Gang Pulp

Rod Rule By Cyril Plunkett

The Dragnet Magazine, January 1930

Who won the upper hand: gangland’s most powerful leader with his mob of hi-jackers, racketeers and coldblooded killers — or his gun-flashing henchman who played a lone game?

“Count” Corrigan slammed the door leading from the blind stairway to the card room above Rigo’s and sauntered up the aisle to the front of the confectionery store. His tall, thin body was faultlessly attired in a dark suit. The Count sometimes affected a monocle which, however, was not to be smiled at. It was thus he had gained the name “Count.” Rigo grinned at him from behind the soda fountain.

“You lost, eh?” he asked.

The Count laughed. One could never tell from his expression just what the Count was thinking. His half smiling mouth, showing even, white teeth, gave him a cynical, amused air.

“Does this look like it?”

Rigo’s eyes bulged. The Count had pulled out a roll as big as his fist.

“Fix me up a drink, Rigo,” Corrigan continued. “Something cold... and no liquor! Get it?”

“You keep da head clear,” Rigo grinned knowingly.

“Right!” Corrigan answered. Facing the street he swung the glass to his lips. It remained there, poised, while his body seemed suddenly to freeze.

On the street two distinct things had caught his eye. He was conscious of them both as of the opening and closing of a camera’s shutter. The first was a girl, face white as chalk, black eyes terrified, imploring. She waved her hand, her mouth forming the single word “down,” her eyes staring straight into his as she slipped from his vision.

The second was a large black touring car which had drawn up to the curb. In its back seat were two swarthy men. Over the side, protruded the muzzle of a machine gun.

The Count dropped to the floor. There was a harsh report, the splintering of glass. From the street came the roar of the car’s motor — within the store the sharper crack of a forty-five. The Count’s arm jerked with its recoil. He sent five bullets into the tonneau of the fleeing car.

“Hit?” cried Rigo from behind the counter.

“No,” muttered the Count. “Tell the bulls it was a customer you didn’t know.”

Crouching, he ran to the back of the store, flung open the door to the card room and its three white-faced inhabitants, shut the door from the inside and locked it.

“Frankie Meser,” he snapped. “Fade before the bulls come.” He strode to the window, opened it and ran lightly down the steel firesteps to the alley below.

Far downtown, in his luxurious suite in the Carlton, Benito Moreno surveyed himself in the mirror. Three months earlier he had nearly met death from the gun of one of his men. From that time Moreno had conducted his operations at the Carlton.

Rigo’s was an excellent place, but dangerous. Moreno could not entirely escape the feeling that now one of his men had shot it out with him, others would nurse a desire to do the same even though that man, one Serbny, had been killed.

Across his sleek, smug face ran a frown. The long jagged scar over the temple was a source of anger to him always. Serbny’s bullet. He looked down at his left arm, stiff, impossible to raise above his chest. But the right arm remained flexible.

A light buzzing from the corner interrupted his thoughts. He crossed the room, touched a framed picture which opened like a door and took out a phone. It was the private line to Rigo’s.

“Hello,” he muttered. He was silent a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Frankie Meser, eh? Good work, Rigo. You say he didn’t get the Count? Okay. What? A girl? You noticed her, eh? Bette Murchinson, Frankie’s moll? Okay, Rigo. Send Pesquina and Carillo up to me at six.”

He hung up and cursed softly. So Frankie had tried to get the Count. And the Count Moreno’s right hand man! That was close. If they got the Count he would be next. Well, Frankie had signed his death warrant.

The house phone rang. Moreno listened.

“Send him up,” he ordered.

He poured himself a drink and lighted a cigarette. He could move about here in the Carlton with perfect safety. The floor clerk was his own man. The stairs were likewise under gimlet eyes. As Moreno sank to a chair the door opened and Corrigan entered.

“Hello, Ben,” he said.

Moreno eyed him without answering.

“Is that a hole I see in your hat?” he asked at length.

The Count laughed.

“You didn’t miss it. I hope this doesn’t keep up or I’ll go broke buying hats.” He flung the hat across the room. “I suppose Rigo reported?” Moreno nodded.

“Frankie’s going on the spot, Count.” Corrigan’s eyes flashed but he said nothing. “Yep, Frankie’s done. Almost got you, didn’t he?”

“Close,” Corrigan admitted.

“Who was the girl?” Moreno asked suddenly.

“Girl?” the Count frowned.

“You heard me.”

“I can’t say that I know what you’re talking about,” Corrigan answered slowly.

Moreno’s eyes glittered.

“Do you know Frankie’s gang?” he asked purringly.

Corrigan nodded.

“All of them?” Moreno continued.

Again Corrigan nodded.

“Do you know Bette Murchinson?” Moreno shot at him.

Corrigan’s mouth quirked at the corners. Moreno, watching the smiling mouth, did not notice the eyes.

“Yes, I know Bette Murchinson, Moreno — when I see her.”

“Oh,” Moreno nodded, “when you see her. See her today, Count?”

“No,” Corrigan replied sharply.

Moreno sucked at his cigarette and poured another drink. As he looked back to the Count his eyes narrowed, his voice came softly, smoothly.

“Corrigan, you’ve been with me three months. A damn short time to be my lieutenant, but you’ve produced. You got more brains than all the rest of my men together. But there’s just two things I’d like to know. One of them is, where did you come from?”

Corrigan smiled.

“Now Moreno, I’m going to tell you something. When we first got together you were in a bad way. You’d damn near cashed in from Serbny’s bullets. And get this, Ben — you were afraid to go back! You wanted to run out only you didn’t want to leave your graft. I came at the right time. You needed me. Now listen, Moreno. You’re afraid of me and I’m not afraid of you. Get the difference? So where I came from is none of your business.”

“Suppose I make it my business?” Moreno purred.

“You’re at liberty to try,” Corrigan replied.

“All right,” Moreno sighed, “we’ll let it slide. But I’m boss, don’t forget that! Now, the second question.” He leaned forward. “Why do you deny you saw Bette Murchinson today?”

“I did not see Bette Murchinson today,” the Count replied evenly.

The two men stared at each other, their eyes flashing. Moreno squirmed in his chair.

“Corrigan,” he cried, “damn you, there’s things about you I don’t like. You’ve increased my graft, doubled my alki trade and my power, but the three stickups you engineered went flat, caught cold, the men in stir and not a chance to blow them. I’d blow you to hell if I thought—”

“I was double-crossing you,” Corrigan finished. “You’d never live to get that gun out, Moreno. Forget it, forget the girl, and slip me your orders.”

Moreno’s face became crafty again.

“Frankie’s going on the spot... and so is Bette Murchinson!”

“Bette? Why Bette?”

“Because I said so. And listen, Corrigan, you’re going to put her there!”

Corrigan was about to answer when the phone rang again. Moreno looked at his watch. Six o’clock. He listened for a moment, smiled slightly and picked up the receiver. “Send ’em up,” he ordered. He turned to Corrigan again.

“Nothing doing,” Corrigan snapped.

“Do you take my orders or not?”

“I do, but not that order.”

The door opened and Pesquina and Carillo slouched in. Moreno sat up straighter, felt suddenly more powerful. He looked at the two: young, well dressed, but sallow, hard.

“Got a job for you two boys,” he said and reached into his pocket. He drew forth a roll and peeled off ten one hundred dollar bills. “A grand now and another when it’s done.”

Pesquina reached out a stubby hand.

“Okay, boss. What’s de dope?”

“Frankie Meser. Take him for a ride. He hangs out at the Purple Parrot. I’ve had him checked this long time. He comes about eleven. His moll Murchinson will be with him. The Count here will finish the plans, work things out for you and he’ll ride with you boys tonight. Get that?”

He grinned evilly at Corrigan.

“Take ’em both. And if you three slip — if you three slip,” he repeated, “it’ll be just too bad.”

Corrigan sat tight lipped. His eyes seemed to burn into Moreno’s.

“You got my orders?” Moreno asked sharply.

Corrigan stood up, shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, I got your orders, but some day—”

“Some day what?” Moreno blustered.

“Never mind,” the Count said.

As the Count, in company with Pesquina and Carillo, shot down the elevator, his usually smiling mouth was drawn tightly together. He cursed Moreno softly. He had played directly into Moreno’s hands. Moreno long had feared him. Were he to hold a murder over his head he could easily crush him. And so Moreno had calmly planned that murder.

That it was a girl mattered little except that the killing of a woman would cause twice the publicity and, in so doing, subjugate the Count to him even to a greater degree.

But Bette Murchinson was not to be put on the spot. Not if the Count could do anything about it. For Bette had saved him that very afternoon. Why, he did not know. The Count was not the man to think things out in the face of action. Reasons could wait until later. But she had saved him and he would not repay her favor with a bullet. There were ways open to the Count of which Moreno did not dream.

His lips quirked up slightly, but his eyes remained hard. Once on the street he hailed a taxi. The three crawled within. Pesquina sat stolid and silent, gazing straight ahead of him. Carillo’s hands and mouth twitched, his eyes shifted.

Carillo was a hop-head. He needed a shot and then, primed, he would go savagely about his death-dealing task. But that task was to be vastly different than either of the two imagined. The Count grinned to himself.

He ordered the cab to Rigo’s, got out and went inside, followed by his two henchmen. Once in the upper back room he sat down at the table and faced them.

“Listen,” he said softly. “Moreno gave you orders, but I’m changing them. We take two cars. Tony drives you two. You sit in the back with a Tommy gun. Mike and Sloppy will go in the second car with Causto at the wheel. Here’s the idea... Bette Murchinson is not going for a ride!”

His blue eyes bored into those of the other two. Pesquina’s mouth opened, but he did not speak. Carillo’s hands jerked.

“You ride with me or you don’t! Speak fast, with your guns or any other way!”

Carillo looked away. Pesquina spoke slowly.

“We ride with you, chief.”

Corrigan smiled.

“Causto is to follow me, stick tight to me wherever I go. Tony drives you to within a block of Frankie’s hangout. When he comes out get him. If you miss there get him at eleven at the Parrot. That’s all. Round up the bunch and tell Causto I’ll be ready for him at seven-thirty.”

At seven-thirty the Count climbed into a taxi. One of his men sat at the wheels. The cab nosed out into the street and was followed by a large black sedan which hung a hundred yards in its rear. For nearly a half hour the taxi rolled swiftly onward.

It stopped before a flashy apartment house in the West End. Corrigan got out, told his driver to wait, and walked toward the entrance. From the corner of his eye he saw the sedan pull up farther down the street. Its lights went out. Corrigan entered the doors.

He stopped at the telephone desk.

“Tell her it is very important,” he finished to the operator.

“Your name?” the girl asked.

“No name,” Corrigan answered.

“You may go up,” the operator said a moment later.

He knocked at the door, heard a gasp and hurried steps within. The door opened. Outlined, the light of the room playing on her hair, stood Bette Murchinson. Her low cut gown revealed the beauty of her throat and arms. The Count caught his breath at her loveliness.

“You!” she gasped.

“Me,” he smiled. He pushed aside the door and entered the room.

“You know me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered, “you are Count Corrigan.”

“I came to thank you for this afternoon,” he said then. “Why did you save me?”

“Oh,” she cried. “I... I don’t know. You’d better go.”

“Frankie? Don’t worry about him. I’m not. Listen, Bette, you’re through with Frankie.”

Her eyes were wide.

“Through with him?” she echoed. “What do you mean?”

“Frankie’s going on the spot to-night.”

“You or Moreno?” she asked dully.

“Moreno. I wouldn’t stop it if I could, not after this afternoon. But you’re coming with me. If you don’t — well—” He did not finish.

She sank into a chair, her eyes fastened on him.

“Is there no chance for Frankie?” she whispered.

“Not a chance. You did me a good turn this afternoon. I’m doing you one now. With me you’re safe. So, in the future you’re the Count’s girl or not. Take your choice.”

“I’m the Count’s girl,” she said tonelessly.

“Good!” he grinned. “Come on.”

“My wraps?”

“Grab a coat. You need some new things anyway.”

“All right,” she said. She whirled suddenly and faced the door. It opened with a crash and Frankie Meser stood there, his lips drawn back into a sneer.

Corrigan hunched forward his shoulders, his arms crooked, fingers spread, clawlike. His eyes were narrowed to mere slits. Frankie stepped within the room and kicked shut the door.

“Well, I caught you both. Figured something like this would happen after she put you wise this afternoon.”

Bette backed away to the wall, stood there, her arms outstretched, seemingly impaled.

“Takes a woman to play a guy dirty,” Frankie continued.

“She didn’t play you dirty,” the Count interrupted. “I came up here to get her. She didn’t have anything to say about it.”

Where had he slipped up? the Count wondered. Pesquina had missed Frankie. That was evident. But what of Causto and his men? Or had Frankie slipped in from the side or behind? How had he known? Did he have his men with him? His coming in without a gun in hand argued that he did. Still Frankie believed himself the slickest man on the draw in the city.

“You’re dumb, Corrigan,” Frankie sneered, “to come here. I got this place watched. You weren’t inside the door before I knew. And now you can’t get out!” He breathed the last, his teeth showing. His words continued snarlingly. “I’m going to kill you, Corrigan. I can do it and get away with it. And you know it!”

Corrigan’s mouth twitched slightly. Frankie’s hand suddenly flew to his coat. There was a sharp report, but it came from Corrigan’s pocket. A look of utter bewilderment flashed over Frankie’s face as he sank to the floor.

“Never try to beat a man at his own game,” he grinned. “Come on, Bette, we gotta go. Self defense, kid. I had to shoot him and I’ll alibi you up tight. I can fix anything.”

As they ran for the steps they heard a cry behind them. The shot had been heard. They ran on. In the lobby Corrigan slowed. Bette had not said a word. He looked out the door. His taxi waited at the nearest curb. Across the street stood a long black touring car. He looked down the street but could see nothing of Causto. He turned to Bette.

“Frankie’s men. I’m going to have to shoot it out, I guess. You walk to the taxi. Not looking for you, they might not notice. Leave the door open. Then I’ll come out. If there’s any shooting slam the door and beat it to Rigo’s.”

Tight lipped, she obeyed him without a word. He watched her enter the cab. Hand in pocket tightly clutching the gun, the Count opened the door. Five feet, ten feet. Fifty more to the cab. Across the street a man got out of the touring car, walked toward him. Twenty feet to go. Would Bette stick it out if there was shooting?

Suddenly the man stopped, his hand flew to his side. There was a spurt of flame. But the Count was shooting also, shooting as he ran. He tumbled into the cab. Bette crouched on the floor. The cab shot forward. The other man lay crumpled in the street. But the black car had leaped out after them. The Count raised his head and ducked immediately. Bullets rained around the cab. Machine gun!

No chance. Corrigan looked at Bette. Poor kid. He hadn’t wanted her. But he had taken her to save her and now — this. The taxi rounded a corner and Corrigan gasped. Out of the side street reared a black sedan. Hunched over the wheel was Causto, tightlipped and white.

The nose of the Tommy gun peeked out the back. The sedan careened past the Meser car. There was a fusillade of shots and the touring car slithered to the curb. Causto turned down an alley. The taxi continued on.

Bette smiled up at the Count.

“Is that the end of Frankie’s gang?” she asked.

He nodded.

“And the beginning of Corrigan’s.” He leaned forward and prodded the driver. “Good work, Joe,” he said. “I’m going to need men like you. And by the way, Joe, stop at the next drug store.”

He looked down at the girl by his side. How beautiful she was. He wished she had not belonged to somebody else. Still... The car stopped.

“Back in a minute,” he said. “I gotta phone.”

A minute later:

“Moreno? This is the Count. Frankie took a ride and so did a few of his men. The moll? She’s feeling fine. She belongs to the Count now, Moreno. Get that?”

The count grinned. Moreno got it.