On the morning of our departure we met upon the dock. Holmes smiled at my luggage.
“Two trunks,” said he, “and I recall when you travelled with only a razor and a fresh collar.”
“Both optional, back then.” For I was in a bright mood, and would not be needled. In the excitement of packing I had realised how much I’d missed the hurly-burly of shucking off months of inaction and taking to the high seas as on a whim. “Do not fear that I’ve become a clothes horse. I stuffed the second trunk with authors I’ve been meaning to catch up on: Stevenson, Clark Russell, Conrad, Jack London, the American writer. Is that all your gear?” I nodded towards his carpetbag.
“The clothes I’m wearing, tweeds for warmth, a dinner jacket, and sundries.” Items shifted heavily inside when he hefted the bag. I knew them well: brass knuckles, a cosh, his revolver—the “sundries” he’d mentioned.
“No reading material? Won’t you be bored?”
“I place my trust in the mortal equation. Six hundred souls living in close proximity for a fortnight will provide entertainment for an ageing detective, or the race is lost irretrievably.”
Without going into detail, I shall report that he was proven right our first day out, when a number of our fellow passengers complained to the crew that their staterooms had been entered in their absence and certain items removed: a wooden comb, two small sewing kits, a battered pewter flask, and a tobacco pouch. It was but the work of two days to connect the pilferage of these varied and relatively worthless items to a pet marmoset belonging to the assistant purser, who had adopted the monkey during a stopover in Brazil and was unaware of what the animal was about while he was engaged in his duties. Objects and their owners were reunited and little Mono was placed in Holmes’s temporary custody at his request, “for observation.” By the time we passed the grand lady holding a torch in the harbour, he’d drafted a monograph concerning the difference between willing thievery and innocent curiosity in our fellow primates.
“Signor Holmes! Welcome to America!”
No sooner had we reclaimed our luggage than a sturdy party in brass buttons and a peaked cap ploughed his way through the passengers and well-wishers on the dock. He was clean-shaven, with a broad square face and a gold shield pinned to his breast.
But before he could reach us, a group of men in long overcoats in need of brushing and bowler hats touched up with bootblack intercepted him, charging our way with pencils and notebooks in hand. Holmes looked pained. “The American press. Aggressive fellows. I fear we’re in for a proper grilling.”
We were saved, however, when a whistle shrilled and what seemed a regiment of men in uniforms similar to the first man’s double-timed their way across the dock, shoving aside the crowd and inserting themselves between us and the gang of journalists. A chorus of middle western twangs, Irish brogues, and pidgin English assailed them as the officers sent them into retreat with wooden bludgeons prominent.
“Lieutenant Joe Petrosino, sirs, at your service.” The first man pumped Holmes’s hand and then mine, using a two-handed grip I still feel in my wrist and fingers when the weather is damp.
Holmes saw me wince. “Be grateful, Watson. Imagine how it must feel when those fingers grip a miscreant’s shoulder in the middle of his crime. I cabled the lieutenant from aboard ship, and was pleased to receive a positive response. I hardly thought you would take the trouble to greet us,” he told Petrosino, “much less throw yourself between us and our interrogators. And in the full array of your office.”
The Italian’s smile was abashed. “I haven’t had it on since Columbus Day. These fellows are the salt of the earth, but I knew they could not resist an interview with the great Sherlock Holmes come hell or high water, short of a show of force on my part. Have you arranged accommodations?”
“The Brevoort Hotel. If we may prevail upon your hospitality even more, we’d be grateful if you would send on our bags and take us to your office straightaway.”
“Splendid! I, too, cannot wait to confer with you.”
Petrosino made the necessary arrangements with a porter—paying him despite our protests—and led us to a black contraption with red trim that resembled a London growler, albeit with four pneumatic tyres and no team in sight. “You know the motorcar, certainly,” he said.
“I’ve yet to experience one at firsthand. Still feeling adventurous, Watson?”
“Don’t bother looking round for me, Holmes. I’ll be there.” I could not wait to climb aboard.
Petrosino cranked the machine into sputtering life and we squeezed in beside him on the stiff leather upholstery. Our contraption appeared to attract little attention from passersby; plainly, the citizens of the New World had accepted the presence of horseless carriages in their midst as a rite of Yankee passage. Our pilot depressed a pedal, pulled a handle, and soon we were whirring along the macadam at a dizzying 24 kilometres an hour, all of us holding on to our hats.
“It belongs to the chief,” Petrosino shouted above the chugging motor. “When I told him the great Sherlock Holmes was coming to consult the department, he insisted you be greeted in style. I talked him out of sending along a brass band. That would have attracted every reporter in five boroughs. He is a good enough fellow, but no policeman.”
I was astonished at the number of motor vehicles we passed: touring cars nearly as long as omnibuses, lorries stacked with cargo, and two-wheelers operated by men in dusters and goggles growled, grumbled, and clanked between the kerbs, exciting little interest from pedestrians or horses. Holmes, of course, followed the path of my thoughts.
“This century will belong to America. One can only hope that Great Britain will cede it with grace.”
We crossed a dozen squares in a short space of time, passing, it seemed, through as many countries, identified by shop signs in Chinese, Cyrillic, Hebrew, Spanish, German, and finally Italian, coming to a stop before a squat building erected of unprepossessing sandstone, with electric globes flanking the entrance, each marked POLICE.
“It is even uglier inside,” said Petrosino, “but it has the advantage of being too far from City Hall for the politicians to visit.”
When we alighted, he summoned two officers who were smoking on the front steps to guard the automobile. “It is Little Italy, after all,” he confided to us, “and while most of my compatriots are honest and decent, one cannot expect the overworked customs officers on Ellis Island to filter out all the undesirables.”
As we accompanied him up the steps, a sharp crack rang out. Instinctively, the lieutenant slapped at the revolver in a holster on his belt; but as he wheeled in the direction of the noise, a lorry loaded heavily with what appeared to be kegs of beer thundered past, expectorating a ball of black smoke from a pipe mounted at the rear with an ear-splitting report. Petrosino chuckled and scabbarded his weapon.
“In time, I suppose, we will be so accustomed to backfires we will be able to distinguish between them and gunshots.”
Holmes and I withdrew our hands from the pockets containing our own firearms. “Yet another theme for a monograph,” said he. “Our brave new world threatens to turn me into a full-time scholar.”
The interior, railed and wainscoted in oak, smelled of cigars, chewing tobacco, and furniture oil. A brass cuspidor greeted us on all three landings and lined the narrow dim corridor that led to a door with LT. J. PETROSINO lettered on pebbled glass. He unlocked it and led us into a corner room with windows overlooking his domain to the south and west. It contained a battered desk, four wooden chairs, a telephone box mounted upon one wall, and framed portraits of various dignitaries, including the American President Roosevelt and a fierce-looking fellow in a foreign uniform. Holmes nodded towards the last.
“An excellent likeness. I met Generale Garibaldi in Victor Emmanuel’s court while hiking across the Continent. Before your time, Watson.”
“At last I know where you learnt to speak Italian.”
“I envy you,” said Petrosino. “Garibaldi is a god in this neighbourhood. Welcome to the Italian Squad, gentlemen. This is the oldest precinct house in Manhattan. When the squad was formed, I was offered a modern office at headquarters, but—”
“Politicians,” Holmes finished. “They’re the same all over. I turned down a knighthood for fear it would lead to an earldom and the House of Lords.”
Someone knocked on the door. Petrosino barked an invitation. A bull-necked man with stripes on his uniform sleeves asked if anything was needed. The lieutenant looked at us. “Refreshment?”
We declined, with thanks. Petrosino dismissed the man, waved towards the chairs, and seated himself behind the desk. Instantly he ceased to look like an immigrant in uniform. His genial expression became stern with authority.
“And now, my friends, I beseech you to abandon your plans to stop at the Brevoort.”
“We were told it’s one of the best hotels in the city,” I said.
“It is fine, very fine. However, I assume you made arrangements by cable, which involved two telegraphers at least, a messenger, and any number of hotel personnel. That is a small army of strangers who know where you can be found.”
“The danger is that profound?” Holmes asked.
“Perhaps not. But the object of your investigation has large ears and long arms. Its pockets are deep and its methods of intimidation are infamous, especially in Little Italy. As your host, I must offer what advice I can to ensure your safety during your stay in my adopted country.”
“Good Lord!” said I. “You make the Mafia sound like a criminal East India Company.”
Petrosino put his finger to his lips. “It’s best not to invoke the devil’s name in his own backyard. No, it is not so large as that. An organisation extending across many nations must call attention to itself, and invite scrutiny. This one is feudal in nature, consisting of small groups, each commanded by the local don. The level of cooperation that exists among them is unique in the underworld: Uncle Umberto in Messina sends a cable to Cousin Giovanni in Brooklyn, and poof! Brother Carlo is discovered floating in the East River with his throat cut and his salsiccia stuffed in his mouth.” He smiled suddenly, showing perfect white teeth. “You must agree that would be a most inhospitable act in the present circumstances, and a source of division between the British Empire and the United States.”
Holmes lit a cigarette. “Ingenious and simple. The local authorities cannot hope to apprehend Umberto; in most cases they are unaware he exists. The best they can hope for is to track down the man who put Carlo in the river.”
“Even that event is rare. Omerta is a shield as well as a sword.”