All the lights were either switched off or dimmed under the wartime emergency regulations. It was gloomy on this corner as the two men stopped under a street lamp. It was now nine-forty five. A figure moved out of the darkness, towards the men. Suddenly the blackness of the night was illuminated by streaks of blue light.
Shots rang out, first one, then three more.
At the sound of the first gunfire, Tresca turned towards the gunman, and then his body jerked with the impact of the bullets, and he stiff-legged backwards off the sidewalk onto the roadway. As he collapsed onto the ground, his friend, Calabi, leaned in towards him, trying to support his falling body. He saw the killer, a small man, barely five feet four inches in height, age, perhaps 35. His face was pale, with regular features, partly hidden by a fedora, pulled low over the forehead. Dark clothes, slender build, moving fast.