GANGDOM'S DOOM

by

Maxwell Grant

As originally published in
[The Shadow Magazine]

December 1931.




 



CHAPTER I
AN INTERRUPTED FLIGHT

Two men sat facing each other in a luxurious penthouse atop one of the Boulevard's newer apartment houses. One was pale and nervous. His face twitched as he puffed his cigar with great rapidity. His companion was a sharp contrast. Short, chubby-faced, and calm, he bore the air of a man who seldom became perturbed.
The roar of Chicago's night traffic seemed far away, yet it disturbed the nervous man. He threw his cigar in an ash stand, and walked to the window. He drew the curtains aside with caution and stared toward the twinkling lights of the Loop. Then he turned to face his companion.
"I'm through with it, Fellows," he said, "I'm through. I want to get out - if I can. But there's no getting out of this -"
He swept his hand toward the window, to indicate the city below. His eyes were pleading as he stared at the quiet-faced man in the chair.
Fellows was thoughtful for a few moments; then he spoke with deliberation.
"How soon do you expect trouble, Prescott?" he asked.
"Soon," was the reply. "Very soon!"
"To-night?"
"No. I think I can count on a few days of grace. But after that -"
Prescott began to pound one palm with the fist of his other hand. His haggard face showed signs of long, uninterrupted strain. He was nearing the breaking point. With an effort, he regained control of himself and sat down on the edge of a chair.
"Fellows," he said, "I've talked too much. I did it to cover up. I thought that if I acted wise, as though I'd been checking up on gang stuff as a hobby, no one would ever suspect that Horace Prescott was in the racket, himself.
"It worked all right until I became foolish. It was when I began to play with rival gangs that they figured I was giving them the double cross.
"Now I'm slated to be put on the spot. On the spot, Fellows! You know what that means!"
The other man interrupted.
"Outside of Chicago -" he began.
"It's all the same," replied Prescott. "They'll follow me anywhere. They'll get me!"
"Outside of Chicago," repeated Fellows insistently, "you will be safe. I promised you that you would be protected, once you were clear of this city.
"You have done your part. You have given me the information I needed. You have had contact with both Pete Varona and Mike Larrigan."
"Yes," agreed Prescott, "I know how those gangs work. I've seen too much of them" - there was bitterness in his voice - "and when I said that the big shot, Nick Savoli, can be reached through Pete Varona, I meant it. Pete's in with the big shot, all right."
"You are right when you say that you talked too much," resumed Fellows quietly. "At the same time, your future safety lies in that very fact.
"I represent a man, Prescott, who is more powerful than any of these gangsters!"
"Not in Chicago," objected Prescott.
"Not in Chicago," agreed Fellows. "Not here, at present. But later" - his voice was prophetic - "the situation may be different."

Horace Prescott seemed somewhat reassured by the quiet manner of his visitor. He looked at Fellows inquiringly, hoping that the man would tell him more.
"The man I mentioned," said Fellows, "has been planning a most astonishing campaign. Even I, his agent, do not know its details.
"I know only that it concerns the present situation here in Chicago; that gangdom is about to learn the power of this man. I came here as a confidential investigator. I learned of you through Clyde Johnston."
"He knows a lot about me," observed Prescott. "Johnston is a good friend of mine.
"I've told you my racket - selling booze to society and to exclusive clubs. The cops never bothered me. I was a society man, with a good income that came from an inheritance. That's partly correct. Only, I've been making lots more by running bootleg liquor than I have from clipping coupons."
"My instructions," Fellows spoke again, "were to make contact with a man of your type.
"I am an insurance broker by profession. My clients are men of means. It was easy for me to learn who was active in selling liquor to wealthy customers. In talking with Johnston, I discovered that you had admitted to him that you were in difficulties."
Prescott nodded.
"Johnston doesn't buy liquor," he said. "He gave me plenty of advice when he found out that I was in the racket. Old friend, you know. Thinking of my welfare. Told me to get out of the dirty game. I told him that I couldn't."
"Yes," said Fellows, "he was very apprehensive about you. He told me all he knew about you when I suggested that I might find some way of helping you. He called you on the telephone when I was in his office. Hence our interview to-night."
"I've played square, haven't I?" asked Prescott pleadingly. "I told you everything, didn't I? If you want me to write down all the details -"
"There's no need for it," said Fellows dryly. "I have an excellent memory. I shall make out my report later.
"The real task now is to get you clear of Chicago. In New York, you will be safe."
"In New York!" exclaimed Prescott, in sudden alarm. "Why, there's gangsters there who work hand in glove with these Chicago mobs -"
"That is true," interposed Fellows, "but the man whose instructions I follow is also in New York. He will see that you are free from harm.
"You are willing to quit the racket. You have told all you know. In return, you will be sent to safety."
The chubby-faced man drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Horace Prescott.
"This envelope contains a ticket to New York," he said, "with reservations on the eleven-thirty train, Michigan Central. You leave to-night.
"In New York, register, under my name - Claude H. Fellows - at the Metrolite Hotel. You will receive immediate instructions from my patron."
"Are you going with me?"
"No. I have a ticket for Omaha, Nebraska. I have certain business there.
"Remember, Prescott, that I am an insurance broker. I travel considerably. I brought my bag with me tonight. You will accompany me as though you were simply going to the station. But our routes will be in opposite directions.
"Those who follow me will be on a false trail. Yet after you have dropped off at the Michigan Central station, there will be no clew other than myself."
A look of satisfaction appeared upon Horace Prescott's face. He had trusted this man because he was in an uncomfortable situation. He believed everything that Fellows had told him.
Now he felt assured that to-night would be his opportunity to elude the threats that hung above him.

Prescott pushed a button on the wall. A Japanese servant entered. Prescott was about to speak to him when a sound came from the street. It was the loud back-fire of a motor.
Prescott leaped to his feet and was halfway across the room before he could restrain himself. He regained his composure with effort. Traces of alarm still remained upon his face. He had mistaken the noise for a revolver shot.
"Togo," he said to the servant, "Mr. Fellows is leaving in ten minutes I shall drive to the station with him. Tell Louie to have the car ready immediately."
The servant left to telephone the garage. Prescott looked at his watch. He lighted a panatella and puffed nervously, then threw the cigar away.
"I'm trusting you, Fellows," he blurted suddenly. "I know your proposition is on the level. If these rats wanted to put me out of the way, they wouldn't use any complicated plan to do it.
"I thought, for a few minutes, that your proposition was phony; but that would be ridiculous. I'm out of the racket now. I'm going to play straight. I don't know who your boss is; but you have plenty of confidence in him. I'm glad I was on the level with you."
He glanced at his watch.
"Louie ought to be here by now," he said. "You go downstairs first, with your bag. Get in the car. If you see any one prowling around, come back as though you forgot something.
"If I don't hear from you, I'll come along in a few minutes. Leave the door of the car half open."
Fellows nodded. He picked up his bag and left the penthouse. When he reached the street, the insurance broker saw Prescott's limousine standing in front of the building. The chauffeur was in the front seat.
Prescott had sent the car to bring Fellows to his home; hence the observant insurance broker recognized the car immediately.
Fellows opened the back door and entered. He closed the door and peered through the window, up and down the street. He saw no one. Then, to his surprise, the car began to move.
It started suddenly and Fellows lurched back into the seat. His outstretched hand struck a human form. There, beside him, was a man, trussed with rope and gagged.

The car stopped around the corner, just as Fellows turned on the light in the rear. So intent was the insurance broker that he did not realize the car was no longer in motion.
For the light had revealed the features of the bound man, and Fellows looked upon Louie, Prescott's chauffeur!
"What's the big idea?"
The voice came from the front seat. Fellows looked into the face of the man who had taken the chauffeur's place. The speaker had the ugly countenance of a professional thug.
"How did you get in here?" he demanded, still glaring angrily at Fellows.
Before the insurance broker could reply, he was startled by a volley of revolver shots.
The sound came from around the corner, back at the entrance where the car had been standing.
"Come on!" ordered the driver. "Scram out of this car before -"
Fellows needed no urging. He knew instinctively that murder was under way. He leaped to the street and dashed back around the corner.
A car was pulling away from the curb. A body was lying on the sidewalk.
Fellows ran toward the fallen man. Shots hit the paving beside him. The men in the fleeing car had seen his action, and had fired as their car turned the corner.
Fellows ducked into the entrance; then, realizing that the danger had passed, he hurried toward the man who lay on the sidewalk.
"Dead!" he exclaimed, as he lifted the man's shoulders. The form was limp and lifeless.
The head dropped back as Fellows raised the body. The light from the front of the building fell directly on the face. A gasp of horror came from the lips of the insurance broker.
The murdered man was Horace Prescott!

CHAPTER II
FELLOWS SPEAKS

A small group of men stood about the spot where Horace Prescott's body lay. Three uniformed policemen were on duty, ordering the passers-by to keep moving. Another gang killing was sufficient to draw a crowd - even in Chicago.
A few plain-clothes men were on the scene. The only other privileged individuals were two or three men who had eluded the vigilance of the policemen, and who were standing in the background.
The detectives were watching five persons who were temporarily under their charge.
One was Claude Fellows; with him were two men who had witnessed the shooting from a distance. The others were Togo and Louie.
The Japanese servant had come downstairs with Horace Prescott. He had heard the shots as he was returning to the elevator.
Louie had been found in the automobile by the policemen. Fellows had led them there. The car had been abandoned.
A police car drove up and two men made their exit. One was Police Captain Julius Weaver. The other was Barney Higgins, assistant detective commissioner. He was well known as an investigator of gangsters.
The detectives became suddenly alert when their superiors appeared. They had been instructed to await the arrival of Weaver and Higgins, both of whom were at police headquarters when the news of the killing had reached there.
Barney Higgins looked at the body on the sidewalk. He turned to Weaver and nodded his head.
"They got Prescott, all right," he said. "He had it coming to him, I guess. I knew he was in the racket - but I didn't think he was in deep enough for this."

Higgins began a quick inspection of the scene. Satisfied with his observations, he rejoined the police captain. Orders were given for the removal of the body.
The detective commissioner approached the group of men near the detectives.
"These two was witnesses," explained a detective. "This one" - he pointed to Fellows - "was upstairs with the guy that was killed. He came down and got in the car. They ran him around the corner and told him to scram."
Higgins stared at Fellows for a moment; then turned back to the detective.
"This man" - the detective indicated Louie - "was the chauffeur. They had him tied up in the car."
"Landed on me the minute I arrived," volunteered Louie.
"What did they look like?" questioned Higgins.
"Dunno," answered Louie promptly. "Couldn't see 'em in the dark."
Higgins looked at him as though he doubted that the chauffeur was telling all he knew. Then he turned to study Togo.
"Jap servant," he was informed by the detective. "Came downstairs with the guy that was bumped off -"
"Bring them down to headquarters," ordered Higgins. "No - wait a minute."
He looked at Claude Fellows.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Claude H. Fellows," came the response.
"Business?"
"Insurance broker from New York."
"Did you see the shooting?"
"No. I was in the car. The man in the front seat drove me around the corner."
"What did he look like?"
"About medium height, I should judge," replied Fellows thoughtfully. "Dark complexion, and an ugly face. He looked like a gunman."
"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"
"Yes."
Higgins studied Fellows carefully.
"What do you know about Prescott?" he questioned suddenly.
Fellows was ready with an answer.
"I knew that he was expecting this," returned Fellows calmly. "I met him through a friend and found that he was anxious to leave the city. He told me why."
"Because?"
"Because of his gang connections. He gave me all the important facts concerning them."
Higgins looked at the police captain and caught an approving nod.
"Come along with me," said the detective commissioner. "You can tell me your story when we get to headquarters."
Claude Fellows smiled. He had no reason to keep anything from the police. He did not know, however, what use they would make of any information that he might give them.
Higgins appeared to have considerable knowledge of Prescott's connections. Yet Fellows was sure that he possessed vital facts which would be news to Higgins.

A young man stepped up and waved a greeting to the assistant commissioner. It was Jerry Kirklyn, reporter for a Chicago daily.
"Hello, Barney," said the reporter. "What's the dope on this? Looks like some mob has social aspirations, when it comes to killings. Got a story for me?"
"Later, Jerry," said the assistant commissioner. "See me down at headquarters, after I interview the witnesses."
He drew the reporter to one side.
"Wait until this man Fellows testifies," he said. "We're going to get the real low-down on Prescott's hook-up with the mobs. But lay off until then."
"The detectives tell me," said Kirklyn, "that Prescott pulled out a gun and fired back when three men fell on him at the door of the lobby. He wounded one, they say. Is that right?"
Higgins questioned one of the detectives and received the man's affirmation.
"What about it?" questioned the reporter. "Can you trace the man through the hospitals?"
"You know better than that, Jerry," he said. "These gangsters have their own physicians. Don't you remember the doctor they bumped off six months ago? He was a sawbones who was going to pull a double cross.
"This gangster that Prescott wounded is on his way to some crooked medico right now."
Jerry Kirklyn eyed Claude Fellows curiously. He recognized that the chubby-faced man was not of gangdom's realm. He was anxious for a statement, and he made a quick approach.
"You were with Prescott before he was killed?" he asked. "What do you know about him?"
"I know everything," replied Fellows. "He told me all his story before I left him. We were going to the station in his car.
"I am willing to give the police a complete statement that will -"
"Not here," objected Higgins. "Come along to headquarters. You can tell me about yourself on the way down." He turned to the reporter. "You see me later, Barney."
The assistant commissioner gripped the insurance broker's arm. He turned and drew Fellows toward the curb.
There were a few hangers-on standing near by. One of them, a sallow-faced youth with a cigarette hanging from his lips, looked sharply at Fellows as he passed. The insurance broker entered the police car with the officers.
The man began to stroll away as the car moved from the curb. He turned the corner and walked rapidly toward a drug store which had a telephone booth sign on the window.

In the police car, the detective commissioner disregarded Claude Fellows for the moment. He spoke to Captain Weaver.
"There'll be a stew over this," he said. "The newspapers have been saying it's time we stopped these killings.
"Our policy of letting gunmen bump each other off is all right - until something like this happens. We've got to get the man who did this.
"Prescott was phony himself - we can prove that. Still, he was a man known in society circles. He wasn't a gorilla type."
Higgins turned to Fellows.
"When we get to headquarters," he said, "you can spill what you know. In the meantime, tell me something about yourself. We can have your statement on Prescott later."
Fellows explained his presence in Chicago in a quiet, convincing way. He spoke of his insurance business and the wealth of his usual clients.
He said nothing about his mysterious chief in New York.
"Prescott was in a tough spot," he declared. "He wanted me to help him out. We were going to the station. I was to take the Northwestern for Omaha; he was to drop out and take the Michigan Central for New York."
Higgins nodded. He interrupted with a few words addressed to the police captain.
"The orders to kill Prescott came from higher up," was his comment. "Larrigan may have done it. Varona may have ordered it. If Varona is responsible, the instructions probably came from the big shot."
"Savoli?"
"Correct."
As Higgins turned to Fellows, the police car stopped suddenly. They were at headquarters.
Captain Weaver alighted and walked away from the car, leaving Higgins with Fellows. The assistant commissioner followed with the insurance broker. Fellows was speaking as they moved along.
Fellows had been doing some thinking during the ride. He was ready to tell the police everything he knew about Horace Prescott. It would be the opening shot in a drastic campaign against gangdom. Higgins would be able to act with the startling information he would gain.
With it all, Fellows could easily avoid mention of his real purpose in visiting Prescott. Neither Togo nor Louie knew anything of Prescott's revelations.
Prescott had satisfied Fellows on that point. His servants had been chosen to create respectability, not to act as associates.
"I know who killed Prescott," said Fellows quietly, as he stepped along beside Higgins. "I can positively name the men in back of it, and tell why they struck."
Higgins stopped and clutched the insurance broker's arm. Something in the statement impressed him.
"Wait until we're inside," he ordered. "I want Weaver to be in on this. I think you've got the dope. Remember now, play square. If you do -"
The assistant commissioner turned suddenly. A large touring car was coasting silently toward the curb.
In an instant, Higgins realized the menace.
"Duck!" he shouted, as he released his hold on the arm of his companion. "Duck for cover!"

Before Fellows could respond, the staccato rattle of a machine gun drowned the commissioner's words.
Claude Fellows was the living target of the steel-jacketed bullets. Standing alone on the sidewalk, he went down beneath the metal avalanche.
A gasp escaped his lips as he fell. It was the last sound he uttered in this life.
The motor of the touring car purred as the automobile swept away. In a few moments it was traveling at reckless speed, disappearing around the corner before any could identify it.
Higgins had escaped the attack. He rose from the spot beside the steps where he had flung himself.
He knew that the killers had not desired his death; yet he also realized that his position with the police force would not have deterred the slayers in their mad desire to blot out Claude Fellows. Only through his prompt, intuitive action, had Barney Higgins evaded a similar end.
The assistant commissioner bent over the body of the murdered man. He saw in an instant that Fellows had expired. The man's lips were half open. They seemed on the point of speaking; about to cry their knowledge of gangdom's crooked ways.
Claude Fellows had been wiped out; and with him, the revelations had been suppressed. He had begun to speak, and the powers of the underworld had silenced him.
"We'll never know," muttered Barney Higgins. "We'll never know what he was going to tell us. We know who this man is - but that is all."
There was conviction in the commissioner's tone. He was amazed by this bold stroke of gangdom - the killing of a man who was about to enter police headquarters, accompanied by an assistant commissioner.
Higgins wondered what secrets had perished with this murdered man.
Yet, he connected Claude Fellows only with Horace Prescott. Had he known of the greater secret which Claude Fellows possessed, Higgins would have been completely bewildered.
For Claude Fellows had not mentioned his unknown employer in New York. Barney Higgins had no inkling of the most important factor regarding Claude Fellows.
He did not even begin to suspect that the supposed insurance broker had been the confidential agent of The Shadow - that strange, mysterious being, whose name was a word of terror to the denizens of New York's underworld!

CHAPTER III
A VISITOR TO CHICAGO

Two days after the episode which had resulted in the death of Claude Fellows, a young man arrived in Chicago, and appeared at a restaurant known as Marmosa's Cafe, in the Loop district.
It was afternoon, and the large restaurant was virtually deserted. A hawk-eyed waiter, standing at the top of a stairway with gilded railings, spotted the new arrival, and approached to talk to him.
"What do you want, sir?" he asked.
"I came to see Mr. Marmosa," replied the young man.
"I will see if he is here," responded the waiter. "What is your name, sir?"
"Harry Vincent."
The waiter ascended the curving stairway, and disappeared when he reached the balcony. The man who had introduced himself as Harry Vincent sat down at one of the tables, and studied the sumptuous surroundings of the cafe, with both ground floor and balcony filled with tables and booths.
Vincent's thoughts were interrupted by the return of the waiter, who beckoned to him to come upstairs. When they reached the top, the waiter turned abruptly to the left, and conducted Vincent to a partitioned office, hidden behind a corner pillar of the balcony.
Entering the office, Vincent discovered a man seated at a desk. The office was very small - scarcely more than a nook, and the man who occupied it seemed out of proportion to his surroundings.
He was heavy-set, and slightly bald. He weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, and the chair in which he was sitting was almost invisible beneath his bulk.
"Ah!" The man's voice was suave, and melodious. "You are Mr. Vincent, eh? I am Mr. Marmosa - Frank Marmosa. You have come here as I asked you, eh?"
"Yes. I received your wire yesterday afternoon."
"Sit down, Mr. Vincent. Let me talk to you. I am glad that you have come, and I think that you will like it here."
There was a chair opposite the desk - a chair crowded into the extreme corner of the tiny office. Harry Vincent took his place there, and looked quizzically at Frank Marmosa.
There was a real friendliness about the big man beyond his suavity. Vincent sized him up as a man who could be trusted, with reservations. Marmosa was presumably of Italian ancestry, but one could not have judged his nationality without knowing his name.
"My telegram surprised you, eh?" chuckled Marmosa, as he studied Harry Vincent. "Well, my boy, it was just by a chance that I learned of you.
"I have been waiting for two weeks to hear from my friend Barutti, in New York. I had asked him for a man to work with me here. I received no reply, until night before last, when Barutti called me up by long distance. He told me to wire you in Michigan; that you would be the man I needed."

A sudden light dawned on Harry Vincent. Now, for the first time, he understood the connection that had brought him to Chicago.
He had suspected that the hand of The Shadow was behind this mission, for Vincent was a trusted agent of the strange man whose name carried terror to the minions of gangdom. But he had never before heard of Frank Marmosa, and only the mention of Barutti gave him the inkling that brought realization of the situation.
Barutti operated an Italian restaurant in New York. Harry Vincent had chosen the place as a favorite eating spot, when in Manhattan.
Barutti was not a figure in the underworld; on the contrary, he operated a legitimate business. But, like many others, he had certain connections of a doubtful sort.
Two weeks ago, Harry had been dining in Barutti's restaurant. The Italian had exhibited a letter, remarking that it was from a big man in Chicago.
"A verra big man," Barutti had said, with a grin. "A big man in bizaness - a big man like dis" - and he had qualified the final statement by spreading his arms to indicate a person of enormous size.
Barutti had then talked with a man seated at another table in the Italian restaurant - a chap whom Harry had seen there on several occasions, and who talked both English and Italian.
From the snatches that Harry had heard of their mixed conversation, Barutti had told the other customer that his friend in Chicago had asked a favor, but that he would not grant it at present. For Barutti was going away for a month's vacation. His friend in Chicago could wait.
Harry had also left New York for a vacation - to the town in Michigan where his family resided. He had been there ten days, and had then been startled to read of the death of Claude Fellows.
This news, furnished by a Chicago paper, had stunned Harry Vincent. He was one of the few persons who knew that the insurance broker was an agent of the mysterious Shadow. He had wondered what would follow.
The result had been a telegram from Chicago, signed by Frank Marmosa, telling Harry to come to see him immediately.
A complete theory had now formed in Harry's mind.
His thoughts went back to that day in Barutti's place. Barutti had shown the letter to the stranger who dined there. That stranger, Harry felt sure, was none other than The Shadow!
Immediately after the death of Claude Fellows, The Shadow must have called Frank Marmosa by long distance, representing himself as Barutti, to tell Marmosa that he had found the man he wanted.

While Harry Vincent still pondered on this idea, Frank Marmosa resumed the conversation, and his words formed a cue which Harry was quick to follow.
"So you are a friend of Barutti, eh?" questioned Marmosa.
"I have known him a long while," replied Harry quietly.
"You know him very well?"
"Quite well."
"He told me that I could trust you in every way."
"Whatever Barutti may have said is true."
"Good." Frank Marmosa's grin displayed a row of large, white teeth. He studied Harry carefully, then motioned toward the door with his thumb.
"Shut the door," he said.
Harry complied with the order.
"Barutti told you about me?" questioned Marmosa, in a low, confidential voice.
"He told me that you were a big man in Chicago," answered Harry.
The statement seemed to please Marmosa. He grinned and chuckled, and looked approvingly at Harry.
"You know what it means to be a big man in Chicago?" asked Marmosa.
Harry nodded.
"You know what makes big men in Chicago, eh?" continued Marmosa. "You know what is most important, eh?"
"I think I know."
"What is it, then."
"Getting in right - and staying in right."
"Very good," chuckled Marmosa. "You understand. Barutti did well to send you here.
"Well, Vincent, I am in right; and I stay in right. When they say to me: 'Frank, you must give us a rake-off,' I smile, and I pay it. When some one else says: 'Frank, you must give us a rake-off,' I smile again.
"I pay to those who are big. They keep away those who are little. You understand? I am in right. You will be in right, too."
The big man stared steadily at Harry Vincent. The young man met his gaze. Finally, Marmosa grinned again, and extended his hand. Harry shook it, and with that action, he realized that he was entering a new career. He had blindly made a bargain with Frank Marmosa.
"You are all right, young fellow," said the big man assuringly. "You will work for me, eh? Good. Come along. I will show you something that will surprise you."

He rose and opened the door. Harry followed him along the soft carpet of the balcony. Frank Marmosa pressed a hidden spot in the wall, behind a shielding pillar, and a partition slid noiselessly aside.
The two men entered a spacious room, evidently built over the kitchen of the restaurant. The place was a glittering den of gambling.
In the center stood two roulette wheels, along the sides were faro tables, while card tables in the corners invited the play of those who preferred poker.
There was a short mahogany bar in the far corner of the room. Its brass rail shone like gold, and behind it stood a man in a white coat, polishing glasses.
"Come."
Marmosa led Harry around the room, and pointed out the roulette wheels and the faro tables as though he were directing a sight-seeing tour.
When they reached the bar, Marmosa smilingly invited Harry to have a drink. When the young man shook his head in refusal, Marmosa's grin broadened to his characteristic smile.
"That is good," said Marmosa solemnly. "The men I have here - they all drink. It costs me money, but it is not the money that I mind.
"When they drink, they cannot watch. They are no longer wise. You are the man I want here. Barutti did well to get you."
He conducted Harry back to the office, and there, by the little desk, the proprietor of the gambling den explained the purpose for which he had required a new man.
"I have many people here in Chicago," he said, "but if they know nothing, they are no good; if they know too much, they are no good. I must keep in right with the big shots; but my business is my own.
"I must have a man who minds no business except mine; you understand, eh? He must learn to know those who come in, and who go out. He must watch this, and he must watch that; but he must not deal with any except me. You understand, eh?"
"Exactly," replied Harry.
"More than that," said Marmosa thoughtfully, "this man must seem as a diner in the restaurant, or as a player in the gambling room.
"I do not need a man with a gun. They are easy to get - too easy to get. I have them, but they do not look well.
"I want a man who will act as a gentleman, who will watch, and who will not drink. He must be ready to give orders to the others. You are the man I need."
"I will be," interposed Harry, "after I have seen your place in operation. I must, of course, first know something about it."
"Ah!" interrupted Marmosa. "You will learn quickly. Very, very quickly. Money? I shall give you plenty.
"Barutti has told me all about you, over the phone. He says that you will work whenever I may need you; that you do not talk loud; and that you do not have the big, swelled head. All that is good. Very, very good."
The huge man stared from the window, and Harry followed his gaze. Below them was the bustle and confusion of a Chicago street. The whole situation seemed unreal to Harry Vincent.
Here, in this quiet cubby-hole of an office, one would never suspect that the entrance to a de luxe gambling den lay only a few feet away.
"I have a man who will help you," explained Marmosa. "His name is Joe le Blanc. He is a good man, but not the one I need. He is going away soon, to open a place of his own - a road house outside of the city.
"He is in right; he has fixed it with the big shots. I am giving him the money to start the place. But he will stay here a while until you understand what you are to do."
Marmosa looked at his watch. Then he opened a drawer in the desk, and drew out a stack of letters. He extended his hand to Harry.
"Go away, now," said the big man, "and come back here at seven o'clock to-night. If you need money at any time, tell me. I am trusting you because I know Barutti.
"Stay at a hotel near here, so you will not have far to go."

Harry Vincent left the office and walked down the gently sloping stairs. The entire restaurant seemed different to him now.
Now he realized that the elaborate downstairs establishment was nothing more than a blind for the den upstairs. Perhaps Frank Marmosa was conducting a profitable restaurant; but that was not the business upon which he relied.
Harry registered at the Goliath Hotel, a single block from the restaurant.
Within an hour after his arrival in Chicago, Harry Vincent had stepped within the borderland of gangdom. He had obtained a position which would enable him to watch and to gain information without incurring the grave risks that threatened the average gangster. Yet he realized that even his position with Marmosa held danger in store, and he welcomed that danger.
For he knew that while he might appear to be working for Frank Marmosa, the gambling king, he would actually be working for another. He owed his real allegiance to that strange, mysterious person who was the talk of all New York - the man they called The Shadow.
One dominating thought gripped Harry's mind. He was sure that he had divined the purpose of the work that lay ahead.
The Shadow had transferred activities from New York to Chicago, with one definite motive - to track all those who had been responsible for the death of Claude Fellows!
Harry had heard of Chicago gangsters. Now he was to encounter them. They were different from the mobsters of New York.
They worked in compact gangs, Harry knew, and their foothold was greater, so far as the police was concerned.
If the newspapers spoke truly, gangsters ruled Chicago as kings.
All his old adventures with The Shadow recurred to Harry's mind, as he stood by the window, looking out over the vast city of Chicago, to the blue waterfalls of Lake Michigan.
He had done much to help The Shadow, and still that mysterious man amazed and bewildered him.
In and out of New York, The Shadow had struck the plots and counterplots of crafty criminals until his name had become a terror to those who fought against the law. Yet The Shadow had never been revealed. His personality was still a mystery.
Some believed him to be a detective; others claimed that he was a master mind that knew no law. Whichever might be true, it was certain that The Shadow had brought many crooks to justice, and that he was a criminologist of tremendous ability.
Yet here, in Chicago, Harry Vincent felt qualms. This was to be a new game.
It would not be a battle of wits for The Shadow, although wits would play their part. It would be a fight against tremendous odds; against groups of desperate men who ruled their realm with automatics, bombs, and machine guns.
Even The Shadow, with all his amazing power, was human. When the gangsters of Chicago were thwarted, they spoke with bullets.
Did The Shadow know the dangers that lay here? Did he realize the strength of the powerful organizations that defied the police, and openly ridiculed the law? Did he know the risk he would take if he came to Chicago?
For a few moments these questions passed in rapid succession through Harry's mind, and for the first time since his association with The Shadow, he felt the fear of impending disaster. Then he recalled the times when the amazing superman had met and conquered those who blocked his path.
Still standing by the window of his room, Harry Vincent smiled grimly, and his lips spoke these words:
"The Shadow knows!"

CHAPTER IV
GANGSTERS MEET

Marmosa's Cafe was a quiet place at seven o'clock in the evening. The restaurant was well filled with diners; waiters trod noiselessly across the carpeted floor; and the orchestra in the corner played soft music that did not disturb the pleasing atmosphere of the luxurious dining palace.
Harry Vincent found Frank Marmosa in the office when he arrived. The big man greeted him pleasantly, and suggested that he have dinner on the balcony, so that he could watch those who entered.
Harry took this as an indication that Marmosa wanted to test his ability as an observer, so he took the table which the proprietor pointed out, and ordered a sumptuous meal.
While he ate, Harry watched below.
He felt a certain admiration for Frank Marmosa, even though the man was engaged in an illegal enterprise. For Marmosa's Cafe was certainly one of the most elegant restaurants that Harry had ever patronized, and the food was in keeping with the surroundings.
It was evidently Marmosa's purpose to attract a high-class clientele, for the diners were fashionable persons, many of whom appeared to be of the elite.
There were comparatively few persons on the balcony, and Harry noticed that no one approached the hidden spot behind the corner pillar.
It was after eight o'clock before Harry had completed his carefully chosen meal, and by that time, the crowd below had thinned out considerably. Marmosa had not returned, so Harry lighted a cigar, and puffed away in enjoyment, still watching from the balcony.
Half an hour later, he noticed that newcomers were entering the place, and he realized immediately that it was from these that the patrons of the gambling den would be gained. Marmosa had said nothing about the opening time of the gambling house, but Harry now conjectured that nine o'clock would be about the earliest.
A thin, sallow man entered the restaurant, and walked upstairs. Harry saw him disappear behind the pillar that obscured Marmosa's office.
The man did not return immediately, so Harry again looked from the balcony, until he became conscious that some one was approaching his table, and he turned quickly to encounter Frank Marmosa and the sallow man who had arrived a short while before.
"Meet Joe le Blanc," said Marmosa genially. "This is Harry Vincent, Joe."
The sallow man shook hands with Harry, and sat beside him at the table.
"Vincent is a friend of Barutti," explained Marmosa. "You know Barutti - you've met him in New York."
Le Blanc nodded. Then Marmosa went away.
Harry studied Le Blanc, and recognized him as a silent type of man. The fellow had a sophisticated air that commanded instant attention.
"No one here yet," said Le Blanc tersely, after he had made a quick survey of the crowd below.

Harry watched the man's eyes. Joe le Blanc had a faculty for looking everywhere, without moving his head. One observing him from below would not have realized that he had made a thorough inspection of the entire room beneath the balcony.
Four people entered the restaurant - two men in evening clothes, and two handsomely dressed women.
"That's Glen Colliver," said Le Blanc, in an undertone. "Big advertising man. Don't know the fellow with him. Some guy from out of town, I guess.
"That blond dame's been here before. Never saw the brunette before. The whole bunch is O.K. because Colliver is with them. Remember that bird. He pays plenty here."
The party had scarcely seated itself before another group entered. Le Blanc recognized them immediately, and gave the information to Harry. Then came a few more persons who were identified by the sharp-eyed watcher.
Finally Colliver and his companions walked up the steps to the balcony. They disappeared behind the pillar that hid the entrance of the gambling den.
"They'll be looked over through the door," said Le Blanc. "Old Hawk-eye in there can tell any one that's been here once. Here comes another pair upstairs. They're O.K., too."
Nothing was said for a few minutes. Then Harry decided to question Joe le Blanc.
"Don't we let them know who is coming?" he asked. "I thought we would have to tell the fellow inside -"
"No, no," replied Le Blanc. "These people don't mean anything to us. We haven't begun to work yet. Wait a while, until some of the gunmen begin to come in. That's when we've got to keep a real look-out."
"Why?"
"Listen close, Vincent," said Joe le Blanc. "Marmosa tells me you don't know anything about this racket.
"That's all right. You've got to learn, and I'm here to tell you. There's going to be a pile of dough spent in that place to-night. You savvy that, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Well, who gets the dough?"
"Frank Marmosa."
"Sure, but he pays a lot of it out - to several places. There's a lot of cuts, fixing the coppers, and everything else, but the real jack goes to the big shot."
"Who's the big shot?"
"Nick Savoli, of course. Don't tell me you haven't heard of him?"

Harry had heard of Nick Savoli, the gangster whose fame had long since reached New York. He knew that Nick Savoli held the strings that governed the great majority of Chicago gangs.
"Nick will have his man here tonight," went on Le Blanc. "Ready for the collection, after the dough has been taken in."
"Does he ever come himself?"
"Who? Nick? I should say not! Sometimes he sends Mike Borrango, though. He's the big enforcement man for Savoli. Keeps things moving when Nick's out of town.
"But it's most likely to be Al Vacchi. He comes here right along, and he brings a couple of gorillas with him."
Le Blanc paused to lean against the rail of the balcony while he carefully inspected two men who had just entered. Then he added a further explanation.
"Here's the way it goes," he said. "Nick Savoli runs most everything in this town. He uses Mike Borrango as an enforcer. Al Vacchi is a fix-up man, who smoothes over troubles when they arise. That makes him a good man for collecting here, because he knows all of them, and keeps on good terms.
"Then there's a bunch of men who have their own gangs, and their own territories. Most of them are in the booze racket. Mike Varona, Casey O'Rourke, Bingo McGurk, and others.
"They keep in with the big shot. They know enough not to battle among themselves.
"But there's others - like Mike Larrigan - who have never come in line. Right now, there's trouble between Larrigan and Varona.
"It's guys like Larrigan's gunmen that we watch out for here.
"Take Hymie Schultz, for instance. He works with Larrigan, but he's independent, too. He wouldn't think anything of coming in and sticking up a swell joint like this.
"If it meant trouble between Larrigan and the big shot, Larrigan would claim that Hymie was working on his own. Savvy?
"Then, every now and then, some small fry crop up and make trouble. That's what we look out for. See -"
He pointed to the door of the restaurant. Two men entered; both were dressed in tuxedos, but they looked out of place in that garb. They kept close together, and seemed to cast a disdainful look at the diners. The newcomers moved up the stairs toward the balcony.
"John Genara and Tony Anelmo," whispered Le Blanc. "They call them the Homicide Twins. Tough babies.
"They're working for Marmosa tonight. They protect the joint. They'll be inside the door, like they were gambling, but let any guy get tough - well, there's nothing those fellows won't do."
The two men were at the top of the stairs. Genara glanced toward the table where Harry Vincent and Joe le Blanc were seated. Joe nodded his head in greeting, and Genara responded with an ugly scowl, which Le Blanc accepted as a response of friendship.
The two gunmen left the head of the stairs and went into the gambling den.

Then came a general arrival of well-dressed persons who were evidently coming to play roulette.
"Look there!" Le Blanc's exclamation was a low one. "Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak. The little guy is Hymie - he's the one I was telling you about."
"Do they mean trouble?"
Le Blanc shrugged his shoulders.
"No telling until they get in," he said. "We can't keep them out without causing trouble. But with Genara and Anelmo there, I don't think anything will happen.
"Just the same, it puts our friend Marmosa in a tough spot. The only connection he has with Nick Savoli is this: Marmosa pays cash to Savoli. He gets protection, all right, but the important part is that Marmosa has to pay, and Savoli doesn't have to protect. Get that?
"If anybody makes trouble for Marmosa, it's too bad for him. Savoli wouldn't like it, of course, but he has his own worries, without bothering about Marmosa."
Two men entered the restaurant while Le Blanc was speaking. Harry saw them as they came up the stairs to the balcony, and he recognized immediately that they were another pair of gangsters. Le Blanc noticed them as they approached.
"Here comes Eddie Heeny," he said. "Smooth-looking bird for a gunman. I don't know the other mug that's with him."
The arrivals came over to the table where Harry and Le Blanc were seated. Harry studied them closely.
The one designated as Heeny was scarcely of the gangster type, although he carried a determined air that made an instant impression. But the other man - the one whom Le Blanc did not name - commanded Harry's close attention.
He was tall, and somewhat slender and he had an erect carriage that bespoke a powerful physique. His face was almost masklike in its expression.
When he fixed his eyes upon Harry, they seemed to carry a steady, boring gaze that was challenging and defiant. Harry could not take his eyes from the gangster's face.
For almost a full minute, no one spoke; then Le Blanc waved his hand toward Heeny.
"Hello, Ed," he said. "Thought you'd be here to-night. This is Harry Vincent. Fellow that's going to take my job, after I leave here. Who's your pal, Ed?"
The gangster grinned.
"Ever hear of Monk Thurman?" he questioned.
"You mean the fellow that used to be with the Four Points gang in New York?" returned Le Blanc.
"That's who I mean," replied Heeny. "You've heard of him, eh?"
"Sure thing. Never met him, though."
"Well, you're meeting him now. This is him."
Joe le Blanc uttered a low exclamation. Harry could tell by his expression that the name of "Monk" Thurman carried great weight with him.
Harry had heard the name, too. Monk Thurman was notorious in New York. He had been arrested for dozens of crimes, and had always established an alibi.
Le Blanc was looking at the New York gangster, and Harry followed suit. Monk Thurman was the type of man who would command attention. He seemed to take no interest in what Eddie Heeny had said. His attitude was one of complete indifference.
"Brought him along to-night," said Heeny. "He blew into town to-day.
"Did you read the New York papers, yesterday? They had a rumor that Monk had disappeared. Well, this is where he disappeared to. Chicago. Here he is!
"I used to know him back in New York. This is the one and only Monk Thurman."

Le Blanc did not question why the New York gunman had made his visit to Chicago. Questions of idle curiosity were not common among gangsters. Instead, he took the attitude that Heeny had accomplished something by bringing in this notorious master of the automatic.
"Want Monk to see the place in here?" he asked.
"Good idea, Joe," replied Heeny. "It's time for you to go in, anyway. Take him along with you; but don't introduce him. Let him look the lay over. He'll be recognized soon enough."
"All right, Ed," replied Le Blanc. "Keep your eye out to-night. Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak are inside."
"No!" Heeny's exclamation was one of astonishment. "They inside - alone?"
"Of course not," laughed Le Blanc. "The Homicide Twins are there, too. That evens things up, Ed, but I just thought I'd better tip you off."
"You hear that, Monk?" asked Heeny. "The Homicide Twins - that's them Italians - Genara and Anelmo. Couple of tough greaseballs, them fellows. Come over here a year ago. Pete Varona brought them in, and they've been on the job ever since. Working for the big shot now, ain't they, Joe?"
"They stand in right with Savoli," admitted Le Blanc. "Come along with us, Monk. We'll show you a gambling joint that would look neat in New York."
He left the table, motioning to Harry as he went. Monk Thurman followed, while Eddie Heeny took his place at the look-out position.
When they reached the wall behind the pillar, Le Blanc knocked twice, and a small peephole opened. The man behind recognized Le Blanc. The sliding panel moved aside, and the three men entered.

Harry had not realized that so many people had entered the gambling den. There was a good-sized crowd there now, and the room was filled with tobacco smoke. There was a low buzz of conversation, but most of the persons present were intent on their gambling.
Two quiet croupiers were operating the roulette wheels, and stacks of bills of high denomination were on the tables. The place was a miniature Monte Carlo, and the size of the stakes was evidently pleasing to Frank Marmosa, for that gentleman was walking about with a broad, beaming smile.
The proprietor noted Le Blanc the moment that he entered, and cast a glance of interrogation in his direction. Harry caught the significance; Marmosa wondered who Monk Thurman might be. Le Blanc made an upward gesture with his thumb, and Marmosa nodded.
"That's the O.K.," whispered Le Blanc to Harry. "The boss wanted to know if Monk was all right."
Then Le Blanc turned to the New York gangster, and took him across the room to the bar, where several men were drinking. The New Yorker ordered a drink, but left the glass on the bar. He seemed too deeply intent on his surroundings to indulge in the questionable enjoyment of Marmosa's liquor.
Harry's eyes wandered everywhere. All seemed occupied, with the exception of four sinister figures who commended Harry's close attention.
Two of these were "Hymie" Schultz and "Four-gun" Spirak. Those gangsters were apart; one watching a roulette wheel, the other near the door beside a faro table.
The other two were the Homicide Twins, Genara and Anelmo. They stood together in a corner of the room. One was watching Schultz; the other had his eye on Spirak.
Harry realized that he was watching four of the toughest killers in Chicago; notorious gunmen who thought nothing of murder in cold blood.
They were evenly matched, but the Homicide Twins were on the defensive. Unless the opposition started something, they would not act to-night.
Looking toward the bar, Harry noticed that Le Blanc and Thurman were engaged in close conversation.
Joe le Blanc was not worrying about the presence of Schultz and Spirak. He knew that Genara and Anelmo had them covered. Hence he was quietly talking with Monk Thurman, who had not yet been recognized by any one there.
Thurman, like Le Blanc, was indifferent to the presence of the four Chicago killers.
Five gunmen had gathered, and the comparison was intriguing to Harry Vincent - Schultz and Spirak, swaggering and leering; Genara and Anelmo, silent, and watchful.
But the most sinister figure of them all was Monk Thurman, the man who neither swaggered nor watched. His firm, immobile face betokened a calm determination that made him a more terrible personage than any of the Chicago gangsters.
As the minutes went by, Harry found that his gaze continually reverted to that man with the frozen face.

CHAPTER V
GUNS BARK

Midnight had passed, and the crowd had thinned. Many players had lost all their money, but those who remained were playing for tremendous stakes. Thousands and thousands of dollars were in view, stacked in piles of bills.
Harry moved alongside of Joe le Blanc, and nudged the man, to indicate the immense sums of money that formed the stakes. Le Blanc nodded.
"Big night," he said, in an undertone. "Marmosa's getting all he can. Savoli's man will be around to collect later on."
The Homicide Twins were still watching Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak, but the two unwelcome mobsters seemed quite indifferent to the money that was on display.
As for Monk Thurman, he seemed to be utterly oblivious to his surroundings. He was leaning with his back against the bar, his eyes half closed, as he listened to the chatter of Joe le Blanc, who had become voluble under the encouragement of many drinks.
Glen Colliver and his party were the principal players left. The advertising man tossed a thousand-dollar bill on number nine, and lost his bet. He shrugged his shoulders, and turned his pockets inside out with a laugh.
"That finishes us," he said. "Come along, folks. We'll play again some other night."
Sleek Frank Marmosa shook hands with Colliver as he left with his three companions. Then the proprietor returned, and glanced at the few players who remained, all of whom were men.
Harry could divine his thoughts. The big money was ended with Colliver's exit. There would be no purpose in keeping on with the play.
Standing in the center of the room, Marmosa slapped his hands together as a signal that the play should end. The croupiers stopped the wheels and began to gather up the profits of the night.
Harry looked for Hymie Schultz, and saw the gangster shrug his shoulders. Four-Gun Spirak joined him, and the two men sauntered from the room, the old doorman opening the panel for them to leave.
"Hot shots, ha-ha!" laughed Joe le Blanc. "Guess they got cold feet when they saw the Homicide Twins watching them. Came in to look the place over.
"Well, they got an eyeful. Marmosa had a big night, just to make them enjoy their visit."
He was addressing his words to Monk Thurman, but the New York gangster apparently did not hear them. He had slouched against the bar, and was half asleep, his head resting on one hand.
Harry had not observed Thurman drinking during the evening; he could not account for the man's stupor.
The last players were walking toward; the door, under the guidance of Frank Marmosa, when three revolver shots were heard. They were outside of the gambling den; evidently they had been fired in the restaurant.
The effect upon those present was electric. Harry felt a sudden nervous excitement, and looked around the room, almost expecting another shot close at hand.

The croupiers and Frank Marmosa had become as rigid as statues. They were listening, and wondering. The departing players were moving toward the wall, as though seeking a hiding place. The bartender and Joe le Blanc became suddenly still.
The only man who apparently did not hear the shots was Monk Thurman; the only ones who sprang to action were Genara and Anelmo, the sinister Homicide Twins.
The two gunmen rushed to the exit, pushed the doorman aside, and disappeared into the restaurant, leaving the panel open behind them. Those still in the gambling den remained motionless, expecting to hear some sound from without.
"Shut the door!" exclaimed Marmosa, addressing the doorman. The old attendant stood as though petrified, and the proprietor hurried forward to do the work himself.
Then he stepped suddenly backward, as two men plunged through the opening.
One darted into the center of the room, holding two automatics with which he covered the entire place. The other hesitated only an instant; just long enough to let the heavy panel slide back into place. Then he was with his companion, supporting him with two more gats.
The raiders were Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak. They had taken advantage of the departure of Genara and Anelmo. They had been out of sight behind the pillar when the Homicide Twins had dashed by. Now the field was theirs!
"Stick 'em up!"
The command came from Spirak. It was scarcely necessary, for most of the men in the room had unconsciously obeyed the moment that they had seen the guns. Harry Vincent did not realize that his hands were above his head until he looked upward and saw them.
Hymie Schultz, laughing sarcastically, was advancing toward the roulette tables, where the helpless croupiers were standing.
He had pocketed one gun now, to free his left hand for the task of gathering up the money that still lay in view. But he had nothing to fear. Spirak was covering every one with his automatics, and he had two reserve revolvers in the inside of his coat.
"Stick 'em up!"
The command was repeated by Spirak, an instant after his first cry, while Schultz was still advancing toward the wheels.
Harry glanced to his right, and saw the object of Spirak's threat. It was Monk Thurman, still slouched against the bar, who had not heeded Spirak's command.
The New York gunman was still in his stupor. Evidently he had not been conscious of anything that had happened. Even now, he was still oblivious, and made no sign of response.

Four-Gun Spirak hesitated only a brief moment. Evidently he and Schultz had no desire to use ammunition in the gambling den, even though shots had been fired outside. But Spirak was going to take no chances, even with a man who seemed unconscious.
Le Blanc kicked Monk Thurman, but the New Yorker made no response. That was his last chance.
Spirak swung the muzzle of one automatic in the direction of the man who was slouching on the bar, and the killer pressed his finger against the trigger.
A shot rang out, but it did not come from the gat wielded by Four-gun Spirak.
It was Monk Thurman who fired. His left hand had been hanging behind him. He had swung it upward the instant that Spirak covered him. The bullet from his automatic struck the hand that held the gun pointed at Monk.
Spirak's revolver fell to the floor. With an oath, the Chicago mobster brought his other gun into play, but here again a shot interrupted him. A bullet crashed into his forearm, and his second revolver dropped from his nerveless fingers.
With two amazing shots, Monk Thurman had disarmed Four-gun Spirak, and had left him helpless, and unable to draw his two remaining weapons.
Hymie Schultz was prompt in action. He had been reaching for the money when the first shot was fired. He wheeled suddenly just as Thurman's second bullet found its mark. He pressed the trigger of his automatic, but as he did, Thurman's gun barked once more. Thurman's shot struck the revolver held by Hymie Schultz, and the weapon clattered against the leg of the nearest roulette table. Hymie's first shot crashed into the bar, grazing the arm of Joe le Blanc; and that was the only bullet that left his automatic.
Hymie Schultz gave a quick glance about him. He saw Four-gun Spirak staggering toward the door, and he made a rush in that direction. Marmosa fell upon him, and the croupiers joined in.
There was a melee at the door, as the Marmosa crowd struggled with the gangsters.
There was no opportunity for Monk Thurman to fire another shot, for he might have hit friends as well as enemies. Schultz and Spirak were being overpowered, and their capture seemed certain.
But Hymie was a redoubtable fighter. He freed his left hand and pushed aside the sliding panel. Then he managed to pull his second automatic from his pocket.
Marmosa seized Hymie's wrist, but the wiry little gangster broke away. He pushed Four-gun Spirak through the open doorway, and with a snarl of vengeance, clubbed one croupier with his revolver, and leveled his hand to fire into his opponents.
But that action opened a direct line that ran from Monk Thurman to the biceps of Hymie's left arm. The New York gunman did not neglect the opportunity. His shot found its mark.
Hymie's arm dropped, and a croupier yanked the automatic from his grasp. The little gunman leaped through the door and followed Spirak into the restaurant.
There was confusion for a moment; then Marmosa ordered a pursuit. He pulled a revolver from his pocket, and he and the croupier who had Hymie's gun ran after the fleeing gangster.
"Come on!" cried Joe le Blanc.
Harry followed him. They reached the balcony of the restaurant, to find the dead body of Eddie Heeny sprawled across the table in a pool of crimson blood.
"They got him," was Le Blanc's only comment. "Come on, Vincent!"
They joined Marmosa and the croupier downstairs. Two policemen entered the restaurant. They recognized the proprietor.
Schultz and Spirak had escaped!

Marmosa was voluble in his explanations, and the policemen nodded their understanding. One of them called up headquarters.
The death of Eddie Heeny had made it a serious affair. Harry listened to Marmosa's words. The proprietor of the gambling den was telling a clever story.
"Two men came in here," he said. "They came to get Eddie Heeny, who was up there on the balcony. He shot them, but they killed him. We ran out here to get them, but they were gone."
"Who were they?" demanded one of the policemen.
Frank Marmosa shrugged his shoulders. Joe le Blanc duplicated the gesture. Harry and the croupier said nothing.
The men who had been gambling were coming down the stairs. They were not familiar with the affairs of gangland; they could not have told the names of the attackers had they been questioned. But Marmosa now had the situation under control. The guests were allowed to go.
Joe le Blanc drew Harry Vincent to a corner of the restaurant, and gave his explanation of the affair. The brief summary convinced Harry that Joe's theory was correct.
"There's another guy in this," whispered Le Blanc. "Some pal of Schultz and Spirak. He must have sneaked in here and waited downstairs. Then Schultz and Spirak came out to attract Heeny's attention.
"Heeny probably talked friendly to them, because they were out of the gambling joint. That gave their pal the chance to plug Heeny."
"But what about Genara and Anelmo?"
"That was all figured in the game. Schultz and Spirak got back behind the pillar while their pal was finishing Heeny. One shot did it.
"Anelmo and Genara came out and saw the guy running from the restaurant. They went after him. That gave Schultz and Spirak the chance to do their stuff."
The police were removing Heeny's body. Marmosa was talking to a headquarters man, and the proprietor's story seemed to be holding weight.
As the policemen left the place, Marmosa motioned to his three companions, and they went up the stairs, back toward the gambling room where the others still remained.
"Who was that bird?" questioned Marmosa, addressing Joe le Blanc. "The way he finished up Spirak and Schultz -"
"Who was he?" Le Blanc laughed loudly. "Did you ever hear of Monk Thurman?"
"Monk Thurman - from New York?"
"That's the guy!"
Marmosa paused to mop his brow with a silk handkerchief.
"Monk Thurman," he repeated, in wondering tones. "They say it was getting hot for him in New York. I didn't know he was here."
"Well, you know it now. Heeny brought him in. I didn't have a chance to tell you who he was."
"Wait until Savoli hears about this," said Marmosa. "I'm going to call up Mike Borrango; I want him to come around to collect to-night. This Monk Thurman is a man that he can use."
"And how!" exclaimed Le Blanc.

They entered the gambling room. The injured croupier was sitting in the corner; the bartender and the doorman had just finished binding his head.
"Where's Monk Thurman?" demanded Marmosa.
"Who?" asked the bartender.
"The fellow who was up here - the guy that crippled Schultz and Spirak."
"Why, he's right over there, leaning against the bar -"
The bartender paused, wondering.
"I saw him just a few minutes ago," he insisted. "Standing there, quietlike, saying nothing. I didn't see him go out of -"
"He'd have to go downstairs," replied Marmosa.
"Say!" Joe le Blanc had an explanation. "I'll bet he went out with those other fellows - the ones who were playing roulette."
"If he did, he's a wizard."
"That's what he did. It's the only way he could have done it."
Frank Marmosa made no reply. He was speechless. The others made no comment. They looked at each other in wonder, and in silent admiration of the amazing Monk Thurman.
To Harry Vincent, the event was a revelation.
There had been five gangsters in that room. Two, the Homicide Twins, had been outwitted. The others, Schultz and Spirak, had been conquered single-handed by a man who held one gun against their four.
Now this amazing gangster had gone, quietly and unobserved, leaving wonderment behind him.
Monk Thurman!
The man was a supergangster. Chicago had never known another like him; that was Le Blanc's strong statement.
But Harry Vincent was not comparing Monk Thurman with Chicago gangsters. He was comparing him with another person entirely. For Harry had seen another man who could act with such amazing promptness, and who had the ability to make mysterious departures which no one could fathom.
Monk Thurman was an incredible personage; his accomplishments seemed almost beyond human ability. Yet there was one other man as remarkable as Monk Thurman - a man whom neither Le Blanc nor Marmosa had ever seen.
Until this night, Harry Vincent had believed that only one human being was capable of performing the wonders just displayed by Monk Thurman - and that being was The Shadow!

CHAPTER VI
AT THE GRAY MILL

Marmosa, Harry Vincent, and Joe le Blanc, were having lunch in a corner of the balcony the following noon. Monk Thurman's action of the day before was on the minds of all of them.
Marmosa and Le Blanc were familiar with the havoc wrought by Chicago gunmen, and were forced to admit that this newcomer from New York had shown more finesse than any one they knew.
"Where can he be found?" questioned Marmosa. "Did he tell you where he was staying?"
Le Blanc shook his head.
"He didn't talk much," he said. "I never met him before. Heeny brought him in."
"Heeny's dead," Marmosa replied. "We can't learn from him - but I want to know."
"We might learn by tracing Heeny. Some one introduced him to Heeny. We'll learn who it was."
"That's right. See what you can find out, Joe."
"Well, I won't have much time," Joe said. "I'm going out to the Gray Mill this afternoon."
"That's the name of his new road house," said Marmosa to Vincent. "You remember? The one I was telling you about, eh?"
Harry nodded.
"I've got to be out there by eight o'clock," said Le Blanc. "I won't be able to be here to-night, Marmosa."
"That's all right," said me big man. "Vincent can do the work this trip. I'm not going to open until late, and I'm going to be careful for a few days."
"Maybe Thurman will show up at the Gray Mill," said Le Blanc thoughtfully. "I was telling him about the place last night."
"I wouldn't talk too much about it, Joe," observed Marmosa.
"Yeah, you're right there," replied Le Blanc. "But Thurman is O.K. You ought to know that. He proved it by the way he helped you out."
"Maybe so, Joe. But you didn't know that when you were talking to him. That was before he brought out his gat."
"Well, Heeny brought him in. Any one that came with Heeny was O.K."
"All right. Let's forget it. That reminds me that I need another gorilla to take Heeny's place."
"I'll get you one this afternoon."

Big Frank Marmosa leaned back in his chair, and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. He was evidently pondering upon something, and neither Vincent nor Le Blanc interrupted his meditation.
Finally the restaurant owner spoke the words that were in his mind.
"I'll tell you how it is, boys," he said. "I talked with Mike Borrango last night. I'd rather have talked to him than to the big boy, Savoli.
"Borrango has a tough job - enforcing. They don't all pay, like I do. He has to use a lot of pineapples."
"Bombs," explained Le Blanc, noticing the questioning expression on Vincent's face. "If a place doesn't come across with the dough, they toss pineapples in through the window. That's the time to duck."
"But pineapples don't work like they used to," said Marmosa. "Plenty of people are ready for them. What Borrango needs is a few more gorillas like Genara and Anelmo."
"Yeah?" questioned Le Blanc. "They weren't gorillas last night. They looked like a couple of monkeys. Running out the way they did, while Schultz and Spirak were still inside."
"That's just it," said Marmosa. "While they were bums on the job, Monk Thurman stepped in and did their trick alone. That's why Borrango is interested. He wants Monk Thurman to work for him."
"So that's why you want to see him?"
"You guessed it, Joe. I'm going to introduce him to Mike Borrango. He can use him."
"Maybe Thurman don't want to mix in things here."
"He can't get out of it now, Joe. There's two fellows now that are itching to put him on the spot."
"That's right. I guess Schultz and Spirak will be out to get him."
"I owe a lot to Monk Thurman," admitted Marmosa. "If he'd bumped off those two birds right in the gambling joint, it would have given me a lot to explain to the police. It was bad enough to have them get Heeny out in the restaurant."
"So you think the boys will be after Schultz and Spirak?" questioned Le Blanc. "Heeny's friends, I mean?"
"No, I don't. If they can find out who actually plugged Heeny, they'll get that bird. But Borrango told me not to expect anything regarding Schultz and Spirak.
"A place like mine is supposed to be fair game for any one that can stick it up. Any one that bumps off Schultz or Spirak will be in wrong with Larrigan.
"Right now, Al Vacchi is trying to smooth things with Larrigan. There's bad feeling between Larrigan and Varona, and the big boy doesn't like it. So Schultz and Spirak are safe.
"But there's nothing to stop them from putting Monk Thurman on the spot, if they can find him."
"I get you now," said Le Blanc. "You figure it will be for Thurman's benefit if he gets in with the big shot."
"Right!"
Joe le Blanc arose from the table.
"Well, I'll see what I can do about it," he said. "But I can't promise anything until to-morrow."

He left the restaurant, while Marmosa was giving new instructions to Harry Vincent. Outside, Joe le Blanc crossed the street and walked leisurely to a garage, where he kept his car, a new coupe that was capable of great speed. He drove northward, beyond the city limits, and reached the Gray Mill.
The building was an old house that had been renovated. The work had just been completed; the furnishings were not yet entirely installed. Le Blanc drove his car into the garage, and went in through the back of the house.
He entered the front room of the road house, which was arranged for a dance floor. He crossed the spacious apartment and unlocked a door. Then he stepped into a fair-sized room which was furnished with a large table and several chairs.
The room had iron shutters. Le Blanc did not open them. He turned on a light, and sat in the corner.
"Monk Thurman," he said musingly. "What did I tell that guy last night? I can't seem to remember much what I was saying. I told him about this place. I remember that."
As a matter of fact, Joe le Blanc had given Monk Thurman a great deal of information. Encouraged by a few drinks, he had done his best to impress the New York mobster with his importance.
Joe le Blanc was not an important figure in gangdom; in fact, his influence was almost nil. But the new road house in which he was now seated carried a real attraction to those who wanted a meeting place outside the city limits.
In fact, Joe le Blanc had been assured that his place would be a rendezvous for certain mobsters, and he was expecting to hold his first party that night.
"Must have told Monk Thurman more than just that," said Le Blanc meditatively. "Guess I told him about some of the boys I knew. What they do, and how they do it. Well, I know a lot. I hope Monk was listening to everything I said."
There was a knock at the door. Le Blanc opened the portal.
"Everything is in, Mr. le Blanc," said a sour-looking, middle-aged man.
"Good work, Harper. Have you made all the arrangements for tonight?"
"Everything is ready, sir."
"All right. Wake me up when the gang comes."

Le Blanc sat in a large armchair and began to doze. Within a few minutes the sound of his snores could be heard throughout the room. In fact, they might have been audible through the slight crack beneath the iron shutters.
Darkness fell, and Joe le Blanc slept on. The iron shutters moved very slightly, and noiselessly. They opened a few inches, and a hand appeared through the window. It held a small instrument, and as the hand groped about, it discovered a radiator beside the window.
The hand deposited the instrument behind the radiator. A wire ran through the window, but the hand covered it by moving a few magazines that were on the window sill.
One of the magazines slipped as though by accident, and laid against the top of the radiator.
There was a light burning in the room, but all this was unseen by Joe le Blanc, because he was asleep. Then the shutters were pressed close together noiselessly.
Half an hour later, Joe le Blanc was awakened by a knock at the door. It was Harper, announcing that the expected guests had arrived; Le Blanc stretched himself, turned on another light, and went to the door.
A group of gangsters entered, and shook hands with Le Blanc. They gathered about the table, and Harper brought in food and dishes. While they ate, the middle-aged attendant supplied them with liquor.
It was an auspicious preliminary party to the opening of the Gray Mill, so far as Joe le Blanc was concerned.
During the next two hours, he considered himself to be a big shot, at last. For the mobsmen who had honored him with their presence were notorious members of Nick Savoli's staff of gunmen, and they promised Le Blanc that they would make his road house a regular rendezvous.
The conversation drifted occasionally to affairs of gangdom, but for the most part it concerned horse racing, and other subjects of a sporting nature.
The only fault found with Le Blanc's party was that it was a stag affair. One of the visiting gunmen insisted that it would have been improved by the presence of some girls.
"Come around after the place is opened," said Le Blanc. "I'll have plenty of molls here. Bring some along with you, if you want, but you'll meet a lot of classy ones here at the Gray Mill."
About ten o'clock, the gangsters began to leave. Most of them had some special reason for being back in Chicago before midnight. Hence the party dwindled away until only one man remained with Joe le Blanc.
This one man was dark-faced, and wore a black mustache. He had a smooth appearance, and one might have mistaken him for a professional gambler rather than a gunman.
No one apparently suspected that this man had been waiting for the others to leave; nevertheless that was his purpose in staying. For as soon as the crowd was gone, the one remaining man drew a chair to the side of the table, and looked questioningly at Joe le Blanc.

CHAPTER VII
PLANS ARE MADE

"Well, Steve," remarked Joe le Blanc, "how do you like the joint?"
"You asked us all that question," responded the stocky man with the black mustache. "That isn't why you tipped me off to stay after the others went. What's on your mind, Joe? Spill it!"
Joe le Blanc stared shrewdly at the man who had spoken so plainly. He had intended to lead up slowly to the idea that he had in mind; but now he decided that direct procedure was the best policy.
"Listen, Steve," he said, "you and I can do a lot for each other. Savvy?"
The other man laughed.
"I might be able to do a lot for you, Joe. It's a question how much you could do for me."
"I can do plenty, Steve."
"What, for instance?"
"Well, I can tip you off to a bit of interesting information for a starter. Did you ever hear of Monk Thurman?"
The question produced another laugh from the stocky individual.
"Did I ever hear of Monk Thurman!" he exclaimed. "What's this, a game of 'Ask Me Another'? Next you'll be wanting to know if I ever heard of George Washington."
Joe le Blanc indulged in a grim smile.
"All right," he said. "Of course you've heard of Monk Thurman. But did you ever meet him?"
"Yes."
"How often?"
"Several times."
"Does he know you?"
"I don't think so."
"Good." Joe le Blanc's statement was emphatic. "Steve Cronin knows Monk Thurman. Monk Thurman doesn't know Steve Cronin."
"All right," replied the other man. "Monk Thurman doesn't know me. But Monk Thurman's in New York. How does that concern us?"
"Monk Thurman is in Chicago!" answered Le Blanc.
"What of it?" retorted Cronin. "He doesn't mean anything here. I'm in with the Chicago big shots. I wouldn't give a plugged nickel for all the gangs in New York."
"No?" questioned Le Blanc. "Well, Nick Savoli would give a lot of real dough just to have Monk Thurman on his pay roll. What do you think of that?"

Cronin stared sharply at the other man. Joe le Blanc smiled. His words had created the impression that he had desired. He knew that Steve Cronin's interest was now aroused.
He waited quietly, anticipating an exclamation of surprise from Cronin, and he was not disappointed.
"Savoli wants Thurman?" cried Cronin. "What does the big shot know about Monk Thurman? How does that guy figure in Chicago?
"Why, I heard that he was finding things pretty tough in New York - that he was in wrong all around!"
"Well, he's in right here," retorted Joe le Blanc. "When I say that Nick Savoli wants him, I mean that Mike Borrango wants him, and that amounts to about the same thing."
This new statement did not please Steve Cronin. There was an anxious expression on the dark man's face, and he looked at Le Blanc as though demanding further details.
"Here's the low-down, Steve," said the proprietor of the Gray Mill. "There was a fracas at Frank Marmosa's, last night."
"I heard about it," said Cronin. "Somebody plugged Eddie Heeny, while he was in the restaurant. They say that Schultz and Spirak were mixed up in it.
"But what has that got to do with Monk Thurman?"
"Just this." Joe le Blanc leaned across the table and spoke emphatically. "Heeny was killed in the restaurant. But the real blow-off was in the gambling joint. Schultz and Spirak tried to stick up the place."
"No!" There was incredulity in Cronin's voice. "Where were the Homicide Twins? I thought they protected Marmosa."
"Where were they? Outside, following a blind lead. Chasing the guy that plugged Heeny.
"Larrigan's men were in the joint, and they had us covered. But Monk Thurman was there, too. Listen, Steve, you missed the greatest gun play of your life.
"Monk crippled both those boys like they were a couple of Boy Scouts. He was laying against the bar like he was asleep, and he just put those two false alarms out of commission in about five seconds!"
"Monk Thurman did that? I can't believe it, Joe."
"Why not? He's a killer, isn't he?"
"Yes, but he doesn't work that way. He fights with a mob. Shoots at close range. This marksmanship stuff is news to me."
"I saw it, Steve."
"He's playing a new game then. But how does that tie him up with the big shot?"
Joe le Blanc laughed.
"Wake up, Steve," he said. "Marmosa pays coin to Savoli, doesn't he?"
"Of course."
"Well, he called up Mike Borrango last night, and told him all about the battle, when Mike came to collect the cut."
"Did he introduce Thurman to Borrango?"
"No. Monk was gone."
"Oh!" There was a note of relief in Cronin's interjection. "So Borrango hasn't got hold of Thurman, yet."
"Not yet, Steve. That's why I'm wising you up. Monk Thurman is a killer de luxe. He did a better job last night than Genara and Anelmo could have done together.
"He's the kind of a torpedo that both Savoli and Borrango can use.

Steve Cronin sat for a moment in careful thought. He reached to the table, poured himself a drink from a bottle, and then turned to Joe le Blanc.
"Thanks for the tip-off, Joe," he said. "I get your drift exactly. You know what I've been doing here. I came in as a stranger. I got with Savoli. I've moved up, right along. I'm one of his best men right now."
"That's right, Steve. I'm a friend of yours. I want to see you stay where you are - or get further."
"O.K., Joe. Well, I'm getting farther. I'm going out on a real job to-morrow night. When I pull that one, I'll be worth plenty dough to Savoli!"
Le Blanc did not reply, but he raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner. Cronin observed him; and smiled slightly.
"Can't tell you what it is, Joe," he said. "I'm leaving Savoli's some time in the evening. The alibi is all fixed. I'll let you in on this much of it - I'm taking Guisto's place."
"I get you, Steve. He got his the other night, didn't he?"
"Yeah -"
"Say, you're with Machine-gun McGinnis, now, aren't you? I suppose he will be on to-morrow night's job."
Steve Cronin snapped his fingers.
"Enough said, Joe," was his reply. "Forget it, now. What concerns you is this: after to-morrow night, I'm going to mean something here in Chicago. I'll have the jump on the rest of the boys. I don't want any competition."
"Such as -"
"Such as Monk Thurman. That's why I'm glad you tipped me off. I heard that Monk was through in New York. The West Side gang was out to get him. Well, he's made a mistake if he's come to Chicago."
"I don't know about that, Steve. Savoli wants him, that's a good start for him."
"Well, I hope Savoli don't find him. That gives me an idea, Joe. Suppose, before Savoli or Borrango find Monk Thurman, Schultz and Spirak get ahold of him. Where will Monk Thurman be then?"
"Out in a ditch, full of lead."
"Correct. Then he won't be any use to Savoli."
"I get you, Steve."
"Right, Joe. If you locate Monk, just pass the word along to Larrigan's gang. Then it will be curtains for this tough gorilla from New York."
Joe le Blanc nodded his head as he looked shrewdly toward his companion. He knew that he could profit greatly by aligning himself with Nick Savoli's henchmen. He had chosen Steve Cronin as the first one to approach, chiefly because Cronin was advancing rapidly in the employ of the big shot.

Steve Cronin had come to Chicago a few months before. He was wanted in New York, and he kept away from the East. Under the protection of Nick Savoli, he had developed into a notorious gunman.
Cronin was famed for his nerve. He had displayed it often in the past, when working in his own interests. Now, as Savoli's man, he had reached a high place in Chicago gangdom. It was rumored that he was slated to become Nick Savoli's personal bodyguard.
To be of service to Steve Cronin was Joe le Blanc's aim. Every gangster in Chicago was known to Le Blanc. He was one of those characters who hedge the borderland of gangdom, and who are safe so long as they mind their own affairs.
Le Blanc had been cautious in his actions. He had emphasized his connection with Frank Marmosa, and he intended to run his road house on the same plan that Marmosa utilized with the restaurant. But he had nothing to lose, and much to gain, by cultivating a secret friendship with Steve Cronin.
Before concluding the conversation, he made this fact evident.
"Listen, Steve," he remarked, in a careful tone. "I've got to watch everything that I do. I'm not out to get into trouble. I'm going to run this place and be friends to everybody. But at the same time, if I can be of help to you -"
"I've got the idea, Joe," interrupted Cronin. "Play with me, and you won't lose a thing. You tipped me off to some real news to-night. Keep on with that kind of work."
"But get me straight," insisted Le Blanc. "I'm no double-crosser, Steve. I'm friends to everybody - but I'll work with you, and with nobody else."
Steve Cronin grinned. He realized that Le Blanc was speaking the truth, and he saw how the alliance could prove of great value to himself.
Cronin lacked much important knowledge about Chicago. In his period of service with Savoli, he had depended upon information given to him by the big shot, or by Borrango, the enforcer. But here was opportunity.
"I can do a lot, Steve," continued Le Blanc, anxious to impress Cronin with his own importance. "I can tip you off to where guys are, when you're looking for them. I can even get them out here - but I can't do that too often. I've got to play safe, Steve -"
"That's right, Joe. I won't expect too much of you. Play with me, that's all. And if you want to make a real start, find where Monk Thurman is, and see to it that Larrigan's men get the dope."
"Right, Steve."
Steve Cronin shoved his hand toward Joe le Blanc, and the other man responded. As they clasped hands, Cronin summarized their alliance.
"You for me, and me for you. That's the racket, Joe. Get it?"
"You for me," repeated Le Blanc, "and me for you."
Steve Cronin arose.
"Time to be getting in to town," he said. "Got your car here?"
"In the garage, Steve."
"Big car or a little one?"
"A coupe."
"Great. I don't like sedans. Sometimes you have a friend in the back seat of a big car - and sometimes a friend isn't always a friend."
"That's the truth, Steve."

The two men left the room. Harper came in as they entered, and removed the bottles. Then he turned out the lights.
Scarcely had the room became dark before the iron shutters opened as noiselessly as they had in the afternoon. An invisible hand came over the window sill, and removed the small instrument from behind the radiator.
Outside the road house, a still, shadowy form moved back across the lawn to a clump of bushes. That spot had been the receiving end of the dictograph connection, where the invisible listener had overheard the entire conversation that had passed between Joe le Blanc and Steve Cronin.
No one saw the black shape enter the bushes. It remained there. When Joe le Blanc drove his car from the garage, the headlights shone directly upon the shrubbery, but they revealed nothing. The coupe moved slowly, and as it passed beside the bushes, Joe le Blanc spoke.
"I told Monk Thurman to come out here," he said, "and I kind of expected him to-night. But now I'm glad he didn't show up -"
Steve Cronin grunted a reply of approval as the car swung away from the shrubbery beside the drive.
As the red light on the rear of the automobile moved toward the highway, there was a sound that emerged from the silence of the bushes.
It was a sound that did not reach the ears of Le Blanc or Cronin, for they were then too far away, and the noise of the motor was throbbing in their ears.
Had they heard the sound, they would have been amazed - Joe le Blanc because of the strangeness of the sound; Steve Cronin, because he had heard that sound in the past.
Le Blanc would not have understood it; Cronin would have understood it too well.
For the sound that emerged from those closely woven bushes was a laugh - a strident laugh - a sinister, mocking laugh, that increased with the tempo of a winter wind, and dwindled away to a nothingness that carried an uncanny echo.
It was a laugh that had struck terror into the hearts of brave men; a laugh that carried a meaning that none could grasp, yet that all could fear. It was a laugh that seemed like the mockery of the night itself.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!

CHAPTER VIII
SAVOLI GIVES ORDERS

At eight o'clock the next evening, a man approached the Escadrille Apartments, just outside the Loop district of Chicago. On entering the pretentious building, he stopped in front of an open elevator, where the operator surveyed him in a casual manner.
"Hello, Steve," said the elevator man. "Step in. You're expected upstairs."
Steve Cronin entered the elevator. He did not give the floor number. The operator knew where he was going - to the fourth floor. For the Escadrille Apartments were owned by Nick Savoli, and the king of Chicago gangland lived on the fourth floor.
The elevator operators were gunmen in disguise. They received full instructions when they went on duty. To the average person entering the Escadrille, they would have appeared to be ordinary elevator men.
But the man who operated the car in which Steve Cronin rode upstairs carried an automatic beneath his trim uniform, and had any strange gangster tried to go up to Savoli's apartment, he would have encountered unexpected resistance.
Nick Savoli did not occupy the entire building. The other tenants of the Escadrille were wealthy persons who knew very little about the man who lived on the fourth floor.
Every one used the elevator; the only stairs were those that led through fire tower. It was impossible to reach the fourth floor except by elevator, as the fire tower exits were barred from the inside.
Steve Cronin slouched against the side of the elevator as he rode upward. The operator cast an admiring glance in his direction. He envied Steve's position in gangland.
Cronin made frequent visits to the home of the big shot, and there were few gangsters to whom Nick Savoli granted that privilege.
The elevator stopped at the fourth floor. Steve Cronin stepped out, and stood before an iron grille. Beyond the ornamental device was a small antechamber.
The gangster pressed a push button. A stalwart Italian servant appeared. He recognized Cronin and unfastened the locked gate.
Cronin passed through the gate and entered a room on the right. Huge shelves of bookcases decorated the walls. The handsomely bound volumes showed no signs of having ever been removed from their resting places.
Cronin seated himself in a large leather chair. He took a cigarette from a stand, and lighted it. Leaning back comfortably, he puffed in an insolent manner, and threw out his chest with an air of self-satisfaction.

A door opened at the far end of the library, and two men entered. Both were dressed in tuxedos. One was short, and heavy set. The other was tall, and slightly stoop-shouldered. The short man walked across the room, and approached Steve Cronin. The gangster waved his hand in greeting.
"Hello, Nick," he said.
The short man nodded. No smile appeared on his dark-visaged face - a face that seemed rough despite the fact that it was smooth-shaven. This man sat in a chair near Cronin, and looked intently at the gangster.
Despite his feigned nonchalance, Steve Cronin was inwardly ill at ease, for he was now in the presence of Nick Savoli, the reputed overlord of gangdom.
The tall, dark, stoop-shouldered man who had accompanied Savoli took a standing position against a bookcase at the side of the room. He was none other than Mike Borrango, prime minister of gangland's emperor.
There were no formalities in this meeting. Steve Cronin, a gangster of recognized ability, had the privilege of greeting his chief as "Nick."
The king of the racketeers made no pretense of royal ceremony. He was a man who ridiculed sham, for his real power was greater than that of a monarch. His single word could bring swift death; his henchmen obeyed his commands without a murmur.
Steve Cronin knew that he had been summoned for a mission. He had already received an inkling of this from Mike Borrango, as he had intimated to Joe le Blanc.
He knew that there was a big job ahead, and he could already hear the rattle of a machine gun in his imagination.
Savoli did not speak at once. Instead, he lighted an expensive cigar.
"What's up, chief?" questioned Cronin, in a hoarse voice. He was anxious to end this tension.
Savoli did not reply. He still gazed at the gangster. Then he turned toward Borrango, and raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.
Borrango stared at Cronin also, and made no sign in reply. Savoli evidently took this as a mark of approval.
"Steve," he said, "you have done some nice work. Some very nice work."
Cronin grinned at the compliment.
"Very nice work," resumed Savoli. "You think you can do more nice work?"
"Anything you want, Nick," replied Cronin gruffly. "Tell me what to do, and I'll do it."
"What do you think, Mike?" asked Savoli, turning to Borrango.
The tall Italian thereupon shrugged his shoulders.
"You need another man, Nick," he said, in a smooth, musical voice. "I think that Steve can speak for himself. You heard what he just said."

Cronin looked at Borrango, and gripped his hands together in simulation of a handshake. It was his method of thanking Borrango for the recommendation. He did not know that Savoli and Borrango had discussed this matter before he had arrived.
Right now they were creating an effect in Cronin's mind. They formed an admirable team of pretenders, Savoli and Borrango. The average mobster was always deceived by their actions.
Savoli, skeptical, and hard visaged, seemed difficult to convince. Borrango, smooth, and suave, could make the average man believe that black was white.
Borrango was called the enforcer, but it was seldom that he used brutal tactics. His method was to make compromises; to offer compliments; and to bring others to his way of thinking.
At this very moment, Steve Cronin believed that he stood "in right" with Mike Borrango. He held the impression that the enforcer was fixing everything for him, so that he might gain Nick Savoli's full favor.
As a matter of fact, Borrango was playing his usual game. With Mike Borrango, fallacies were more desirable than fact. He liked to lie and to create false impressions, for he was imaginative and ingenious, and neither of those qualities was necessary to tell plain truth.
"Very well." Savoli's comment came as a final statement. It seemed as though he had suddenly decided to choose Steve Cronin for to-night's mission. "I shall count on you, Steve. You explain to him, Mike."
The tall Italian leaned back against the bookcase.
"It is this way, Steve," he said, in his perfect, purring English. "We are putting a man on the spot to-night. Machine-gun McGinnis is doing the trick, and you are to be with him."
"O.K. with me," responded Cronin.
"It is important that you have an alibi," resumed Borrango. "We have arranged that, with Georgie Sommers. You know where his place is. Go there from here."
Steve Cronin nodded. He knew that Georgie Sommers was an alibi man, but he had never yet been sent to the man's place.
Sommers ran a small cigar store, where gangsters frequently dropped in to park their guns when they were entering the Loop. There were times when gunmen went without guns, yet wanted their automatics when they were in a hurry.
"Will McGinnis be there, too?" questioned Cronin.
"Do not worry about McGinnis," replied Borrango. "Just tell Sommers you want to play cards upstairs. He will know what you mean.
"He will show you out the back way. Cover your tracks from there on, until you get to Hallahan's garage. You will find a big touring car there. Get in it. Take orders from McGinnis."
"O.K., Mike."
"Afterward, go back to Sommers. He will introduce you to a young lady whom you may have met before. Go to a night club with her. That will give you a double alibi."
"O.K. I go back into Sommers' place the same way he lets me out."
"Certainly."

Silence followed. Steve Cronin looked questioningly at both Savoli and Borrango. The king of gangsters was staring at him, as though still unconvinced that he had chosen the right man. The enforcer counteracted his chief's critical glance by a slight smile of approval.
"Anything else?" questioned Cronin.
Mike Borrango shook his head.
"Don't I know the name of the guy we're going to put on the spot?" asked Cronin.
"That is a natural question," replied Borrango softly. "Yet it may be best for you to wait until McGinnis tells you. He will do the principal work. You are helping him to-night."
Savoli made an interruption.
"I'll tell him, Mike," he said, as though bestowing a favor upon Cronin. "This is an important job. Best for him to know."
Borrango bowed his approval.
"You're going to get Morris Clarendon," said Savoli.
"What!" Steve Cronin's voice was incredulous. "You don't mean -"
"That's just the man I do mean," replied Nick Savoli emphatically. "Morris Clarendon, the assistant district attorney."
Steve Cronin steadied himself with an effort.
The name of Morris Clarendon was known to every gangster in Chicago. Clarendon was a fearless prosecutor, one who had sent racketeers and bootleggers to jail despite the efforts of gangland's high-salaried lawyers.
"You are to get Morris Clarendon," said Borrango, as though echoing the words of his chief. "He has been a trouble-maker. It is time that he was put on the spot. So do not fail."
Steve Cronin nodded, and a gleam of satisfaction appeared in his eyes. Determination governed his features, for he realized that here was the opportunity he had long awaited.
Steve recalled that an important case was coming up within the next week, and that Clarendon had announced that he would send two prominent racketeers to jail. The assistant district attorney was keeping certain witnesses under cover. Gangland had not been able to reach them.
Now Cronin thought he understood. With Clarendon dead, the unknown witnesses would lose their protector. More than that, they would be terrified by the death of the man upon whom they relied. They would fear the iron hand of Nick Savoli, king of mobsters.

But Steve Cronin knew only half the story. Nick Savoli was no clumsy fool. When he used his methods, he always considered the future.
The racketeers who were up for trial had no connection with him. On the contrary, they were secretly identified with Larrigan, archenemy of King Savoli.
This killing was to accomplish two ends: first, to eliminate the one prosecutor who was a thorn to Nick Savoli; second, to make trouble for those gangsters who had interfered too often in Savoli's business.
Neither Savoli nor Borrango explained this. They wanted Steve Cronin to fear for his own safety; to thank them for the alibi which they had provided. So they remained as motionless and as expressionless as pieces of statuary, while they watched the emotions that Cronin betrayed.
They knew that he had been momentarily amazed by the boldness of his mission; but they had also anticipated that his pride in his own prowess would dominate his actions.
In this they were not disappointed. Steve Cronin arose from his chair, pushed his cigarette stump into the ash tray, and swaggered toward the door. There he stopped, extended his arms, and snapped his fingers.
"Morris Clarendon," he said, with a short laugh. "What does he mean? They're all alike to me. Guess they're all the same to McGinnis, too. Where are we going to knock him off?"
"McGinnis will tell you that," said Savoli.
"O.K.," answered Steve Cronin. "Is that all?"
"That's all," said Savoli.
Cronin waved his hand in farewell and left the room, rang for the elevator and went downstairs.
"Wait a minute, Steve," said the operator, as they reached the ground floor. "Stay right here a minute."
He went to the front door, and peered in both directions, along the street. Then he returned.
"What's up, kid?" questioned Cronin.
"Nothing, I guess," replied the operator. "Just wanted to make sure. A little while ago I went outside - just after I took you up. Went to the front door to smoke a cigarette. Thought I saw a guy slide up to the edge of the building."
"What did he look like?"
"I couldn't see. I wasn't even sure it was a man. Looked like somebody slipping into the shadow alongside of the entrance. I went out to look around. Didn't see anybody. But I just wanted to be sure it wasn't any one watching you."
"All right, kid," said Cronin. "Guess you'd better lay off this stuff they call good liquor. Nobody's worrying about me. I'm not doing anything."
He left the apartment house, and as he went out of the door, he glanced at the shadowy spot mentioned by the elevator operator. It was only a small dark place near the entrance, and Steve Cronin laughed as he saw it.
Had Steve Cronin been less intent in his consideration of machine guns, and his plans for the night, he might have looked behind him as he walked along the street. But even if he had looked behind him, he probably would have seen nothing.
For the form which moved from the spot of blackness beside the entrance to the Escadrille Apartments was scarcely more than a shadowy blot. It emerged before Cronin had gone more than thirty feet. It flitted across the entrance, then disappeared again.
The shadowy blot had the form of a man's silhouette, yet no person was visible against the wall. Then the moving blackness disappeared, and was lost in the night.
Still, it followed Steve Cronin, and always remained the same distance behind him. For every time the gangster passed beneath the bright lights of a street corner, the moving shadow became visible as it flitted swiftly after him.

CHAPTER IX
MESSENGERS OF DEATH

Steve Cronin followed a round-about path to the cigar store that was run by Georgie Sommers. The time had not yet arrived for his prospective alibi but he realized that it was advisable for him to utilize discretion during every stage of this night's venture. In fact, he probably would not have been summoned to Nick Savoli's apartment, but for the fact that he had been a frequent visitor there during the past few weeks.
The cigar store was located on a side street at the edge of the Loop. Cronin entered the place and was pleased to observe that it was virtually deserted. Georgie Sommers, a rotund man who looked like an ex-bartender, stood behind the counter in his shirt sleeves, and waved his hand in greeting when the gunman arrived.
"Hello, Georgie," said Steve Cronin. "Not many of the boys here to-night. Checking business getting slow?"
"Not a bit of it," replied Sommers. "They've all been here and gone."
"I'm kind of late, eh? Well, I'm not going anywhere for a while. How about a game of cards, Georgie? Anything doing?"
Sommers looked at Cronin rather skeptically. He had not been told whom to expect. He wanted to be sure that the gangster was the right man.
Sommers knew that Cronin was well established with both Savoli and Borrango. Nevertheless he believed in being careful.
"A game of cards, eh?" he questioned.
"You said it, Georgie," answered Cronin. "Any of the bunch upstairs now?"
The cigar-store owner shook his head. Then he seemed to gain a sudden thought.
"Say, Steve," he remarked, in a confidential tone. "I've got a girl friend who would like to meet you. She's coming over here in a little while. How about coming upstairs until she arrives? Maybe we can play cards - and maybe -"
He paused and made the motion of lifting a glass to his lips. The action brought a grin to Cronin's face.
"Good stuff, Georgie?"
"The best there is, Steve. I don't peddle it. Just keep a little for my friends. Came over the border last week."
"O.K. with me, Georgie."
The cigar man opened the back door of the room and called upstairs. A young clerk came down, and Sommers ordered him to take charge of the shop.
Then he led Steve Cronin up the stairs, to a room where the blinds were drawn. He brought out a bottle and two glasses.

While the two men were engaged in conversation, a slight incident occurred in the cigar store below.
A man staggered into the place and ordered a pack of cigarettes. He found fault with the brand that was given to him, and began an argument with the clerk.
The clerk went to the show case behind the counter to obtain the cigarettes required. When he turned around, he was surprised to see that the man had left. There was no one else in the store at the time.
The clerk decided that his customer had walked out. So he forgot all about the matter.
Had the clerk been watching the customer, he would have been surprised by the man's actions. For the stranger had not left the store.
The moment that the clerk had turned, he had moved noiselessly to the back of the store and had slipped through the door to the stairway.
Once behind the door, the man strode rapidly up the stairs. Yet he moved with catlike stealth. He paused outside the half-opened door of the room where Georgie Sommers and Steve Cronin were conversing. The cigar-store owner was giving instructions to the gangster.
"Walk across the hall, Steve," he was saying, "and go down the back stairs. You'll find a door leading out on the alley. Come in the same way. It has a trick lock. Pull out the knob before you turn it."
"All right, Georgie," replied Cronin.
"You'll find me here when you get back," added Sommers. "Don't lose any time. The sooner you're here, the better."
The gangster did not reply. He apparently decided that the sooner he started the better it would be. He opened the door of the room, and as he did so, the man in the hallway merged suddenly with the shadowy wall.
The door opened outward. There was a small space in back of it, and the man was lost in that narrow hiding place.
Steve Cronin found the back stairs, and groped his way down through the darkness. He stumbled once or twice, and made some noise despite his carefulness, for the stairs were rough and winding.
The man who followed him made no noise. He moved silently, as though possessed of eyesight that could see through the darkness.
Steve Cronin opened the back door and closed it behind him. He had not gone more than thirty feet along the alley before the door again opened, just far enough to allow passage for the form of a tall, thin man.
Cronin happened to glance backward at that particular moment, yet he saw nothing. For the door had opened softly and slowly, and the man who had come through the opening was clad in a black cloak that made him invisible in the gloom of the alley.

Twenty minutes later, Steve Cronin arrived at Hallahan's garage. He glanced up and down the street before he entered the building. Then he stepped through the doorway, and immediately spotted the touring car for which he was looking.
The automobile stood in an obscure corner. The gangster walked to it, unobserved, and climbed in the large back seat. He noted that the flap curtains were on the sides of the car. That was natural, for the night was cloudy, and rain was threatening.
A voice spoke from the darkness.
"That you, Cronin?"
"Right."
"Lay low then. I'm McGinnis. We've got a couple of minutes to wait for Brodie. He's driving us to night."
Steve Cronin recognized the name of Brodie. He realized that he was with two of the most stalwart workers in Nick Savoli's mob of killers.
Brodie was the man who had driven the car in which Savoli had escaped the gunfire of a rival gang chief - a man who had been killed afterward as a reward for his attempt on Savoli's life. "Machine-gun" McGinnis was reputed to have fired the fatal shots that had brought down two of Savoli's enemies while they were walking along Michigan Boulevard.
"Here's Brodie now," whispered McGinnis.
Steve Cronin turned toward the door through which he had entered the rear seat, and thought he detected a motion of the curtains. Then he heard a noise on the other side, and looked to see Brodie entering the driver's seat. He could not distinguish the man's features in the darkness.
"Funny thing," said Cronin, half aloud. "I thought he was getting in back with us."
He looked around to make sure that he had not been deceived. A pile of robes lay on the other side of the back seat, and as Cronin reached in that direction, his hand encountered cold metal - the barrel of a machine gun.
"Stay over on this side," warned McGinnis. "I've got the typewriter ready, there, under the blankets. Don't touch it until we need it."
"Ready?" asked Brodie.
"Go ahead," replied McGinnis. "You know where we're going. Over by Birch's drug store."
The touring car rolled slowly from the garage, and as it reached the street, McGinnis drew Cronin to the floor beside him.
"Lay low," he whispered. "Make it look like the car was empty. We'll get the typewriter ready in a minute."
In gangland's parlance, the word typewriter meant machine gun; the instrument of death was so called because its rapid clicks resembled the noise of typewriter keys.
"We're working from this side," explained McGinnis. "This guy Clarendon is something of a dumb cluck, even though he thinks he's smart. He's going to be waiting on the corner for us."
"How was that fixed?" asked Cronin.
"I don't know," replied McGinnis. "But he fell for some line of hokum, or he wouldn't be there now. There's just a chance that we won't find him, but Borrango says that he'll be there, sure."
The automobile swung into a wide street. Far up ahead an electric sign displayed the name of Birch.
"That's the spot, up ahead," whispered McGinnis to Cronin, preparing the gun for action. "He ought to be outside right now."
As a matter of fact, Morris Clarendon was outside of Birch's drug store at that very moment. He had been waiting for more than fifteen minutes, and he intended to wait indefinitely. For the assistant prosecutor had arranged a meeting, at that place, with a man whom he believed would be an important material witness in a forthcoming trial.
Clarendon did not know that the person whom he expected would never keep the appointment. Gangsters had killed the man two nights before, and the victim's body had not yet been found.
Savoli's emissaries were thorough in their methods. They had learned of the rendezvous, and they knew that Clarendon had promised to wait until his man arrived. The drug store had been chosen as a meeting place because it was in a district unfrequented by gangsters.
The young attorney had no thought of impending danger. He paid no attention to the vehicles passing in the street. Standing in the full light of the corner, he was watching for the approach of the man he expected.
It was a freak of chance that warned Morris Clarendon of the doom which threatened him; and like so many of Fate's grim jokes, the warning was to come too late.
A gust of wind swept across the sidewalk, and carried a hat from a man's head. Clarendon saw the hat roll into the street. It was captured by its owner, and the man leaped back to the sidewalk to escape an approaching car.
Clarendon saw this, and the movement of the car immediately held his attention. For the automobile was a touring car with sideflaps; it was swinging toward the curb in an eccentric fashion; and its whole appearance and action betrayed its purpose.
Morris Clarendon recognized it as a death car, and in one brief instant he realized that he was the object of its threat.
He looked for a place to dodge; but he was too late. The car was almost upon him, now.
He was standing twenty feet from the corner, against the wall of the building. There was no doorway near. Clarendon's knees could not respond to his desire to rush for safety.
All was futile. The car was at the curb, swinging slowly onward, and beneath the flap of the rear seat the young district attorney saw the projecting muzzle of the machine gun - a blackened muzzle that looked like the mouthpiece of a telephone.
That muzzle meant death! Quick death, and sure death. There was no escaping it.
So, with grim determination, Morris Clarendon flattened his body against the wall, ready to receive the fatal bullets which would end his life.

CHAPTER X
THE SHADOW SPEAKS

Three grim men were ready for business when the car swung up to the spot where Morris Clarendon was standing.
Brodie, at the wheel, had spotted the assistant prosecutor one hundred feet away, and had slackened the speed of the car so that the victim would be a perfect target for Machine-gun McGinnis and his unerring aim.
"Ready," was all he said, and Steve Cronin repeated the word to McGinnis.
There was no mistaking Morris Clarendon, and he was the only man in sight. Of all the jobs that Machine-gun McGinnis had performed for Nick Savoli, this one appeared by far the easiest.
The killer chuckled as he prepared to pull the trigger, and his mirth was echoed by Steve Cronin, ready at his side.
Both men were intent upon the lighted wall where the living target stood.
Morris Clarendon had given himself up for lost, and was facing death with true bravery. But to such mobsters as McGinnis and Cronin, his attitude brought nothing but ridicule.
This deed was business to them. They were about to earn new service stripes in the cause of Nick Savoli; and the simplicity of this execution made them laugh.
With their eyes peering from the curtains, these grim men gave no thought to the blackness that surrounded them in the back seat of the touring car.
As for Brodie, the chauffeur, his thoughts were completely away from the scene.
He had picked the route which he intended to follow. The work of execution belonged to the others. He was ready to swing down the street to safety, and he was oblivious to anything but his duties as driver.
Machine-gun McGinnis rested his finger on the trigger with a professional air. He was picking the exact moment to release the hail of steel-jacketed bullets that would seal the fate of Morris Clarendon.
But before his finger moved, he received the greatest surprise of his career. As if from nowhere, the end of a steel rod was pressed into the small of his back.
Steve Cronin, close beside McGinnis, received the same token at that precise instant. Like McGinnis, he knew the feel of the muzzle of an automatic.
Then there came low-whispered words from the darkness of the back seat. A weird, uncanny voice spoke in sinister tones.
"If you fire, you die!"
There was no mistaking the terms. Machine-gun McGinnis, intrepid gangster that he was, felt his finger tremble. He instinctively removed it from the trigger of the weapon.
Steve Cronin was even more perturbed. He had heard that voice before. He slumped to the floor of the car, completely overcome by fear.

The touring car rolled leisurely past the spot where Morris Clarendon awaited certain death. The machine gun remained inactive. Its black muzzle loomed ominously from the curtains, but that was all.
The car moved toward the corner. Then Brodie, amazed by the silence, turned his head.
Like the others, he heard a whispered command.
"Drive on," ordered the voice from the back seat.
Brodie hesitated for a moment. Then he realized that it was too late to change the situation, whatever might have occurred.
His duty was to make a get-away; the handling of the machine gun belonged to the men in the back seat. The chauffeur pressed the accelerator, and the car whirled rapidly down the broad street.
The automatic was withdrawn from the back of Machine-gun McGinnis. With a cry of anger, the gangster turned to seize the man who held it.
The handle of the revolver dealt him a stunning blow against the side of the head, and he sank beside the machine gun, limp and helpless. Then the muzzle of the automatic brought cold chills to the neck of Brodie the chauffeur.
"Slow down," ordered the whispered voice.
The chauffeur obeyed.
The revolver was gone, and at the same instant Steve Cronin realized that he, too, was freed from the ominous threat behind him. Yet neither man dared to move, and while they trembled, they heard the sound of a sinister, mocking voice - a voice that laughed amid the blackness of the car that had failed in its mission of destruction.
Brodie, still fearful, brought the car to a dead stop. Then his courage returned. He twisted his body, and flung himself over the back of the front seat, drawing an automatic.
Steve Cronin, reassured by Brodie's action, pulled a flashlight from his pocket, and illuminated the interior of the car.
There was nothing there but a pile of robes. The men flung them aside, hurling them upon the inert form of Machine-gun McGinnis. Yet they revealed nothing.
Silently, invisibly, the mysterious man of the night had slipped from the car, and was gone.
Brodie leaped to the street. He fancied that he saw some one moving behind the car, and he leveled his automatic.Then he realized that the fancied form was nothing but a moving shadow, beneath a swinging sign.
He lowered his gun; then realized that the shadow was a living being - a tall, thin shape, that suddenly showed itself in view.
He fired then, but he was too late. The man was gone, and from the distance came a long, ringing laugh.

Brodie and Cronin lifted up McGinnis. The machine-gun operator opened his eyes and glowered at them beneath the glare of Cronin's flashlight.
"Did you get him?" he demanded.
"No," replied Brodie.
"Who was he?"
"I don't know."
Steve Cronin offered no explanation. He knew who the man was.
Once before he had met The Shadow. That had been the only time in his life that he had known fear - before tonight. Now he was trembling in spite of himself, for once again he had been conquered by the mighty enemy of gangsters.
Brodie propped McGinnis against the back seat of the touring car, and motioned to Cronin to take care of him. Then he resumed his place at the wheel, and drove away, giving instructions and suggestions.
"You bungled this job," he growled. "but there's no use arguing about it now. The big shot will have plenty to say to-morrow.
"I'm going to drop you off, Cronin, just as I was told to do. I'll take care of McGinnis. A couple of mugs; that's all you are."
"What about yourself?" asked Cronin sarcastically.
"What about me?" growled the chauffeur. "I was looking after the work up here. It was your job in back. Why did you let that guy in?"
"Why did you let him out?"
Brodie was too angry to reply. He pulled into an alley, and brought the car to a stop.
"Hop out," he said to Cronin. "Look out for yourself from now on. You've got nothing to worry about, though."
Steve Cronin clambered from the touring car. His legs were still weak, and he steadied himself against a lamppost. Brodie drove away immediately, leaving the thwarted gangster to his thoughts.
Cronin looked up and down the alley, as though afraid that the ominous man of the car was still present. Then he managed to regain control of himself, and he started in the direction of Sommers' cigar store.
He entered by the back door, and found his way to the room upstairs. There he discovered Georgie Sommers and the girl whom he had expected to meet.
"This is Mr. Cronin," said Sommers. "Steve, I want you to meet Kitty Boland."
Cronin managed to smile as he bowed. The girl was a handsome brunette, of a type that appealed to gangsters.
Cronin realized that he must pretend that nothing worried him, and he tried to forget the episode of the car. He sat down at the table with Sommers and the girl. He accepted the drink that was offered him.
An hour went by. Then Cronin, his braggadocio restored by the drinks that he had taken, suggested that he and Kitty Boland should go somewhere together. Sommers agreed that the idea was a good one.
"You've been here since nine o'clock, both of you," he said, mentioning the time at which Cronin had first appeared in the cigar store. "Why don't you go up to Marmosa's place, and try the roulette wheels?"
"That would be great," replied the girl.
"Those wheels are fixed," objected Cronin. "But we can go up there and watch the suckers drop their dough."

He left the place with the girl, and they rode in a taxi to Marmosa's restaurant. Steve Cronin was familiar with the gambling den; as a man in favor with Nick Savoli, he gained immediate entrance.
Kitty Boland had never been there before. She expressed a lively interest in the establishment, but Cronin responded only with grunts. He ordered drinks at the bar. The memory of his thwarted enterprise still annoyed him.
Cronin glanced sullenly about him. His gaze was finally directed toward the door, and there he spied a young man dressed in a tuxedo. It was Harry Vincent.
A dim recollection occurred to Cronin's besotted mind. He stared at Harry as though he remembered him. Then he happened to see two men in another corner: John Genara and Tony Anelmo.
The sullenness of their expressions brought a feeling of comradeship to Steve Cronin. He knew the Homicide Twins by sight as well as by reputation. Leaving the bar he sidled across the room, and took his place beside them.
"Hello, John. Hello, Tony."
"Hello," grunted Anelmo. Genara made no response.
"What's doing to-night?"
"Nothing."
Anelmo's reply showed a lack of desire for conversation. Nevertheless, Cronin persisted, even though his next remark brought him to dangerous ground.
"I hear there was a fracas here last night," he said.
"Perhaps you hear too much," put in Genara.
Cronin laughed, as he looked at the Sicilian killer.
"You think so?" he questioned. "Well, maybe I hear some things that may be useful to you."
"What, for instance?" asked Anelmo.
"I hear a lot of talk about a smart guy from New York," observed Cronin. "A fellow that thinks he's some gorilla. Calls himself Monk Thurman."
Both Genara and Anelmo expressed interest. Cronin had scored his first point.
Despite his drunken condition, he realized that the Homicide Twins were quite as interested as himself when it came to considering the progress of Monk Thurman in Chicago.
"I hear he tried to make you boys look cheap," said Cronin boldly.
"What's that to you?" broke in Anelmo.
"Plenty," said Steve Cronin. "He's after my job. Trying to get in right with the big shot."
There was a gleam of understanding in Tony Anelmo's eye. He smiled in an ugly manner.
Both he and Genara had no love for Monk Thurman after last night's proceedings. They would rather have seen Schultz and Spirak successful in their attempted holdup of Marmosa's, than have another gunman do their work as Thurman had done.
"Ha," said Anelmo softly. "So this man Monk is smart with you, too, eh? What has he done to you, Steve?"
"Nothing - yet. He's just laying low. Ready to take my place if I slip a bit. I don't like guys like him. They're better off in New York, or -"
He did not complete the sentence, but the suggestion was understood. Anelmo glanced at Genara, and the other Sicilian understood his companion's thought.
It would be a mistake to put Monk Thurman on the spot unless several persons were gunning for him. Steve Cronin's expression of enmity was a stepping-stone to the action that the Homicide Twins craved.

As Cronin stepped away for a moment, Anelmo put his idea to Genara, in whispered words.
"Those other two," he said in Italian. "Schultz and Spirak. They might fix this man called Monk. Here is another who might do the same. What if you and I -"
"Wait," replied Genara significantly.
Cronin came back to where the two men were standing.
"Who's that fellow?" he asked, indicating Harry Vincent.
"New man here," replied Anelmo. "Name is Vincent. Takes place of Joe le Blanc."
"He looks like a guy I bumped