The Gangster (Isaac Bell #9)(78)

“Do you have time to talk?” said Bell with a glance at those detectives who were awake and watching curiously.

“My men and I have no secrets.”

“Nor do I and mine,” said Bell. “But I am sitting on dynamite and I’m obliged to keep it private.”

“When a high class private investigator offers me dynamite, I have to ask why.”

“Because Harry Warren thinks the world of you. So does Mike Coligney.”

“Mike and I have Commissioner Bingham in common. He’s been . . . helpful to us both.”

Bell answered carefully. “I do not believe that Captain Coligney reckons that this particular dynamite is up the Commissioner’s alley.”

Petrosino clapped a derby to his head and led Bell downstairs.

They walked the narrow old streets of downtown. Bell laid out the threat.

“Have you informed the President?”

“Mr. Van Dorn and I went down to Washington and told him face-to-face.”

“What did he say?”

“He refused to believe it.”

Petrosino shook his head with a bitter chuckle. “Do you remember when King Umberto was assassinated by Gaetano Bresci?”

“Summer of 1900,” said Bell. “Bresci was an anarchist.”

“Since he had lived in New Jersey, the Secret Service asked me to infiltrate Italian anarchist cells to investigate whether they were plotting against President McKinley. It was soon clear to me they were. I warned McKinley they would shoot him first chance they got. McKinley wouldn’t listen. He took no precautions—ignored Secret Service advice and let crowds of strangers close enough to shake his hand. Can you explain such nonsense to me?”

“They think they’re bulletproof.”

“After McKinley died, they said to me, ‘You were wrong, Lieutenant Petrosino. The anarchist wasn’t Italian. He was Polish.’”

“I know what you mean,” Bell commiserated. “I’m pretty much in the same boat you were.”

“How do these fools get elected?”

“People seem to want them.”

Petrosino gave another weary chuckle. “That’s cop work in a nutshell: Protect fools in spite of themselves.”

Isaac Bell asked, “Who do you think Antonio Branco will hire to kill the President?”

“If he doesn’t do the job himself?”

“He may well,” said Bell. “But for the sake of covering all bases, who would he hire?”

“He’s got a choice of Black Hand gorillas or radical Italian anarchists,” said Petrosino. “Pray it’s gorillas.”

“Why’s that?”

“Criminals trip themselves up worrying about getting away. The crazy anarchists don’t mind dying in the act. They don’t even think about getting away, which makes them so dangerous.”

“Do you have a line on Italian anarchists?” Bell asked.

“Most of them.”

“Could you take them out of commission when the President goes to Storm King?”

“The lawyers will howl. The newspapers will howl. The Progressives will howl.”

“How loudly?”

Petrosino grinned. “I been a cop so long, so many gunfights, my ears are deaf.”

“Thank you,” said Bell. “I hope the Van Dorn Agency can return the favor one day. What about the gorillas?”

“Too many. I’ll never find them all. But like I say, they’re not as dangerous as anarchists.”



“Well done on the anarchists!” Joseph Van Dorn said when Bell reported. “But the assurance that ‘gorillas’ are not as dangerous as radicals doesn’t exactly make me rest easy. Particularly as the President has decided to make your ‘one speech only’ open to all. He wired me this morning that he’s going to lead the workmen in a parade.”

“A parade,” said Bell with a sinking heart. What if he was wrong about Branco killing in close? A parade was an invitation to a sniper, and a criminal as freewheeling as Branco could change tactics in an instant.

Van Dorn echoed his thoughts. “The parade is madness. He intends to lead it in the Steamer. I asked, would he at least put up the automobile’s top? Look what he wired back.”

Van Dorn thrust a telegram across his desk.

SNOW ON LABOR

SNOW ON PRESIDENT

Bell asked, “Who’s marching in the parade?”

“Everyone.”

“Even the Italians?”

“Especially the Italians. Last we spoke in Washington, he had a bee in his bonnet about immigrants learning English to facilitate fair dealings between classes of citizens. He was tickled pink when I told him that the Italian White Hand Society is our client and what fine English Vella and LaCava speak.”

“Why don’t you invite Vella and LaCava to the parade?”

“Excellent idea! I’ll bet TR shakes their hands.”

“Invite Caruso and Tetrazzini, while you’re at it.”

“I wouldn’t call either sterling pronunciators of the King’s English.”

“Any hand the President shakes that is not a stranger’s hand will make me happy,” said Bell. “Along with a snowstorm to blind the snipers.”