“Some boy, Emmanuel!” he said—and flung himself down on the seat. “Go to it!”
III—NICOLO CAPRIANO PLAYS HIS CARDS
NICOLO CAPRIANO'S eyes were closed; the propped-up form on the pillows was motionless—only the thin fingers plucking at the coverlet with curiously patient insistence bore evidence that the man was not asleep.
Suddenly he smiled; and his eyes opened, a dreamy, smoldering light in their depths. His hand reached out for the morning paper that lay on the bed beside him, and for the second time since Teresa had brought him the paper half an hour before, he pored for a long while over a leading “story” on the front page. It had nothing to do with the disturbance in Vinetto's saloon of the night before; it dealt with a strange and mysterious bomb explosion in a downtown park during the small morning hours, which, besides awakening and terrifying the immediate neighborhood, had, according to the newspaper account, literally blown a man, and, with the man, the bench on which he had evidently been sitting under an arc light, to pieces. The victim was mutilated beyond recognition; all that the police had been able to identify were fragments of a bomb, thus establishing the cause of the accident, or, more likely, as the paper hinted, murder.
“The fool!” Nicolo Capriano whispered. “It was Ignace Ferroni—the fool! And so he would not listen to old Nicolo—eh?” He cackled out suddenly, his laugh shrill and high echoing through the room. “Well, perhaps it is as well, eh, Ignace? Perhaps it is as well—perhaps you will be of some service, Ignace, now that you are dead, eh, Ignace—which is something that you never were when you were alive!”
He laid the paper down, and again his eyes closed, and again the blue-tipped fingers resumed their interminable plucking at the coverlet—but now he whispered constantly to himself.
“A hundred thousand dollars.... It is a great deal of money.... We worked for much less in the old days—for very much less.... I am old and sick, am I?... Ha, ha!... But for just once more, eh—just once more—to see if the old cunning is not still there.... And if the cards are thrust into one's hands, does it not make the fingers itch to play them!... Yes, yes, it makes young again the blood in the old veins.... And Tony is dead.... Yes, yes, the young fellow is clever, too—clever enough to find the money again if the police do not meddle with him.... And the gang, Baldy Vickers' gang—bah!—they are already no longer to be considered—they have not long arms, they do not reach far—they do not reach to New York—eh—where the police reach—and where old Nicolo Capriano reaches, too.... Ignace—the fool!.... So he would not listen, to me, eh—and he sat out there under the park light trying to fix his old bomb, and blew himself up.... The fool—but you have no reason to complain, eh, Nicolo?.... It will bring the police to the door, but for once they will be welcome, eh?.... They will not know it—but they will be welcome.... We will see if Nicolo Capriano is not still their match!”
Outside somewhere in the hall he could hear Teresa moving about, busy with her morning work. He listened intently—not to his daughter's movements, but for a footstep on the pavement that, instead of passing by, would climb the short flight of steps to the front door.