THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events)

by MICHAEL ZAROCOSTAS

  “Bully for you, son.”

  Bimbo saluted.

  “Plainclothes men don’t salute. Now scram.”

  Bimbo left, and Petrosino suddenly felt sick because he was certain now who The Fox was. Izzy’s tip-off about McCafferty and Federica’s disappearance sealed it. He headed for Eldridge Street Station to find Schmittberger.

  Chapter 31

  Petrosino and Schmittberger were sitting in Minerva & Company’s office overlooking Washington Square Park. The sun had set just below the tree line, and the leaves in the park had a red tint. Even the Washington Arch looked pink as Petrosino stared out the window in the awkward silence. No one had said much when Petrosino brought Schmittberger to the office. Steffens and McAlpin had been reading the afternoon papers, still warm to the touch and wet with fresh ink. But their eyes flicked above the pages and looked warily at Schmittberger.

  “The Mayor’s speaking at the opening of the new Stock Exchange on Wall Street.” Steffens shook out folds in his newspaper. “And the Negroes joined the Italians in their subway strike. I’d like to see labor unite. All they want is a buck fifty and an eight-hour day.”

  “Scratch a socialist,” Tarbell said, “and you’ll find an anarchist underneath.”

  “No ma’am, anarchy is a vacuum. Socialism is a brotherhood.” Steffens picked up a copy of The World. “Say, they’ve got a picture of The Ox on the front page! Ill-favored look to him. Is he as strong as they say, Joe?”

  “Yup.” Petrosino stared at the headline: Mafia Murder Gang Are All In Police Net.

  “Says Coroner Scholer is having a hard time finding jurors for the Inquest tomorrow,” Steffens said, reading. “He thinks men are afraid of the mafia and that, if they find cause to send the case to the Grand Jury, they might sustain some injury from the Morello gang.”

  “What’ll he do if he can’t get twelve talesmen?” Schmittberger asked.

  “Scholer said he’ll handpick some men from a club he belongs to. The Arion Society. Why, those men will be well-suited for the Inquest with their Teutonic reticence. If anyone’s not afraid of an Italian, it’s a German.”

  “He’s right,” Schmittberger said to Petrosino. “Us icy Dutchmen ain’t a-skeered of you sneaky I-talians.”

  Petrosino chuckled, but the other three sat mute.

  McAlpin finally rustled his paper. “Our new American league team is playing the Washington Senators tomorrow. I’d like to wager a few bits on them.”

  Schmittberger nodded at McAlpin. “So would I. They’re starting that spitballer Happy Jack Chesbro. Could you put me down for a fiver on the Highlanders, too?”

  Steffens sighed his disapproval loudly and shook his head at McAlpin and Tarbell.

  “All right, cut the vaudeville show,” Schmittberger said. “If you muckrakers are against me being here, say so. I already know about your angle on city corruption and some gambling Syndicate, so what do you think of that?” Schmittberger turned to face Steffens. “Go on, Steff. You think I’m still a grafter on my old Steamboat Squad? That was in 1894, damn it, and I was given full immunity! Is it because I wanna bet on a baseball game? Don’t be yellow, say it.”

  “The less people who know what we’re doing, the better,” Steffens said. “This is the kind of story that could bring many powerful men down. But if they get us first, then it would surely bring us and our magazine down.”

  “And why can’t I help you? At least Joe and I get our hands dirty. We risk our necks to get crooks off the street. What do you do with your gold specs and your little pencil?”

  “I came to New York with only a hundred bucks and my father’s order to make it or starve. I’ve made my own way, and my writing does as much good as any flatfoot cop!”

  “You’re nothing but a wormy muckrake.”

  Steffens popped up from his chair and shook his fist. “The journalist is a true servant of democracy. The best journalist is like a prophet of old: he cries out the truth!”

  “Nuts! You’re on the make for success, ignorant of your inadequacies, and only interested in your destination. Like Lexow. I still owe you a licking for what you did to me-”

  “You did that to yourself,” Steffens said. “You chose the crooked path-”

  “Humbug, gentlemen!” Tarbell rose from her chair and hushed them all like a daunting schoolmarm. “Let’s not behave like children. I’ll speak plainly, if you don’t mind, Inspector.”

  “It’s about time for plain speaking, ma’am,” Schmittberger said.

  “Good.” Tarbell sat back down calmly, adjusting her dress and holding her knees. “The reasons we were reluctant to include you are threefold. First, you were a grafter in the past, and sometimes there’s a risk of backsliding. Not that you’re on the take, but it was a risk. Second, we can’t have any leaks. Although you’re reformed, you could’ve been tempted to tip off colleagues still in the game. And last, it was my idea to keep you at arm’s length because of the strain between you and Steff, which was evidenced so clearly just now. If we can’t get along with our allies, we can’t slay the dragons, can we?”

  Schmittberger crossed his arms and squinted at Tarbell. He said loudly, “I like you, Miss Tarbell. If it’s any consolation, I’ve heard from reliable sources, including Joe here, that the PD brass and Tammany villains are coming after my badge. They want me off the job because I’ve been pushing for the truth behind this murder. Of course, I have two of the most ruthless Hasidic lawyers to defend me if need be, and they make vultures look like peace doves. So I mean to fight for my job tooth and claw, because I’m no crook. I swear on my seven kids’ hearts.”

  “I believe you.” Tarbell raised an eyebrow at Steffens. “Now, can everyone else bury the hatchet with a handshake?”

  Steffens stood up with an apologetic smile and walked over to Schmittberger with his hand outstretched. Schmittberger took Steffens hand and squeezed until Steffens whimpered.

  “Easy, Max.” Petrosino pulled Schmittberger’s hand away.

  They all sat down again. McAlpin threw open a window, and the smell of leaves and spring swept through and lifted their spirits.

  “I’ll go first then,” Petrosino said, “and I’ll be blunt. There’s something fishy in the Bureau. McClusky has every clue we found, except Max and I held back the notes in Caesar code. At least I thought we did. McClusky got hold of a third note.”

  “What?” Steffens inched forward on his chair.

  “He asked if I could translate it, but I played dumb. I tried to decipher it in my head, but he was quick to take it back from me and wouldn’t let me copy it down either.”

  “How’d he come across the note?”

  “He said McCafferty found it on one of the gang. But that can’t be. The only way the Chief could’ve gotten that note was if he was the conduit. Then a stoolie told me that McCafferty was at the murder scene when that woman found the barrel. He doesn’t so much as sneeze without the Chief’s okay. So…” Petrosino swallowed hard. “I think McClusky is The Fox.”

  Tarbell whispered, “The Chief of the Central Bureau is in league with a mafia gang?”

  “And he’s probably the third member of your Syndicate.”

  “How so?”

  “McClusky had the third note because he’s either writing them or helping pass them. I got my hands on the note, and it was a message to ‘send the female dog home before she barks.’ I’d just interrogated Petto and told him I’d pay a visit to his gal, Federica, to see if she’d squeal. Next thing I know, McClusky has this note, and he’s testing me to see if I can decipher it. Then I go to Federica’s rooms on Elizabeth Street, and she’s flown the coop.”

  “I knew it was that lace curtain Irish peacock,” Schmittberger said. “McClusky made sure his bootlicker, McCafferty, was there to cover it up. That’s his do-it man. It all fits now. McCafferty carted Primrose off to the Tombs, and what happened to the lunatic doctor? Suicide. And Jimmy was the one tailing Vito Lobaido, too. Lobaido ended up drinking poison. Another suic
ide, so they say. It’s easier for the PD to have one less murder case, especially a witness who might squeal about a link to an organized crime racket. So the Chief spins it like Lobaido killed himself out of guilt over some part in the barrel murder. It’s perfect.”

  “The Chief also pulled Max’s man off the Star of Italy,” Petrosino said, “and McCafferty ratted out Max when we were going through the gang’s traps. See, Max is on suspension…”

  “By Jove, this is astounding.” Steffens licked his pencil, taking notes. “I always wondered if Primrose was a red herring.”

  “What we’re talking about is just that: talk,” Schmittberger said. “We don’t have any solid evidence that McClusky is mixed up in the Morello gang.”

  Petrosino nodded. “I aim to connect him up as The Fox.”

  “How?” Tarbell asked.

  “I don’t know yet. But we’ve said the Syndicate would want the Chief Inspector because he could quash almost any investigation in the City. And if he couldn’t stop it, he could tip off raids and arrests.” A thought jolted Petrosino. He snapped his fingers. “Max, remember how he tells stories about his dogs and fox hunting? See… The Fox.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m not convinced,” Steffens said. “I haven’t heard that McClusky has any real pull in Tammany. If anyone, it might be George McClellan, Jr., who’s got the Green Machine financing his Mayoral campaign this year. Tammany hopes McClellan won’t enforce the Raines laws restricting gambling and liquor, which is good for the Syndicate. And I still don’t understand how the mafia gang fits? The loyal Irish thugs have been Tammany’s muscle for decades.”

  “I’m working on that,” Petrosino said, thinking about the gang’s expertise. “You know who knows something? Petto’s gal. That’s why they shipped her to Jersey.”

  “If we’re right,” Schmittberger said, “and the gang’s already muzzled up Madonnia, Primrose, and Lobaido, why wouldn’t they have snuffed this Federica gal, too? Morello killed a woman in Sicily after all.”

  “But Federica is Petto’s gal and the sister of Morello’s woman. Sicilians don’t have many scruples, but one thing they don’t do is knock off their own women.”

  “Joe, we won’t be able to do much digging before the Inquest tomorrow.”

  “I’d like to hunt down Federica,” Petrosino said, “but I’m on crowd detail at the Inquest in the morning. That’s only a few hours from now.”

  “I’ll find her,” Schmittberger said.

  “Max, you oughtta lie low. You’re on suspension-”

  “Not in Jersey, I’m not. Look, they’re coming after me anyhow, right?” Schmittberger took out his hip flask and toasted with a grin. “Oh what a tangled web we weave…”

  “When first we practice to deceive,” Tarbell replied. “Are you a scholar of the classics?”

  “Just because I’m a flatfoot doesn’t mean I don’t read The Bard.”

  Tarbell smirked. “That’s not Shakespeare. That’s the Scottish poet, Sir Walter Scott.”

  Petrosino and Steffens laughed.

  “Touché, Miss Tarbell.” Schmittberger sipped whiskey and rose with pinkened cheeks. “Let me ask you something though, Steff. If we find the dirt on rotten cops and politickers in your gambling Syndicate, what do you intend to do with it?”

  “Expose them in our magazine, of course. They’ll be shamed off the job and put on trial.”

  “Just like me. Almost. Good, I guess.” Max turned for the door, stopped, and called to the back of the room. “Hey McAlpin, don’t forget to put five on the Highlanders for me.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Petrosino had another idea and said, “McAlpin, where do you place your bets?”

  “A club a couple blocks east of here. Next to Snigglefritz’s Saloon.”

  “I know that place. Alderman Murphy owns that whole building. Put five down for me, too. The other way though, on the Senators. We’ll see which one of us wins.”

  Steffens cocked his head. “Why are all of you contributing to this Syndicate’s coffers?! Is everyone going bad as sour milk, or am I missing something?”

  “You’re missing something,” Petrosino said. “It’s a theory I’m playing on the Morello gang’s part in this.”

  THE WORLD

  Chapter 32

  The Inquest was a great flypaper to the East Siders, Petrosino thought, watching them swarm the courthouse as the morning sun reddened their faces. He’d gotten little sleep the night before, staring at the ceiling of his office with each minute blurring into the next until he dozed off for an hour and dreamt of Benedetto Madonnia’s decaying face again. He woke up shivering and put on his merchant’s disguise, a worn olive suit, bow tie, and cap. He walked to the Criminal Courts Building where Centre Street was overrun with East Siders and police reserves.

  At the courthouse entrance, Bimbo Martino towered like a blue colossus in his tall helmet and PD overcoat. The lines of gold embroidery on his sleeves and the silver badge on his chest shimmered like Christmas ornaments. He was shouting in Italian and English, directing the crowd, tipping his helmet at women, and waving his billy at men.

  “Move along!”

  Petrosino watched silently and admired the cop young enough to be his son.

  At nine o’clock sharp, a caravan of chatter snapped him out of his trance. Chief Inspector McClusky and his lackeys, McCafferty and O’Farrell and two guards, climbed the courthouse steps en masse followed by a pack of reporters. The Chief was barking at the newsmen with the de rigeur assurance of a political incumbent, “It’s bosh to say that anyone can get a confession. There’s not one instance in criminal history of a confession being obtained from an Italian without the application of torture.” Some of the reporters laughed. “And these crooks are Sicilians, that’s like an Italian with rabies. They’d just as soon die in the electric chair as by their vendetta. But we don’t need a confession, what with the pawn ticket, the watch, and Sagliabeni. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go see Mr. Jerome crucify these Dagos.”

  Petrosino pulled his cap low and slipped inside the courtroom ahead of McClusky, who swaggered with his entourage into a PD box next to the press. Petrosino elbowed his way near the jury box of a dozen fair-haired German men. Dented copper cuspidors on the floor were already brimming with spit and tobacco beneath a large sign: All rise when the Coroner enters and leaves. Bondsmen are requested to sign all deeds to property. No spitting at prisoners. The common folk crammed together on long benches, watching with the reverent anticipation of a Catholic congregation. On the podium above, clerks scurried like drones around the honey colored wood and its ornate hive of paper stacks and desk lamps.

  District Attorney Jerome sat at one table parallel to a longer table of defense attorneys led by Chas Le Barbier, Jerome’s former clerk. The sight of Le Barbier worried Petrosino. He was just as sharp as Jerome, but unrestrained by the burden of scruples.

  A bailiff appeared on the podium and called out, “Case number 4-2-8-4-1. All rise for the Honorable Coroner Gustave Scholer!”

  Everyone rose and leaned sideways for a peek as Scholer hobbled in with glasses and a white moustache that matched a white fedora tilted up on his forehead. Scholer absentmindedly clutched his hat and handed it to a clerk before he sat between a pair of flagpoles festooned with Old Glory and ivory eagleheads. He waved everyone to be seated, and the benches screeched and groaned with the shifting weight.

  As a score of police guards led the eight prisoners in, a woman gasped. With their bruised faces, the Morello gang looked more like Bellevue patients than a dangerous band of killers. Except for Tomasso “The Ox” Petto. He carried himself like an executioner instead of a victim, as if he could mete out death with one blow. Petrosino watched him intently as the other gangsters filed in behind him, dwarfed by comparison. Police guards sat them down at the defense table and hovered behind them while the crowd chattered at the sight.

  Coroner Scholer rapped his gavel on the bench and said wi
th a thick guttural accent, “The District Attorney may call witnesses.”

  “Your Honor,” Jerome said, rising, “the People call Salvatore Sagliabeni.”

  As Salvatore came into the courtroom, Petto bolted from his chair, chains and all, and violently upended the defense table. In the cloud of papers and cigars flying in the air, he lunged after the boy, and the courtroom echoed with screams of panic.

  Petrosino started for the podium, but then held back. He was there in plainclothes to spy on the crowd. He edged closer to the gate as women shrieked, and men stood on the benches to get a better look. Even in shackles, The Ox threw guards off of him as if they were children. Petrosino reached in his suit jacket for a sap when Bimbo Martino dashed into the courtroom.

  Bimbo sprinted down the aisle, bowling men over, and leapt over the gate. He grabbed Petto by his hairy neck and threw all of his weight against Petto’s body. They tumbled in a heap over a table, somersaulting to the floor. Petto grabbed Bimbo’s hands and tried to free himself, but Bimbo dragged The Ox backward. The Chief signaled from his box in press row, and Handsome Jimmy McCafferty jumped into the fray, shoving The Ox back to his chair while Bimbo pulled on the chains.

  “I’ll fix you,” Petto growled at Bimbo, “when I get out, you’re a dead man.” Petto shouted to the crowd in Italian, “It takes two of them to hold me!”

  “And one to do this,” Bimbo said, punching Petto’s kidney.

  Petto laughed as they forced him into his chair and guards bound him with more irons. By the time they were finished, Petto grunted with amusement and sunk low, docile as a milking cow. The crowd chirped at Bimbo like fans at a prizefight, and the thrill warmed Petrosino’s veins like hot whiskey. He wished Max had been there to see the kid tangle with The Ox.

  Coroner Scholer sat up from the bench like a squirrel testing the environs, and his gavel brought the room to order. An eerie hush followed as Salvatore Sagliabeni was ushered back into the courtroom between two guards and a gale of menacing looks from the Morello gang.