“Yes,” added Craig, pulling us away, “and Cesare 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 Casare, 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, and making way for 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, men out of employment 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 fore-finger 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.  Altogether 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 hurried explanation from Luigi brought a cloud to the open face of the druggist, as if he hesitated to lay himself and his little fortune open to the blackmailers.  Kennedy saw it and interrupted.