Evening Star Newspaper, February 28, 1932, Page 83

W hether they heard or not, he went on shouting . . . “I've got a Catholic priest ...A Catholic priest « + . He wants to get in Cortesi’s . . . I'm gettin’ him in . . . Don’t shoot. Here we go, boys!” Life, Death, Salvation and the Black Hand in a Story of HIS concerns a Catholic priest and a Philadelphia cop, and what happened to them in Camden, N. J. It's only fair to tell you that right away. It's no attempt to do anything except to tell you a story about two men who finished strong, and crowding each other for the rail. The priest was an Italian, a Father Tomaso Camagno. He was 25 years old, small, and pale, and thin. His parishioners regarded him as too stern, too severe; even the old ladies didn’t like him. Had he made any jokes, they would have been feeble ones; his brothers of the cloth did not consider him clever or learned. He was at- tached to the Church of St. Dominic, in the Italian quarter in Camden. The Philadelphia cop went to Camden on purpose; he wasn't sent there. James Blake had served for a good few years in a precinct which is highly educational—Tenth street and Buttonwood. They promoted him to plain clothes, probably upon the theory that Blake would still look like a cop even if he should take to wearing a flower in his hair. Now it’s very nice for a detective to have a specialty. Mr. Blake’s line was the Black Hand, and now and again he made little trips to Elizabeth, and Newark, and Camden, and other ferryboat towns. NE night when Father Camagno was read- ing his devotions in the rectory of St. Dominic’s, the housekeeper disturbed him. A woman was outside, an Italian woman with a shawl over her head, and she was moaning and crying and asking for a priest. Father Camagno put down his book, and went out to her and she fell on her knees and kissed his sleeve, and began to tell him about her husband. Father Camagno gathered at last that her husband was dying. “Where is he?” he asked. She peered up at him. “At Cortesi’s,” she muttered. “At the house of Cortesi, in the marshes.” Father Camagno started. He had heard things about Cortesi's hotel, and he had no Wwish to be there at 9 o'clock in the evening. “Your husband is dying?” he asked. She shuddered, and her head bobbed up and down. “He has been stabbed?” “No, my father. He has been shot,” she said, and in another moment she was in the throes of hysteria. Father Camagno left her to the housekeeper. He went to the chapel and made his prepara- tions. Then he put on his shabby black hat THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, FEBRUARY 28, 1982 and started for the house of Cortesi in the marshes. It was through a very bad section that he had to go, and he heard a rough joke or two about himself and his collar. On he went, not calm, not undismayed, but carrying against his heart that which gave him courage. On and on, out of the slums to the crazy lean-tos along the river front; the marshes were just ahead. And there he met Mr. James Blake, the Philadelphia policeman, who was staying for the end of a show he’d had a hand in staging; a show that had a prologue in Naples, or Pa- lermo, and a scene in a bake shop in Mulberry street, and a scene in Midland Beach, Staten Island, and a scene in Bayonne, N. J., and one in Christian street, in Phillie. A tough show and a dirty one, with leit- motifs of kidnaping, and blackmail, and all the crimes down the scale to murder. And the flat-footed Mr. Blake had traveled from Phila- delphia to see the curtain-fall O, as Father Camagno hurried along, Blake put out & big hand and stopped him, on general principles. “Hay, you, where you goin'—— Oh excuse me, Father.” “I have business here; let me pass.” “Where you bound for, Father? It's a bad district for the likes of you. “I am going to Cortesi’s, in the marshes. There is a dying man there.” The detective laughed. “A dying man? There’ll be plenty of dying men there, before tomorrow. There's a gang of Black Handers in Cortesi’s, and a platoon of cops right there in front of us”—his arm swept out. “Have not the police tried to—to capture them?” “Yes,” said Blake, shortly. “Yes, they tried. Three men got bumped off, and two's in the hospital. Yeah, they tried—that's how they got the platoon out. Now they're waitin’, ‘Waitin’ till mornin’.” “Then it is as I have heard. There is a dying man, perhaps several, in that hotel. I wish you good evening. God bless you.” The cop’s big hand clutched the priest's arm. “Listen. Are you crazy? You can’t get near that place. There’s three men dead now.” “I am a priest.” “Can you put your collar on a pole, with an electric light bulb attached to it? Do you think those mad dogs in there care for a priest?” “Is there a telephone? Perhaps if I call up on the telephone——" % “A telephone? Fhe telephone’ wires were . SIS IR e e e o D T ) | iee Immortal douls EDWARD L. McKENNA Wostrated By PAUL KROESEN cut this afternoon, at 4 o’clock. You'd be shot.” “I can’t help that. If I am shot, I am shot. My duty is in that house, in Cortesi’s hotel. While I am wasting time arguing with you here, a man, perhaps several men, are losing their immortal souls, Let me pass.” The cop looked at him and muttered some- thing. It sounded like a curse. Father Camagno’s eyes blazed. “I am carrying the Blessed Sacrament,” he said. “God will not let me die until I give it to those dying men. Get out of my way.” “Come on, then,” said Blake. “All right, come on.” “You doubt- fully. “Come on. said the cop. The policeman walked on a few paces; then he began to call out, in a loud, strong voice: “Cops, it's me. It's Jimmy Blake, from the fifteenth precinct, Philadelphia, Can you hear me, youse guys?” Whether they heard or not, he went on, still shouting. “I got a Catholic priest. He wants to get in Cortesi’s. “I'm gettin’ him in. I'm gettin’ a priest In to Cortesi’s. Don’t shoot. Here we go, boys.” The go sounded loud to Father Camagno. He trotted forward, and Blake saw him and grinned, and made his word good. “All set?” whispered Blake, “Wait.” Pather Camagno lifted his trem- bling right hand and made the sign of the cross above Blake's head. Then he blessed himself, as many & young boxer does before a bout, as many a young actor does before his turn. ,” began Father Camagno, Tl see you as far as I can” A Catholic priest. LAKE got to his feet, and stepped in front of him; he folded back his right arm and enveloped him. “Come on,” he said. “I'll show you some runnin’* “No, no,” said Father Camagno. in front of me, no.” But Blake had him as a tug has a scow. “I said I'd get you there. Come on,” he said. “Run.” They got a good long ways before the men in the Hotel Cortesi began to shoot. Father Camagno heard the shots; he saw no flashes. He felt the big body in front of him shiver once; suddenly it buckled, and they tumbled down. Father Camagno looked up; the wooden steps “No. Not of Cortesi’'s were before him. But first he ben§ over Blake. “Say your act of contrition. Te absolvo—" Blake looked up at him. “Go on. Get going, I'm no Catholic,” he said, and smiled, as & man smiles who has found a joke that will Jast him forever. : Father Camagno straightened himself, and felt a sudden hot kink in his side. He put hand to it, and running up the stairs, he upon the door, and called out in Italian. “Ecco!” he cried. “Ecco! It is I, the The Father with the Sacraments, It is I, Camagno! Make haste!” He clutched at, his side, and stared down his red hand. “They must come soon, will be too late for them,” he said to and sought to steady his swaying body against the railing. E Texas’ Citrus Program TH‘E citrus growers of Texas are going aftep the grapefruit in a big way. At the pres< ent time, it is estimated that there are about 6,650,000 citrus trees on 90,000 acres of Texas so0il and of this amount about three-fourths are grapefruit trees. ¥ully half of the plante ings are now bearing. The Federal Govern= ment is establishing an experimental station at Westiasco, which is in the center of the citrus district in the Rio Grande Valley to see what may be done about exploiting the grape- fruit and developing from its waste products profitable by-products which may increase the value of the crop to the State. Farm Outlook Better HE general farm situation in the United States has improved somewhat if mortgage and bankruptcy figures may be taken as = guide. Bankruptcy is by no means uncommon among farmers and was known to them long before the present slump in prices. During the pash year the failures were 4,023, a decided drop from the high-point total of 1925, when 7,872 farmers went under the sheriff’s hammer. The figures for the year past obtained froms the Federal land banks, joint-stock land banks, life insurance companies and others on farm land securities show that during year the total of loans was reduced by proximately $100,000,000. -