Gang Pulp

City of Bullets By John Gerard

Gangster Stories, April 1930

The biggest racketeer in the city was Mike Regan — yet he is threatened by a blood-lusting gangster from Chicago without a brain in his fat skull. Mike was stumped... and all his plans to outwit Killer Joe failed, all except one...

The raw chill wind whistled around corners and up the street, chasing little flurries of dirty snow into the night air. From a basement in one of the dark, squalid buildings, two men emerged and paused a moment to turn up their coat collars against the biting cold.

“Good-night, Bill.”

“Good-night.”

At that instant a car skidded around the corner behind them. Before the pair could turn, a stream of fire had belched from the ugly muzzle of a submachine gun that protruded from the car’s curtained window. Bullets riddled the bodies of the two with their merciless impact.

A menacing, hollow peal of laughter resounded from the interior of the car, mingling in ghostly mockery with the howling wind after the roar of the gun. Then the car shot forward in high, leaving two motionless corpses on the sidewalk.

Not a sound came from any of the buildings in the long street. No one left his house to rush to the assistance of the two huddled bodies sprawled on the wet pavement to see if a spark of life yet remained in them. The fear of Killer Joe Catanesi, overlord of the gang that was terrorizing the city, the knowledge that his work of destruction would be all too thorough, hung like a pall over men’s hearts, paralyzed them with fear.

And the raw gusts of wind piled up the snow in drifts against the corpses of the murdered men whose ebbing life blood transformed it from a dirty white into a dark, ominous crimson.

The next morning the newspapers ran the story which had by now become monotonous, of another killing in the gang war which had earned for the city the unenviable nickname, the “City of Bullets.”

In the dining room of a large house overlooking the river a man and a woman were just finishing breakfast. A tense silence had fallen between them. The man’s eyes gazed in furious concentration at the paper before him.

“There’s nothing more to be found out from that rag,” said the girl crisply. “What’s needed here, Mike, is action and plenty of it!”

“I know it, Billie,” replied the man, pushing back his chair and walking over to the window from which he could look down on the endless, moving panorama of the river. “Bill Gehagan and Frank Schwenke, my two right-hand men, bumped off by this lousy wop from Chicago!”

“I know how you feel, Mike.” Billie came over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “You’ve always been on the level, Mike. You’ve never pulled the rough, crooked stuff this swine Catanesi hands out all the time. Pull yourself together!”

Her eyes looked up into his, almost challenging him to act. “Show this dirty crook you’re not licked yet!”

“That’s very easy to say, Billie,” answered the man. “But he’s managed to slip out of every single trap I’ve laid for him so far.”

It had been by ruthless disregard for the ethics of racketeers that Joe Catanesi, one of the most notorious characters of Chicago’s south side, had succeeded in gaining almost undisputed control over the city’s underworld. One after the other, the gang leaders and racketeers who had peaceably divided the city before the Killer’s advent, had been put out of business. Mike Regan alone still held out.

And Catanesi had thrown a large sized wrench into Regan’s skillfully organized gang. Desertions had taken place almost every day, with the Irishman’s inability to get the better of his enemy.

The man’s eyes glinted angrily. “I was the biggest racketeer in this city until Catanesi came along.”

“Yes, and you thought nothing could touch you. Well, now you’ve lost two of your best men, and Catanesi’s put it over on you every time.” She paused a moment, as if making up her mind to a desperate course. “Look here, Mike, will you let me handle this situation? The Killer has no brain, but he can act!”

Billie Ross was right. Catanesi’s success had been due to one factor alone; the lightning-like rapidity with which he struck. He had very little brain, only a devouring lust for slaughter and a certain cunning which prevented his attacking an adversary until he was sure of victory. Regan had underestimated his enemy; the Killer had carved a blundering way out of the traps Regan had set for him. And now he was actually threatening the power of the Irishman, the biggest and cleverest racketeer in the entire city.

Regan looked at the exquisitely groomed woman before him, at the curve of her white throat, at the rich cloth-of-gold negligee that set off the beauty of her black hair and dark, fiery eyes.

“I don’t see what you can do, Billie,” he said slowly. “It’s a long time since either you or I had to pull any rough stuff.”

“We’ve been the brains of the outfit a long time, Mike,” acknowledged the girl, “but I don’t think either of us has forgotten how to fight.”

“I’ve tried to put Catanesi out of business, and I’ve failed,” replied Regan. “But you’re right, Billie. The situation calls for action, prompt action and plenty of it. So go ahead.”

“The plan I have in mind will put the heart back into our men and dispose of the Killer at the same time. Tonight’s Friday, isn’t it? Remember how the night shift at the steel factory on Cranford Avenue gets paid off every Friday night?”

“That’s out,” replied the man abruptly, “where I’m concerned. The directors of that factory are personal friends of mine. Besides, there are plenty of easier ways of making money if you use your brains. We got through with that sort of stuff a long time ago. And—”

“We’ve discussed all this before,” interrupted Billie decisively, “and I’m with you. Well, my idea is to give Catanesi the dope about the pay-roll truck. He’ll try this particular game just as soon as he finds out about it, anyway. So why shouldn’t we gain by it? We’ll have our men there to hi-jack the Killer. In the meantime I’ll take care of the boss himself.”

“There’s a lot in what you say, Billie,” admitted Regan, “but I don’t like the idea of your going to Catanesi. You’d be running a terrible risk. Suppose he suspects you?”

“I’m going upstairs,” replied the girl, ignoring the man’s last remarks. “When I come back, I want a detailed lay-out of tonight’s plans that I can take along with me.”

“But how’ll I know that you’ve put it over on the Killer?” said Regan, allowing himself to be persuaded by the girl’s determined manner.

“You’ll know all right,” Billie told him. “You’ll get a signal from me that you can’t mistake. And I won’t tell you what it is. She turned and ran up the stairs while the racketeer crossed over to a concealed safe in the wall to get her the information she had requested.”

A little later a completely transformed Billie entered the room. A bright red tam o’shanter was pulled rakishly down over one ear above a mass of flaming red hair. A black and white checked jacket covered her blue sweater, while a tight skirt of the same material revealed a pair of perfect legs which terminated in black shoes with high scarlet heels. The exquisite girl Mike Regan knew had been changed into a tough, hard-boiled gangster’s moll.

Regan stared hard. “What a makeup!” he exclaimed admiringly. “It’s just what’ll appeal to that tough wop from Chicago.”

“There’ll be plenty of lead flying around tonight, or I miss my guess,” remarked Billie with affected toughness as she knotted a bright blue and red silk scarf around her neck. “So long, Mike. I’ll kid that low-life wop into thinking he’s the only guy on earth. I’ll tell him this hold-up’s a pipe and that he and his new moll between ’em will finish up Mike Regan’s outfit.”

“I’ll tell Red Conners to get the gang together in our hide-out near the river front. That’s where I’ll expect your signal.”

“Listen, Mike,” said Billie, leaning against the door. “You see how I look, now. And remember how you used to look — feel... hunted! All this” — she pointed to her make-up — “is behind us. Our life has been so peaceful until lately—”

Mike was puzzled. “What do you mean, Billie? You want to—”

“Yes, Mike.” She looked at him steadily.

Mike frowned thoughtfully.

“The idea isn’t exactly a surprise, Billie. I’ve suspected you wanted to... to—”

“Quit — go straight!” She shot out the words defiantly. “I’m no coward, you know that, Mike. For that reason I insist on getting rid of Catanesi! But after that—”

Mike drew her to him.

The long, passionate kiss of farewell between the two showed their understanding.

Regan looked at the closed door, listened for a moment to the rapid footsteps dying away down the corridor. Then, instantly, he became all action. Here was the dearest thing in the world to him, gambling her life on a desperate venture. And no one knew better than she how desperate that venture was.

Meanwhile Billie Ross was being whirled rapidly in a taxi to the Killer’s headquarters at the other end of the city. At the door of the big house where Catanesi lived in almost royal state, she stepped out, slim, provocative and alluring.

Four burly gunmen accosted her in the hall, demanded to know her business while their expert hands patted her clothing for a hidden rod. But she had anticipated this and had come unarmed.

“I want to see Joe Catanesi,” she told the men coolly. “And you’II get one hell of a bawling out if you don’t take me up to him right away.”

Her words had their effect. Two more men, lounging in the spacious hallway, came up to inspect the newcomer. In one of them she recognized a deserter from Regan’s gang, one of the few who had known her in the early days. Since their rise to fortune she never saw any of the gang except the most important of Regan’s lieutenants. Here was luck! “Tell these guys who I am, Charlie.”

The man looked at her in amazement. “If it isn’t Billie Ross!” he said, staring at her. “You haven’t changed much. Why, it must be years, since—” He broke off to eye her doubtfully. “But what about Mike Regan?”

The girl extended her hand, thumb downward in a significant gesture. The Killer’s rods looked at each other. So Regan’s moll was giving him the gate!

Without more delay the girl was rapidly escorted up a broad winding staircase and along a lofty corridor. Before a massive, oaken door her guard halted and knocked.

“Come in,” growled a hoarse voice. The door was flung open and Billie found herself in an enormous room whose walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. Her feet sank into the thick luxurious carpet, making no sound.

“So you’re Mike Regan’s moll, huh?” A massive bullet head in which two small, blood-shot eyes glinted evilly under black, bushy eyebrows, raised itself slowly at her entrance from the papers on the carved walnut desk at the far end of the room. The thick, cruel lips parted to reveal irregular yellow fangs in a smile which was plainly intended to be one of welcome.

The girl could scarcely repress a shudder. Here before her, if she had ever set eyes on them, were lust, treachery and brutality. But she summoned an easy smile to her lips, ripped off her tam, gave her head an impertinent toss and crossed over to the table.

“I was Regan’s moll,” she corrected him, seating herself on the edge of the table and swinging one slender, silk-clad leg provocatively. “But I ditched him. The big mick hasn’t got the guts of a louse in ail that big body of his. I like a man!” she went on, letting her gaze travel admiringly over the burly hulk of the man before her.

The girl’s trim figure and alluring beauty plainly had their effect on the Killer. Her instinct told her that she had been right to disguise herself. Her toughness and her appearance would have a far more telling effect than if she had come in her ordinary clothes.

Catanesi grinned and shifted a little in his chair to obtain a better view. “How do I know Regan ain’t sent you here himself?” he asked, suspicion lowering in his small eyes. He reached for the house phone on his desk while Billie continued to smile at him with calm insolence. “Send Charlie up here,” he ordered.

“I haven’t come empty handed, Joe,” she retorted meaningly, drawing a slip of paper from her pocket and handing it over to the Killer. “Regan’s desperately hard up and he’s planning to hold up this pay-roll truck tomorrow night.”

The wop’s big head nodded slowly as he took in the rough sketch on the paper, noted the minute description of the truck and the accuracy with which its progress from the bank to the factory had been timed.

“You’re new to this town, Joe,” Billie told him, “and with me to tip you off on stunts like this, you ought to clean up!”

The Killer grinned and, with a clumsy effort at gallantry, stretched out one hairy paw to the gay silk scarf encircling the girl’s white throat.

“Red for blood and blue for hope,” she said with a laugh, letting him pull it off. She could tell that he still mistrusted her, but she must play a bold game. Leaning forward, so that the seductive perfume of her body enveloped his senses like wine, she said with flaming eyes: “I thought you had guts, Joe! Haven’t you got this town where you want it? Why is it called the city of bullets?”

“I guess that’s my work, Billie,” answered the Killer, proudly puffing out his chest. “You’re right! This town’s mine!” He clenched his fists until the knuckles showed white under the swarthy skin. “I’ll shoot up that truck tonight—”

The bright scarf slipped to the floor. Catanesi half rose in his chair, his great arms out-spread to encircle the girl.

At that moment the door opened to admit Charlie, the former member of Regan’s outfit. He lounged confidently in, making no excuse for his delay in answering his leader’s summons. The Killer, plainly annoyed by not being able to show the girl the iron discipline which he had instilled into his gang, turned angrily to face him.

“What’s the big idea, of keepin’ me waitin’?” he snapped.

“I didn’t know you was in a hurry, boss,” replied the man, although his swaggering began to be a little uneasy. “I was just finishin’ a game—”

“You lazy scum,” barked the Killer, his eyes two smoldering pin points of savage fire. “Things are gettin’ too damned easy around here. It’s about time I showed some of you wise guys who runs this outfit.” The shiny blue steel barrel of a Smith and Wesson .38 came slowly up from behind the table.

Charlie’s eyes bulged in terror from their sockets. Like a flash his hand darted to his arm-pit. The gun in the Killer’s hand roared once. The man slumped forward, pitching headlong to the floor where his fingers beat a horrible, soundless tattoo on the heavy carpet.

The girl looked at him coldly. He was a rat and deserved what he got. With a convulsive twitch the corpse lay still, while an ever widening pool of blood stained the carpet with its sullen crimson.

“The poor sap!” exclaimed Catanesi scornfully. “I was only going to nick him in the arm to show him I won’t be monkeyed with, but he asked for it.” He pushed a button on the table, then rose and walked over to one of the richly gleaming shelves that lined the wall.

The girl’s mind was working like a steel trap. Obviously, the Killer was suspicious of her; even if she had him believe she was double-crossing Regan it would be difficult for her to send Mike the signal she had promised, unless—

She slipped off the table and picked up the square of silk all wet and discolored by the murdered man’s blood. Her back was between Catanesi and the corpse. Instinctively she secured Charlie’s automatic, slipping it into the pocket of her jacket.

“Hey, Joe!” she called, holding out her dripping scarf. Here was her signal ready to hand. It would whip Mike Regan into action like nothing else she could possibly think of. Besides that, she knew that the Killer’s vindictiveness would make him send it. “How about sending this to Mike?” she went on. “I know where he’ll be just before the hold-up. It ought to jar him plenty!”

“Say, that’s great!” declared the Killer. “An’ I’ll make sure it gets to him. It’ll get Regan so wild, maybe he’ll hot-foot it over here, then I’ll have him where I want him.” His powerful hairy hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically. “Regan’II go out slow, but before I drill him I’ll show him the moll who ditched him, ditched him for me. Killer Joe Catanesi!”

The man had fallen for it, hook, bait, line and sinker. But it would be Regan’s moll who’d do the showing! The gangster moved toward her and she saw that one entire section of book-shelves had swung outward to reveal a small, but very well stocked bar. “I’ll have a straight Scotch,” she said with a laugh.

“And I’ll take a kiss,” said Catanesi, his breath hot and inflamed on the girl’s throat.

“I’ll be damned if you will!” Billie Ross jumped back from the encircling arms that were about to grasp her. “You’ve got to show me first, Joe, that you’re the man you say you are. You wipe Regan off the map. Then—” Her eyes promised everything.

In vain the Italian pleaded and argued. The girl was adamant and something about her seemed to warn the burly gangster that it would be dangerous to lay hands on her.

“Cut it, Joe,” she said at last, wearied by his demands. “What in hell’s the matter with you? Tonight’s only a few hours off. I’ll be your moll, then — get me? Or are you scared you can’t pull it off?”

Catanesi scowled furiously and poured her the drink she asked for. “I’m going to send my best man, Karl Mischek, on this job. We’ll have a little supper served right here, and Karl can come back and tell us all about it.” He looked at her inquiringly from under his bushy eyebrows.

“Then I’ll keep my end of the bargain,” the girl promised.

The door closed behind the Killer as he went out to make the necessary arrangements with his gang. Two men came in to remove the slowly stiffening body and clean up the blood-stained carpet. Billie Ross was alone. If her daring plan succeeded, they had the Killer licked. But luck and perfect timing were essential. She paced nervously up and down the room, longing for the hours to pass. She knew the man she loved well enough to be certain how he would act when he received her signal. As for the rest—

The big Irishman, all unconscious of the trick that was about to be played on him, was waiting with his gang in their hide-out on the river front. With the skill of a born general he had prepared for every possibility that might occur that night.

Everything was in readiness. The short day was closing in and it only remained to kill the few minutes before the start of the expedition.

Men sprawled in all attitudes around the long, squalid room: some cleaned and oiled their rods, others conversed in low, spasmodic voices, others again gnawed their nails and stared moodily at the cob-webbed rafters. Over all there brooded an atmosphere of tense expectancy.

There was a sharp, sudden creak on the rickety landing outside. Instantly all eyes turned towards the door which opened to admit the dilapidated figure of old Moe, a drunken wharf-rat.

“Moe says he’s got somethin’ fer ya personal, boss,” said the sentry whose fingers were twined in the old man’s collar. “So I brought him up.”

“All right, Mac, you can go back to your post,” Regan told him, advancing toward the limp scarecrow who was swaying unsteadily now that he was no longer supported by the guard’s grasp. “What is it, Moe?”

“De guy as gave me dis,” the old man fumbled in his pocket, “says to me ya’d maybe gimme de price o’ a coupla drinks,” he whined, succeeding at last in extracting Billie’s bloodstained scarf which he waved feebly.

There was a sharp intake of breath, then, “Give me that scarf, you—” Mike Regan roared in a flaming burst of rage. Taking the silk square into his hands, he buried his face in it. “My poor darling, poor little kid, poor Billie,” he moaned over and over again.

“Steady, Mike, steady!” Conners had sprung to his side and gripped him firmly by the arm.

Like a maddened bull, the big Irishman threw off the consoling hand of his lieutenant. “By God! I’ll make that yellow punk sweat for this! He’ll wish he’d never seen the light of day when I get through with him!” Knocking over the uncertain figure of Moe, Regan paused in the doorway, his eyes blazing. “You handle this job tonight, Red, and no quarter! I’m going on a still hunt for the Killer and I’m going to cut his heart out!”

Before Conners could reply, his leader was in the street. Remorse over Billie’s sacrifice had kindled his temper to a white heat. One thought only was uppermost in his mind: to stand face to face with the Killer, to pound the yellow wop to a bleeding pulp with his own hands!

He ran wildly down the street, swung himself onto the footboard of a cruising taxi and bellowed hoarse directions to the driver. Regan was too blind with fury to see a furtive form that had been skulking in a doorway dart out and run to the nearest cigar store.

Catanesi had anticipated Regan’s moves. When the cab skidded to a halt and Regan leapt out in front of the Killer’s imposing residence, he found the massive front door closed against him. Whipping out his guns, he pounded furiously on the panels. The door opened and the racketeer stepped into the darkness of the hall, peering intently about him.

Too late the Irishman whirled about, sensing the presence of the men cowering in the gloom behind him. A black-jack descended with stunning force on his skull.

The Killer was in his study, enjoying an intimate dinner with Billie Ross when the house phone rang. Catanesi listened with evident satisfaction. “Bring him right up,” he ordered.

Anxiously, the girl looked at the limp body of the man she loved, brought in on the burly shoulders of a Hungarian. Regan was unconscious and breathing heavily. The Hungarian let his burden slip to the ground, then propped the racketeer’s body against a chair.

Catanesi misinterpreted the girl’s glance. “I told the boys to be careful not to croak him,” he said with a triumphant sneer. “He’ll come ’round soon, an’ then we’ll see some fun!” He motioned the Hungarian to get out.

When the door had closed, Catanesi strode over to his concealed cellar. “I’m going to wake that big mick up so he can see his moll has given him the gate for a better man,” he told Billie. “Here, stick this glass of Scotch down his throat yourself.”

“You bet your sweet life I will,” returned the girl, playing her part of the tough moll to the hilt, “and I’ll give him a swift kick in the pants, too, for old times’ sake. Pour a couple more for us, Joe.”

Billie’s eyes had discerned a slight movement in the huddled mass on the floor. While Catanesi’s back was turned, she crossed swiftly over to Regan and stooped over him. Forcing the glass between his lips, she rapidly shoved the dead Charlie’s automatic into the limp hand of the Irishman, noted how his fingers closed over it with the return of consciousness. Then, to disarm the Killer, she stood up and kicked the prostrate man in the ribs.

“Don’t like him much, do you kid?” commented the wop with a satisfied sneer as he watched her small shoe dig repeatedly into the side of the defenseless man. “Come over here to me, Billie, and we’II drink to the swine when he comes to.”

“You bet we will,” the girl assured him with a parting kick at Regan. “Wake up, you big Irish stiff,” she taunted him, “and see what a man I’ve picked for myself!”

Catanesi’s chest swelled with pride. He strutted over to the table, put down the two glasses and came towards the girl, breathing heavily.

Mike Regan was struggling grimly up through a haze of pain to regain full control over himself. His head felt as if it were ten times its ordinary size, his whole body throbbed and pulsated.

But the liquor, and still more the knowledge that Billie, the girl he loved more than anything in the world, was alive gave him added strength. He fought hard to focus on the figures that danced crazily before him through a blood-red mist while his fingers tightened instinctively on the small gun the girl had slipped into his hand.

The mist cleared a little, and Regan ground his teeth with rage at the sight of the huge, awkward body of the Killer enfolding Billie’s clean, slender beauty in its horrible embrace. Again a feeling of nausea swept over him, the figures grew indistinct.

“Your moll’s left you for a better guy, a stronger guy, Micky Regan!” The taunting words burnt like fire into the Irishman’s brain. But he must keep calm until he could see more clearly, until his strength came back to him.

Again the Killer kissed the girl. Then, giving her one of the glasses, he raised his own mockingly.

“You’re going to give us a lot of fun in the next hour or two, Mr. Regan,” he said ironically. “Yeah, Billie and me, we’re going to hit it off swell, ain’t we, sweetheart?”

“Sure we are, Joe,” assented the girl with a laugh, longing for the moment when her man would rise to cram the cur’s words down his throat. Why hadn’t she taken her chance and shot him in the back? But that was not in her code. Even a swine like Catanesi couldn’t be shot from behind in cold blood!

“I’m going to pin your hands to the floor with a couple of knives,” remarked the Killer with anticipatory relish. “Then the fun’ll start!”

Regan’s eyes were closed; he gave no sign of the intense struggle he was putting up. If Catanesi came over to him, he’d discover the gun. Then the game would be up — for both him and Billie! For her sake he fought desperately to clear his fuddled, aching head of the mist that weighed on it.

“Another round of drinks. Joe,” suggested Billie to gain time. “Give Regan another glass, too, Joe. He’ll enjoy the fun all the more!”

Together, Billie and the Killer stood over Regan while the girl forced the glass between his lips. Then Joe went over to the concealed bar. Out of a drawer he took two knives. “These’ll make him sit up and take notice,” he said grimly.

At all costs, Billie realized that she must stall for time. That was the one element which would insure the success of her plan, time for Regan to recover, time for Red Conners to play his part. Quickly she poured another glass of Scotch and touched it to her lips: then she offered it to the Killer.

Out on Cranford Avenue the wintry wind howled a desolate song as it swept on through the scraggly brush and skeleton trees over the flats to the river. In the distance the sound of an approaching track could be heard. Men lurking in hedges, waiting tensely in cars hidden in a rutted lane, other men lying in readiness at an intersection, looked at their watches. The moment for action had come!

Suddenly, a wildly driven touring car came flashing around the bend of the road in front of the truck, forcing it to come to an abrupt halt. Instantly, the deadly rattle of a sub-machine gun tore through the night. The driver of the truck and his companion slumped sideways in their seats.

Men leapt from the tonneau of the touring car and hauled the two bodies from the truck, onto the side of the road. “Beat it, you two!” came a hoarse whisper. “All hell’s goin’ to be poppin’ here!” Regan had taken care to warn his friends at the factory; the men had played their parts to perfection.

A man swung himself into the driver’s seat of the truck and backed it across the road. Before it could turn, a venomous hail of bullets belched from rods concealed in the hedges. But the men in the touring car were prepared. A hot fire from two Thompsons projecting from each side of the car, ripped viciously into the enemy. The night air was alive with leaping, crackling, flashes of fire.

All at once there was a hoarse yell. Catanesi’s men jumped from their cover and ran toward the car, firing as they ran to surround it. Regan’s man in the truck had been put out of action long before.

Another moment, and the desperately fighting occupants of the touring-car would have been submerged by the wave of charging gangsters. But Red Conners picked that moment to swing into action.

Down the road three big cars roared toward the fight, cut-outs open, guns spewing lead from every window. Before the Chicago gang knew what had hit them, Conners’ men had left a trail of dead and dying men in the road.

“It’s a plant!” shrieked Mischek, the Killer’s lieutenant. “Beat it, boys, beat—” His warning died away into a choked cry, as a bullet from Conners’ grind-organ caught him full in the throat. A torrent of blood gushed onto the asphalt. The Hungarian’s hands clawed wildly at his neck, and he pitched forward onto the road.

Devotion to Regan, vengeance for the imagined murder of Billie Ross, filled Conners and his men with murderous blood-lust. Recklessly they chopped Catanesi’s men, careless of their own safety as long as they could kill an enemy. Regan’s orders of ‘no quarter’ were obeyed to the letter.

But the Hungarian’s dying words of warning had not gone unheeded. Catanesi’s men broke and fled for their cars, keeping up a frantic fusillade on their pursuers. No time to save a wounded pal! Leaving the last car to block Conners, the survivors piled rapidly into the three ahead of it.

Running the gauntlet of fire from the enemy, as their cars started down the lane, a man jumped onto the car that blocked the pursuit and backed it out into the road. Instantly Conners’ three cars turned into the narrow lane, rocking and bumping over the uneven ground in their mad haste to catch up with the battered remnants of the Killer’s gang.

Soon the lane joined the highway again. Throttles full open, the pursuing cars shot down the broad road like streaks of lightning toward the glow of red tail-lights that marked their prey. Through the outskirts of the town thundered the six cars, their occupants keeping up a running fire.

Gradually the pursuit began to gain. Regan’s drivers knew the town like the palm of their hand, and Red Conners had been a racing driver. Ceaselessly, the man beside him on the front seat pressed the trigger of his sub-machine gun.

The rearmost of Catanesi’s fleet skidded wildly across a street to pile up in a plate-glass show window. As the pursuing cars flashed by, they hosed the wreckage with a hurricane of lead. Ahead of them the almost deserted streets emptied as if by magic.

All at once the two cars ahead parted company. Conners hurtled after the leader while his two other cars tore after the second, forcing it closer and closer to the side of the street. A last well directed volley made the driver swerve desperately. His right front wheel crashed into a fire-hydrant. The car swung around, hung poised for a second, then crumpled with a rending smash on its side.

Red Conners was pressing his foot almost through the floor in his effort to catch up with what was now the one remaining car. But its engine was more powerful than the one he was urging to give him its last ounce of speed. And they were nearing the Killer’s house. Conners swore grimly to send that car to hell before they reached it.

Down a hill plunged the two cars, and up a steep road toward an embankment that overhung the river. For a fraction of a second Conners drew closer as the front car slowed up to hit the grade. The man beside him took his chance.

A jet of flame spurted through the air, and a hunk of lead buried itself in the head of the driver of the leading car. Up the hill it roared, veering wildly onto the embankment while its occupants struggled frantically to gain control of the wheel. Too late! The car crashed through the posts on the embankment, careened down the slope to be swallowed up in the black waters below.

Conners slackened speed for an instant to allow his two machines in the rear to catch up with him. Then the trio of cars swept on.

But the Killer, sprawled lazily in a chair in his luxurious room, was still insolently confident of victory. Billie Ross, perched on the arm of his chair, was still plying him with liquor in her desperate effort to gain time.

The sound of cars roaring down the street with cut-outs open came in faintly through the closed windows. Pushing the girl aside, Catanesi stood up.

“Must be the boys comin’ back,” he said, picking up his two gleaming knives and advancing toward the prostrate man. “I’ll spread eagle the big mick to put on a show for ’em. The rod who bumped off the most men in Mike Regan’s gang can have the first crack at the leader.”

The girl shuddered at his inhuman cruelty, straining her ears for the sound of approaching footsteps. A swift glance showed her that Mike Regan had come to. Though he was as motionless as before, the knuckles of the hand that gripped his automatic were white.

Catanesi, the two knives held carelessly in his left hand, came toward his prisoner.

“Reach for the ceiling or I’ll drill you!” barked Regan. The knives clattered from the Killer’s nerveless hand to the floor. His jaw fell open, then he looked helplessly around him like a cornered rat.

“You needn’t expect any help from me, Joe,” said Billie with a cold laugh as she came up to remove the Killer’s armament. “You promised me today that Regan and I would hear your lieutenant tell us all about it. Well, I think you’re going to listen to a different story.”

Muffled reports, a single sharp cry, and shouts of men fighting in the house reached the three participants in the grim drama. Each interpreted the noise in his own way. Billie Ross seated herself calmly on the table, a strange smile of triumph on her face. Regan, frowning anxiously, let his eyes wander for an instant. Seizing his chance, the Killer rushed for the door. Like a flash, the Irishman grasped a knife and hurled it. Catanesi howled with pain as the glittering blade ripped through his outstretched hand, pinning it to the panel.

“There must be some way we can get out of here, Billie,” muttered Regan, jumping to his feet. “For God’s sake don’t make a noise! Do you know the back way?”

“We’re going down the front way,” replied the girl, calmly lighting a cigarette. “And you can put your gun away, Mike.”

But Regan spun around, leveling his rod as the door was flung open and a group of men, headed by Red Conners, poured into the room.

“This is the story I wanted you to hear, Killer Joe Catanesi,” shouted Billie Ross triumphantly to the impaled and writhing gangster.

A look of incredulous surprise was on Red Conners’ face, as he saw that the two for whom he had exacted such terrible vengeance were alive and unharmed.

“I swore I’d make ’em pay and I did!” There was a ring of victory in his voice. “I busted that Chicago gang so wide open they’ll never be heard of again!”

But the Killer was game to the last. In the bitterest moment of his life he had seen victory turn suddenly into humiliating defeat. At least he could kill off the author of it!

With his free hand he struggled to loose the knife which had pierced his wrist. Like a cat he turned to aim the dripping blade at the girl’s heart. But the glint of the knife caught Regan’s eye. His gun barked once, and the Killer crumpled slowly to the floor, a bullet in his brain.

Regan’s thirsty henchmen made for the Killer’s bar. As the drinks were passed around, comprehension of Billie’s daring strategy slowly dawned in Mike Regan’s brain. She had made him fight and conquer Catanesi with his own weapons. Lifting his glass, he toasted her.

“To Billie Ross, who’s made this man’s town really deserve the name of ‘The City of Bullets’ and to our last drink with you boys!”

They stared at him open-mouthed.