Barutti operated an Italian restaurant in New York. Harry Vincent had chosen the place as a favorite eating spot, when in Manhattan.
Barutti was not a figure in the underworld; on the contrary, he operated a legitimate business. But, like many others, he had certain connections of a doubtful sort.
Two weeks ago, Harry had been dining in Barutti’s restaurant. The Italian had exhibited a letter, remarking that it was from a big man in Chicago.
“A verra big man,” Barutti had said, with a grin. “A big man in bizaness — a big man like dis” — and he had qualified the final statement by spreading his arms to indicate a person of enormous size.
Barutti had then talked with a man seated at another table in the Italian restaurant — a chap whom Harry had seen there on several occasions, and who talked both English and Italian.
From the snatches that Harry had heard of their mixed conversation, Barutti had told the other customer that his friend in Chicago had asked a favor, but that he would not grant it at present. For Barutti was going away for a month’s vacation. His friend in Chicago could wait.
Harry had also left New York for a vacation — to the town in Michigan where his family resided. He had been there ten days, and had then been startled to read of the death of Claude Fellows.
This news, furnished by a Chicago paper, had stunned Harry Vincent. He was one of the few persons who knew that the insurance broker was an agent of the mysterious Shadow. He had wondered what would follow.
The result had been a telegram from Chicago, signed by Frank Marmosa, telling Harry to come to see him immediately.
A complete theory had now formed in Harry’s mind.