“Now there’s an honest answer, and from a Dago, would you believe it? Sure, you want respect. Because those Sicilian gangs wouldn’t let you in when you were a kid in the Ghetto. You couldn’t join ‘em, so now you wanna beat ‘em, is that it?”
“No, sir.” Petrosino shook his head, hating McClusky in that moment. The Chief had done some checking up on him.
“Double horseshit. I know just as much about you, you little pie-faced mutt, as I do about this Jew squealer here.” McClusky stood and paced behind his desk. “I’ve got reporters coming in all morning ambushing me, making me feel like a goddamn buffoon. I’ve got the most foul murder in the city, a mutilated cockeater crammed in a barrel in plain view, and what do I know about it? Not a goddamn thing. The Chief of the Central Bureau is completely in the dark. Now, I’m as honest as they come, and I reward good work, but I will not coddle a couple of no-good mutts holding out on me.”
“Chief,” Schmittberger said, “we brought the prisoner in late after you’d gone home.”
“You should have called when you went for the arrest. And don’t play me the fool. Even a greenhorn patrolman knows if you can’t find me, the watch commander knows where I am.”
“Sir, we gave you all the facts, chapter and verse,” Petrosino said calmly. “We put our report in the pigeonhole in your anteroom last night.”
“If the report’s not on my desk, it didn’t happen.”
“You didn’t get the report?” Petrosino asked, baffled.
“Where’d you two get the tip to pinch this Dr. Primrose?”
Schmittberger and Petrosino looked at each other, and Schmittberger spoke up, “My lead, Chief. A confidential informant heard the lunatic was hauled in for castrating his wife’s lover.”
“What’s the informant’s name? Bring him to me.”
“Can’t do that, Chief. Only know him as ‘Chicken Charles.’ He’s a fly-by-night hawk, drives a rickety hack late at night all over the city. Jumpy little fellow. Sometimes disappears for months on end. Only contacts me when he’s got dirt.”
“Chicken Charles.” McClusky laughed hard. “This collar in the barrel case, that’s a fine feather in your cap, boys. Got your names in the yellow journals, too. But I’m the Chief around here, and you will be brought to heel. Understand? I was brought up in the old days under Byrnes. He established the ‘deadline’ at Fulton so no thief dared go downtown, and Wall Street held him in high regard for it. Everyone followed chain of command till he got pushed out during Lexow. Goddamn Lexow.” McClusky kept pacing, but pointed at Schmittberger. “He brought me up, and now I’m over you, Broom.”
“I’m sorry you lost Byrnes’ stock tips, Chief.” Schmittberger smiled politely.
“You’ve got some goddamn gall. Let me tell you smart alecks something. Reform is a wave, and you rode it. But Tammany is not a wave. It is the sea itself. And I’m not going to fall out altogether with what stays to follow a bunch of climbers who pass on to Albany and Washington. Ole ‘Silk Socks’ Roosevelt is gone. He’s used you up to make his career, and you’ve got no pull anymore. I have a career to make, too, only mine’s right here in New York.”
“If that career involves solving murder cases,” Schmittberger said coldly, “then maybe you ought to congratulate us on a job well-done instead of upbraiding us?”
“Is that what you want, Broom? Well, maybe when you start working for me instead of against me, then you’ll get a pat on the head. Now I think I’ve made my point clear as day, so let’s talk about what’s all over the papers. Do we have enough to turn this goddamn barrel murder over to District Attorney Jerome?”
“Maybe,” Petrosino said.
Schmittberger grimaced at Petrosino. “We have plenty of evidence, Chief.”
“Which is it then?” McClusky said. “I thought the killer confessed and there’s a witness? What was his name, Dr. Gold at the sanitarium?”
“Yes, Dr. Dold,” Petrosino said. “So then you got my report, sir?”
The question stopped McClusky’s pacing. He stared angrily at Petrosino, then nodded slightly. “I want this evil case to go away. I want us all smelling like roses. You hear?”
“We’ve got enough evidence, Chief,” Schmittberger said, turning sideways and gritting his teeth at Petrosino. The signal to shut up. “We have a madman with a history of violence, his wife was having an affair with their Italian driver, the madman throttled his wife and servants, then he cut off a guard’s ear at the sanitarium and finally confessed the barrel murder to the alienist.”
Petrosino couldn’t help himself and said, “Sir, that’s all true. But we don’t have one person yet who’s positively identified the victim. We don’t even have his name, and Primrose’s wife has skipped town.”
“Goddamn it!” McClusky pounded his desk. “First you break the thing without telling me, and now you tell me it’s not broken? Are you shitting on my case?”
“No, sir, Joe’s just leaving no stone unturned.” Schmittberger patted Petrosino’s back roughly. “We’ll get an affidavit from Dold, and I’ll have my men find out the victim’s name. The Bureau will have its biggest murder case closed, and everyone will be pleased.”
Petrosino shook his head. There was a long silence while he and Schmittberger looked straight ahead at the Chief Inspector, waiting for his answer and seething at each other.
“I don’t give a damn if the victim goes down as John Doe, close the file.” McClusky grunted, then pressed a button on his desk, and the anteroom sergeant came in to hold the door for Petrosino and Schmittberger.
“Stay behind, Petrosino,” McClusky said.
Petrosino turned and went back in alone. McClusky waited until Schmittberger left.
“About your friend,” McClusky said, looking over his papers again, “you know what I always hear the other men saying?”
“No, sir.”
“They say, ‘Tammany will be back. Then we’ll get the cops that soaked us and first that big Jew.’ You’d be wise to steer clear of him.”
McClusky never looked up.
Petrosino was too angry to speak. He left the Chief’s office, kicked over a spittoon in the anteroom, and went looking for Schmittberger.
Chapter 10
“You’re as stubborn as an army mule, Sergeant,” Schmittberger said, standing toe-to-toe with Petrosino on the rear entrance stoop of the Marble Palace. There were two empty Black Marias parked on the curb and hardly another cop in sight.
“You wanna pull rank now, Inspector?” Petrosino said, standing his ground.
Schmittberger poked Petrosino’s sternum. “Watch yourself.”
“Go on, Inspector, take a swing. Just remember, I’m a filthy Dago. I’ll bite your ears and tear your mustache off. I’ll make Primrose look like a chorus girl.”
“I bet you would, too, you little runt.” Schmittberger smiled and shoved Petrosino back gently, making room to sit in on the steps. He took off his fedora and punched it in frustration.
“You know the case isn’t solved yet,” Petrosino said. “So why feed bull to McClusky?”
“Because it’s good for us, Joe. Can’t you see that?”
“And if we’re wrong, then what? Then we’ll have egg on our faces.” Petrosino sighed, trying to calm down. “They’d love to see us stumble. They’ve got it in for us.”
“Not us. Me. Just once I’d like some ink for solving a crime instead of being a squealer. That’s why I want this collar… so I can say, ‘You ain’t so clever yourselves, boys.’”
“Goddamn it all, Max, we’ve still got holes! He hasn’t even identified the victim.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ve got the right man.” Schmittberger took a hip flask from the inside pocket of his jacket and uncapped it. He took a swig, then held it out. “Hair of the dog?” Petrosino shook his head. “We’ve got the right one behind bars, Joe, and we’ve got the Deputy behind us. Men are taking sides, and you’re supposed to be on mine. Do I have to order you to stand down?” Schmittbe
rger took another swig, held up the flask again.
“Order me? No, sir, if you say the barrel murder is closed, it’s closed. Now I’ve got other work to do while you crawl inside a bottle and feel sorry for your pitiful self.”
Petrosino started up the stairs, but Schmittberger put a hand on his chest, stopping him.
“Joe, we’re pals, but you’re forgetting your place. Maybe it’s time I reminded you?” Schmittberger pocketed the flask, took off his jacket, and towered over Petrosino. “After I lick you, it’s done. No more arguing, no more of you playing holy crusader. Deal?”
“Deal.” Petrosino put up his fists. “I’m dying to sock you, you bullheaded bastard.”
A carriage trotted up just before they started fighting. The horse clip-clopped to a halt and snorted loudly at them. Petrosino quickly put down his hands, and Schmittberger slung an arm back in his jacket as two men got out of the carriage in navy blue suits and straw boaters.
“Secret Service,” Petrosino mumbled. He recognized the older and bigger of the two by the trademark American flag ribbon on the brim of his straw hat. Agent Willaim J. Flynn. He looked like an overstuffed, bow-legged tent revival preacher.
“Joseph, what’s doing?” Flynn shook hands with Petrosino and introduced himself to Schmittberger. “William Flynn, Secret Service.”
“Inspector Max Schmittberger.”
“Looks like you two were about to scrap? Agent Ritchie here was putting odds on the Inspector when we drove up.”
Ritchie looked as clean and green as an altar boy from Old St. Patrick’s.
“Naw,” Petrosino said, “we were just playing out how we arrested a man recently. He put up a wild fight, and we were bragging on it.”
Flynn nodded. “Is that the barrel murder case?”
“It was, why?” Petrosino said.
“Ritchie knows your victim. We’ve come calling on your Chief Inspector about it.”
Chief Inspector McClusky had been warned that the Secret Service men were calling unannounced. He kept everyone out in the anteroom, and, by the time they entered his inner office, McClusky was in full parade uniform, black duds with gold embroidery. He almost had an aristocratic air about him now. A reporter was on his way out, and McClusky smiled at the Secret Service men and waved them in along with Schmittberger and Petrosino. When the departing reporter lingered in the doorway, McClusky stood tight-lipped, blood vessels streaking red in his eyes, muttering under his breath.
“So no progress at all on identity?” the reporter said. “Next of kin?”
“I told you, he’s a John Doe,” McClusky said. “What matters is we’ve solved it, and we’re going to put the mad doctor away. Give my best to your editor.” When the reporter was out the door, McClusky’s jaw muscles tightened, and he mumbled, “Parasites.”
The four visitors sat down, and Agent Ritchie forced a phony chuckle.
Agent Flynn said, “So Joe told me the barrel murder is closed?”
“Like a lead pipe cinch,” McClusky said, turning to Petrosino. “You know Bill?”
“Yes, sir. I lent a hand in a Treasury investigation of a counterfeiting gang. We suspected them of killing a Brooklyn grocer. I knew Mr. Flynn before that, too, when he was Second Deputy Commissioner under T.R.”
“Pardon my manners, George.” Flynn pointed at the younger agent. “This is my field agent, Lawrence Ritchie.”
McClusky shook hands, then retreated behind his desk and sat. “So what can I do for His Majesty, Teddy Roosevelt’s Secret Service?”
“What do you know about this barrel murder?”
“Well, I know it’s solved.” McClusky took a long cigarette from a gold case.
“Yes, you said that. What else?” Flynn listened, stroking his moustache and severely-parted brown hair. He had a fat pensive face and a perfect triangle of a mustache, which made him look like an austere walrus.
“There’s not much to tell. The killer is a doctor named Duncan Primrose, thirty-two years old, well-off, but mad as a fucking hatter. He confessed to his alienist. Apparently the victim was an Italian driver in his employ who was plowing the wife. Simple enough.”
“Can’t say I miss the colorful language of the PD.” The small nose of Flynn’s beefy face flared. “Looks like you stepped right into our Treasury case.”
“How’s that? This ain’t a federal case, it’s a murder.”
“We know who the associates of your victim are.”
“Come again,” McClusky said, cigarette hanging from his saturnine mouth.
“My men have been surveilling a counterfeiting gang of Italians long before this murder of yours. We think the victim recently appeared at the gang’s haunts. One of my boys, Ritchie here, read about the barrel murder in the papers and went to the Morgue to view the body.”
“Yes, sir,” Ritchie said, “I recognized his mug. It was photographed on my brains. Without the family jewels in his mouth, of course.” The Secret Service men smiled morbidly.
“So then what’s the victim’s name?” McClusky asked anxiously. “That’s the only piece of the puzzle we haven’t tumbled out.”
“We know the gangsters’ names,” Flynn said. “We call them the Morello Gang after their boss, Giuseppe Morello. The whole lot was squared away to be arrested for counterfeiting.”
“I know of Morello,” Petrosino said. “Has a restaurant near Elizabeth Street?”
“Yes, one of those spaghetti joints. Stinks like the ninth circle of hell. You can smell the garlic off these heathens for miles.”
Petrosino said, “What may be hell for you, Mr. Flynn, is heaven for us Italians. But, then again, I never fancied boiled cabbage and potatoes.”
“No offense.” Flynn nodded uncomfortably. “In any event, this gang has counterfeiting headquarters at a café called the Star of Italy on Prince and Elizabeth Street. Next door to the café, Morello runs his restaurant and a saloon. Ritchie can brief you on the crooks and how we spotted your barrel murder victim.”
Ritchie looked at McClusky, whom Petrosino could tell wanted none of their briefing. Ritchie cleared his throat and began, “Morello believes he’s a born leader like the Caesars of old. He and his cohorts are all from Corleone, Sicily, about twenty miles from the capital of Palermo. Corleone means ‘lionheart’ in Italian.”
Petrosino listened to Agent Ritchie’s pronunciation of Corleone. Quite good.
“This Morello is called ‘Don Piddu’ or ‘The Clutch Hand’ by his men because he has a deformity from birth. His right hand is disfigured, it’s got only one good finger. He’s rough and cunning as a fox. We think any violence done by the gang is okayed first by him. We arrested him three years ago for carrying false silver certificates and again six months ago. Then three months ago, we arrested four of his underlings for passing fake five-dollar notes from the National Iron Bank of Morristown. But Morello always slips our grasp.”
“Slippery as an eel,” Flynn said. “We’ve never been able to pin a conviction on him.”
Petrosino was watching McClusky’s reaction to the information. The Chief sat rigidly behind his desk, his brows sunken, making him look more dim than angry.
“Why should I care about this Morello?” McClusky exhaled smoke in frustration. “My two sleuths and I have already solved this murder, and I don’t need anyone mucking it up.”
“This isn’t mucking,” Flynn said with a twinge of malice. “These gangsters may know how your victim came to meet his end. What if they witnessed his death? And no God-fearing man wants to die a John Doe, George. Tell him about the 13th, Ritchie.”
Agent Ritchie continued, “We’d been tailing the gang for months and knew all their faces till April 13th. That night, they went to a butcher shop at 16 Stanton Street. Morello was at the shop with two other thugs, Antonio Genova and Nico Pecoraro, the main counterfeiting experts. The Italians were having animated conversations in the rear of the shop, and we noticed that a new face was at the front, separate from the others. We call him ‘th
e Newcomer.’ The Newcomer was sitting on a box, fidgety as a footpad at a billfold convention. We sent a man inside to buy beef chops and get a description of the Newcomer for our file.”
“So what of it?” McClusky said impatiently.
“So the Newcomer is the same man as your barrel victim,” Ritchie said proudly.
Petrosino felt a tingle of vindication that there were more leads. He wanted to say, I knew it, but he kept a poker face, not wanting to rile the Chief Inspector or Schmittberger, who had been sitting unusually still the whole time.
“Tell him the rest, Ritchie,” Flynn said.
“We became concerned when one of the gangsters came to the front of the shop and hung a piece of butcher paper over the glass in the front door. A short time after, a rickety covered wagon pulls up. Two other gang members entered. After two hours, they came out and split up into three groups. The Newcomer went with Morello and Pecoraro, arm-in-arm, to the Bowery.”
“So this Newcomer, the man you claim is the barrel victim, he made it out of the butcher shop alive,” McClusky said. “Where’d they take him after that?”
“When they split three ways, we didn’t have enough men to safely follow, so we stopped shadowing their movements.”
“That was your mistake,” McClusky said, “and now he’s dead.” He snubbed out his cigarette, and his voice sounded confident now, almost flippant as he looked at Flynn. “Seems plain to me that if this Newcomer of yours is our barrel victim, you botched it. You were all probably snug in bed when Dr. Primrose chopped him up.” McClusky grinned yellow teeth.
Flynn’s walrus face bunched into a frown. “George, your opinion doesn’t make a lick of difference to me. This is my investigation, and I want to know who the victim is.”
“Of all the goddamned gall, Bill.”
“Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, George.”
McClusky wavered, and it looked to Petrosino like he was trying to figure out if Flynn were serious. “Look, Bill, you can’t waltz into my office on a murder case of all things, a solved one at that, and tell me what to do. Why don’t you just go home and let us amateurs in the Police Department close our case. You big-wigs in the Secret Service don’t need the bother.”
THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events) Page 8
