Part 14

At last the police had something to work upon. The old man was locked up, but took matters very coolly, disdainfully refusing to say a word. The police then walked him past the cell in which his son was locked up, watching him closely meanwhile. The boy saw his father, but neither one uttered a syllable. In the office upstairs the officers now held a consultation. Sergeant Collins produced the piece of paper on which the banker, Barracola, had written his (Collins's) name, the threatening letter demanding money from Pelloti, and the letter of instructions found on Amato, senior. They were not in the same handwriting, but they were all on the same kind of paper--a very cheap note-paper, such as might be sold by any and every stationer. Why should Barracola, whose letter-heads and stationery were of the best quality, as befitted a highly-successful bank, have such paper in his possession? the detective asked himself, and he made up his mind to find out. He was convinced that Barracola was very smart, and that there was something "fishy" about him, but that alone did not point to his being in league with the infamous "Black Hand."

In the career of all successful detectives the element of luck is a great factor, and Sergeant Collins now virtually "fell" across a most useful piece of intelligence, for the "inevitable woman" cropped up. Young Amato was locked up in the Tombs Prison, and was allowed to receive visitors, who, in turn, were watched. Among the boy's callers was a girl, an employé at Allen's cigarette factory in West Street. This girl was about fifteen years of age, very well developed, and unusually pretty, even for an Italian. She had been to see Amato, had taken him some fruit and cigarettes, and had given him a ten-dollar bill. This bill Amato changed in paying for food, purchasing his meals from the prison caterer. Sergeant Collins was just entering the prison one day when the caterer stopped at the inside gate or grille and, after collecting a number of plates and other dishes, remarked to the keeper in charge there: "That young Dago certainly has good friends; he's given me another ten spot (ten-dollar bill)." Collins at once spoke to the man and obtained the bill from him in exchange for another. Now it is quite impossible to trace American money in the same way as an English bank-note, but the detective had other ideas just then. Next day the Italian girl called again, and on her departure she was spoken to by an elderly Italian, who asked if his daughter was still inside visiting Amato.

"What has your daughter to do with Amato?" asked the girl, quickly.

"That is what I am trying to find out," replied the Italian. "She has visited him regularly, and yesterday she came home with a ten-dollar bill in her possession which he gave her."

The girl turned scarlet. "It's a lie!" she cried, passionately. The Italian expressed surprise at her anger, but showed her the bill, saying further that he had reason to suspect Amato of an attempt to run away with his daughter.

On hearing this the deluded girl worked herself into a perfect frenzy of rage, asking her questioner who and what he was. The latter, however, acted in a mysterious manner, giving the girl to understand that he was "one of them," but would countenance no nonsense where his daughter was concerned. The girl, saying that she would find out the truth of the matter on the morrow, left him, her face working with jealous rage. The next day she again called at the prison, but was told at the gates that Amato did not wish to see her. Moreover, he had already had as many visitors as the prison regulations allowed for one day. Fuming with anger, the girl departed, being again met by the strange Italian at the gates.

"He won't see me," she burst out, eager to confide her troubles to a compatriot. "Me, who have done so much for him--me, who gave all the money I could to keep old Barracola from putting his father away in the last trouble! Just wait till he gets out! I'll find someone to avenge me, or I'll avenge myself!"

The listener now tried to pacify her, knowing that this was just what would make her talk the more, and when he left her on her doorstep in First Avenue, he felt he had now "something to go on with." The old Italian, needless to say, was Sergeant Collins.

Antonio Barracola lived in an old-fashioned three-storeyed brick house in Greenwich Street. The house next door on the right was occupied by his brother Giacomo, who was proprietor of an express and luggage transportation business. The house on the left, curiously enough, was tenanted by a policeman, who was himself a naturalized Italian. This man was guardedly questioned, and informed the detectives that Barracola had no visitors whatever at his house, and that he never came home on Monday nights, when he was supposed to stay with an elder sister in Jersey City.

The next Monday Mr. Barracola, on leaving his bank at four o'clock in the afternoon, was shadowed by two officers, one dressed as a working man and the other as an Italian longshoreman. These two saw that directly Barracola left his office a stalwart fellow of exceptionally powerful build followed close behind him, keeping one hand in a side coat-pocket. The stranger was evidently intended as a sort of rear-guard, for he kept his eyes roving in all directions, making the work of the detectives most difficult. One of the latter accordingly hurried by a short cut to the Jersey City Ferry, catching a boat across before Barracola, and thus attracting less attention.

Meanwhile the banker and his two followers arrived in Jersey City. Barracola stopped at a saloon near the station, but soon emerged, smoking a cigar. He walked westward for some five minutes; then, turning sharply at a corner, was lost to view by the time his followers reached the place. The big Italian was the first to reach the intersecting street, where he swung round and scanned both sides of the road narrowly, but the officers, prepared for some such manœuvre, had taken due precautions. One entered the doorway of a shop; the other walked straight on. Just at the corner where the banker had turned there stood a one-storey wooden building, occupied by an Italian barber. Barracola's rear-guard, evidently satisfied with the results of his scrutiny, presently entered this shop, and Sergeant Collins now coming up saw that although the man had gone in there was no sign of him inside; there were two chairs there, but no customers.

The officer walked away, returning on the other side of the street, keeping close to the buildings. Soon he saw another visitor enter the shop, then a second; and within an hour nine well-dressed men had disappeared through the doorway. Sergeant Collins now sent one of his own men in to have his hair cut. This officer discovered that there were no doors leading out of the place other than that leading into the street, and the barber seemed in a hurry to get rid of him, cutting his hair "in less than no time."

The building next door to the barber's shop was a stone-fronted bay window residence, neatly curtained, and looking like the home of some tradesman. The officers made a _détour_ to the rear to examine the premises, but saw nothing suspicious--simply a couple of ordinary backyards. By this time it was about 6.30, and quite dark. The detectives remained at their post all night, and not until eight o'clock next morning did the first of the men who had entered the barber's shop emerge. Then, at intervals of perhaps ten minutes, the others came out, the last to do so being Barracola, his burly guard having preceded him. This time the banker did not walk, but rode in a tram-car to the ferry, which he crossed. Thence he went to Smith and McNeill's restaurant and had breakfast, going from there to the bank. Sergeant Collins and his men reported to head-quarters and then went home for a well-earned sleep.

Up to this time, although his movements were strange and his friends peculiar, absolutely nothing had been discovered against Barracola, and it was possible that he might be a harmless member of some perfectly innocent secret society. The meeting at the barber's, although suspicious, was by no means (so far as the police knew) a criminal one. But Sergeant Collins had a very strong card up his sleeve, and he prepared to play it at once.

At three o'clock that afternoon, having shaved off his moustache, he called at Barracola's bank, and, stating that his business was of great importance, was shown into the private room. Barracola looked at him keenly. "Well?" he said, interrogatively.

Collins acted as though very nervous and embarrassed; then, apparently plucking up courage, he informed the banker that he had called in the latter's interests to inform him that a girl on whom he (Collins) was "rather sweet" had been talking a great deal about young Amato and Barracola. The girl, Collins continued, had, unbeknown to him, been fond of Amato. The latter, however, had cast her off, and in a fit of jealousy she had appealed to him to avenge her.

The banker leaned back in his chair, looking Collins straight in the eyes.

"See here," he said, angrily, "what's your game? You have not fooled me for a moment, and unless you explain your object in treating me as though you were in search of something, I shall appeal to your superiors, when, believe me, my influence will break you!"

Evidently, reflected the surprised detective, this man Barracola knew more than his prayers. He kept cool, however, and answered, "Well, sir, we thought that you, knowing most of the Italian colony, would be able to help us, although you might not care to do so directly."

"Then why not come to me in a proper manner?" demanded the banker. "I don't know what you're after and I don't care! Good morning."

"I am sorry to have troubled you," said Collins, politely, and took his leave.

Once outside, the officer went direct to the Tombs Prison, where he saw the younger Amato. "I'm going to turn you loose to-morrow," he told the lad, "providing you tell me why Mr. Barracola is so anxious to have you sent to the State Prison. Isn't there some woman in it?"

After some talk in this vein the young fellow finally agreed to tell what he knew, and although this was very little it was of great importance. The man who had engaged him to call for the letter, he said, was the proprietor of the saloon at One Hundred and Sixtieth Street. This man was the "up-town" agent for Antonio Barracola, whose name, however, it was forbidden to mention in the place. Once before he had gone to fetch a letter under similar circumstances, and, missing a train, returned a day late. Believing he had been trying to decamp with the money, he was taken into the cellar of the saloon by the proprietor and some of his associates, and would have been knifed there and then had not one of the men remarked that the father of the boy was valuable to the Capitano--the "Capitano" being Antonio Barracola, the banker. Even then it was decided to make away with him, fearing so young a lad might talk; but Amato, learning the fate in store for him, sent his sweetheart to the "Capitano" to intercede for him. That was the substance of the lad's story, and, after hearing it, Sergeant Collins laid all the facts before his chief in Boston, who in turn communicated with the New York authorities.

While they suspected that Barracola was mixed up with some crooked work, the New York police doubted whether there was enough evidence to warrant any action against him, either a search or arrest, for Barracola was a very influential man, and influence means much in America. Collins, determined not to let the matter rest, now tried for the second time the tack he was working on when he called on Barracola, when he purposely acted like a novice so as to lead the banker to believe him a fool. He secured the release (in custody) of young Amato, whom he walked past the cell in which the boy's father was. Here he repeated his fairy-tale about Barracola's attempt to "railroad" the younger man to prison. The boy, fully believing Collins's story, told his father likewise, and the old man, convinced in turn, promptly turned informer. His deposition was taken, and on this information the police decided to act.

On the following Monday, when it had been ascertained that Barracola was safely within the Jersey City barber's shop, Sergeant Collins walked into the place, and before the astonished proprietor could utter a sound a revolver was placed close to his temple. Another detective now entered, handcuffed the man, and led him outside as though he was walking out with a friend. The barber was taken to the police-station, and there forced to describe the location of the secret door through which his "customers" so readily disappeared. It was deemed wise to do this at the station, in case the man should touch some secret button giving warning to the conspirators.

Meanwhile the place had been surrounded, and Sergeant Collins, accompanied by Officers O'Brien, O'Malley, Whalen, Curtis, Snow, and Hendricks, entered the barber's shop. Going to the place designated, they found the secret door leading into the house adjoining, and quietly passed through, closing the door after them. Silently the men walked down the hall, but not quite silently enough, for, sitting by the balustrade of the stairway leading into the basement, was the big Italian before mentioned. He called out sharply before one of the officers could stifle him. There was a scurrying sound below, and the detectives rushed down to find the place empty, the rear door open, and a pitched battle taking place in the yard between their brother officers and a dozen Italians. The night being dark, it was a difficult matter to distinguish friend from foe, but the police closed in resolutely, leaving no loophole for escape, and soon seized their men. Windows were opened on all sides, and the neighbourhood was soon in a state of great excitement. Lights were brought, and the captured men taken back into the house which they had left so hurriedly. Here a doctor was hastily summoned, for several of the police had been badly knifed, and one or two of the prisoners had also received some punishment, the officers' clubs having been very busy among them.

Antonio Barracola and ten others now faced the detectives, who, at the point of revolvers, searched them as well as the house. The correspondence, papers, and systematically-arranged reports from various parts of the country which were discovered afforded conclusive proof that the captured men were none other than the officers or moving spirits of the dread "Black Hand." Every possible attempt was made to keep the thing quiet until further arrests could be made, but this proved futile, the affair creating an absolute _furore_.

Sergeant Collins and Officer Whalen took charge of Antonio Barracola, who protested that he simply acted as banker for the others, whom he knew only in a business way.

The prisoners were taken to head-quarters and Barracola's private house was searched. Nothing was found there of an incriminating nature, but a secret door was discovered leading into his brother's house, and here complete sets of books dealing with the entire affairs of the "Black Hand" were found, all the handwriting being the same as that of the first note given to Detective Collins by Barracola. The books were marked "Italian Practical Aid Society."

Arraigned before Magistrate Kernochan, the men were all held for trial, in company with twenty-seven others arrested in all parts of the country. Barracola was found to be a man of great wealth, owning whole blocks of houses in the lower tenement district. The newspapers devoted pages to the capture of the ringleaders, and thousands of angry people attempted to get into the court-room every time the men were brought up for a hearing.

Not until now, however, has the story been told of how Sergeant Collins, little by little, worked his case up from nothing at all. Sergeant Collins himself gave the writer the details of this chronicle in London, while on his way to Italy, there to make certain inquiries about Barracola, it being believed that the former Italian banker was also a moving spirit in the malevolent organization known as the Mafia.

Imprisonment for life is the least punishment the majority of the "Black Hand" captains may expect. "If a dozen of them don't go to the electric chair I shall be much mistaken," said Sergeant Collins. The detective will receive some fifty thousand dollars in rewards for his work in ferreting out the heads of an organization which existed solely for the purposes of blackmail and murder, and which threatened to become a perpetual and ever-growing menace to society.

THE WIDE WORLD: In Other Magazines.

A LILLIPUTIAN RESIDENCE.

The illustration given below shows one of the queerest houses in the United States. It is four storeys high, yet does not exceed an ordinary cottage in height. The house itself is said to have been built by a man of small stature and eccentric ideas, and a romantic little story is connected with the place. When the house was completed--so runs the legend--its owner was lonely, and, thinking the most expeditious way to get what he wanted was to advertise in the American papers, he inserted a paragraph under the heading "Wife Wanted." Scores of letters and photographs arrived from the hopeful divinities. From the collection of pictures he selected a beautiful face--one that fulfilled his ideal of woman and wife. They corresponded and an engagement resulted. The prospective bride left her Eastern home and came to the eager bridegroom in California. She was a magnificent specimen of womanhood--a modern Juno--but, to the horror and complete despair of the now undone bridegroom, she was six feet high: for him and his house a giantess. Under no possibility could he get her into his "Diamond Castle." This was an insurmountable obstacle to their marriage, and with great sadness they held a consultation and decided to part for ever.--"+THE STRAND MAGAZINE+."

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PRESIDENT CASTRO'S STEEL PALACE.

President Castro, of Venezuela, lives in what is probably the most remarkable dwelling-place of any modern ruler. It stands within a park at Caracas, and is built almost entirely of steel. The outer walls are covered with a kind of soft stone, so to look at there is nothing peculiar about the place; but it is said to be the strongest house in the world, and it will resist the heaviest gun fire. The idea of a steel "palace" occurred to the President after he had had experience of one or two earthquakes. One night he was awakened by an earth tremor, and in his fright he jumped out of a window and broke his leg. After that he decided that bricks and mortar were not safe, hence the reason for his metal abode.--"+TIT-BITS+."

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GOLFING DIFFICULTIES IN CHINA.

"I remember once," says Mr. Bertram Steer, in "Woman's Life," "when I was in Northern China, I and some others were laying out a nine-hole golf-links near a European settlement, with curious results. The local mandarin was informed by a native that some 'foreign devils' were doing weird things, and it seems that in that part of the globe the laying-out of a golf-links is not exactly an everyday occurrence. Anyhow, that mandarin sent an urgent despatch to the Imperial Government at Peking calling attention to our dangerous doings, and asking for immediate instructions as to the measures he should take to nip our conspiracy in the bud. We were, he reported, busily engaged in mining a tract of land near the town, and had already sunk nine holes ready to receive the charges of dynamite."

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SEAWEED-FISHING OFF PORTUGAL.

The picturesque boat shown in the annexed photograph (which is reproduced from "Country Life") is used in the estuary of Aveiro, Portugal, for the purpose of fishing up seaweed. As the boat moves slowly along a sort of long-handled rake is dragged along the bottom of the sea, the weed thus obtained being afterwards dried and used for manure, for which purpose it is greatly valued.

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The Man-Faced Crab--A Lady Big-Game Hunter--Cock-Fighting in Porto Rico, etc.

In some parts of the desert region of the South-Western United States, where there are no springs or streams of drinkable water, Nature has stored the precious fluid in barrel-like cactus plants, of which a good specimen is shown in the accompanying photograph. They are known botanically as _Echinocactus_, but English-speaking dwellers in the desert call them "barrel cactuses." Mature plants stand from two to four feet in height, with a diameter of one to one and a half feet, and weigh from fifty to a hundred pounds. When the top of one of these cylindrical plants is sliced off, the interior is found to be a mass of watery, melon-like pulp, which, when scooped out and squeezed, yields several pints of a fluid that makes a fairly palatable substitute for drinking water. The serviceableness of the _Echinocactus_ as a source of potable water has long been known to the Indians, and the knowledge of its properties has saved the life of many a wayfarer who would otherwise have succumbed to that most awful of all fates--a lingering death from thirst.

The striking picture next reproduced was taken on an ostrich farm in Cape Colony, and shows the stately-looking birds indulging in their "morning dip." Ostrich-farming is a profitable and interesting industry, and every year the demand for the magnificent plumes seems to increase.

The curious crab shown on the following page is to be found at only one place in the world--the Straits of Shimonoseki, in Japan. Needless to say, the Japanese have a legend to account for the extraordinary face on the creature's back. In the year 1181 or thereabouts, the story runs, two great tribes--the Tairi and the Minamoto--fought out a long-standing feud at a place called Dan-no-ura. The Tairis, driven down to the beach by their opponents, took refuge in boats, but the victorious Minamotos followed, the battle being continued out in the straits until the Tairi were exterminated. It is said that the dead warriors, when their bodies reached the bottom, were turned into crabs, each carrying his death-mask on his back. Be that as it may, it is an undoubted fact that this particular species of crab bear upon their backs a strikingly realistic representation of the features of a dead Oriental.