietly smoking a cigarette, and the train was within a mile of Harlem Station and was just beginning to slacken speed, when the youth looked up, opened the window in a flash, and threw the "dummy" letter, enclosed in a leather wallet, far from him. Three of the detectives immediately ran out to the car platform and jumped from the train, which was now slowing up. The third, Officer Whalen, grabbed the boy and handcuffed him.

The three who had jumped from the moving train looked hurriedly about, but there was no sign of the package thrown from the train and no one was to be seen but the crossing-keeper, who had a shanty just by the side of the up-rails. Two of the officers searched for the wallet, while the third--Sergeant Collins himself--interviewed the railway man. The latter had seen nothing and nobody, however, and could in no way assist the detectives. The officers communicated with the nearest police-station, and in a very short time a dozen men were searching the vicinity, but--as usual where the "Black Hand" is concerned--they discovered nothing.

Meanwhile Officer Whalen took his prisoner to the chief inspector, or captain (as this officer is called in America), and here the youth was severely questioned. He said he had been hired by two men to carry out certain instructions, for which he had been paid twenty-five dollars. The men he had met at the "Gas House," in One Hundred and Sixtieth Street. They had called him by name, and he supposed they must know him.

This explanation did not satisfy the police, and the young Italian was therefore put through the "Third Degree," a rather strenuous method used for forcing confessions from reluctant prisoners. His testimony could not be shaken, however, and he was therefore arraigned before a magistrate at Jefferson Market Police Court, charged as a suspect. A remand was asked for and granted to enable the police to make a thorough investigation.

That same night, despite the fact that he was supposed to be under the protection of the police, the unfortunate Luigi Pelloti was struck to the heart with a stiletto on the doorstep of his own house! The "Black Hand" had punished him in its usual way for his temerity in going to the authorities! The same thorough search was made as in other cases, but once again the methods of the murderers baffled the authorities.

The young Italian was arraigned a second time and a further remand asked for, which was again granted, but this time the lad's father, one Amato, applied for bail. This being refused, the man left the station, followed by a detective officer. He went direct to the office of Antonio Barracola, where he remained for a few minutes only; then he rode up-town on the Elevated Railway to the "Slaughter House" saloon. The detective who was watching him telephoned to head-quarters, and Captain O'Brien communicated with Sergeant Collins. The latter was still busy investigating things at Harlem, but he now came hurrying in, and, meeting the officer who was at One Hundred and Sixtieth Street, the two waited until Amato came out of the saloon; they then arrested him on suspicion, and took him to the station. Here he was searched, and a stiletto, a loaded revolver, and a letter--unsigned and bearing an address--instructing him to carry out the details for which his son was now under arrest, were found on him.