Morton shrugged his shoulders.
“You know the two rules of our department?”
“Guard the president and turn up counterfeiters,” said Lanagan.
“Well, Lanagan, you’ve got the cachet to me from a good friend. The secret service man loses his job who talks; but I don’t mind taking a chance with you and telling you in confidence that in this particular case I’m not guarding the president; being as he is, as you know, in Washington.”
“Haven’t been sampling any—er—salami?” drawled Lanagan.
Morton laughed. “You sure are a clever one at that. No. I haven’t come across any that suited my palate. I’m particular.”
We had a café royale—with Lanagan pouring his thimble-full of cognac in my glass—and Morton left.
“The Camorra, it develops,” said Lanagan, “have been shipping to this country from —— excellent counterfeit American bank notes. They ship them in salami sausages. Maybe if one has gone astray we will get a slice of bank note with our salami and sauté, for here it comes on a tray with the fair Bina serving.”
Bina, Bresci’s daughter, was an Italian of absolute beauty; one of those glowing faces and perfect forms you see in the old Italian masters.
I noticed in a moment that the comely Bina had much attention to show Lanagan. We finished our meal and Lanagan led the way to the inner room, where the piano was located. I had heard him at different times sputter out “rag,” but when Nevin’s “A Day in Venice” suite came breathing softly beneath his finger tips from out of that wrangly piano I could but listen in amazement. Man of mysterious beginnings, he had dropped into the San Francisco newspaper game over night, been given his “try-out” by the brotherhood, found to speak the language of the tribe, and had thereafter been unconditionally accepted. Such a mess as the Bradley affair only served to emphasise his leadership.