"Gennaro is coming. I just heard one of them say, 'Here he comes.'"
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 heart-beats 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 recognized instantly as Gennaro's.
"I cannot read this. What is this 23-1/2 Prince Street?"
"No, 33-1/2. She has been left in the back yard," answered the voice.
"Jameson," called Craig, "tell them to drive straight to 33-1/2 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."