Petrosino walked up to the back entrance of the Marble Palace where he found a detail of police reserves leaning against the stair railings and lampposts, twirling their billy clubs around their wrists. The brass buttons on their long blue overcoats shone in the morning sun, and their eyes squinted sharply from beneath their tall thimble-shaped helmets. A crowd milled about in the street below.
Schmittberger stood at the top of the steps, watching it all.
Petrosino walked up to him. “Max, what’s doing?”
“McClusky was mad that the press said we botched the Primrose collar and that we still don’t know who the victim is. So he’s decided to parade the Morello gang and show the public we got ‘em.”
“Last night,” Petrosino said, “he didn’t want to let one of them out on bond. Now he wants to parade them all and risk an escape?”
“I wonder… like I said before, Joe. Maybe he wants them to escape?”
Petrosino considered it as the rising sun warmed his shoulders and stretched out over the horizon. The crowd grew with the sunlight, and the police reserves began practicing swings of their billies and pointing their sticks at the louder voices in the restless throng.
Petrosino whispered, “I wonder about Flynn, the way he was acting last night. He insisted that we cut the Third Degree short and give them lawyers.”
“Is that so?” Schmittberger stroked his moustache. “You know, Ritchie was following me all last night like a lost dog. I get the feeling the Secret Service is waiting for us to botch it so they can have their case back.”
“If they’ve got the goods, then how come they’ve never convicted Morello once?”
More reserves poured out the Marble Palace’s back doors and formed two long columns of thirty men. Petrosino and Schmittberger stood aside on the rear portico as O’Farrell led Irish plainclothes men with the Morello gang in tow, handcuffed in front and holding onto each other like a great metal centipede. The gang trudged in lockstep with bruised faces.
Schmittberger laughed at Tomasso “The Ox” Petto, who had a bandage around his massive head and a left ear swollen like a purple cauliflower.
“Wait till we get lawyers!” Petto roared in Italian. “Then we’ll see who laughs!”
Petrosino said, “You’ll be laughing from Sing Sing, jackass.”
Giuseppe “The Clutch Hand” Morello looked over and drew his deformed, handcuffed claw across his own neck. The Death Sign. Petrosino smiled broadly at him.
There must have been five hundred people in the crowd now, and they gasped as the phalanx of police reserves surrounded the prisoners with synchronized precision and marched forward with billy clubs held high.
“Fancy,” Schmittberger said.
O’Farrell shouted to his blue phalanx, “Use your billies on the rabble to make a hole!”
The reserves drove back the agitators in the crowd, and one red-faced bluecoat swung wildly, knocking a boy to the ground. The crowd yelled, “Shame, shame!” And a half dozen men taunted the police and blocked the procession. The Morello gang egged on the crowd.
“Should we lend a hand?” Petrosino said.
While Schmittberger considered it, the cops and spectators began shoving each other.
“T.R. just said in the papers, ‘Talk softly and carry a big stick,’” Schmittberger said. “You know he was talking about me, don’t you?”
Schmittberger marched down the steps, banging his daytime billy club on the railing. He waded into the fracas, a head taller than everyone, and shouted, “Make way! These men are going to Jefferson Market to have their day in court! I said, ‘MAKE WAY’!”
The crowd paused for a moment until a boy swiped the billy out of Schmittberger’s hand and ran off. Then the crowd turned on the giant Inspector and came at him with fists. He tried to fend them off and shouted to Petrosino, “Don’t just stand there, ya schmuck! Throw me a billy!”
Petrosino tossed a locustwood nightstick, and it looked as it might hurtle over Schmittberger’s head. But he reached up, snatched it out of the air, and snapped it down on the nearest man’s head. He tapped five more on the crown, and they each closed up like a jackknife. Petrosino moved in with his pistol and fired a shot in the air. The crowd made way en masse, undulating backward like an ocean tide. Schmittberger and Petrosino escorted the parade to three Black Marias waiting at Mulberry and Bleecker Street. The wagon doors flew open, and the bluecoats quickly tossed the prisoners inside. The police wagons sounded their gongs and sped off to the courthouse.
“Now that the Micks are busy,” Max said, “let me show you what I found last night.”
Petrosino and Schmittberger walked east on Spring Street toward black plumes rising from the factory smokestacks and steamships on the East River. The smoke melded into a bleak canopy of clouds as they turned left on Elizabeth Street and walked north. The Star of Italy café was on the corner of Prince and Elizabeth Streets, a block from Old St. Patrick’s. The gusting wind carried the aromas of fresh bread, horse manure, and burning coal.
Outside the Star of Italy, they found a patrolman sitting on a crate, devouring a large pretzel and gleefully watching an urchin turning handsprings and cartwheels. The patrolman was clapping at the little boy until he recognized the Inspector and Detective Sergeant on the sidewalk before him. He snapped to his feet and saluted.
Schmittberger said, “At ease.”
The Star of Italy café’s awning had “LAGER BEER” signs, and the windows bore the establishment’s proprietor, P. Inzerillo. Inside, the pasticceria looked like a familiar East Side lunchroom with sawdust on the floor and tables and stools scattered across uneven floorboards. Petrosino turned up any light he could find and walked along the bar counter and through the tables and chairs. He looked for a trace of blood or a knife gouge in the tabletops. The only other place to hold down a grown man was the floor.
Petrosino sifted his hands through the sawdust on the floor, shaking his head. “I don’t see any blood here.”
“We found new linen collars on Morello’s bedroom bureau with the four-letter tradename, Marl. Just like the barrel victim’s collar.”
“A lawyer will say it came from a sweatshop that sold thousands of collars just like it. What else? I know you’ve got something better than that, Max.”
“Come look at this.” Schmittberger walked over to the cellar door. It sat crooked in the jamb, and he had to wrench it open.
They went down the steps and flicked on a single bulb to see a storeroom of barrels, burlap, and tin cans. Petrosino bent down and stared closely at the ground. Not a single red drop.
“You won’t find any blood.” Schmittberger pointed at the barrels. “But look at those. They’re all marked ‘W & T.’ Just like the one our victim was in. Wallace & Thompson are bakers at 365 Washington. Problem is, they supply pastries to a whole lot of saloons on the East Side. These barrels are as common as lampposts.”
“This is the place, Max. The killers stab him, put him in one of these barrels, then. . .” Petrosino pointed to burlap scraps in the corner. “Use some burlap over there to wrap it around his neck. They have a wagon waiting out front, it’s a cakewalk. He drew his last breath here.” Petrosino shivered at the thought.
“I think that’s right. And the way they cleaned up makes me think it was a professional job. But it gets better. Come on.”
Schmittberger led him back upstairs to the bar counter. They filled two mugs from a keg that still had some suds left. Schmittberger gulped his beer and said, “We found a batch of letters hidden behind a loose brick in Morello’s wall. They were like union circulars addressed to cities all over. Talked about the plight of Italians in America and how the ‘Palermo Society’ should be stronger in politics. I memorized part of it: ‘The Irish and Jew have paid for their voices in the courts, city hall, and American police precincts. So should the Italian lest he remain as downtrodden as the Negro.’ Then it proposed a convention in New York to discuss ‘Nostra Causa.’ What’s that mean?”
>
“’Nostra Causa’ means ‘Our Cause.’ Sounds like a socialist handbill.”
“Ritchie thinks it’s a crime syndicate. Next thing I know, the Secret Service glory hounds take all the letters as evidence in their federal case.”
“Curse the fishes. I wonder if it’s the Syndicate that Steffens was talking about?”
“I don’t know, but I found something even better right here. Swiped it without Ritchie seeing.” Schmittberger went around the bar counter and pointed at the wall beneath a framed picture of a half-naked chorus girl. He tapped on several bricks until he found one that jiggled. He had a hard time pulling it out, but, when he did, it revealed a deep opening in the wall. “Nothing in here now, because I have it on me.” He drew out a folded sheet of paper from his jacket. “What’s it say, Joe?”
Petrosino took the note and read the handwritten ink in block print:
FRQVHUYDCLRQH DO ODYRUR. PD FRPXQLFDUH H GLIHWWRVD SHU ODYRUR. LO EXH GHYH IDUH XQ HVHPSLR GHO EXIDOR.
“The last word, exidor, is that Latin? Max, I haven’t a clue.” Petrosino looked up from the note. “Let me copy it down and see if I can tumble it out.”
Schmittberger nodded, and Petrosino jotted the message in his butcher book. Schmittberger folded up the note and slipped it in his jacket pocket.
“What if it’s an extortion letter?” Schmittberger filled their mugs with more beer. “I like the angle that the dead man was a rich merchant with a hard head who refused to pay.”
“Say, I know someone who might be able to translate it.”
“No, don’t say it, Joe. Don’t even mention his name.”
“Not him. His boss lady. She studied a dozen languages…”
“Finish your beer. I’ve got one last surprise.”
“You were a busy man last night, huh, Max?” They emptied their mugs.
“While you were having fun beating the snot out of crooks, I was working.” Max stood. “Let’s visit Morello’s concubine next door.”
They walked to the neighboring tenement. The columns framing the entrance had rotted away at the base and appeared to hang in the air, and there was a sign on the door that read: Hebrews, consumptives, and dogs not allowed. Inside, the hallway light bulb was smashed, but they could still see the outline of a rusty water pump in the common area. They groped their way up a banister covered with grime. The place smelled of must and ripe sweat.
On the third floor, Schmittberger pointed at a door, and Petrosino pressed his ear against it. He could hear a baby wailing and a woman trying to sing over it.
Petrosino knocked and said, “Open up, it’s the law.”
The woman shooshed the baby. Petrosino knocked again, louder, and locks clicked open. A stream of light fell into the dusty corridor, and a woman peeked her striking face in the gap. Beneath wisps of oily hair, one of her eyes wandered, making her appear to look at both of them at the same time. Another woman hovered behind, plump with big shoulders, a faint moustache, and tight clothes meant for a thinner girl.
Schmittberger whispered, “You can have the one with the moustache.”
The woman at the door said, “No parlo Eng-lish.”
Petrosino said in Italian, “Where’s your man?”
She answered in the Sicilian dialect, “I don’t know.” She took a brief glimpse of Schmittberger and gave him the malocchio. The evil eye.
“We turned this place upside down last night,” Schmittberger said, “so she doesn’t fancy me very much. I was hoping you could get something out of her. The only thing I got is that she’s Marie and her hairy sister there is Federica.”
Petrosino saw a small dumbbell on the floor next to Federica. He pointed at it curiously, and Federica lifted it up and showed him how she exercised.
“Say, she’s just like you, Joe,” Schmittberger said, “strong and ugly.”
Petrosino bit his lip and asked the pretty one in Sicilian, “What’s your man’s name?”
“I don’t know,” Marie said.
“Your man is Giuseppe Morello, no?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where was he the night of Easter Monday?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, signora, tell me, is that your baby I hear crying inside?”
“I don’t know.”
“My God, dear woman, is there anything that you do know?”
“My dear policeman, I know that with or without a rooster God will still make the dawn. I know that and nothing else!” And she slammed the door in their faces.
“Charming gal.”
They walked back down to Elizabeth Street and pondered their next move. Petrosino stared at storefronts across the street and wondered what they might have missed. He saw a mortar and pestle over a druggist’s store, a picture of a coffin over an undertaker’s parlor, and a cluster of three mystical golden balls over a pawnbroker’s shop.
“There must be a thousand pawnshops in Little Italy.” Petrosino stood entranced by the copper balls, as if they were soothsayer’s orbs, and he thought of the barrel victim’s possessions. Silk handkerchiefs, a pair of gloves, a rubber stamp, cheroot cigars, the silver watch chain, the necklace and crucifix. “Max, what if they pawned something?”
“Brilliant, Joe,” Schmittberger said. “Why don’t you go see your scholarly chums and translate that note while I go through the evidence again to see what the gang had on them.”
“You sure you don’t want me to look with you?”
Schmittberger shook his head. “Trust me. We can cover more ground this way.”
Chapter 18
Petrosino would have liked to sort through the evidence with Schmittberger, but it made sense for them to split up and do separate tasks. Still, he had a twinge of doubt. He tried not to think about it as he passed through Washington Square and tipped his derby at young women strolling by with frilly parasols.
The doorman rang up to Minerva & Company and let him into the stairwell. Petrosino walked the four flights and cursed the building for not having an elevator. Before he went in, he dabbed sweat from his face with a handkerchief and took off his hat. He realized it was because of Tarbell. Had they all been men, he wouldn’t have bothered. Steffens, Tarbell, and her assistant, McAlpin, were at their desks same as before, only with more papers piled up. McAlpin waved, but went back to typing loud as a warhammer with only two fingers.
“Joe, good to see you.” Steffens jumped up from his chair. “You received my message at Headquarters? I’ve got a remarkable tale for you.”
“No, I’ve been out,” Petrosino said, “I came to see you about something else actually. Nice to see you, Miss Tarbell.” Petrosino took her hand and bowed.
“Congratulations again on the barrel murder,” she said. “That’s some feather in your cap, though we’re all confused now about who the culprit is.”
“You’re not alone.” Petrosino sat in a chair closer to Steffens.
“Your ears must’ve been burning,” Steffens said.
Steffens thumbed at Tarbell. “We just ate at Lyons on the Bowery with an old Italian friend who was a crime reporter in the Old Country. Sure enough, he had the dope on Morello or… Terranova. See, Morello’s pop died young, and his mother remarried a man named Terranova. So there’s some doubt about his surname.”
“He probably used that to his advantage when he crossed over here.”
“I’m surprised you can’t get that information from the Italian authorities, but then again, Italy’s economy and crime rate are so bad, our friend says they don’t want their own crooks back. Did you try the Immigration Commisson on Ellis Island or the Secret Service?”
“Secret Service? That’s a swell idea.” Petrosino smiled to himself, wondering what else Flynn was holding back. “So spill. What’s this remarkable tale of yours?”
“It’s about Morello. He used to run with cattle thieves in the Ficuzza Woods in Sicily. Some captain of the Sylvan Guard, name of Vella, put Morello under house arrest while he waited for
a farmer to muster the courage to testify against Morello. Morello was stuck in his mama’s home in Corleone, wasn’t allowed to drink and cavort, and had to account to this Captain Vella for his whereabouts.”
“Like most men,” Tarbell said, “he couldn’t live without drinking and cavorting.”
“Mind you it’s us men, Minerva, that make the world go round.”
Tarbell wagged a finger. “If three quarters of you men were killed, we women could replace you with the other quarter. Mind yourself that, Steff.”
The three of them laughed, and Steffens said, “Anyhow, Captain Vella went out one night drinking with friends. He almost made it home, a few paces from his front door when BANG. Someone shot him in the back right through the left lung, fatally wounding him.”
“Morello would’ve shot lefthanded,” Petrosino said.
“That’s right. A woman named Anna Di Puma said she saw Morello in the same spot where Captain Vella fell. She was going to testify, but she gets two bullets in her back, too.”
“Was Morello tried for the killings?”
“He fled to America. Say, do you think he’s really mixed up in the barrel murder, instead of that mad doctor?”
“Could be.” Petrosino thought of Morello’s soulless eyes and withered hand. “I’m ashamed to ask, but I need another favor from you. Actually from Miss Tarbell.”
“Your turn first,” Tarbell said. “What have you gotten for us about the Syndicate?”
Petrosino sighed, fidgeted for a cigar, and chewed it. “The Secret Service thinks the Morello gang is part of a crime syndicate, but I doubt it’s your Syndicate. It’s more of a Sicilian band of crooks they call the Palermo Society. And, well I… I don’t want this to leave the room.” Petrosino looked over his shoulder at McAlpin still pounding away on the typographic machine.
“Frank’s sound as the dollar,” Tarbell said. “Besides he can’t hear a pip when he types.”
THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events) Page 14
