The young Italian was arraigned a second time and a further remand asked for, which was again granted, but this time the lad's father, one Amato, applied for bail. This being refused, the man left the station, followed by a detective officer. He went direct to the office of Antonio Barracola, where he remained for a few minutes only; then he rode up-town on the Elevated Railway to the "Slaughter House" saloon. The detective who was watching him telephoned to head-quarters, and Captain O'Brien communicated with Sergeant Collins. The latter was still busy investigating things at Harlem, but he now came hurrying in, and, meeting the officer who was at One Hundred and Sixtieth Street, the two waited until Amato came out of the saloon; they then arrested him on suspicion, and took him to the station. Here he was searched, and a stiletto, a loaded revolver, and a letter—unsigned and bearing an address—instructing him to carry out the details for which his son was now under arrest, were found on him.
At last the police had something to work upon. The old man was locked up, but took matters very coolly, disdainfully refusing to say a word. The police then walked him past the cell in which his son was locked up, watching him closely meanwhile. The boy saw his father, but neither one uttered a syllable. In the office upstairs the officers now held a consultation. Sergeant Collins produced the piece of paper on which the banker, Barracola, had written his (Collins's) name, the threatening letter demanding money from Pelloti, and the letter of instructions found on Amato, senior. They were not in the same handwriting, but they were all on the same kind of paper—a very cheap note-paper, such as might be sold by any and every stationer. Why should Barracola, whose letter-heads and stationery were of the best quality, as befitted a highly-successful bank, have such paper in his possession? the detective asked himself, and he made up his mind to find out. He was convinced that Barracola was very smart, and that there was something "fishy" about him, but that alone did not point to his being in league with the infamous "Black Hand."
In the career of all successful detectives the element of luck is a great factor, and Sergeant Collins now virtually "fell" across a most useful piece of intelligence, for the "inevitable woman" cropped up. Young Amato was locked up in the Tombs Prison, and was allowed to receive visitors, who, in turn, were watched. Among the boy's callers was a girl, an employé at Allen's cigarette factory in West Street. This girl was about fifteen years of age, very well developed, and unusually pretty, even for an Italian. She had been to see Amato, had taken him some fruit and cigarettes, and had given him a ten-dollar bill. This bill Amato changed in paying for food, purchasing his meals from the prison caterer. Sergeant Collins was just entering the prison one day when the caterer stopped at the inside gate or grille and, after collecting a number of plates and other dishes, remarked to the keeper in charge there: "That young Dago certainly has good friends; he's given me another ten spot (ten-dollar bill)." Collins at once spoke to the man and obtained the bill from him in exchange for another. Now it is quite impossible to trace American money in the same way as an English bank-note, but the detective had other ideas just then. Next day the Italian girl called again, and on her departure she was spoken to by an elderly Italian, who asked if his daughter was still inside visiting Amato.
"What has your daughter to do with Amato?" asked the girl, quickly.
"That is what I am trying to find out," replied the Italian. "She has visited him regularly, and yesterday she came home with a ten-dollar bill in her possession which he gave her."
The girl turned scarlet. "It's a lie!" she cried, passionately. The Italian expressed surprise at her anger, but showed her the bill, saying further that he had reason to suspect Amato of an attempt to run away with his daughter.
On hearing this the deluded girl worked herself into a perfect frenzy of rage, asking her questioner who and what he was. The latter, however, acted in a mysterious manner, giving the girl to understand that he was "one of them," but would countenance no nonsense where his daughter was concerned. The girl, saying that she would find out the truth of the matter on the morrow, left him, her face working with jealous rage. The next day she again called at the prison, but was told at the gates that Amato did not wish to see her. Moreover, he had already had as many visitors as the prison regulations allowed for one day. Fuming with anger, the girl departed, being again met by the strange Italian at the gates.
"He won't see me," she burst out, eager to confide her troubles to a compatriot. "Me, who have done so much for him—me, who gave all the money I could to keep old Barracola from putting his father away in the last trouble! Just wait till he gets out! I'll find someone to avenge me, or I'll avenge myself!"
The listener now tried to pacify her, knowing that this was just what would make her talk the more, and when he left her on her doorstep in First Avenue, he felt he had now "something to go on with." The old Italian, needless to say, was Sergeant Collins.
Antonio Barracola lived in an old-fashioned three-storeyed brick house in Greenwich Street. The house next door on the right was occupied by his brother Giacomo, who was proprietor of an express and luggage transportation business. The house on the left, curiously enough, was tenanted by a policeman, who was himself a naturalized Italian. This man was guardedly questioned, and informed the detectives that Barracola had no visitors whatever at his house, and that he never came home on Monday nights, when he was supposed to stay with an elder sister in Jersey City.