Tuesday's Serial: “Scarface” by Armitage Trail (in English) - XI.

 

CHAPTER XXI

A year passed rather uneventfully. Tony's power, undisputed save for sporadic, disorganized, short-lived outbreaks here and there, grew until it almost became burdensome. And his income had gone far beyond his wildest dreams. Always being written up and talked about but almost never seen, he had become a legendary figure, symbolical of underworld success.

Two items in the papers concerning his own family had interested him. His father had died and his brother had been promoted to a detective lieutenancy. Tony's answer to the first had been to arrange for one of his trusted attorneys to inform his mother of the death of some mysterious relative in the West and thereafter pay her $1,000 a month, supposedly from the deceased's estate. His answer to the second had been a long, loud, ironical laugh. He had heard through various reliable sources that his brother was not averse to graft and was quite a devil with the women, despite his wife and child. Tony grinned when he thought what a stir there would be if it were discovered that the brother of Detective Lieutenant Ben Gua­rino was the famous gang leader, Scarface Tony Camonte.

He and Jane were still together, constantly quarreling a bit more, but still together. They moved often, as often as the owners of the luxuri­ous apartment houses to which they confined their residence discovered their real identities. But they enjoyed the best of everything and waved wads of money in the envious faces of the stiff-backed “genteels” who snubbed them. Tony had no fault to find with the world so far. Success wasn't diffi­cult, if you weren't squeamish about how you achieved it. He surmised wisely that many another millionaire had discovered that fact early in his career.

But inactivity palled on Tony. He stretched and began looking around for new worlds to conquer. People said the East—New York—was the most lucrative liquor and racket section in the country. There were a lot of hoodlums in it, of course, but they weren't used to the ruthless Mid­dle West methods. Machine guns and bombs would give the more effete Easterners the surprise of their lives.

At about that same time rumors that the Easterners were looking westward with avaricious eyes gained circulation and credence. It was said that the notorious Frankie Wales, most ruthless of the Eastern gang leaders, was planning an active campaign for the Middle West with the Middle West's own methods and weapons. But Tony only laughed contemptuously when his lieutenants came to him with such stories. He was too powerful, too well known even in New York for any other leader to even dream of wresting his power and wealth away from him. But the suggestion of another hot battle brought back the old sparkle to his eyes. If anybody tried to cut in on him, he'd show them a thing or two. He'd not only hold his territory but he'd capture theirs, wherever it might be and whoever it might be.

Tony didn't believe the reports of the Eastern invasion until one night when he was eating dinner in the main floor dining-room of his hotel head­quarters. The sudden crash of shattering glass and the vicious stuttering of a machine-gun in the street outside startled him from his complacent reverie. He ducked under the table and drew his automatic. That nasty rat-tat-tat was still going in the street, the big plate glass window up in front was still splintering. And he could hear whizzing bullets whining spitefully above his head. Then the machine guns hushed and he heard a powerful car roar away. There was no doubt as to whom they were after. Had he been a second later in dodging beneath the table, his well-tailored form would have been drilled by a score of bullets; the holes in the wall back of where he had been sitting proved that.

He remembered suddenly that the North Side mob had scared Johnny Lovo into leaving town by that same trick. Well, whoever had pulled it this time, would find he wasn't afraid of anything. If they wanted a war, they could have one. And he'd be glad to see that they got a good one.

That his unknown enemies meant business was proved by their activities the rest of the night. They bombed his biggest warehouse and killed two of his henchmen who were driving the sedan which he ordinarily used. Things were picking up. Tony smiled with keen anticipation.

Walking quickly into the lobby of the hotel the next night, following a tour of inspection and prep­ration at various outposts of his activities, Tony saw two people getting into the elevator. Mike Rinaldo, his prize gunman, and a girl. But the glimpse he got of the girl's face before the door clanged shut and the car shot upward made his eyes widen and his breath catch. Surely it must be—

He turned to a small group of his henchmen lounging nearby.

"That girl who just went up with Mike," he said slowly, coldly. "Do any of you know who she is?"

"Why that's one of the sweetest little propositions that's turned up around here in a long time. But particular—Jeez! Mike's the only guy in the mob that's been able to make her so far. Her name is—lemmesee—I think it's Rosie Guarino."

"God!" breathed Tony hoarsely.

"What's the matter, chief?"

"N-nothing," answered Tony breathlessly. But his face had gone deathly white.

His thoughts seemed to be trying to race fran­tically up a terribly steep hill. Rosie, his little sister Rosie, the one that had always been such a model little housekeeper while their mother tended to the store. He realized suddenly that she must be twenty-two or three now. And he had been thinking of her as a beautiful kid of sixteen. But here in this disreputable hotel, gone upstairs with Mike Rinaldo, the accomplished and unscrupulous heart-breaker who was the best gunman in the city. . . His sister. . . . No, it mustn't be. . . . If she hadn't sense enough herself, somebody else—

He walked over to the desk, his step a trifle un­steady, his eyes glazed in contemplation of a horror more terrible than any he had seen on French battlefields.

"What number did you give Mike Rinaldo?" he asked.

"Six-twelve," answered the clerk. "But a lady went up with him, Mr. Camonte. Wouldn't it be better to call?"

"Thanks. I—I'll call him later."

He walked over and entered the elevator, which had come back down.

"Six," he said dully and swayed a little from the sudden jerk as the car started upward.

He had killed for money, for vengeance, for lust, for almost every reason except a worthy one. His sister. . . . Upstairs. . . . In his own hotel. . . . With one of his own gunmen. . . . Of course, Mike was the straightest and most ruthless shot in the city. Tony realized he might be facing death, probably was. Mike was touchy about his heart affairs. But Tony had faced death before. He'd always won before. One of these days he was bound to lose—luck couldn't run the same way all the time. But whichever way things went, he would always be facing it.

The door clanged open and Tony stepped out into the hall, his right hand plunged deep into his side coat pocket, his lean fingers tensed about the cold butt of the heavy automatic there.

 

 

CHAPTER XXII

Slowly, yet with a tense, frantic haste, Scarface Tony Camonte went down the hall, peering intently at the brass numbers on the doors, his hand rigid about the butt of the heavy automatic in his side coat pocket.

Then he found it. 612. He halted and turned toward the door, gathering himself like a furious animal making ready to spring. With the silent, effortless ease of a fatal snake, his practiced right hand drew the automatic, then gently dropped to his side. Then his left hand reached out to the door-knob, and he quietly tried it. But the door was locked.

Tony's lips curled into a vicious snarl and his clenched fist banged savagely against the polished wood of the fastened door. There was a pause. Then:

"What do you want?" came the angry growl from within.

"Come out here!" snapped Tony, and instinctively moved aside so that when the door opened he would not be visible.

"Go 'way and lemme alone," came the retort. "I'm busy."

The gang leader's face flamed with rage and his breath came in short, hoarse gasps.

"This is Tony Camonte, the boss," he gritted, his mouth close to the crack where the door met the jamb. "I want to see you now. If you don't come out. I'll send for a pass-key and come in."

He drew back again and his grip on the automatic tightened. He heard muffled sounds of stirring within the room and a feminine giggle. And he muttered an awful curse under his breath as the key turned in the lock. The door swung open.

"Say, Chief, what the hell's the matter with you, anyway?" demanded Mike Rinaldo's voice.

Then Mike himself appeared. His coat and vest were off, his collar open at the throat. His handsome dark face was flushed and his oily black hair tousled. His appearance alone was enough, under the circumstances, to give Tony the final impulse to murder, to furnish the igniting spark for the ready powder. Surprised and angry, Mike turned to face his employer.

Tony's right hand snapped up and the ugly black barrel of the automatic centered steadily on the gunman's body a few inches above his shining gold belt buckle.

“You rat!” snarled Tony. “You picked the wrong dame this time.”

The two pairs of cold, hard, expressionless eyes, murderers’ eyes both, met, clashed. Then Mike's widened at something he saw in those of his em­ployer. He was staring death in the face and he realized it. His right hand darted for his hip. But he hadn't a chance; Tony didn't dare give him a chance. Under any other conditions, Tony would have been glad to meet him on even terms, but now the great gang leader felt that he dare not take any risks. He must make sure, because of that girl in there.

In the language of their kind, Tony “let him have it.” The shots roared out. Half a dozen of them. Yet so close together that they seemed to merge into a single explosion as they reverberated down the hall. Mike's jaw dropped and he gazed stupidly at his murderer through the haze of a bluish smoke. Then he passed a trembling hand bewilderedly over his suddenly ashen face and with a gasp abruptly sagged to the floor. Half a dozen spots of red had appeared on his hitherto spotless white shirt-front. Tony watched with interest as they enlarged, then finally merged into one big stain that grew bigger.

Suddenly Tony laughed, a little hysterically. Then he became aware that the girl inside the room was screaming madly. That screaming cleared his head like a dash of cold water. With his foot, he moved the body beyond the doorway, then walked into the room. A beautiful dark girl, clad in pink silk lingerie and with a dress clutched in her hands, stood there shrieking.

Her eyes dilated with terror as she saw him come in and she backed away, lifting one hand as if to ward off an attack. Tony stared at her a moment, feeling the bitter agony of coals of fire being heaped upon his head. His sister! To be found like that! But he was thankful that she didn't recognize him.

“Shut up!” he snapped. “Get your dress on and get out of here before the cops come.”

“You murdered him!” she moaned. “Oh, you beast! You murdered him!”

The bitter irony of the situation cut Tony to the quick. Reviled by his own sister for having saved her from the rapacity of one of his gunmen! He wanted to take her in his arms, comfort her, ex­plain everything to her, warn her. But he didn't dare. He realized that the knowledge that he was the notorious Tony Camonte would kill his mother. No, his family believed him dead; he must remain dead so far as they knew.

"Shut up!" he commanded with vicious emphasis. "And get out of here!"

Sobbing hysterically, she wriggled into the dress and donned her hat and coat. He took her arm but she flinched away from him and hurried to the doorway. There she paused and swayed un­steadily. Her horrified gaze had seen the bloody heap that was Mike. With a piercing scream she collapsed across the body, frantically kissing the ghastly face.

His own emotions stretched to the breaking point, Tony picked her up roughly and shoved her toward the elevator.

"Get out!" he gritted. "And stay out! And keep your mouth shut!"

She gazed back at him, deathly pale, wide-eyed with terror.

"I hope they hang you!" she cried, and began to run, sobbing in great choking gasps.

She passed the closed elevator door and con­tinued on to the stairway. Tony heard her rapid clicking footsteps and breathless, catching sobs die away. Then he went back and stared down at the body.

"Too bad, Mike," he said in a low tone, as if the inert figure of the dead gangster could hear. "But it had to be done."

He walked into the bedroom and picked up the telephone.

"Mike just died," he said dully, when the clerk answered. "I'll see about arrangements later. Tell all the boys that if some nosey dicks come around, they ain't got the slightest idea what was the name of the dame who came up here to-night with Mike, See? It's curtains for the guy that squeals her name to anbody, hear?" he added viciously. "Tell 'em that, too."

The sharp thud of the telephone as he set it down on the little table penetrated the fog that seemed to have come up around his perceptions since that hoodlum in the lobby had identified Mike's new girl. Well, she was gone now, anyway. If anything happened; she would be clear of it. He realized that the night's events would kill his mother. But she wouldn't know. What a blessing it was that most people actually knew so little.

He walked to the doorway and stared down at Mike's body again. Suddenly his eyes snapped and he hurled the automatic down. It struck the body then bounced away across the hall and lay still, an unerring instrument of death.

The other killings that Tony had perpetrated had given him a thrill, a sharp, exhilarating sense of triumph, of having outwitted and conquered enemies who would willingly have done the same to him. But he felt none of that now. He was dazed, shaky, and very tired. He felt suddenly old. It seemed as if he had lived a century and yet. And yet, it must be less than fifteen minutes.

He turned and went slowly upstairs to his private office. Sinking into the comfortable chair behind his big desk, he rested his elbows on its polished walnut surface and let his head fall for­ward into his hands.

How long he had been sitting there that way he didn't know. But he realized suddenly that the spacious room was filling with men. He looked up, to find Captain Flanagan, his revolver drawn, staring down at him with a grim little smile lurking around the corners of his hard mouth.

"Well, Tony, I guess we got you this time, with the goods," said Flanagan with relish. "So you killed Mike Rinaldo over a dame."

Tony stiffened and sat up straight, his eyes blaz­ing as he stared at the crowd of officers. Who had squealed?

"Take it easy, Tony," growled Flanagan warningly, sensing the gang leader's sudden arousal. "You're comin' to the D.A.'s office with us. Stick out your mitts!"

There was a metallic rattle as another detective stepped forward with a pair of handcuffs. Tony stared at them. Then an expression of disgust crossed his face and he looked up at Flanagan again with his usual defiant pride flooding back into his face and manner.

"You don't need no bracelets for me!" he snapped. "I'm no cheap second-story man. I'll go with you, anywhere you want to take me, but I'm goin' to call a mouthpiece to come down and see that I get my rights."

He reached for the telephone but one of the of­ficers snatched it away from him. Half a dozen others closed in on him, their attitude obviously menacing. And Flanagan had lifted the muzzle of his revolver until it pointed at Tony's chest.

"Oh, you're goin', all right! " said the burly chief of detectives, seeming oddly elated. "And you're goin' to wear the bracelets. We ain't takin' no chances. Ain't often we get a chance to pinch a big shot like you," he added sarcastically, with a nasty grin. "And you ain't callin' nobody till after you been to the D.A.'s office."

"Listen, Flanagan, I'm due for all the breaks you guys can give me. The dough I've paid—"

"Don't know a thing about it, Tony," lied the chief of detectives glibly. "Anyway, I've heard that you haven't been so liberal since you got to be so strong."

Which was true. Now that he and his gang held undisputed sway over the booze racket and certain other underworld activities of the big city, he had trimmed the amounts that he paid out for protection. No use throwing away any more dough than you had to. If there were no other gangs that the authorities could throw their allegiance to, they'd ride along for smaller “bits.”

They handcuffed him none too gently and led him downstairs. Tony had a glimpse of his gangsters congregating in the lobby staring at the party with amazed hate. And the realization that his men had seen their master led out by the police, trussed like a common small-time burglar, galled him much more than the trouble ahead.

He was hurried outside and pushed into one of the three big squad cars that had brought the party out from the detective bureau and which were now parked at the curb, guarded by half a dozen other officers, armed with small machine-guns. The whole crowd acted as if they were executing a coup as daring as kidnaping Napoleon from the midst of his army.

The three big cars raced downtown, their shrieking sirens clearing a path and making people turn to stare. Tony's impenetrable silence masked a seething inward fury. Who had squealed? How had the dicks known about Mike's death so soon and how had they known who to pinch for it? It looked as if somebody, seeing a chance to “get” him, had taken advantage of the opportunity with all speed. But who? Well, one thing certain, they'd pay. It would be curtains for the guilty person.

Moran, the first assistant district attorney, was awaiting them in the prosecutor's offices on the second floor of the gloomy Criminal Courts building. And Tony grunted scornfully as he saw him. Mo­ran was a good prosecutor, all right, the best they had; but he was also the collector for his chief. Tony had paid him thousands. He was a tall, lean young man with icy blue eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses, and a nasty, cynical smile that held no mirth in it.

“Well, Camonte, what have you got to say for yourself?” he demanded.

“Nothing—here,” snapped Tony. “You must think I'm dumb.”

“Yes, I do.”

Tony's face flamed and the chain of the hand­cuffs rattled as his hands clenched and writhed.

"I want to talk to you alone, Moran," he gritted in a low tone.

Moran surveyed him a moment then produced a revolver and laid it on the desk close at hand.

"You fellows can wait in the outer office," he said to the crowd of detectives. "I'll call you when I want you." As they trooped out, he looked up at the gang leader with a deadly glance. "One false move, Camonte," he said coldly, "and I'll shoot you down like a dog."

“Yes, I believe you'd like to get the chance,” agreed Tony bitterly.

“It would save the state the expense of trying and hanging you.”

Tony laughed harshly. “Don't talk foolish! You couldn't convict me!”

“No? Well, watch us. Or rather, watch me. The Chief says I'm to prosecute.”

“Where is he?”

“At home, of course. You're not important enough to get him out of bed in the middle of the night to come down here and question you.”

“No? Well, I'm important enough to give him a nice big bit every month. And you, too. If anything happened to me, the gang would go to pieces and you wouldn't get those bits any longer.”

“If your gang was broken up, there'd be room for two or three other gangs, and each one of ’em would be glad to kick in with as much as you do. Competition is the life of trade, you know,” he added grimly.

“I could increase my bits,” suggested Tony shrewdly.

“Yes, but that wouldn't interest us now. Three or four gangs spread around the city are a lot more help to a political machine than just one. And you've never shown any interest in helping us build up the machine, anyway. No, Camonte, this is our chance to knock you off your throne and we're not going to miss it.”

Tony's face had frozen and his eyes glittered.

“Listen, Moran,” he said, and his voice held a cold, deadly venom that made the assistant district attorney flinch, "if you bring me to trial, you and the D. A. will both be mighty sorry, before it's all over."

"Are you threatening me?" blustered Moran.

“No. Just trying to keep you from making a fool of yourself.”

Moran laughed harshly, sarcastically.

"Leave that to us! I'll convict you, all right. The girl's testimony alone will—"

"What girl?" demanded Tony tensely.

"This Rosie Guarino, the one you killed Mike over. She's the one that turned you up for the job and she's volunteered to testify. Women! They're the ruination of all you Wops. I guess you didn't know that this dame and Mike had been secretly married down at Crown Point a week ago."

So that was what they thought, that he had killed Mike because of jealousy. No wonder Flan­agan had looked at him with contempt. And she and Mike had been married. Good God! He had had no right to— But how could he know, with Mike's past what it was?

Weary and bewildered, his mind a confused maze, Tony was led away to a cell.