CHAPTER VII
It was after midnight. He saw no one on his way
out. He had seen no one on his way in. He felt sure he was safe from
identifying witnesses.
Two blocks away he hailed a taxi and gave the
driver the name of one of the best hotels in town. The police, even if they
were looking for Tony Guarino, would never think of looking for him at a hotel
like that.
There were many uniforms on the streets and even
in the lobby of the rather expensive hotel to which he went. It was not a
conspicuous costume. He registered as J. H. Stevens, Denver, Colo., and was
shown to a handsome room with private bath.
He removed his tunic and stretched out in an easy
chair to smoke and think. He had killed Vyvyan and her new lover. There was no
doubt of that; three or four shots from a Luger aimed with his skill would
finish anybody. And he did not regret his act. Vyvyan never had loved him; he
could see it now. In fact, he felt a sense of relief that her mouth was shut
forever. She could have turned him up for that Spingola killing any time she
liked, and she was just the type to do it if something made her jealous or mad.
Yes, he could breathe easier now that she was gone.
So he had been reported killed, eh? He wondered
if Vyvyan had been lying about that, if she had only used it as a subterfuge to
try to justify her conduct. He must know; for the answer to that question would
have a large part in shaping his future course of action.
He reached for the telephone at his elbow and
called Klondike O'Hara's saloon.
"Lemme talk to Klondike," he said in a
hoarse, disguised voice.
"Klondike was bumped off about six months
ago," answered a strange voice.
"That's too bad. I been away for some time
and I hadn't heard about it. What I wanted was to find out where I could reach
a Wop kid that used to work for Klondike—Tony Guarino, his name was."
"Him? Aw, he got patriotic and joined the
army right after war was declared. And he was killed in France just a week or
so before the Armistice."
"How do you know he was?"
"It was in the papers—in a list of killed and
wounded. Say, who are you, anyway?"
But Tony had hung up. And in his eyes flamed a
great elation. So it was true. Everybody here at home thought he was dead. No
longer would the police or the Spingola mob be looking for Tony Guarino. That
his appearance was changed even more than he realized was proven by the fact
that even Vyvyan had not recognized him at first. His old identity was dead; he
would let it stay dead and go on his way as a new man. That course would cause
his family no suffering; they already had done, of course, the same grieving as
if he really had been killed. He laughed aloud. What a break!
He arose late, after a good sleep, and went down
to a large store adjoining the hotel, where he purchased a complete outfit of
civilian clothes. Leaving instructions to have the packages delivered to his
hotel room immediately, he returned to the hotel lobby, purchased the morning
papers and ascended to his room.
He found the killing of Vyvyan and her lover
featured prominently in all the papers. And it was played up as a deep mystery.
He discovered from the articles that the man in the case was "Frog"
Merlin, owner of a North Side gambling house and reputed bootlegger. The death
weapon had not been found and there were no known clews to the perpetrator of
the crime. Detective Sergeant Ben Guarino was in charge of the case.
Tony read that last line three times then laughed
uproariously. So Ben was a detective sergeant now. Well! Well! Wouldn't it be
funny if they met some time? Then Tony's face hardened. Perhaps it wouldn't be
so funny.
When the packages arrived, Tony donned his new
outfit, then descended to the street. After a hearty breakfast he went out to
the old neighborhood. It was an almost irresistible temptation to rush to the
little grocery store and see the family but he steeled himself and turned in
the opposite direction. He saw many people that he knew but he gave no sign of
recognition, and none of them even gave him a second glance.
He spent the day in various illicit bar-rooms,
listening to everything he could hear, asking as many and as detailed
questions as he dared. He found the situation about as he had expected. The
booze traffic was making the gangsters wealthy, and already the competition
over the enormous profits was beginning to become acrimonious. Killings were
liable to commence any time.
One man had held complete control of the
situation for some little time after Prohibition came in. Then he was killed
by being thrown from his horse on the Lincoln Park bridle path—what a horribly
prosaic death for a gangster, for a man who had lived violently and who had
every right to expect to die the same way. All of his lieutenants had tried to
succeed him but none had been strong enough to gain the support of a majority
of the gang. So they had split, each taking those loyal to him, and now there
were half a dozen main gangs spread over the city, each holding sovereignty
over a certain section and daring the others to trespass.
Tony could see that the big profits ultimately
would go to the man with a well-oiled organization which was run as any other
business enterprise. For he knew that the average gangster—even the
leaders—had no more executive ability than the revolver with which he ruled.
The only thing he knew was the old law of the survival of the fittest—might
made right and the devil took the hindmost. But when you fought him with brains
as well as strength, you had him licked.
Tony's inquiries showed him that the best
executive of the lot was Johnny Lovo, who had his headquarters in Cicero, a
rather large but somewhat frowsy suburb which joined the city on the west.
Though the stranger could not discern where the city left off and the suburb
began, Cicero was a separate entity with its own government and the city police
had no right to meddle there. It impressed Tony as an ideal place from which
to operate and that night he went out to see Johnny Lovo.
Those were the days before the present great
secrecy as to gang leaders' movements and whereabouts was necessary and Tony
had no difficulty in locating his man at his headquarters on an upper floor of
a hotel whose appearance was far better than its reputation.
Lovo was a short, squat, dark man of perhaps
thirty-five, with fine clothes, a large diamond ring and stickpin, and a ready
smile on his not unhandsome face, who constantly chewed a long black cigar. He
had been prominent in Cicero for some years as an operator of vice and gambling
dens. Prohibition had merely placed in his hands another weapon with which to
continue his pursuit of enormous wealth.
Tony liked him instantly. Here was a man who not
only could act and give orders but who could plan.
"I just got out of the army two days
ago," explained Tony without preliminaries. "And I want to get in
this racket. I'd like to join up with you."
"Yes?" Who are you?" asked Lovo
with the natural suspicion of his kind.
"Tony—Camonte." His former identity was
dead; he intended to let it remain so.
"Ever been with any mob before?" Lovo's
keen eyes were examining him thoroughly.
"Yes, sir. I was Klondike O'Hara's main
lieutenant before the war. But of course I don't want that known now; I want to
forget it."
"Don't blame you. That was small time
stuff."
"Not so small," defended Tony quickly.
"My end used to run around three hundred a week."
"Really?" Lovo was viewing him with
heightened interest. "You must have been clever."
"I was," admitted Tony frankly, then
added proudly: "And I never pulled any rough stuff either, no second-story
jobs or stick-ups or anything like that."
"I understand," smiled Lovo. Already his
quick mind had seen the picture of Tony's former activities. "And I think
you may be very valuable to me in time. But you'll have to start at the bottom,
of course, and I'll have to test you awhile first. I'll give you a job driving
a truck at a hundred dollars a week."
Tony's heart sank. Driving a truck—he who had
never been a roustabout but always a white collar gangster, who had never done
any but the smoother and more gentlemanly types of gangster activity, and who
had been somewhat of a figure in that small-time pre-war gangland. But then
these were different times and this was a much bigger game that he wanted to
sit in.
"All right, sir," he assented. "But
I don't want to do that any longer than I have to; there's plenty of common
hoods that can be hired for jobs like that."
"You can shoot?" queried Lovo softly.
"Yes; I have."
"In the army, you mean?"
"Yes. And before I went into it."
"Interesting. No, I don't think you'll be
driving a truck very long. . . . Got a gat now?"
"No, sir."
"We'll furnish you one. . . . You
broke?"
"No, sir. I got about six grand of my
own."
"Good. But don't let anybody else know it.
Rent a safety deposit box to-morrow at that bank across the street and put it
away. Never carry a lot of money around with you; it isn't healthy. Be here at
noon to-morrow."
And Tony became a real modern gangster, a member
of a big, powerful, wealthy organization that collected more than a third of
all the profits that came from liquor, gambling and vice in America's second
largest city and a considerable territory around it.
Tony spent most of his time driving alcohol from
the innumerable stills that were being operated for Lovo in all the western
suburbs to the big plant in Cicero where the whisky was manufactured. He was
never molested by officers; they were all being paid by Lovo. His only concern
was hi-jackers, who were beginning to become active. But he always carried two
guns—a six-shooter and an automatic—in the truck and his lips tightened when
he thought of hi-jackers.
At last an idea came to Tony. Why not have all the
trucks equipped with enclosed cabs of steel and bullet-proof glass so that an
attacked driver could defend himself and his employer's goods with impunity? He
went to Lovo and presented his idea.
"Great!" approved the gang leader.
"I'll have it carried out at once. Here's a little bonus." From a
thick roll he peeled off a hundred dollar bill and tossed it across the desk.
"I think you've driven a truck long enough, Tony. Be here at nine
to-night; I've got a little job I want you to handle for me."
Tony returned to Lovo's office promptly at the
appointed hour, feeling considerably elated. He had been promoted; he was going
to get somewhere in this racket yet.
"The North Side gang's been cutting into my
territory," explained Lovo, and his dark eyes glittered with a hard,
vindictive light that Tony had never seen in them before. "I don't want to
open up a big battle with them if I can help it. But I do want to throw a good
scare into the saloonkeepers and hold them in line so they won't buy from
anybody else. Now, here's what you're to do."
Tony listened carefully to his instructions, then
hurried out with both his hip pockets very heavy. Fifteen minutes later he
walked slowly into a large corner saloon in a rather ratty district. Lounging
against the bar, he ordered a drink and paid for it. Then he walked
nonchalantly down the room until he finally stood at the end of the bar, a
position from which his eyes and guns would command the situation without
possibility of upset.
In addition to himself and the owner, who was
acting as his own bartender, there were perhaps forty men in the place, the
loud, rough, mixed crowd that one would expect to find in a frowsy saloon in a
cheap neighborhood. Deliberately Tony lit a cigarette, then with an incredibly
quick movement he pulled his two guns. One he pointed down the bar, while the
muzzle of the other roved about.
"Step right up, boys, and have a drink,"
he commanded quietly. "It's all on me."
They stared at him in amazement. But the guns
looked ominous and, though obviously puzzled by the whole proceeding, the men
flocked to the bar. The surprised owner nervously began serving, his glance
often wandering to that revolver pointing fixedly at him.
After that first drink, Tony quietly commanded
them to have another, and another and another. Whisky, gin, wine, beer—it was
all swilled down until not another drink was left in the house. Then, with one
of the guns, Tony motioned the owner to him.
"Don't buy any more stuff from that North
Side outfit," he commanded in a low tone. "Stick with Lovo, where you
started. If you don't, the next time I drop in one of these pets of mine is
liable to go off. Good-night!"
He backed out of the door, ran half a block, and
dodged through an alley to the next street, where he hailed a taxi.
CHAPTER VIII
"You did a good job, Tony," commended
Lovo when the boy reported the next morning. "I think it was awfully
funny, your telling that saloon-keeper that it was all on you."
He threw back his head and laughed heartily.
Tony's eyes narrowed.
"I didn't tell you I said that."
"No," admitted the gang leader.
"But I know you did say it. You see, I had two other men there last
night—to help you in case you needed it."
That explanation did not fool Tony for a moment.
Those other men had been there to watch him, to see how he worked on a
high-pressure job. Johnny Lovo was even more clever than Tony had given him
credit for.
"You carried it off in great shape, kid. I'll
have some more particular little jobs for you soon. And from now on your
salary's two hundred a week."
Tony's new assignment was to visit saloons,
keeping in line those who were already customers of Lovo, and trying to
persuade the others to change their business to the Lovo organization. It was a
dangerous assignment but Tony loved it. Undeniably he had "a gift of
gab" far beyond the average boy of his education and environment. And he
could "put the screws on" with a smiling suavity that was little
short of masterful. His success was surprising.
As he made his rounds one afternoon, a heavy car screeched
to a halt at the curb beside him.
"Hey, you!" snarled an ugly voice.
"C'mere."
Tony turned. There were four toughs in the car and
the ugly snouts of sawed-off shotguns pointed directly at him. For an instant
he felt the helpless, strangling sensation of a drowning man, past events
rushing through his mind in the same kaleidoscopic fashion. Was this to be his
end, an ignominious death at the ruthless hands of a band of thugs? To attempt
to draw his own gun would mean certain death; so would an attempt to escape.
There was nothing to do but obey. He crossed the sidewalk to the side of the
car.
"Well?" he said coldly and there was
about him not the slightest suggestion of fear.
"Listen, you!" snarled the apparent
leader, an ugly brute with a flattened, misshapen nose and tiny, granite-like
gray eyes. "You're goin' around tryin' to steal the North Side outfit's
business, tryin' to make the saloonkeepers switch over and buy from Lovo. Well,
cut it out, see? We're only goin' to warn you this once, like we have the other
Lovo men. Then you'll be taken for a ride."
The car raced away, leaving Tony staring after it.
Taken for a ride—so that was what they threatened him with, the most feared of
all gang land reprisals. "A ride" always ended in death—the body was
usually found out in the country somewhere—but what happened before death was
oftentimes an awful thing. Bodies of gangsters had been found without ears,
without tongues, hacked in various ghoulish ways, bearing all too plainly
evidences of dreadful torture before bullets had mercifully ended it all. But
then that was the purpose of "a ride"—it was as much a warning to
others as it was a wreaking of vengeance upon one man.
It was characteristic of Tony that he did not halt
his activities after this warning. But he added another gun to his equipment
and kept them handy at all times; he "watched his step" with greater
care than he ever had before and he resumed his old practice of having an armed
bodyguard follow him.
At noon one day, Tony received a rush call from
Lovo to come to the leader's office immediately. He found Johnny seated at his
desk, his swarthy face pale and set, in his black eyes the bright ominous
glitter that can be seen in the eyes of a rattlesnake when it is about to
strike.
"Sit down," commanded Lovo. There was no
greeting; no smile. Tony knew immediately that something serious either had
happened or was about to happen. "Al Swali's been taken for a ride."
Tony gasped and his own swarthy countenance paled
slightly. Al Swali was one of Lovo's best men, a man who had been on the same
sort of assignment as himself. So those thugs had made good their threat!
"They found his body out the other side of
Melrose Park," continued Lovo bitterly. "Tied hand and foot with
wire and shot a dozen times. He was identified from some papers in his pockets
and they telephoned me a few minutes ago."
"It was the North Side gang that got him, of
course," said Tony in a low tone, and told Lovo of the warning that had been
given him a few days before.
"I suppose you're marked to ride next,"
said Lovo with matter-of-fact resentment. "Well, they're not goin' to get
you, nor anybody else in my mob. I'm goin' to put the fear of God in 'em and do
it quick. Are you game to help me pull something daring?"
"Absolutely."
"Good. If you put it over, there'll be a
grand in it for you. Be here at eight in a tux. . . . Have you got one?"
"No."
"Well, buy one—with all the trimmings. You'll
probably need it often. You got to be fixed up fashionable to pull the job I'm
planning. . . . Don't forget—eight o'clock here and be all togged out. I'll
have a gun girl here to go with you."
Tony hurried out, feeling strangely excited. He
knew that it was a killing on for that night and there is always a thrill—even
to an experienced gunman—in going after such important game. And Lovo had said
that a gun girl would go with him. He wondered if it would be the gun girl,
that noted one about which he had heard so much, that striking brunette that he
had seen in the cabaret the night he knocked down Captain Flanagan for
insulting Vyvyan. It wasn't likely, of course, yet it was a possibility. He
looked forward to the night's activities with keen anticipation.
He approached Lovo's office that evening with his
heart pounding. Would it be the gun girl? He certainly hoped so; he'd always
wanted to know her. In conformity with orders, he was attired in a dinner
jacket "with all the trimmings." And quite handsome he looked, with
his erect, well-built figure and thoroughly barbered countenance.
He knocked, then turned the knob and crossed the
threshold. Lovo was seated at his desk just as Tony had left him hours before.
And by his side sat the gun girl. Tony recognized her instantly and a gasp of
admiration caught in his throat. God! she was beautiful! A lithe, slender
brunette with a superb figure cunningly revealed by the close-fitting, very low
cut evening gown. Its sheer whiteness provided a startling contrast with her
vivid dark beauty, the ivory tint of her skin, the long, fashionably coiffed
hair so black that its depths held bluish glints like fine gunmetal, the great
dark eyes with their hints of hidden inner fires, the beautifully shaped red
mouth.
"Jane, Tony," introduced Lovo briefly.
"Sit down, kid. You look great."
Tony sank into a chair, feeling trembly under the
appraising stare of the girl's great dark eyes.
"This is a big job I'm trusting you to handle
to-night, Tony," said Lovo. "Perhaps it's too big for you. But I
don't think so and you've proven yourself so damn loyal to me that I'm going to
give you a crack at it. Of course, if you fail, you're through with me and I'll
have somebody else do it. But I'm not expecting you to fail. I want you to get
Jerry Hoffman."
"Jerry Hoffman!" exclaimed Tony. The
girl said nothing, not even indicating the surprise she must have felt.
"Exactly," continued Lovo. "Jerry Hoffman,
the biggest guy on the North Side and leader of that whole mob. Right now,
there's nobody big enough to step into his shoes and his death will ruin the
whole outfit. They'll know, of course, that some of my mob did it but they
won't know exactly who pulled the job—that is, if you two are as clever as I
think you are—and his being bumped off will throw 'em into such a panic that I
think they'll be afraid to try any jobs on us for a long time. It's high stakes
we're playing for, folks, but the reward will make the risk worthwhile."
"All right," said Tony shortly.
"I'm game. What's the plan?"
"I've found out that Hoffman is giving a
little party to-night at the Embassy Club."
Him—at the Embassy Club?" exclaimed the girl
incredulously, speaking for the first time. And her voice—rich, full, throaty,
gave Tony as big a thrill as did her appearance.
"Oh, yes," answered Lovo with a short
laugh. "Surprising the places you can buy your way into—if you've got the
price. Well, he's giving a little party there to-night. Very select affair,
couple of judges and an assistant district attorney or two and so on. He won't
have the slightest suspicion of being attacked there and in that company, so he
won't have his bodyguards around, and as he doesn't know either one of you by
sight it ought to be easy for you to get him. I'm not going to give you any
orders as to how to handle the job. Work it out on the spot as you think best.
But get him! Got a gat on you, Tony?"
"Certainly."
"Give it to me. Jane does the gat carrying
to-night—she's got it on her now. When you're ready and want it, she'll give it
to you. The minute you've pulled the job, slip it back to her at once and
she'll hide it again. Then if some wise guy should recognize you and have you
frisked, you haven't got a thing on you. See?"
Reluctantly Tony passed over his own gum,
accepted the admission card to the Embassy Club which Lovo handed him, and
escorted the gun girl out to the waiting limousine which Lovo had provided.
The Embassy Club was the most exclusive of the
expensive night clubs which had sprung up since the war—and Prohibition. As
well as providing food, dancing and entertainment, it sold the best of liquors
and one had to have a card to gain admittance. Where Lovo had secured the card which
now rested in his well-filled pin seal wallet, Tony had no idea, but as the
gang leader had said—money would do amazing things.
A large table, handsomely set for ten or twelve,
indicated where the Hoffman party was to be and Tony maneuvered the head waiter
into seating him and his companion directly across from it and not more than
thirty feet away. It was a splendid position, too, for a strategic retreat,
being in a direct line with the door and not far from it.
Tony felt a little nervous as he ordered. This was
the first time he had ever worked with a gun girl and he found it a strange
sensation not to have his own gun where he could reach for it whenever he
wished. But Jane was as calm as though they were there bent only on pleasure
and her calmness finally soothed him. God! she was beautiful! What he would
give to have a woman like that for his very own.
They chatted about this and that as they ate. But
she did most of the talking. Tony was quite content to just sit and watch her,
drinking in her beauty. The little pauses that fell between them now and then
were tense to the point of being electrical. Tony believed he was making
progress.
There was considerable hubbub when the Hoffman
party came in. It required the attentions of the owner, the head waiter and
half the other waiters to see that the party was properly seated. Truly,
money—regardless of its source—commanded respect and service.
Tony stiffened and his keen glance surveyed the
situation. He recognized Hoffman immediately—a tall, rather heavy man with a
red face and sandy hair. Tony scanned the rest of the party carefully but he
could find none that looked like a gunman or a bodyguard. No, Hoffman probably
felt entirely safe there in that exclusive cabaret in the company of men whose
importance was unquestioned. It would be a cinch to bump him off there; the
only thing was to pull the job at the proper time. Tony waited, smoking one
cigarette after another with an outward calmness that was the result of iron
self-control. Jane was chatting gayly about nothing in particular and
occasionally laughed lightly for no reason. Tony realized that she was playing
her part well, giving their table an air of casualness and gayety. He tried to
join in with her but he was naturally a silent type and now he could hardly
keep his eyes off the man who was soon to be his target.
Champagne corks were popping at that other table
and there was much loud laughing. Tony called for his check and paid it. Then
the main lights were snapped off, a spotlight centering on the small dance
floor. A brash, overdressed young man stepped out into its glow and began
telling about the show that was to follow, interspersing his remarks with
supposedly funny "wise-cracks." Now was the time to pull the job,
when everybody's attention was centered on the show.
Tony looked at Jane and nodded slightly. She gave
him a look of understanding, then, with every appearance of affection, caught
his right hand and gently maneuvered it beneath the table. His hand found her
knee, rested there. And he thrilled at the contact. But she did not shrink.
Then he felt cold steal against his flesh and his eager fingers clutched an
automatic. His thumb slipped off the safety catch and he waited.
Some woman sang a comic song that made Tony
laugh—even in the tensity of the moment—then the chorus came on. While doing a
fancy dance routine, they sang at the top of their voices, the jazz band blared
madly, and the customers beat time with little wooden mallets provided for the
purpose. The din was tremendous.
Tony brought the gun up into his lap, then
cautiously reached out, holding the weapon close beside the table and well
below the level of its top. Nobody yet had been seated on that side of them; at
the moment not even a waiter was there. Tony took careful aim and fired three
times, so rapidly that the reports almost merged into each other. He saw
Hoffman slump forward as he jerked the pistol under the table and slipped it
back to Jane. Her fingers were cool and steady as she took it from him.
The noise of the shots had penetrated even that
din, of course, and there was a sudden commotion. The main lights were snapped
back on and everybody stood up, staring horror-stricken at that table where
Hoffman lay slumped low in his chair, an ever widening spot of crimson
disfiguring his snowy shirtfront. Then began a mad scramble to get away before
the police should arrive. These people had no wish to be questioned about a
murder, and have their names and perhaps their pictures in the papers.
Tony and Jane were in the van of that frantic,
fear-struck mob. Within less than two minutes they were comfortably seated in
their limousine and were being driven rapidly away from the scene. Tony took a
long breath.
"Well, that's done," he said calmly. Now
that it was all over, he felt calm, even gay. "We've done a good night's
work for ourselves. And for Lovo. He won't forget it either, I think. But say,
girlie, you sure have got guts."
"A person has to have to get along these
days," answered Jane Conley quietly.
He reached out and caught her hand, fondled her
fingers. It thrilled him to see that she made no effort to pull away.
"You and I will probably work together quite
a bit from now," he said huskily. "Why can't we be good pals and—play
together, too?"
"Perhaps we can." Obeying a sudden
irresistible impulse, he caught her in his arms and kissed her, with all the
frantic ardor of a strong, eager passion long repressed. And she made no effort
to resist.
