"Black Hand bomb," was the laconic reply.
"Whew!" I whistled. "Anyone hurt?"
"They don't usually kill anyone, do they?" asked the officer by
way of reply to test my acquaintance with such things.
"No," I admitted. "They destroy more property than lives. But did
they get anyone this time? This must have been a thoroughly
overloaded bomb, I should judge by the looks of things."
"Came pretty close to it. The bank hadn't any more than opened
when, bang! went this gaspipe-and-dynamite thing. Crowd collected
before the smoke had fairly cleared. Man who owns the bank was
hurt, but not badly. Now come, beat it down to headquarters if
you want to find out any more.--You'll find it printed on the
pink slips--the 'squeal book'--by this time. 'Gainst the rules
for me to talk," he added with a good-natured grin, then to the
crowd: "G'wan, now. You're blockin' traffic. Keep movin'."
I turned to Craig and Luigi. Their eyes were riveted on the big
gilt sign, half broken, and all askew overhead. It read:
CIRO DI CESARE & Co. BANKERS
NEW YORK, GENOA, NAPLES, ROME, PALERMO
"This is the reminder so that Gennaro and his father-in-law will
not forget," I gasped.
"Yes," added Craig, pulling us away, "and Cesare himself is
wounded, too. Perhaps that was for putting up the notice refusing
to pay.
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