 THE BLACK HAND, by Arthur B. Reeve. THE BLACK HAND, by Arthur B. Reeve. Kennedy and I had been dining rather late one evening at Luigi's, a little Italian restaurant on the lower west side. We had known the place well in our student days, and had made a point of visiting it once a month since, in order to keep in practice in the fine art of gracefully handling long shreds of spaghetti. Therefore, we did not think it strange, when the proprietor himself stopped a moment at our table to greet us. Glancing furtively around at the other diners, mostly Italians, he suddenly leaned over and whispered to Kennedy, I have heard of your wonderful detective work, Professor. Could you give a little advice in the case of a friend of mine? Surely, Luigi, what is the case? asked Craig, leaning back in his chair. Luigi glanced around again apprehensively and lowered his voice. Not so loud, sir. When you pay your check, go out, walk around Washington Square, and come in at the private entrance. I'll be waiting in the hall. My friend is dining privately upstairs. We lingered a while over our Chianti, then quietly paid the check and departed. True to his word, Luigi was waiting for us in the dark hall. With a motion that indicated silence, he led us up the stairs to the second floor and quickly opened a door into what seemed to be a fair-sized private dining-room. A man was pacing the floor nervously. On a table was some food untouched. As the door opened, I thought he started as if in fear, and I am sure his dark face blanched if only for an instant. Imagine our surprise at seeing Gennaro, the great tenor, with whom merely to have a speaking acquaintance was to argue oneself famous. Oh, it is you, Luigi! he exclaimed in perfect English, rich and mellow. And who are these gentlemen? Luigi merely replied, Friends! in English also, and then dropped off into a valuable, low-toned explanation in Italian. I could see as we waited that the same idea had flashed over Kennedy's mind as over my own. It was now three or four days since the papers had reported the strange kidnapping of Gennaro's five-year-old daughter Adelina, his only child, and the sending of a demand for ten thousand dollars ransom, signed as usual, with the mystic black hand, a name to conjure with in blackmail and extortion. As Signor Gennaro advanced towards us after his short talk with Luigi, almost before the introductions were over, Kennedy anticipated him by saying, I understand, Signor, before you ask me. I have read all about it in the papers. You want someone to help you catch the criminals who are holding your little girl. No, no, exclaimed Gennaro excitedly. Not that. I want to get my daughter first. After that catch them if you can, yes. I should like to have someone do it. But read this first, and tell me what you think of it. How should I act to get my little Adelina back without harming a hair of her head? The famous singer drew from a capacious pocketbook a dirty crumpled letter, scrawled on cheap paper. Kennedy translated it quickly. It read, Honorable Sir, your daughter is in safe hands. But by the saints if you give this letter to the police as you did the other. Not only she, but your family also, someone near to you, will suffer. We will not fail as we did Wednesday. If you want your daughter back, go yourself alone, and without telling a soul, to Enrico Albano's Saturday night at the twelfth hour. You must provide yourself with ten thousand dollars in bills. Hidden in Saturday's he'll progresso italiano. In the back room you will see a man sitting alone at a table. He will have a red flower on his coat. You are to say, a fine opera is Ipagliacci. If he answers, not without Gennaro, lay the newspaper down on the table. He will pick it up, leaving his own, the boldetino. On the third page you will find written the place where your daughter has been left waiting for you. Go immediately and get her. But by the God if you have so much as the shadow of the police near Enrico's, your daughter will be sent to you in a box that night. Do not fear to come. We pledge our word to deal fairly if you deal fairly. This is the last warning. Lest you shall forget, we shall show one other sign of our power, to-morrow. La mano, nera. The end of this letter was decorated with a skull and cross-bones, a rough drawing of a dagger thrust through a bleeding heart, a coffin, and, under all, a huge black hand. There was no doubt about the type of letter. It was such as have of late years become increasingly common in all our large cities. You have not shown this to the police, I presume? Ask Kennedy. Naturally not. Are you going Saturday night? I am afraid to go, and afraid to stay away, was the reply, and the voice of the fifty thousand dollars a seasoned tenor was as human as that of a five dollar a week father, for at the bottom all men, high or low, are one. We will not fail as we did Wednesday, re-read Craig. What does that mean? Gennaro fumbled in his pocket-book again, and at last drew forth a typewritten letter bearing the letterhead of the Leslie Laboratories, incorporated. After I received the first thread, explained Gennaro, my wife and I went from our apartments at the hotel to her father's, the banker Césarra, you know, who lives on Fifth Avenue. I gave the letter to the Italian squad of the police. The next morning my father and Los Butler noticed something peculiar about the milk. He barely touched some of it to his tongue, and he has been violently ill ever since. I at once sent the milk to the laboratory of my friend, Dr. Leslie, to have it analyzed. This letter shows what the household escaped. My dear Gennaro, read Kennedy, the milk submitted to us for examination on the tenth has been carefully analyzed, and I beg to hand you herewith the result. Weight gravity 1.036 at 15 degrees centigrade Water 84.60% Cascine 3.49% Albumin 0.56% Globulin 1.32% Lactose 5.08% Ash 0.72% Fat 3.42% Riceenous 1.9% Riceenous is a new and little-known poison derived from the shell of the castor bean. Professor Erlich states that one gram of the pure poison will kill 1,500,000 guinea pigs. Riceenous was lately isolated by Professor Robert of Rostock, but is seldom found except in an impure state, though still very deadly. It surpasses Stricknein, Presic Acid, and other commonly known drugs. I congratulate you and yours on escaping, and shall of course respect your wishes absolutely regarding keeping secret this attempt on your life. Believe me, very sincerely yours, C.W. Leslie. As Kennedy handed the letter back, he remarked significantly, I can see very readily why you don't care to have the police figure in your case. It has gone quite beyond ordinary police methods. And tomorrow, too, they are going to have another sign of their power, grown genero, sinking into the chair before his untasted food. You say you have left your hotel, inquired Kennedy? Yes, my wife insisted that we would be more safely guarded at the residence of her father, the banker. But we are afraid even there, since the poison attempt. So I have come here secretly to Luigi, my old friend, Luigi, who is preparing food for us. And in a few minutes one of César's automobiles will be here, and I will take the food up to her, sparing no expense or trouble. She is heartbroken. It will kill her, Professor Kennedy, if anything happens to our little Adelina. Ah, sir, I am not poor myself. A month's salary at the upper house, that is what they ask of me. Gladly would I give it ten thousand dollars. All if they asked it of my contract with Signor Casonelli, the director, but the police. Bah! They are all for catching the villains. What good will it do for me if they catch them and my little Adelina is returned to me dead? It is all very well for the Anglo-Saxon to talk of justice and the law. But I am, what you call it, an emotional Latin. I want my little daughter, and at any cost, catch the villains afterward, yes, I will pay double then to catch them, so that they cannot blackmail me again. Only first, I want my daughter back. And your father-in-law? My father-in-law, he has been among you long enough to be one of you. He has fought them. He has put up a sign in his banking house. No money paid on threats. But I say it is foolish. I do not know America as well as he. But I know this. The police never succeed. The ransom is paid without their knowledge, and they very often take the credit. I say, pay first. Then I will swear a righteous vendetta. I will bring the dogs to justice, with the money yet on them. Only show me how. Show me how. First of all, replied Kennedy, I want you to answer one question truthfully without reservation as to a friend. I am your friend, believe me. Is there any person, a relative or acquaintance of yourself or your wife or your father-in-law, whom you even have a reason to suspect of being capable of extorting money from you in this way? I needn't say that it is the experience of the district attorney's office, in the large majority of cases, of this so-called black hand. No, replied the tenor, without hesitation. I know that, and I have thought about it. No, I can think of no one. I know your Americans often speak of the black hand as a myth, coined originally by a newspaper writer. Perhaps it has no organization. But Professor Kennedy, to me, it is no myth. What if the real black hand is any gang of criminals, who choose to use that convenient name to extort money? Is it the less real? My daughter is gone. Exactly, agreed Kennedy. It is not a theory that confronts you. It is a hard, cold fact. I understand that perfectly. What is the address of this albanos? Luigi mentioned a number on Mulberry Street, and Kennedy made a note of it. It is a gambling saloon, explained Luigi. Albano is a Neapolitan, a Camarista, one of my countrymen of whom I am thoroughly ashamed, Professor Kennedy. Do you think this albano had anything to do with the letter? Luigi shrugged his shoulders. Just then a big limousine was heard outside. Luigi picked up a huge hamper that was placed in a corner of the room, and followed closely by Signor Genaro, hurried down to it. As the tenor left us, he grasped our hands in each of his. I have an idea in my mind, said Craig simply. I will try to think it out in detail to-night. Where can I find you, to-morrow? Come to me at the upper house in the afternoon, or if you want me sooner, at Mr. Sather's residence. Good night, and a thousand thanks to you, Professor Kennedy, and to you also, Mr. Jameson. I trust you absolutely because Luigi trusts you. We sat in the little dining-room until we heard the door of the limousine bang shut, and the car shoot off with the rattle of the changing gears. One more question, Luigi, said Craig, as the door opened again. I have never been on that block in Mulberry Street where this albano's is. Do you happen to know any of the shopkeepers on it or near it? I have a cousin who has a drugstore on the corner below albano's, on the same side of the street. Good. Do you think he would let me use his store for a few minutes Saturday night, of course without any risk to himself? I think I could arrange it. Very well. Then tomorrow, say at nine in the morning, I will stop here, and we will all go over to see him. Good night, Luigi, and many thanks for thinking of me in connection with this case. I've enjoyed Signor Generos singing often enough at the opera to want to render him this service, and I am only too glad to be able to be of service to all honest Italians. That is, if I succeed in carrying out a plan I have in mind. A little before nine the following day, Kennedy and I dropped into Luigi's again. Kennedy was carrying a suitcase which he had taken over from his laboratory to our rooms the night before. Luigi was waiting for us, and without losing a minute we sallied forth. By means of the torturous twist of streets in Old Greenwich Village, we came out at last on Leaker Street, and began walking east amid the hurly-burly of races of Lower New York. We had not quite reached Mulberry Street when our attention was attracted by a large crowd on one of the busy corners, held back by a cordon of police who were endeavoring to keep the people moving with that burly good nature which the six-foot Irish policeman displays toward the five-foot burden-bearers of southern and eastern Europe who throng New York. Apparently we saw, as we edged up into the front of the crowd, there was a building whose whole front had literally been torn off and wrecked. The thick plate glass of the windows was smashed to a mass of greenish splinters on the sidewalk, while the windows of the upper floors and for several houses down the block in either street were likewise broken. Some thick iron bars which had formerly protected the windows were now bent and twisted. A huge hole yawned in the floor inside the doorway, and peering in we could see the desk and chairs a tangled mass of kindling. What's the matter? I inquired of an officer near me, displaying my reporter's fireline badge, more for its moral effect than in hope of getting any real information in these days of enforcement silence toward the press. Black on the bomb was the laconic reply. Phew! I whistled. Anyone hurt? They don't usually kill anyone, do they? asked the officer, by way of reply, to test my acquaintance with such things. No, I admitted. They destroy more property than lives. But did they get anyone this time? This must have been a thoroughly overloaded bomb. I should judge by the looks of things. Came pretty close The bank hadn't any more than opened when, bang, went this gas pipe and dynamite thing. Crowd collected before the smoke had fairly cleared. Man who owns the bank was hurt, but not badly. Now come, beat it down to headquarters if you want to find out any more. You'll find it printed on the pink slips, the squeedle book by this time. Against the rules for me to talk, he added, with a good natured grin, then to the crowd, Gwan now! You're blocking traffic. Keep moving. I turned to Craig and Luigi. Their eyes were riveted on the big guilt sign, half broken and all askew overhead. It read, Siro de César and company bankers, New York, Genoa, Naples, Rome, Palermo. This is the reminder that Gennaro and his father-in-law will not forget, I gasped. Yes, added Craig, pulling us away. And César himself is wounded, too. Perhaps that was for putting up the notice refusing to pay. Perhaps not. It's a queer case. They usually set the bombs off at night when no one is around. There must be more back of this than merely to scare Gennaro. It looks to me as if they were after César, too. First by poison, then by dynamite. We shouldered our way out through the crowd and went on until we came to Mulberry Street, pulsing with life. Down we went past the little shops, dodging the children, making way for the women with huge bundles of sweatshop clothing accurately balanced on their heads, or hugged up under their capacious capes. Here was just one little colony of the hundreds of thousands of Italians, a population larger than the Italian population of Rome, of whose life the rest of New York knew and cared nothing. At last we came to Albano's little wine shop, a dark, evil, malodorous place on the street level of a five story alleged New Law tenement. Without hesitation Kennedy entered, and we followed, acting the part of a slumming party. There were a few customers at this early hour, and an inoffensive looking lot, though of course they eyed us sharply. Albano himself proved to be a greasy, low-browed fellow who had a sort of cunning look. I could well imagine such a fellow spreading terror in the hearts of simple folk by merely pressing both temples with his thumbs and drawing his long bony forefinger under his throat, the so-called black hand sign that has shut up many a witness in the middle of his testimony, even in open court. We pushed through to the low-ceilinged back room, which was empty, and sat down at a table. Over a bottle of Albano's famous California red ink we sat silently. Kennedy was making a mental note of the place. In the middle of the ceiling was a single gas burner with a big reflector over it. In the back wall of the room was a horizontal oblong window, barred, and with a sash that opened like a transom. The tables were dirty, and the chairs rickety. The walls were bare and unfinished, with beams innocent of decoration. All together it was as unprepossessing a place as I had ever seen. Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, Kennedy got up to go, complimenting the proprietor on his wine. I could see that Kennedy had made up his mind as to his course of action. How sordid crime really is, he remarked as we walked on down the street. Look at that place of Albano's. I defy even the police news reporter on the star to find any glamour in that. Our next stop was at the corner at the little store kept by the cousin of Luigi, who conducted us back of the partition where prescriptions were compounded and found us chairs. A harried explanation from Luigi brought a cloud to the open face of the drugist, as if he hesitated to lay himself and his little fortune open to the blackmailers. Kennedy saw it and interrupted. All that I wished to do, he said, is to put in a little instrument here and use it tonight for a few minutes. Indeed there will be no risk to you, Vincenzo. Secrecy is what I desire, and no one will ever know about it. Vincenzo was at length convinced, and Craig opened his suitcase. There was little in it except several coils of insulated wire, some tools, a couple of packages wrapped up, and a couple of pairs of overalls. In a moment Kennedy had donned overalls, and was smearing dirt and grease over his face and hands. Under his direction I did the same. Taking the bag of tools, the wire, and one of the small packages, we went out on the street, and then up through the dark and ill ventilated hall of the tenement. Halfway up a woman stopped us suspiciously. Telephone company, said Craig Kurtley, hears permission from the owner of the house to string wires across the roof. He pulled an old letter out of his pocket, but as it was too dark to read, even if the woman had care to do so, we went on up as he had expected, unmolested. At last we came to the roof, where there were some children at play, a couple of houses down from us. Kennedy began by dropping two strands of wire down to the ground in the backyard behind Vincenzo's shop. Then he proceeded to lay two wires along the edge of the roof. We had worked only a little while when the children began to collect. However, Kennedy kept right on until we reached the tenement next to that in which Albano shop was. Walter, he whispered, just get the children away for a minute now. Look here, you kids, I yelled. Some of you will fall off if you get so close to the edge of the roof. Keep back. It had no effect. Apparently they looked not a bit frightened at the dizzy mass of clotheslines below us. Say, is her candy store on this block? I asked in desperation. Yes, sir, came the chorus. Who'll go down and get me a bottle of ginger ale? I asked. A chorus of voices and glittering eyes was the answer. They all would. I took half a dollar from my pocket and gave it to the oldest. All right now, hustle along and divide the change. With the scamper of many feet they were gone and we were alone. Kennedy had now reached Albano's and as soon as the last head had disappeared below the scuttle of the roof he dropped two long strands down into the backyard as he had done at Vincenzo's. I started to go back but he stopped me. Oh, that will never do, he said. The kids will see that the wires end here. I must carry them on several houses farther, as a blind, and trust to luck that they don't see the wires leading down below. We were several houses down, still putting up wires, when the crowd came shouting back, sticky with cheap, trust-made candy, and black with east side chocolate. We opened the ginger ale and forced ourselves to drink it so as to excite no suspicion. Then a few minutes later descended the stairs of the tenement, coming out just above Albano's. I was wondering how Kennedy was going to get into Albano's again without exciting suspicion. He solved it neatly. Now, Walter, do you think you could stand another dip into that red ink at Albano's? I said I might in the interest of science and justice, not otherwise. Well, your face is sufficiently dirty, he commented, so that with the overalls you don't look very much as you did the first time you went in. I don't think they will recognize you. Do I look pretty good? You look like a coal-heaver on the job, I said. I can scarcely restrain my admiration. All right. Then take this little glass bottle. Go into the back room and order something cheap in keeping with your looks. Then when you are all alone, break the bottle. It is full of gas drippings. Your nose will dictate what to do next. Just tell the proprietor you saw the gas company's wagon on the next block, and come up here and tell me. I entered. There was a sinister-looking man with a sort of unscrupulous intelligence writing at a table. As he wrote and puffed at his cigar I noticed a scar on his face, a deep furrow running from the lobe of his ear to his mouth. That I knew was a brand set upon him by the Camora. I sat and smoked and sip slowly for several minutes, cursing him inwardly more for his presence than for his evident look of the malavita. At last he went out to ask the barkeeper for a stamp. Quickly I tiptoed over to another corner of the room and ground the little bottle under my heel. Then I resumed my seat. The odor that pervaded the room was sickening. The sinister-looking man with the scar came in again and sniffed. I sniffed. Then the proprietor came in and sniffed. Say, I said in the toughest voice I could assume, you got a leak. Wait! I seen the gas company wagon on the next block when I came in. I'll get the man. I dashed out and hurried up the street to the place where Kennedy was waiting impatiently. Rattling his tools, he followed me with apparent reluctance. As he entered the wine shop he snorted, after the manner of gasman. Where's the leak? You'll find it a leak, grunted Albania. What did you get a you'll pay for? You want me to do your work? Well, half a dozen youwops get out of here, that's all. You just want to be blown to pieces with them pipes and cigarettes? Cure out! growled Kennedy. They retreated precipitately, and Craig hastily opened his bag of tools. Quick Walter shut the door and hold it, exclaimed Craig, working rapidly. He unwrapped a little package and took it a round, flat, disc-like thing of black, vulcanized rubber. Jumping up on a table, he fixed it to the top of the reflector over the gas jet. Can you see that from the floor, Walter? He asked under his breath. No, I replied. Not even when I know it's there. Then he attached a couple of wires to it and led them across the ceiling toward the window, concealing them carefully by sticking them in the shadow of a beam. At the window he quickly attached the wires to the two that were dangling down from the roof and shoved them around out of sight. We'll have to trust that no one sees them, he said. That's the best I can do at such short notice. I never saw a room so bare as this, anyway. There isn't another place I could put that thing without it being seen. We gathered up the broken glass of the gas-dripping's bottle, and I opened the door. It's all right now, said Craig, sauntering out before the bar. Only the next time you have anything to matter, call the company up. I ain't supposed to do this without order, see? A moment later I followed, led to get out of the oppressive atmosphere and joined him in the back of Vincenzo's drugstore, where he was again at work. As there was no back window there, it was quite a job to leave the wires around the outside from the backyard and in at a side window. It was at last done, however, without exciting suspicion, and Kennedy attached them to an oblong box of weathered oak and a pair of specially constructed dry batteries. Now, said Craig, as we washed off the stains of work and stowed the overalls back in the suitcase, that is done to my satisfaction. I can tell Gennaro to go ahead safely now and meet the Black Handers. From Vincenzo's we walked over toward Center Street, where Kennedy and I left Luigi to return to his restaurant, with instructions to be at Vincenzo's at half past eleven that night. We turned into the new police headquarters and went down the long corridor to the Italian Bureau. Kennedy sent in his card to Lieutenant Giuseppe in charge, and we were quickly admitted. The Lieutenant was a short, full-faced, fleshy Italian, with lightish hair and eyes that were apparently dull until you suddenly discovered that that was merely a cover to their really restless way of taking in everything and fixing it on his mind as if on a sensitive plate. I want to talk about the Gennaro case, began Craig. I may add that I have been rather closely associated with Inspector O'Connor of the Central Office on a number of cases, so that I think we can trust each other. Would you mind telling me what you know about it if I promise you that I, too, have something to reveal? The Lieutenant leaned back and watched Kennedy closely without seeming to do so. When I was in Italy last year, he replied at length, I did a good deal of work in tracing up some Comorra suspects. I had a tip about some of them to look up their records. I needn't say where it came from, but it was a good one. Much of the evidence against some of those fellows who are being tried at Viterbo was gathered by the Carabinare as a result of hints that I was able to give them, clues that were furnished to me here in America, from the source I speak of. I suppose there is really no need to conceal it, though. The original tip came from a certain banker here in New York. I can guess who it was, not in Craig. Then, as you know, this banker is a fighter. He is the man who organized the White Hand, an organization which is trying to rid the Italian population of the Black Hand. His society had a lot of evidence regarding former members of both of the Comorra in Naples and the Mafia in Sicily, as well as the Black Hand gangs in New York, Chicago, and other cities, well, César, as you know, est generos father-in-law. While I was in Naples, looking up the record of a certain criminal, I heard of a peculiar murder committed some years ago. There was an honest old music master who apparently lived the quietest and most harmless of lives, but it became known that he was supported by César, and had received handsome presents of money from him. The alt-man was, as you may have guessed, the first music teacher of Daenerys, the man who discovered him. One might have been at a loss to see how he could have an enemy, but there was one who coveted his small fortune, one day he was stabbed and robbed. His murderer ran out into the street, crying out that the poor man had been killed. Naturally a crowd rushed up in a moment, for it was in the middle of the day. Before the injured man could make it understood who had struck him, the assassin was down the street and lost in the maze of old Naples, where he well knew the houses of his friends who would tied him. The man who is known to have committed that crime, Francesco Peori, escaped to New York. We are looking for him to-day. He is a clever man, far above the average, son of a doctor in a town a few miles from Naples. Went to the university, was expelled from some mad prank. In short he was the black sheep of the family. Of course over here he is too high-born to work with his hands on a railroad or in a trench, and not educated enough to work at anything else, so he has been praying on his more industrious countrymen. A typical case of a man living by his wits, with no visible means of support. Now I don't mind telling you in strict confidence, continued the Lieutenant, that it is my theory that old Césaire had seen Peoli here, knew he was wanted for that murder of the old music master, and gave me the tip to look up his record. At any rate, Peoli disappeared right after I returned from Italy, and we haven't been able to locate him since. He must have found out in some way that the tip to look him up had been given by the white hand. He had been a Camarista in Italy, and had many ways of getting information here in America. He paused and balanced a piece of cardboard in his hand. It is my theory of this case that if we could locate this Peoli, we could save the kidnapping of little Adelina Genero very quickly. That's his picture. Kennedy and I bent over to look at it, and I started in surprise. It was my evil-looking friend with the scar on his cheek. Well, said Craig, quietly handing back the card. Whether or not he is the man, I know where we can catch the kidnappers tonight, Lieutenant. It was Giuseppe's turn to show surprise. With your assistance, I'll get this man and the whole gang tonight, explained Craig, rapidly sketching over his plan, and concealing just enough to make sure that no matter how anxious the Lieutenant was to get the credit he could not spoil the affair by premature interference. The final arrangement was that four of the best men of the squad were to hide in a vacant store across from Vincenzo's early in the evening, long before anyone was watching. The signal for them to appear was to be the extinguishing of the lights behind the colored bottles in the druggist's window. A taxicab was to be kept waiting at headquarters at the same time with three other good men ready to start for a given address the moment the alarm was given over the telephone. We found Genero awaiting us with the greatest anxiety at the upper house. The bomb at Caesars had been the last straw. Genero had already drawn from his bank ten crisp one thousand dollar bills, and already he had a copy of Il Progresso in which he had hidden the money between the sheets. Mr. Kennedy, he said, I am going to meet them tonight. They may kill me. See, I have provided myself with a pistol. I shall fight too, if necessary, for my little Adelina, but if it is only money they want they shall have it. One thing I want to say, began Kennedy. No, no, no, cried the tenor. I will go, you shall not stop me. I do not wish to stop you, Craig reassured him. But one thing, do exactly as I tell you, and I swear not a hair of the child's head will be injured and we will get the blackmailers too. How? eagerly asked Genero, what do you want me to do? All I want you to do is to go to Albanos at the appointed time, sit down in the back room, get into conversation with them, and above all, senor, as soon as you get the copy of the boletino, turn to the third page, pretend not to be able to read the address, ask the man to read it, then repeat it after him, pretend to be overjoyed, offer to set up wine for the whole crowd, just a few minutes that is all I ask, and I will guarantee that you will be the happiest man in New York tomorrow. Genero's eyes filled with tears essay grasps Kennedy's hand. That is better than having the whole police force back of me, he said. I shall never forget, never forget. As we went out, Kennedy remarked, you can't blame them for keeping their troubles to themselves. Here we send a police officer over to Italy to look up the records of some of the worst suspects. He loses his life. Another takes his place. Then, after he gets back, he is set to work on the mere clerical routine of translating them. One of his associates is reduced in rank, and so what does it all come to? Hundreds of records have become useless because the three years within which the criminals could be deported have elapsed with nothing done. Intelligent, isn't it? I believe it has been established that all but about fifty of seven hundred known Italian suspects are still at large, mostly in this city, and the rest of the Italian population is guarded from them by a squad of police in number scarcely one-thirtieth of the number of known criminals. No, it is our fault if the Black Hand thrives. We had been standing on the corner of Broadway waiting for a car. Now, Walter, don't forget, meet me at the Bleaker Street station of the subway at eleven thirty. I'm off to the university. I have some very important experiments with phosphorescent salts that I want to finish today. What has that got to do with the case? I asked mystified. Nothing, replied Craig, I didn't say it had. At eleven thirty, don't forget. By George, though, that peole must be a clever one. Think of his knowing about riceness. I only heard of it myself recently. Well, here's my car. Goodbye. Craig swung aboard an Amsterdam Avenue car, leaving me to kill eight nervous hours of my weekly day of rest from the star. They passed at length, and at precisely the appointed time Kennedy and I met. With suppressed excitement, at least on my part, we walked over to Vincenzo's. At night this section of the city was indeed a black enigma. The lights in the shops were olive oil, fruit, and other things were sold, were winking out one by one. Here and there strains of music floated out of wine shops, and little groups lingered on corners, conversing in animated sentences. We passed Albanos on the other side of the street, being careful not to look at it too closely, for several men were hanging idly about, pickets, apparently, with some secret code that would instantly have spread far and wide the news of any alarming action. At the corner we crossed and looked in Vincenzo's window a moment, casting a fruit of glance across the street at the dark empty store where the police must be hiding. Then we went in and casually sauntered back of the partition. Luigi was there already. There were several customers still in the store, however, and therefore we had to sit in silence while Vincenzo quickly finished a prescription and waited on the last one. At last the doors were locked and the lights lowered, all except those in the windows which were to serve as signals. Ten minutes to twelve, said Kennedy, placing the oblong box on the table. Gennaro will be going in soon. Let us try this machine now and see if it works. If the wires have been cut since we put them up this morning, Gennaro will have to take his chances alone. Kennedy reached over and with a light movement of his forefinger touched a switch. Instantly a babble of voices filled the store, all talking at once, rapidly and loudly. Here and there we could distinguish a snatch of conversation, a word, a phrase, now and then even a whole sentence above the rest. There was the clink of glasses. I could hear the rattle of dice on a bare table and an oath. A cork popped. Somebody scratched a match. We sat bewildered, looking at Kennedy. Imagine that you are sitting at a table in Albano's back room, was all he said. This is what you would be hearing. This is my electric ear, in other words the dictograph, used, I am told, by the Secret Service of the United States. Wait, in a moment you will hear Gennaro come in. Luigi and Vincenzo translate what you hear. My knowledge of Italian is pretty rusty. Can they hear us? whispered Luigi in an awestruck whisper. Craig laughed. No, not yet. But I have only to touch this other switch, and I could provide an effect in that room that would rival the famous writing and Belchazar's wall. Only it would be a voice from the wall instead of writing. They seem to be waiting for someone, said Vincenzo. I heard somebody say he will be here in a few minutes. Now get out. The babble of voices seem to calm down as men withdrew from the room. Only one or two were left. One of them says the child is all right. She has been left in the back yard. Translated Luigi. What yard did he say? asked Kennedy. No, they just speak of it as the yard. Jameson, go outside in the store to the telephone booth and call up headquarters. Ask them if the automobile is ready with the men in it. I rang up and after a moment the police central answered that everything was right. Then tell central to hold the line clear we mustn't lose a moment. Jameson, you stay in the booth. Vincenzo, you pretend to be working around your window, but not in such a way as to attract attention, for they have men watching the street very carefully. What is it, Luigi? Genero is coming. I just heard one of them say, here he comes. Even from the booth I could hear the dictograph repeating the conversation in the dingy little back room of Albanos down the street. He's otri, a bottle of red wine, murmured Luigi, dancing up and down with excitement. Vincenzo was so nervous that he knocked a bottle down in the window, and I believe that my heartbeats were almost audible over the telephone which I was holding. For the police operator called me down for asking so many times if all was ready. There it is, the signal, cried Craig. A fine opera is ipagliacci. Now listen for the answer. A moment elapsed then, not without, Genero came a gruff voice in Italian from the dictograph. A silence ensued. It was tense. Wait, wait, said a voice which I recognized instantly as Generos. I cannot read this. What is this, twenty-three and a half print street? No, thirty-three and a half. She has a bin left in the bacca yard. Jameson called Craig. Tell them to drive straight to thirty-three and a half print street. They will find the girl in the backyard, quick, before the black handers have a chance to go back on their word. I fairly shouted my orders to the police headquarters. They're off, came back the answer, and I hung up the receiver. What was that? Craig was asking of Luigi. I didn't catch it. What did they say? The other voice said to Genero, sit down while I count this. Shhh, he's talking again. If it is a penny less than ten thousand, or if I find a mark on the bill's alcohol to Enrico and your daughter will be spirited away again, translated Luigi. Now, Genero is talking, said Craig. Good, he is gaining time. He's a trump. I can distinguish that all right. He's asking the gruff voice fellow if he will have another bottle of wine. He says he will. Good. They must be at print street now. We'll give them a few minutes more. Not too much, for word will be back to Albanos, like wildfire, and they will get Genero after all. Ah, they are drinking again. What was that, Luigi? The money is all right, he says? Now, Vincenzo, out with the lights. A door banged across the street, and four huge, dark figures darted out in the direction of Albanos. With his finger, Kennedy pulled down the other switch and shouted, Genero, this is Kennedy, to the street. Polizia! Polizia! A scuffle and a cry of surprise followed. A second voice, apparently from the bar, shouted, out with the lights! Out with the lights! Bang! went a pistol, and another. The dictograph, which had been all sound a moment before, was as mute as a cigar box. What's the matter, I asked Kennedy, as he rushed past me. They have shot out the lights. My receiving instrument is destroyed. Come on, Jameson. Vincenzo, stay back if you don't want to appear in this. A short figure rushed by me, faster even than I could go. It was the faithful Luigi. In front of Albanos an exciting fight was going on. Shots were being fired wildly in the darkness, and heads were popping out of tenement windows on all sides. As Kennedy and I flung ourselves into the crowd, we caught a glimpse of Genero, with blood streaming from a cut on his shoulder, struggling with a policeman, while Luigi vainly was trying to interpose himself between them. A man, held by another policeman, was urging the first officer on. That's the man, he was crying. That's the kidnapper, I caught him. In a moment Kennedy was behind him. Paoli, you lie, you are the kidnapper. Seize him, he has the money on him. That other is Genero himself. The policeman released the tenor, and both of them seized Paoli. The others were beating at the door, which was being frantically barricaded inside. Just then a taxicab came swinging up the street. Three men jumped out, and added their strength to those who were battering down Albanos barricade. Genero, with a cry, leaped into the taxicab. Over his shoulder I could see a tangled mask of dark brown curls, and a child's voice list. Why didn't you come for me, papa? The bad man told me if I waited in the yard you would come for me. But if I cried he said he would shoot me, and I waited and waited. There, there, Dina, papa's going to take you straight home to mother. A crash followed as the door yielded, and the famous Paoli gang was in the hands of the law. The Assassins Club by Gillette Burgess Every time I see a gargoyle, said Astro, I feel a thrill of secret kinship. It says if I were the only one who understood its mystery. If I were romantic, I would say that in a previous incarnation I had lived in the Dark Ages. What do you think about Gargoyle's Spalesca? Astro looked up from a book of Gillette Ladook's architectural drawings and glanced across to the pretty blonde head, his assistant busy with her card catalogue, where she kept Memoranda of the Seers' famous cases, made a delightful picture against the dull crimson hangings of the wall. She came over to him and looked down across his shoulder at the pictures of the grotesque stone monsters. Why, she said, I've seen those horrible, cynical old ones on Notre Dame in Paris that gazed down on the city roofs. I've always wondered why they placed them on beautiful churches. It's a deep question, said Astro, his eyes still on the engraving. But to my mind they symbolized the ancient cult of wonder. In the Middle Ages, men really wondered. They didn't anticipate flying machines years before they were invented, as we moderns do. They took nothing for granted. Everything in life was a miracle. Boleska dropped quietly into a seat to listen. Astro had many moods. Sometimes he was the dreamy occult seer, cryptic mysterious. Again he was the alert man of affairs, keen, logical, worldly. She had seen him, too, in society, affable, bland, jacuzzi. But in this introspective, whimsical, analytic mood she got nearest him and learned something of the true import of his life. He went on. His eyes half closed, his red silken robe enveloping him like a shroud. The diamond in his turban, glittering as he moved his head, his olive-skinned, picturesque face with its dark eyes, was serene and quiet now. A little blue-tailed lizard, one of Astro's many exotic fancies, frisked across the table. He caught it and held it as he talked. In the thirteenth century, clergy and laity alike believed that the forces of good and evil were almost equally balanced. They worshipped the Almighty but propitiated Satan as well, so these grotesque beasts leered down from the cornices of the house of God and watched the holy offices of priests. The devil had his own litany, his own science. They were forbidden practices, but they flourished then among the most intellectual people as they flourish now among the most ignorant. Magic was then a science. Now it is a fake. Still, a man's chief desires to get something for nothing defined a shortcut to wisdom. The gargoyle is replaced by the dollar mark, so be it. One must earn one's living. Say, la, I have spoken. He looked up with a smile and a boyish twinkle in his eyes. Then his businesslike cynical self returned. He jumped up tall and eager, a picturesque oriental figure informed with the stirring life of the West. Valeska, I've been reading about the devil worshipers of Paris. The black mass, infant sacrifices and all that. That's an anachronistic cult. I'd like to know if there really is any genuine survival of the worship of evil. Valeska shuddered. Oh, that would be horrible. But interesting. He clasped his hands behind him and gazed up at the silver-starred ceiling. I don't mean degeneracy or insanity, but a man that does evil for the love of it as they did in the old days. Think, for instance, of the lost art of torture, the science of human suffering. Oh, don't. I hate to have you talk like that. Valeska put a hand on his arm. Very well, I won't. He snapped his fingers as if to rid himself of the thought and walked into the reception room, adjoining the great studio. Valeska went back to her work. For some minutes she arranged her cards in their tin box. Then hearing voices outside she looked up and listened. Then she walked softly across the heavy rugs and touching a button in the mahogany wanescotting, passed through a secret door. Scarcely had she disappeared when Astro returned, ushering in a young woman stylishly dressed in brown. When she put aside her veil, her face shone out like a portrait, vivid, instinct with grace and a delicate, rare, high-bred beauty full of character and force. Astro showed her a seat under the electric lamp. I thought she would help me if anyone could, she was saying, in continuation of her conversation in the reception room. If it were anything less vague, I'd speak to Mother about it, but it's too strange and elusive. I'm sure he has not been drinking. I would notice that in other ways. And yet he is different. He is not himself. It frightens me. Have you spoken to him about it, Astro asked? Yes. But he won't say anything. He evades it, and says he's all right. But I don't dare to marry him, till I know what it is that has changed him. I know it seems disloyal to suspect him, but how can I help it? What is Mr. Cameron's business? He's a naval lieutenant in the construction department at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. And that is another reason why I'm worried. He has charge of work that is important and secret. If this change, whatever it is, should affect his work, he'd be disgraced. He might even be dishonorably discharged. When have you noticed this peculiarity of his? At any particular time? Usually on Sundays, when he almost always comes to call. But sometimes in the middle of the week. At times he talks queerly, almost as if in his sleep, of colors and queer landscapes, that have nothing to do with what we are discussing. Sometimes he doesn't even finish his sentences and goes off into a sort of daze for a minute. And then he'll ask my pardon and go on as if nothing had happened. And when shall you see him next? He will probably come Saturday afternoon. Usually he stays to dinner, but of late he has been having engagements that prevent. All right, said the seer. I'll see what I can do. Knowing that he is at your house, I shall be able to orient myself and thereby be more receptive to his astral influence. I shall then be able to ascertain the cause of any psychic disturbance. The young woman, rising to go, looked at him plaintively. Oh, I hope I haven't done wrong in telling you about it. But I do love him so. I can't bear to see him. So changed. My dear Miss Manoring, said Astro kindly, you need have no fear, I assure you. Your business shall be kept absolutely confidential. With the exception of my assistant, no one shall ever know that you came here. Your assistant, she looked at him doubtfully. Miss Wynne, she seemed surprised. A lady, she asked, and timidly, might I see her? Certainly, Astro touched a bell. In a moment Valesca appeared between the velvet portiere and waited there. Her pecan sensitive face questioning his wish, her golden hair brightly illuminated from behind. Miss Manoring walked to her impulsively and took her hand. Might I speak to you for a moment, she asked. Valesca, giving Astro a glance, led the visitor into the reception room. I had no idea that Astro had a lady assistant, she said. I feel much better about having told him now. Valesca smiled at her and held the hand in both hers. Oh, I only do some of his routine work, she said, but he often discusses his important cases with me. I'm sure that he can help you. He is wonderful. I never knew him to fail. Miss Wynne, said the visitor, no one but a woman can understand how distressed I am. I'm sure I can trust you. I can read that in your face. I am always sure of my intuitions. And now that I have seen you, I am going to tell you something that I didn't quite dare to tell Astro. I know my fiancé is in some trouble, but what I'm afraid of is too dreadful. It terrifies me. Here, look at this. It dropped out of Mr. Cameron's pocket the last time he called, and I found it after he had gone. She handed an envelope to Valesca, who looked at it carefully and drew out a single sheet of paper. On this was written in green ink. Be at the assassins. Saturday at seven. Haskell's turn. What can that mean, Miss Manoring whispered. I didn't dare to show it for fear of getting Bob into trouble in some way. That word, assassins. Oh, it's awful. May I take this letter? Valesca asked. No, I dare not leave it. Mr. Cameron may miss it and ask for it. But you may tell Astro if you think best. Valesca gave another glance at the letter and handed it back. My dear Miss Manoring, don't worry about it, she said, pressing her hand. It may not be so bad as you fear. Whatever it is, Astro will find it out. You may be sure. When the visitor had departed, Valesca walked into the studio with the news. Astro listened in silence till she had finished. Then he smiled, nodded, and took up his water pipe lazily. The solution of this thing is so simple that I'm surprised it hasn't occurred to you, my dear. But that's because of your lack of experience and the fact that you haven't read so much as I have. But all the same there may be something deeper in it than appears now. At any rate the girl is to be helped, and the lieutenant as well, and that we shall do. But what about the assassins, Valesca, inquired anxiously? Oh, that's the whole thing, of course. But I think I'll let you study that out yourself. It will be good practice for your reasoning powers. First, let's see if your powers of observation have improved. Tell me all about the letter. He blew out a series of smoke-rings and regarded her quizzically. Well, Valesca puckered her brows. It was written on buff-laid linen paper of about ninety pounds weight. Very heavy stock, anyway. In an envelope of the same, postmarked Madison Square Station, April 19, 4 p.m. The handwriting was that of a stout, middle-aged man who had just had some serious illness, a foreigner, hard-working, unscrupulous, dishonest, with no artistic sensibility. Bravo! Is that all? No. The stationery came from Perkins and Shaw's. I saw the stamping under the flap. Very good. Unfortunately, we can't ask there about the assassins. But perhaps we'll find my ideal criminal after all. The easiest plan will be to follow Cameron to-morrow night. Meanwhile, you had better do some thinking yourself. Valesca sat down and gazed long into the great open fire, her brows frowning, her hands working mechanically, absorbed in thought. Astro took a small folding chess-boarding gracefully amused himself with an intricate problem in the logistics of the game. When at last he had queened his white pawn, according to his theory, he looked over at his assistant and smiled to see her seriousness. In that look something seemed to pass from him to her. Oh, she cried, jumping up. Does it begin with an H? More properly, with a C, he replied. She shook her head and went at the problem again, and kept at it until it was time to close the studio. The next afternoon Astro and Valesca waited for two hours across 78th Street from Miss Manorings House before they saw the lieutenant emerge. They had already a good description of him, and had no trouble in recognizing the tall, good-looking fellow, who had half-past six o'clock walked briskly up the street, ran down the stairs to the subway, and took a seat in a downtown local train. Astro and Valesca separated and took seats on the opposite side of the car, watching their man guardedly. At 23rd Street he got out, went up to the sidewalk, and walked eastward. Beyond Fourth Avenue was a row of three-story, old-fashioned brick houses back from the street. The lieutenant entered the small iron gate to one of the yards, and taking a key from his pocket, went in the front door of a house. It slammed behind him. The headquarters of the assassins said Astro calmly, his hands in his overcoat pockets, studying the windows. And what next asked Valesca? We'll wait a while. Come into this next doorway. On the side of the doorway they now entered was a sign, furnished rooms. It was now after seven o'clock, and had begun to snow. Valesca stood inside the vestibule, protected from the weather. Astro waited just outside, watching the doorway of Number 109. The 23rd Street cars clang noisily by, the din of the traffic muffled by the carpet of snow. The open mouth of the subway sucked in an unsteady stream of wayfarers. Suddenly Valesca put her hand on Astro's arm. Does it begin with C-O? She asked. He smiled. No. C-A, he answered. Oh dear, I thought I had it. But don't tell me. I'm sure I'll work it out, though. But it makes me anxious. Anything might happen on a night like this. Yes, even an assassination. You don't fear that, really. She looked at him in alarm. But I do. Assassination of a sort. What else could the letter mean? She had not time to answer before the door of the next house opened, and a man buttoned up in a fur-trimmed overcoat came out. He stopped a moment to raise an umbrella, and they could see that he was a stout, pasty-faced German of some fifty years, with a curling yellow mustache. He wore spectacles and seemed to be nearsighted. There's the man who wrote the letter. Follow him, Valesca. Find out who he is and all that's possible. We must follow every lead. Valesca was off on the instant, running down the steps and walking swiftly up 23rd Street. Astro lighted a cigar, turned up his collar, and waited another half-hour in the doorway. Nobody having entered or left No. 109 by that time. He rang the bell of No. 111. A Swedish maid came to the door. I'd like to see what rooms you have, said Astro. The only one is on the third floor rear, she replied, and showed him up two flights of unlighted stairs, steep and narrow, to a small square room meagrely furnished. Walking to the window, Astro saw that, level with the floor, was a tin-covered roof over an extension in the rear. It stretched along the whole width of the four houses in the row. On this he might easily stand and look into the adjoining windows. Saying that he would move in later, Astro paid the girl for a week's rent in advance and left the house and walked home. Valeska next morning came full of news. The German kept right along 23rd Street toward Broadway, she said, and it occurred to me that I might get him to make the first advances and get acquainted without being suspected. So I passed him and very gracefully slipped on snow and dropped my purse. Then I began looking about on the sidewalk, for the money that might have dropped out. My German friend came along and offered to help me. It took some time and the long and short of it was that we had quite a conversation and I convinced him that I was respectable. He walked along with me and asked me where I was going. I said that I had intended going to the hippodrome with a friend, but that I had been detained, and it was so late I thought I'd go home. He proposed having something to eat, and of course I refused. I had to be urged and urged, but the more I refused, the more anxious he was to have me come. Finally I reluctantly assented to his invitation, and we went to the café Riche. Well, you ought to have seen that German eat. I mean you ought to have heard him eat. I couldn't eat anything myself, but sipped the wine he ordered and coyly led him on, chattering away about myself ingenuously. I had an engagement with Richard Mansfield and a three years contract at $100 a week when he died, and was awfully anxious to get another chance. All the money I had was tied up in one of the trust companies, and so on. He kept on eating, taking the biggest mouthfuls I ever saw, and leaving half of it on his moustache. Oh, I put in some hard work, I assure you. Then he began asking me questions, and wanted to know, if I would like to earn some money on the side, would I? I jumped at it. Five thousand actor folk out of a job this season, you know. And all that. He said I reminded him of his dead daughter. You know, I'm always reminding people of somebody, and he thought he could trust me. I cast down my eyes and let him go on. He said there was a man he knew who has stolen some confidential papers, and he wanted to get them away from him without publicity. He needed a good, clever woman to help him out on the job. I brightened up considerably. He asked me to go home with him, so that he could give me a photograph to identify my victim. I said I would, although I confess I was getting nervous, not being quite sure what he was up to. He had begun paying me compliments, and, when a German begins to get sentimental, well, you know. I took the subway with him, and we went up to 126th Street. There was a big apartment hotel there, called the Dahlia, one of those marble-hauled affairs that look as if they were built of a dozen different kinds of fancy soap, with a red carpet, and awfully funny oil paintings, and negro hallboys sitting in renaissance armchairs. I refused to go upstairs. Well, after a while he came down the elevator and handed me this photograph. What do you think? She handed Astro a cabinet photograph. He lifted his fine brows when he looked at it. Lieutenant Cameron Oleska nodded. I'm to scrape up an acquaintance with him, get his confidence, and then report to Herr Beimer for final instructions. I wonder what poor little mismanering would say. She took off her sables, her saucy fur, took, and touched up her hair at the great carved mirror at one end of the studio. Astro set regarding the portrait in his hand. He looked up to ask, did you find out what his business was? She whirled round to him. Oh, I forgot. He's the agent of a big German firm connected with the Krupp's steel plant. They control the rights to a new magazine pistol. I was awfully interested in machinery, you know. It bored me to death, but I listened half an hour to his description of a new ammunition hoist per battleships. Astro was suddenly electrified with energy. Ah, he exclaimed. You didn't remember that the Krupp's stand in with the German government and have the biggest subsidies and contracts in the world. He wants you to make up to a construction officer in the United States Navy, does he? He needs a clever woman. I should say he did. Was Herr Beimer sober? Perfectly. As far as I could see, except for his sentimentality. Of course he was a bit effusive, you know. Yes, I see. It wasn't his night. It was Haskell's night, whoever Haskell is. But I think we'll have to hurry. This looks more serious than I thought at first. I shall sleep at number 111 East 23rd Street tonight. And meanwhile I have a nice job of forgery for you, Valeska. I wish you'd practice copying this writing till you can write a short note that will pass for Lieutenant Cameron's handwriting. He took a letter from a drawer. The envelope was addressed to Miss Violet Manoring. Valeska took it and read it over carefully. It was a single sheet, torn from a double page, and read partly as follows. I believe that just as everything seems somehow different at night, when we can see farther than by day, or can we not see the stars, when our emotions seem freer. So there are two worlds in which it is possible to exist. One is the dreary, everyday place of business and duty and pain. The other is free from care or suffering. Don't we enter that occult world at night through our dreams, where there is no such thing as conscience? There are no consequences there. No doubt it's a dangerous place because it is abnormal. But its exploration is fascinating. Why ignore the fact that it exists as a refuge from the worries of matter-of-fact existence? Valeska read it thoughtfully. Her eyes looked through the paper as if into a mist beyond. No wonder poor Miss Manoring is worried, she said to herself. She looked at Astro as if to ask a question. He was busy with a planimiter calculating the area of a queer irregular polygon drawn on a sheet of parchment. Seeing his tense look, she turned to her study of the manuscript. As soon as it was dark, Astro opened the window of his room on 23rd Street and walked along the crackling tin roof till he came to the first window of the house occupied by the assassins. Looking in, he saw a small, bare, hall bedroom, furnished with a cot, a wash stand, and one chair. The next two windows were lighted. He approached them carefully. Three men were seated at a library table, strewn with magazines. All were smoking comfortably. One Astro recognized as the lieutenant. Another as hair-bimer. A third was a yellow-faced man with red hair, high cheekbones, and dark eyes deeply set into his skull. In front of him was a plate filled with what looked like caviar sandwiches, cut small and thin. Hair-bimer said something, at which the others laughed loudly. Then, with a flourish, as if drinking their health, Lieutenant Cameron took one of the sandwiches and ate it, almost, with an air of bravado. Bimer looked at his watch. The lean, yellow-faced man walked out of the room. The lieutenant took up an illustrated paper and began to read. Astro tiptoed carefully back to his room, put on his overcoat, and went downstairs, walked over to the drugstore, and at the telephone booth rang up Valeska. Have you written the letter, he asked? Not yet was the answer. Well, you must do it immediately, as well as you can. Bring it to number 111 and ask for Mr. Silverman. He then went back to his room. Another stealthy glance through the windows of the club showed the two still at the table. Cameron was busy with a pencil and a sheet of paper, explaining something to the German. The yellow-faced man watched them over his book. The lieutenant was evidently talking with a little difficulty. Every little while he stopped and began again with an effort. One leg was twitching at the knee-joint. He supported his head heavily on his hand. Going back to his room, Astro took a bottle of ammonia from his overcoat pocket and placed it on the sink. Next he poured a white powder from a paper and dissolved it in a tumbler of water, stirring it with a spoon. This done, he took the wash bowl from the stand and put it on the table beside the bed. Then he sat down to wait for Valeska. In half an hour she appeared, breathing hard. Her cheeks flushed with her haste. Here it is, she said, as soon as the maid had left. It's the best I could do. She handed it over, it read. Please allow the bearer to come in and see me on important business at any time he may present this. Robert Cameron. Good, said Astro. Now you must wait here and listen at the window till you hear my whistle. Then come right along the roof to me and be ready for anything. He started to open the door when she put a hand on his arm. Does it begin with C-A-N, she asked breathlessly? He nodded. How did you get it? From the lieutenant's letter. Of course. Well, it may have begun with D-A-N by this time. D-A-N-G-E-R? Perhaps. Be ready. And he was downstairs. At the door of the assassins' club a white-haired negro answered the bell. Astro presented the letter. I wish to see Lieutenant Cameron immediately, he said. I don't exactly know, saw, said the darkie. My odus is not to leave nobody come in yaw. I expect I better say no, saw. Astro brushed past him and had set his foot on the stair when a fat face looked down over the balusters. A portly form of hair-bimer followed it. Vats de matter he inquired as he started down. Without further parlay Astro ran up the stair and before there was any time for resistance from the astonished German grasped him by the knees and pulling his feet from under him sent him madly sliding down the stairs. Hair-bimer, swearing a polysyllabic oaf, stumbled awkwardly to his feet and set off upstairs again after his attacker. But by this time Astro was at the top of the second flight. He dashed into the square room in the rear where he had seen the group of men. It was empty. Besided, however, was a small hall bedroom and here, in his shirt-sleeves, lying in a stupor on the cot lay Lieutenant Cameron. Astro sprang to the door and locked it just as the excited German thumped ponderously on the panels. Next he threw up the window and whistled. Then, taking the Lieutenant in his arms, he succeeded in carrying him to the window-sill. Valeska was already on the roof outside waiting for him. Take his feet, said Astro under his breath, and so together they managed to get the Lieutenant out on the roof and to the window of the chamber in No. 111. By this time the man had begun to revive and to protest in word and action against his removal. They paid no heed to him, however, and bundled him into the room and on the bed. Then Astro shook him energetically. Wake up, man, he cried. Wake up now! You can if you try. Here, smell this. He reached for the ammonia and held it under the lethargic man's nostrils. The Lieutenant turned away his head, coughed, blinked, and partially rose on one arm. Who are you, he said, gazing at them in surprise. Friends of Miss Manorings, said Astro. The Lieutenant shook his head and stared. What's the matter? He brought out laboriously. I got you away from Bymer. Afraid of trouble. Want to help you? Astro spoke very distinctly as if to a deaf man. The Lieutenant felt for his coat found himself without one, seemed puzzled and dropped back again limply. The draw, his voice, ended in a mumble. Yes, the drawer. What drawer? Astro asked eagerly. Find draw. The Lieutenant seemed to drop asleep. I wonder what he means. There's something on his mind. No doubt he has hidden something. Astro looked keenly at Valeska under drawn brows. Can't you revive him again? She asked. No use trying the ammonia yet. It seems to have too great a reaction, and sends him into a deeper sleep. We'll have to wait till he comes to himself for a moment naturally. You know what it is now, don't you? She nodded. And I found it out curiously, only from the dictionary. I looked up the word assassin, and found that it came from Hashashin, or Hashish-eater. Then I looked up about the old man of the mountain, who used to drug his followers with bang until they would commit any crime. And that led me, of course, to cannabis indica, or Indian hemp. And I found out all about the effects of Hashish. Yes, I thought these amateur assassins were innocent enough. Only a club to experiment with Hashish. For with a moderate dose the sensations are wonderful, and well worth trying. But there's more in this than that. What is Bimer up to? That's what I want to know. Is he really unconscious now? Valeska asked, watching the prostrate form of the lieutenant, as he lay flushed and breathing, but otherwise inert. Not really. He may be dimly aware that we are here, but his will is gone. He won't speak until he rises to the level of volition again. It's a sort of double consciousness, a rhythmic process of alternate sinking into apathy where he sees visions, and rising into full consciousness when he can talk for a moment. I wish I knew what dose he had. The intervals are about three minutes. I tried Hashish when I was in college, but I took such an overdose the last time that I have dreaded to use it again. The lieutenant now began to mutter, as if talking in his sleep. I'm tottering on the tops of tall pendulums. The world is full of spiraled musilages, lovely color. In a tunnel now, twisting, turning, violet, green, orange, floating, floating like a spirit, tops of tropic trees. Suddenly he gasped and sat up, staring hard at them. What did I say? What was it? Quick, before I go off again. I was saying something. Find the drawer, Astro suggested, leaning to him. Draw, draw. What was it? Drawings, he exclaimed. Blimer wants the drawings. For God's sake, help me. I'm losing it again. Drawings. What is it about drawings? Where did you put them? Drawings. Yes. Under the mat. His eyes closed. Astro tried again. Under the mat in the little room? The lieutenant stared stupidly. I forget. Mat. That meant something. I can't get it. Wait till I come up again. All snaky now. Like live wires. Pink and green. Ah, the rest was inaudible. The moment he had again succumbed to the effects of the drug, Astro sprang to the window. He paused there to say sharply. Blimer is trying to get some of the lieutenant's navy drawings, that's evident, and has given Cameron a big dose of hashish to keep him quiet till the papers can be found. I think Cameron must have suspected it, and has hidden the blueprints, or whatever they are. I'm going to go through that bedroom, and see if they're under the mat. You wait here. He is likely to be unconscious for two or three minutes more now, and I'll just have time. With that, he had leaped out on the roof, and was off. The lieutenant still muttered in a whisper so low that Valeska could make out nothing. She went to the window just as Astro reappeared. No mat. Nothing but a carpet. Blimer must have got away with him. You'll have to get after him, Valeska. While I pull the lieutenant through, if I know anything about hashish, he's had a terrific dose, and is going to have the worst case of nausea he ever had in his life. I took a look at those hashish sandwiches. They were fairly loaded with the stuff. His first voyage wasn't a circumstance to the seasickness he'll have in about half an hour. You get right out to Beimer's place and see what you can do with him. As Valeska threw on her furs, the lieutenant was beginning to rouse again. As she slipped out of the door and ran downstairs, he sat up on the bed, his eyes glassy, his fists clenched. The effort he was making to gain possession of his mental faculties was evident in his writhing mouth and wild staring eyes. What was it he demanded? It's all right, said Astro. Beimer has the drawings, but we'll get them for you. He turned with a glass of water on the table. The lieutenant clutched his arm in a fierce grip. Gods, he cried. Help me! The papers were secret plans for fire control. Man, it's ruined for me. You must drink this, first of all, Astro replied, holding the glass to the man's lips. It's anemetic. We must get this hemp out of your stomach before you can recover. It was too late. The lieutenant dropped back. Now as rigid as a marble statue, only his wild eyes moving. He spoke painfully through his clenched teeth. Oh God, he murmured. Take it away. I can't drink it. I'm going through hell. His brow was furrowed with tense lines as he fought with the deathly nausea that was working in him. Astro put down the glass and waited. It was evident that nothing could help now, and the drug which had thoroughly impregnated the man's system must work off its own effects. It works so, so fast. All black now. Oh God. I'm afraid. Afraid. He began to moan. You're all right. There's no danger. You're just a little sick, that's all. I'm dying. It's no use. Tell Violet. I'm dead. Don't you see, man? I'm dead already. The world is full of spiraled musilages. That's the inner secret of death. Spiral. I'm whirling through space. Dead. Astro smiled. It was, he knew, a common symptom of an overdose of cannabis indica. There was, as he said, no danger. He waited for the crisis, attending to his patient like a trained nurse. For a while the moaning continued. Then Cameron began to curse wildly like a man with the delirium tremens. Then, of a sudden, he sat up in bed and the convulsion came. His outraged stomach revolted at the burden it had to bear. During this, Astro waited on him kindly. And when the active stage of nausea had passed, he laid the lieutenant back on the bed and waited till he sank into a natural sleep. Then he took a small book from his pocket and began to read. For half an hour he read the little volume of the mort d'arturre. For another half hour he sat in a brown study his eyes fixed on the pattern in the worn carpet. There was a zigzag figure in it, which resembled the letter M. The lieutenant moaned in his sleep and felt under his bed mechanically with one hand. Astro's eyes followed him. Then, with his face suddenly illumined, he rose quietly through up the window and passed out on the roof. In less than five minutes he returned with a smile on his lips. He took up the book again and began reading. It was after midnight when Valeska returned a great disappointment. She took off her coat and looked sadly at the lieutenant, who was now sleeping peacefully. It was no use, she said. Her bimer wasn't in, and no one knew when to expect him. I waited as long as I dared, for I hated to come back unsuccessful. It was too bad I was so stupid as to send you away out there, said Astro quietly. I should have taken time to think it over first. It came to me an hour after you had left. Here are the blueprints, safe and untouched. Oh, she exclaimed joyously. Did he tell you where they were after I left? No, before you left. Didn't you hear him? Under the mat. But I thought you looked and found none there. My dear, said Astro, with a whimsical expression on his face. You should learn to concentrate, to focus your subconscious mind upon itself, the psychic state of receptivity. Oh, bother! Valeska exclaimed. Where were they, if they weren't under the mat? Under the mattress, he answered. The lieutenant sat up, now fully recovered, and looked at the two. Astro handed him the blueprints. He grasped them exultantly. For a while he lay weakly, looking at them, saying nothing. Astro put on his overcoat and helped Valeska into her wraps. Just before he opened the door, he turned and said, I don't think I need to give you any advice, lieutenant. Go to sleep now, and you'll be all right in the morning. If you have gone through what I did the last time I was an assassin, there is no danger of your ever trying it again. I think that Miss Manoring didn't know about this. Certainly I shall not tell her. What does she know? Did she send you to help me? The lieutenant asked anxiously. She asked my advice that's all. Unfortunately, she saw the name Assassins. But I think you can explain that easily enough, if you don't care to confess the truth. How can I explain it? Cameron said thoughtfully. Why tell her that the club met to kill Time, said Astro, and that at that you are a tolerably successful assassin. End of the Assassins Club.