Even from the booth I could hear the dictograph repeating the conversation in the dingy, little back room of Albano's, down the street.
“He's ordering 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 “I Pagliacci.”' Now listen for the answer.”
A moment elapsed, then, “Not without Gennaro,” came a gruff voice in Italian from the dictograph.
A silence ensued. It was tense.
“Wait, wait,” said a voice which I recognised instantly as Gennaro's. “I cannot read this. What is this, 23 Prince Street?”
“No. 33. She has been left in the backyard,” answered the voice.
“Jameson,” called Craig, “tell them to drive straight to 33 Prince Street. They will find the girl in the back yard—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.