“How did Madonnia know to come see you in Sing Sing?”
“I sent for him because my friends cheated me. There should’ve been a divvy before I was sent up the river, but it was put off. They made up a reason. Before I left for Sing Sing, I turned over a good deal of money and things to my friends and told them to keep my share for my family. They were to look after me in prison, but they rooked me, I guess.”
“Let’s step back. Why are you in prison? On what charge?”
“Passing counterfeit, sir.”
“Was your crime committed as part of a gang you were in?”
“Yes, sir. My friends and me. Giuseppe Morello, Inzerillo, the Lobaido brothers, and some others. The ones you have in jail mixed up in this case.”
“When your brother-in-law came to visit you in Sing Sing, what was he wearing?”
“Oh, Nitto fancies clothes like I fancy jewelry. I like Diamond Jim Brady. Let’s see, Nitto had a nice black suit, black and white stripe pants, and. . . a green tie, I think. Checkered.”
Jerome cast his eyes at Petrosino, silently asking if the clothes were the same as the barrel victim’s, and Petrosino dipped his chin, yes. “All right,” Jerome said, “did your brother-in-law carry any jewelry, anything valuable on him?”
“Just a crucifix. He was looking for a new watch. Can’t remember nothing else, sorry.”
“What did you and Benedetto discuss when he visited you at Sing Sing?”
“I told him there was much coming to me from the tricks I turned before I was caught, maybe five thousand dollars, and that the fellows ought to divvy. So I instructed Nitto to go see them and get my share of the loot-”
“Wait a minute. Did you tell ‘Nitto’ or Benedetto to threaten them with exposing this mafia society if they didn’t pay your share of the loot?”
When De Priemo heard the word “mafia,” his eyelids dropped like window shades. He slowly forced them open and pondered the question. McClusky impatiently thudded his glass on the table, and Petrosino saw the glint in De Priemo’s eyes dampen with each thud.
“Spit it out,” Jerome said. “Did you discuss threatening to expose the mafia society?”
“You keep saying that word. I tell you, there’s no mafia in this thing, none at all. Not that I know of anyhow.” De Priemo looked around the room like a reproved schoolboy. “I swear, it must’ve been a plain squabble over money, that’s why they killed poor Nitto.”
“Is that right?” Jerome crossed his legs, adjusting his pince-nez. He stared intently at De Priemo who chewed his bottom lip again. “So you sent your brother-in-law to New York to dun a gang of bloodthirsty Sicilians for your share of counterfeiting spoils? And he was innocent as the day he was born, eh? Did he know that The Clutch Hand was the mafia chieftain?”
“I’m sure… what I mean is, there was no mafia in this. Truly, sir.”
“Was your brother-in-law a member of the society?”
“He was a stonemason, I tell you. That’s how he got that scar on his face.”
Jerome’s eyes turned vicious. “That scar on your brother-in-law’s face is twenty years old, and he probably hasn’t touched a stone since then, except to skip one across Lake Erie.” Jerome circled behind De Priemo. “A stonemason doesn’t have fancy clothes and soft baby hands, unless… unless he made his living buying counterfeit himself and shoving it off for the gang? You don’t get callouses from handling counterfeit, do you, Mr. De Priemo?”
“I’ll be damned,” McClusky mumbled. “The victim’s a crook himself?”
Jerome said to De Priemo, “And Nitto’s route home is a typical one for counterfeiters and ‘shovers of the queer.’ They pass off bad coin and notes as they go, don’t they, Mr. De Priemo?”
De Priemo held his lip between his teeth.
“The Secret Service gave me a letter they found in Morello’s rooms,” Jerome said. “A few months back, some of the gang got arrested in Wilkes-Barre, and Morello asked Benedetto to look after them. Benedetto complained that the pinched gang members were left to rot because Morello didn’t send enough money. So Benedetto threw the whole job over and went back to Buffalo. There was bad blood between him and Morello, wasn’t there?”
Petrosino felt a cancerous rage spreading in him. Why hadn’t they shared this with him?
De Priemo mumbled, “Maybe.”
“I won’t speak ill of the dead anymore, Mr. De Priemo. I’m going to assume you’re protecting your brother-in-law’s good name so as not to despoil his memory.” Jerome went back to his chair and flicked ashes. He took a puff, making De Priemo squirm in the long silence. “Did Madonnia speak to Morello or the gang before he visited you at Sing Sing?”
“Nitto asked my friends for their help, but they said they didn’t know anything about my money. They made jokes about me instead. Nitto said it was like Wilkes-Barre all over again, and he was sore at them.”
“Who’s they exactly?” Jerome grew impatient as De Priemo hesitated. “You’re weakening. Remember, a transfer to Erie County Prison is on the horizon.”
De Priemo’s face blanched as he said, “Morello laughed at me. I think he’s the one who double-crossed me.”
“Do you think he killed your brother-in-law over this money squabble?”
The moment of truth. Petrosino watched the fear growing in De Priemo’s eyes. De Priemo stuttered, “N-N-Nitto is… he was as stubborn as a mule. He said he’d show them. He’d make them shell out my share. He said the Sicilians here are as bad as they are back in Sicily-”
Jerome suddenly pounded his fist on the table, and De Priemo cringed. “Answer the question! Did Morello have Benedetto Madonnia killed?”
“Yes! It must have been!”
“How do you know Morello had Benedetto killed? Did he talk about it?”
“I just know. Please, sir, stop hounding me-”
“How? What evidence do you have?”
“I just know,” De Priemo huffed like a frustrated child. “Everybody knows he’s the bigshot. He’s the capo. If he wants someone snuffed, they get dead.”
Jerome pointed his cigarette at De Priemo and was nearly shouting, “So you don’t know for sure. You don’t have any proof at all except your measly gut instinct?”
De Priemo shrugged, his lips swollen from being chewed.
“Well, Mr. De Priemo, if this killing had been ordered by Morello, would he have done it himself? Would he have struck the blows that nearly decapitated your brother-in-law?”
“No.” De Priemo teared up. “The Clutch Hand never dirties his own fingers. He would’ve had The Ox do it. That one likes to make people suffer. He’s wild, I tell you.”
“Now you’re using monikers. By The Ox, you mean Tomasso Petto?”
“Yes, sir, I guess, but not… yes.”
Petrosino sensed something in De Priemo’s hesitation. He waved a finger, and Jerome nodded at him to speak. Petrosino asked, “Do these men have other names from the Old Country?”
“I know The Ox by a different name. He was always Luciano to me. Luciano Petto from Wilkes-Barre. See, we used to work together in the mines.”
Petrosino scribbled down notes. “And what about the other men in the gang, do they have different names, too? Have you ever heard of Giuseppe Terranova?”
De Priemo’s eyes twitched. “Not that I know of, sir.”
“If you’re lying to us, you’ll rot in Sing Sing, you hear?” Petrosino leaned over the table and held De Priemo’s gaze. “How does the gang pass counterfeit?”
“Sometimes we sell it to rich people, sometimes in bundles to church men.”
“Church men?” McClusky’s face contorted. “That’s a bold-faced lie.”
“It’s true, sir. They come from far off, buy a batch, and pass it off on their flock.”
“That may be,” Petrosino said, “but that’s peanuts. How does the gang make its money in this City? The real money? How do they unload all the fake bills?”
“Just like I said.” De Priemo star
ted eating his lower lip again, and it cracked and began to bleeed. “I swear on my brother’s soul.”
Jerome stubbed out his cigarette and said, “Are you sure Benedetto didn’t threaten to go to the police? To expose the gang’s counterfeiting operations? Where they made the money, the names of the shovers, where the paper and printing presses came from and the like? Come now, why else would they display him in public like that?”
“Giuseppe,” Petrosino said, “that was a Sicilian gesture, wasn’t it? The gang was warning everyone to keep their mouths shut or else, right?”
“I don’t know, sir. Like I said, The Ox is the blackest devil I ever knew. Can we please stop now? I’m so tired, and I just want to go back to my cell. Please, sir.”
Jerome looked over at McClusky and Petrosino. “Anything else?”
“One more,” Petrosino said, thinking of the notes hidden in the wall at the Star of Italy. “How does the gang communicate with each other?”
“In Italian, mostly.” De Priemo wiped his mouth and noticed blood on his sleeve.
“Do they pass notes, and can they do it from prison?”
De Priemo glanced at McClusky, and his head shook. “You said ‘notes.’ I know of political ‘bills’ written for the Palermo Society. But I can’t read so…”
“These ‘bills’ you know of. Who writes and sends them out and who receives them?”
“The Clutch Hand can write the best. He’s shrewd, that one.”
“Does the gang ever write in code? Is there a secret way of talking?”
“Like I told you, I can’t read. So how would I know, sir?”
McClusky laughed at that one, and De Priemo flashed a bit of confidence in a smile.
Petrosino tried a hunch, the name he’d overheard in jail. “What about Il Volpe? The Fox?” Petrosino stared at De Priemo, who suddenly fidgeted like an opium fiend itching for a fix. “You didn’t think I knew about him, did you, Giuseppe?”
McClusky gave Petrosino an irritated look, as if to ask, Who’s that?
“It’s their boss,” Petrosino said.
“The Fox?” De Priemo said, hesitating for a moment, hands together under his chin like a doomed supplicant. “I only heard of him. I don’t know much, sir.”
“He’s not in the gang? The Fox is an outsider?”
“I know nothing about him,” De Priemo said, “except that he exists and talks to the Clutch Hand about making bad coin. That’s all I know. I swear, sir.”
“Did the gang ever grease any rotten cops?”
McClusky jerked up in his chair and pointed at the stenographer. “Stop typing or I’ll smash your machine.” He grabbed Petrosino’s sleeve. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing? This ain’t Lexow, Sergeant. The target is this gang, goddamn it.”
“Chief, what if these men have some kind of contact inside? Morello’s been arrested before, but he keeps getting off scot-free, so-”
“We didn’t pay off cops, sir,” De Priemo interrupted. “Not that I know of. We only worked with Sicilians. Maybe a few Neapolitans and a Calabrian once…”
“Move on then,” McClusky said, staring viciously at Petrosino.
“The Chief Inspector’s right,” Jerome said, “let’s keep our inquiry focused. We’ve gotten positive identity of the victim, motive, two suspects, and an alias for The Ox.” Jerome turned to De Priemo. “Everything you’ve told us, you’ll say at the Inquest?”
De Priemo nodded.
“Good, now sign your statement, Mr. De Priemo.”
De Priemo wiped sweat from his face and scratched an X on the transcript. Then he held his hands out instinctively, waiting to be cuffed. After the guards shackled him, he turned to Petrosino and mustered up what little energy he had left.
De Priemo spoke in Italian, “This is difficult for me, sir. To resort to the law is infamy for a Sicilian. I’ve always regarded it as a good thing to let alone because I’d rather see the killer set free so I can get justice personally. But I’m in prison now and no help to my poor sister who’s lost a husband. And once they find out I squealed, I’ll be dead.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“It doesn’t matter if I die, because I put my trust in you now. Give them justice for me.”
“I give you my word,” Petrosino said.
The guards took De Priemo away, and the stenographer followed them out.
“What’d he just say, Sergeant?” McClusky’s eyebrow slanted on his mottled forehead.
“He said he’s going to trust us to do justice for him.”
McClusky grunted. “Sounded like he said a lot more than that. You damn well better watch yourself, because I am.”
“As am I,” Jerome said. “Despite what this De Priemo suspects, we still don’t know whose hand drew the knife across Madonnia’s throat, nor do we know which men held him down when he was being disposed of so effectually as to keep their mafia secrets intact. And we still don’t have solid evidence.” Jerome smacked the deck of cards on the table. “Last year, the City had only 419 convictions out of 768 jury trials. That’s got to improve under my watch. I won’t take another dog to trial. You’ve got two days before the Coroner’s Inquest or this case is in the shit-can.”
“Yes, sir,” Petrosino said.
“And keep your Jewish chum at arm’s length,” Jerome said. “The fact that he was granted immunity didn’t undo the wrong he’s done. Once a cheat, always a cheat, I say.” Jerome went back to shuffling cards. “Good day, Detective.”
Chapter 26
Petrosino had a few hours to pass until Salvatore Sagliabeni’s train would arrive from Buffalo. He dreaded the thought of taking a son to see what may be his father’s body at the Morgue. It was the worst part of the job. He’d been sneaking a few sips of whiskey at his desk, thinking about who The Fox could be when Steffens called. The excitement in Steffens’ voice made Petrosino throw on his coat and derby to meet him.
A mantle of indigo light fell on Washington Square Park as dusk filled the cracks in the city. Petrosino walked past shadows strolling through the park’s glowing lamplights, thinking about the encrypted note. Although Steffens had been carefully vague on the telephone, Petrosino knew that they had discovered something about the note. What did it say, he wondered, and how had they tumbled it out?
When he entered Steffens’ office, he noticed McAlpin was gone. Steffens and Tarbell were sitting in their desk chairs, laughing and drinking triumphantly.
“Good to see you, Joe, sit.” Steffens patted an empty chair.
Tarbell held out her hand, and Petrosino took it and pecked her knuckles.
“Don’t make me blush, Detective. The sherry’s already gone to my head.” She pointed at a bottle on her desk, whispering, “Amontillado Sherry.”
“We were about to order Chinese boxes of chop suey,” Steffens said.
“Can’t stay for supper, but I could use the moisture on the side.” Petrosino sat down between the two of them.
“We saw in the afternoon papers that the barrel victim is an Italian named Benedetto Madonnia. Was he in cahoots with the Morello gang like they’re saying?”
“Betweeen us,” Petrosino said, “I’ve no doubt that this Madonnia was in the counterfeit game. My witness from Sing Sing, De Priemo, is Madonnia’s brother-in-law. From how scared he was, this is bigger than a money squabble. Remember I said I’d heard about a man known as ‘The Fox’ and maybe he’s the rotten cop in your Syndicate? Well, when we interrogated De Priemo, he said The Fox was in the bad coin business with Morello and that The Fox was an outsider. I tried to ask whether the gang ever greased any cops, but Chief Inspector McClusky cut me off at the knees, and Jerome clammed it up, too.”
Steffens’ eyes bulged behind his spectacles. “By Jove, so you think it’s McClusky?”
Petrosino shrugged. “I don’t know yet, Steffens. But it scares me.”
“Well, don’t be too frightened,” Tarbell said with a bubbly tone and poured Petrosino a glass
of sherry. “The good news is I solved your puzzle. Thus, the sherry we opened.”
“That’s not true,” Steffens said, “I solved it, too. In fact, after I spoke to Schmittberger, I conceived the acorn of the idea that sprouted into the oak of discovery.”
Petrosino was drinking sherry and almost choked. “Hang on. You spoke to Max? I thought you didn’t want him included in your investigation of the Syndicate?”
“It wasn’t my doing. He showed up at McClure’s and caught me after an editorial board meeting. Our wives are friends, after all. I couldn’t just ignore him, could I?”
Petrosino drank more sherry and tried to digest why Max had visited Steffens. “So what did Max say to you?”
“He said the two of you were working on the barrel murder and he asked what I knew about the mafia society. He’s the one who got me thinking about the note. I’d been reading the awful news about the pogroms in Russia, and since Max is a Jew-”
“Steffens, just tell me. I can’t bear a yarn right now.”
“All right, you know how we have a mezuzah on our door? Well, I have one at McClure’s, too, and Max was looking at it. He says to me, ‘This another one of your phony displays of culture, Steff?’ And I said, ‘No, I actually feel close to the Jew folk.’ So Max asks if I even know what’s written on the scroll inside the mezuzah. Of course, I never asked, so that got me thinking.”
“Actually,” Tarbell said, “I was the one who wondered if the note could be some ancient language like Hebrew. We delved into it and eventually found out that the mezuzah is written in code. There’s a one letter shift of the third, fourth, and fifth words of a Hebrew prayer called the Shema. The words are ‘Adonai, Eloheinu, Adonai.’ The Lord, our God, the Lord.”
“See, Joe,” Steffens said, “I’m a man of science, and I knew I was on the right theoretical track. The Jews wrote in code to hide the name of their God from the polytheistic Romans.”
“And that’s when the moment of eureka hit me,” Tarbell said and sipped her sherry with a smile. “The mafia society fancies itself like the Roman Empire, yes? So what if they used the code that Julius Caesar used to communicate with his generals? That’s what the mezuzah uses. But a one-letter shift didn’t work for our note, so I thought of the triumvirate.”
THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events) Page 20
