We walked the short distance to Petrosino’s precinct, but a dusky-faced young officer told us he was still at home, having been up late the night before. Nothing in the polite young Italian’s manner suggested he held us responsible for the inconvenience.
“A most dangerous man, Medusa,” said Holmes, as we followed the policeman’s directions. “No Napoleon of Crime, of course; but quite possibly a Richelieu. At the same time I’m reasonably certain he had nothing to do with what took place last night.”
“What are your grounds?”
“He’s afraid, Watson. His kingdom is built upon sand, held in place by the kerbs of Little Italy. This incident has international implications. He may be able to contain the local authorities through threats and bribery, but not the full weight of two vengeful governments. His parting words were as much a plea as a warning. He is not our man.”
“Then we have come all this way for nothing.”
“Emphatically not. We have flushed out Lungo. Plainly we pose a hazard to some nefarious plan. Lestrade was correct insofar as the Black Hand in London seeks to avoid publicity, hence its efforts to see that Pietro Venucci’s final resting place remains final. But by taking the matter all the way to the United States, we have forced these fellows to take drastic measures to stop the investigation. Depend upon it, there is something more behind all this than just a dead gravedigger.”
We entered a brownstone building whose interior smelled—refreshingly, not of the city’s indigenous cabbage, but of cooked tomatoes and a delectable variety of herbs. On our way up the three flights to the lieutenant’s flat, we heard arguments of differing decibels in Italian, a tenor singing an operatic aria on a gramophone (Caruso, perhaps), and an interesting debate between a woman speaking Italian and a boy speaking New York–accented English involving when he should be expected home for dinner.
The smell of Mediterranean cooking increased as we approached a door at the end of a narrow dim hallway, and positively gushed out at us as Petrosino opened the door. In place of his uniform he wore a stained apron over a brown woolen waistcoat and clutched a squat green wine-bottle in a woven basket under one arm and his short-barreled revolver in his free hand. Recognizing us, his wary expression broke into a genial smile. The weapon vanished beneath his apron.
“My friends, you are just in time for luncheon.”
“We wouldn’t impose,” said Holmes.
“Absurd. I am a bachelor, who cooks enough in one day to feed myself all week. I have prepared pasta sufficient to satisfy the neighborhood. Prego, entrare, e partire un po della felicita tu portare.”
“Grazie, mi amico; although I fear we do not bring so much in the way of happiness. No,” he said, when our friend registered alarm, “not another attack. Just lack of progress.”
He took our hats and coats and hung them on a halltree and removed his apron. “We shall dine in five minutes.”
The apartment was small but homey, a combination living and dining room and kitchen, with a worn but once costly rug on the floor, photos in oval frames of mustachioed men in stiff collars and solemn women in black bombazine, and a view through an open doorway of a single bed on an iron frame. A gramophone (possibly the one we’d heard on our way up the stairs) perched upon a shawl covering a spindle-legged table. Petrosino filled three glasses on an oilcloth-covered table from the squat bottle of wine, served us in threadbare overstuffed chairs pinned all over with antimacassars, and wound up the gramophone. The clear tenor voice issued from the great chrysanthemum horn.
“The doctor and I had the honour of meeting Signor Caruso in London shortly before we left,” Holmes said. “In person his voice is magnificent.”
“I was privileged to hear it as well, from backstage at the Metropolitan last year. I was in charge of ensuring Il Mano Negro held up its end of their bargain. The dinner the man had delivered to his dressing room would have foundered Diamond Jim Brady.”
“Geniuses are often voracious. I seem to be an exception.”
The lieutenant nearly choked on his wine. He mopped his lips with a great lawn handkerchief. “Scusami. I find your frankness refreshing after this morning’s telephone conversation with the chief. He owes his position to the mayor, and the jargon required to maintain public office has rubbed off upon him.”
“I trust he doesn’t hold you responsible for what took place last night,” Holmes said.
“I am sure it was no worse than what he heard from the mayor. You have spoken with Medusa?”
My friend provided him with a full account. Petrosino nodded. “I agree with your construction. He plays the buffoon to perfection, but he is too wise to stir up hornets larger than he.” He sighed. “Someday, my chief will grant my request to revisit Sicily and rip up this noxious weed by the root. What is your next step?”
An alarm clock rang. Our host excused himself and rose. “The sauce, it burns. Shall we continue our conversation over our meal?”
Holmes agreed, and we sat down to a sumptuous repast. The pasta tasted of refined butter and the sauce was delicious. We complimented the chef.
“I thank you on behalf of my grandmother. She would curse me in her grave were I to share the secret outside the family. Omerta, it is not exclusive to Il Mano Negro.”
“I wonder if I could prevail upon you for a favour,” Holmes said.
“Anything.”
“Would you notify the newspapers where we are staying? I wish to make a statement for publication.”
Petrosino was as surprised as I was. “If that is what you wish; but will they not hamper your movements?”
“A little, but as those movements involve merely a ride to the docks, the inconvenience won’t be great. We sail with the tide, assuming we can arrange accommodations.”
“The department can help with that. You are abandoning your quest?”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes. “I intend to lure our friend Lungo from his lair.”
Whereupon he indulged himself with a second helping from the big bowl on the table.
• • •
Petrosino hung up the telephone in the foyer of his building. “Di compiuto. Your berth on the Dolley Madison awaits at six o’clock this evening, and the gentlemen of the Fourth Estate have been notified. If I know them, they will greet you at Mrs. L’Azour’s front door. I would be honoured if you would allow me to deliver you to the dock in the chief’s go-devil.”
“Thank you, but so official a leave-taking may frighten our prey back into hiding.”
We said farewell, and prepared to shake his hand, but Lieutenant Giusseppe Petrosino seized us each in an embrace that would bring a bear to shame. “Addio, mi caro amicos! I pray that our paths will cross again under better circumstances.”
“And I, regardless of the circumstances.”
I said as much, and the association was ended.
Our new friend had not exaggerated, for a gaggle of men in unwashed linen and battered bowlers boiled off the front steps of our boarding house the moment we appeared. Holmes quieted their simultaneous queries with hand upraised.
“No questions, please, gentlemen. We came to your splendid country on a matter of grave importance, but the trail leads back home, where we shall root out its source. I have nothing to add.” He turned and sprinted up the steps with me in tow.
“Mr. Holmes!” This came in chorus. One voice, belonging to a tall man in tailoring somewhat superior to his colleagues, came to the fore. “Pemberton of the Sun,” he announced. “Is it true someone tried to shoot you in your room last night?”
Holmes paused in the open doorway. “That rumor is false. Mrs. L’Azour would tolerate no such inhospitality. I commend the comforts of her establishment to anyone who intends to visit your fine city. Thank you.”
“But that sling—”
I followed Holmes inside quickly and pushed the door shut against the force from without. This was my first encounter with American journalism. At last I knew the full meaning of the word press.