Maxwell Grant
Gypsy Vengeance
CHAPTER I. IN THE MORGUE
“A SPANIARD.”
Detective Joe Cardona made the statement as he studied the body on the slab. Ace detective of the New York headquarters, Cardona was an expert at classifying members of the various nationalities found in cosmopolitan Manhattan.
The ace was standing in the city morgue. The body which he surveyed was not a pleasant sight. It was the puffy, water-logged form of a dark-skinned man — a trophy which the police had that afternoon reclaimed from the sullen waters of the Hudson River.
Cardona’s statement of the drowned man’s nationality was recorded by two persons standing by. These were newspaper reporters: one was Clyde Burke, a frail but wiry fellow who worked on the New York Classic. The other, a scrawny chap who blinked through tortoise shell spectacles, was Tommy Holson, of the New York Sphere.
Along with these stood Detective Sergeant Markham. He was the headquarters man in charge of the case. It was Markham who had sent for Joe Cardona.
“I knew you could spot what he was, Joe,” declared the detective sergeant. “I thought maybe he was a Spaniard, but I wasn’t sure. I figured he might be a Portugee — or a Mex — or some kind of South American—”
“You can tell a Jap from a Chink, can’t you?” returned Cardona. “Or a Filipino from either of them? Well — its the same story. Portuguese and Spanish are different. As for South Americans, or Mexicans — that’s a different form of reasoning.
“There’s pure blooded Spaniards in Mexico and South America — and they look Spanish enough. But you won’t find many of them in New York — and if you do, they’ll be living at the Ritz, not floating around in the river. This fellow” — Cardona was stooping above the body — “is a Spaniard of a low class. His clothes are proof of that.”
So speaking, Cardona gripped the lapel of the dead man’s water soaked coat and thumbed the material more like a tailor than a detective.
“Maybe these clothes were put on him,” volunteered Markham. “There’s a big gash on the back of his head — looks like he got it when they dumped him in the river—”
“If they’d dressed him up in a cheap suit,” returned Cardona, “they’d probably have used American clothes. This suit fits the fellow too well. It looks like it was bought at some cheap clothing store in a Spanish city. As I figure it” — Cardona paused to stand up and look at the round, puffy face of the dead man — “this fellow can’t have been in New York more than a couple of months at most. He’s a Spaniard of middle or low class, probably from one of the larger cities in Spain. That’s all I can give you, Markham.”
“What about these?” inquired the detective sergeant. He stepped past the slab and picked up two short bars of rusted iron. Each was about fifteen inches in length, by an inch and a half in thickness. With them, Markham exhibited several pieces of cut rope.
“Belaying pins,” observed Cardona. “What were these doing — holding the body down?”
“Yes. He must have been dragging along the bottom of the river until he got tangled with a pier end up near Ninetieth Street.”
“These could have come off a ship,” stated Cardona, as he took one of the iron rods and hefted it. “But this rope” — the star detective shook his head — “doesn’t look like ship’s rope.”
Before Markham could voice a comment, Cardona turned to see two swarthy men entering from the stone stairs that came down to this room. They were obviously visitors who had arrived to view the bodies.
“South Americans,” muttered Joe, to the reporters. “Look like they were from the Argentine.”
THE two men stopped beside the body.
They shook their heads and gestured expressively. Without a word, they turned and went back toward the stairs.
“There’s some more who don’t know him,” declared Markham. “The newspapers ran a story about the body in the early afternoon editions. I said the man might be a South American. I guess there’s been a couple of dozen more look at the corpse.”
“Make it Spanish from now on,” suggested Cardona. “Well, Markham, this fellow may have been chucked from some boat; but I wouldn’t be too sure of it. Looks like he’s been in the river three days at least. Unless he tangled with that pier mighty soon after he went overboard, he should have drifted further down stream.”
“That’s what I decided,” answered Markham. “I think he must have been thrown off a pier. He couldn’t have been dropped in much further up the river, the way the piers thin out. An incoming tide could have washed him up against the piles—”
Markham paused. He heard new footsteps. A man appeared from the stairway. The newcomer was clad in a dark, baggy suit. His face was tawny; his white teeth glittered between opened lips; his dark eyes seemed to reflect the dim light of this morbid room.
The man had long, black hair that nearly covered his ears, as it spread from the sides of a shabby felt hat.
From each ear-lobe dangled a small gold coin; these ear-rings glimmered in the light.
Clyde Burke and Tommy Holson stared at the arrival; the man’s face seemed to be suspicious as his dark eyes caught their observation.
“A Spaniard,” whispered Holson to Burke, “and a sailor.”
Cardona caught the remark. A wise smile flickered on the detective’s lips. Cardona made no comment as he watched the arrival study the body on the slab. It was not until the man with the ear-rings had completed his inspection that Cardona spoke.
“Rom?” questioned the detective.
The man with the ear-rings swung suddenly toward the sleuth. Again, his eyes showed suspicion. Then he slowly shook his head.
“I don’t mean him,” declared Cardona, pointing toward the corpse. “I mean you. Rom?”
The man’s white teeth showed a sudden smile. His eyes lost their suspicious look.
“Me isiom yek Rom,” he stated. Then, as his face lost a sudden gleam, he repeated in English: “Yes. I am a gypsy. But this man” — he turned to point to the dead form on the slab — “he is not gypsy. He is not Rom. He is gajo.”
“Where are you from?” questioned Cardona.
“We are in New Jersey.” The gypsy spoke with a peculiar accent. “We have been there many, many month. Desh-u-shov” — he paused to count on his fingers — “Ava. Yes. Sixteen month—”
“What brought you here?” quizzed Cardona.
The gypsy grinned. He pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket. It was a copy of the early afternoon edition of a New York journal. He pointed to the paragraph that told of the body found in the river.
“I go to Newark,” explained the gypsy. “Our great leader — baro kralis amengoro — he send me to buy from the gaje, because I can speak like they do. I read this. I come here.
“I think maybe some Rom has been killed. The Rom of this country go from one band to another. Sometimes things happen to them.”
“I understand,” broke in Cardona “You thought maybe the dead man might be a gypsy. Well, he isn’t. Not Rom.” Cardona shook his head. “Gajo.”
The detective finished with a nod. The gypsy joined by bobbing his own head.
“Gajo,” he repeated.
Cardona gave the man another quizzical look. The gypsy was staring at the body of the drowned Spaniard; his eyes showed mere curiosity.
“Where did you come from in the first place?” asked the detective. “Somewhere in Europe? Are you Zingaro?”
“No.” The gypsy shook his head and the coins bobbed beneath his ears. “I am not of the Zingari. We have Zingari with our band — from Italy they come. I am not of the Rom the gaje call Zingari. I am of the Czigany — from Hungary.”
“I see.” Cardona turned to Markham. “Well, I’m leaving you now. Give it out that this dead man was a Spaniard; maybe somebody will come in to identify him. I’m going down to headquarters. Have to see Inspector Klein.”