Gang Pulp

The “Eyes” Have It By Chuck Wrigley

Gangland Stories, August-September 1930

No one even saw the draw. All anyone could remember was that a flat ugly weapon seemed to sprout from the palm of the Chi Kid’s hand. “Dogs” sighed and fell to the floor, two bullets in his skull through the eye sockets.

“Dogs” Miller, first lieutenant to Martin Farrell, overlord of New York racketeers, was strutting his stuff before the big crowd gathered in Fat Siler’s speakeasy on Eleventh avenue.

“Dogs,” thus nicknamed because his were the largest feet in Gangland, was both drunk and disorderly. But therein lay one of the reasons for the existence of Fat’s place. Fat was unofficial fixer between the underworld and the powers that be. In return it was agreed between gang leaders and officialdom that his speakeasy should be recognized as neutral ground. It was the unwritten law that there should be no gunplay there and that the area for a block in each direction must be kept free of ambushings and stand-up gun fights.

It followed, then, that Dogs was “putting one on” in a place where even the bitterest enemies parked their grouches outside.

The liquor had been flowing freely for hours. Now, with the hands of the clock standing at 11:30, Dogs was becoming both maudlin and boastful. Sober, he was quiet and retiring, a man who possessed the respect and friendship of even his rivals.

He flipped his gun from its holster and pointed it waveringly at one or another of the patrons, meanwhile mouthing bloodcurdling threats of what he might do if the notion struck him.

The others, secure under the house rule of “No shooting,” grinned cheerfully as they turned negligent shoulders toward him. Even guns must have their play-times and Dogs, one of the squarest and best of them all, was merely letting the booze talk.

The buzzer at the door shrilled its call. Parker, head bartender, flipped open a slot and held a low-toned conversation with the newcomer. Those nearest him heard the words: “Wait a minute.” He turned to a speaking tube connected with Fat’s private office and blew a shrill blast.

“Bimbo callin’ himself ‘Chi Kid’ is here t’ see youse,” he bellowed. A low mumble came in response. Turning, Parker released the magnetic door catch and admitted the stranger.

“Fat’ll see youse in a few minutes,” he said. “Got somebody wit’ him right now. What’ll youse have?”

The stranger chose Scotch, ginger ale and a strip of lemon peel. For a few moments he stood sipping his drink, oblivious to the curious glances of the other patrons. They saw a man of less than medium height, slight, well dressed, and wearing a derby hat and spats.

Only a predatory beak of a nose and deep-set, Indian black eyes, marked him as different from ten thousand others of the same description.

Presently, his drink consumed, the stranger hooked his stick and one arm over the edge of the bar, turning an inquiring eye on his fellow patrons.

It was fated that Dogs Miller should be the one to attract his attention, for at the moment he was bellowing at the top of his voice and had his gun out.

Their eyes locked, the vacuous, bleary ones of the drunk and the burning, black ones of the visitor.

“Well, look (hic) whosh here!” Dogs ejaculated. “Li’I Lor’ Faunl’roy himshelf — ankle awnin’s, cane ’n ev’thing. Whass shay fellersh — wan’ me shoot hish spats off?”

It was the Chi Kid who answered for them. He turned and barked a single word—

“Don’t!”

It was a command, not an appeal. Dogs’ eyes hardened at the tone. There was no one to tell him that the Chi Kid was a congenital killer — that the gunmen of Chicago and Cicero feared the brittle temper of this little man as they feared neither their fellows nor the police.

“Whazzis?” Dogs demanded blankly. “Li’I squirt givin’ orders (hic) ’roun’ here, huh? Aw-ww-wright! Now watch ’em spats!”

With the words the muzzle of his weapon wavered toward the visitor’s feet. The others, recognizing it for one of Dogs’ “sandys,” looked on smilingly. In another moment he would burst into drunken laughter and order a drink for the house.

No one’s eyes saw the draw.

All that anyone remembered afterward was that a flat ugly weapon seemed to sprout out of the palm of the Chi Kid’s right hand.

It barked twice, one report blending into the other. Dogs sighed wearily and collapsed to the floor. Had he lived, he would have been blinded — for each of the heavy bullets had entered his skull through an eye socket.

The Chi Kid, feet outspread, froze in a posture of defense. His eyes darted from face to face, alert for possible reprisals. No one moved. A thin film of smoke drifted upward, level with the top of the bar.

The killer’s hand stole behind him and caught at the door handle. Then, as Fat Siler, bellowing angry protests, leaped from his private office at the end of the bar, Chi Kid slid through the door and out to the street.

Thus it was written that, for the first time in years, the officers of the homicide squad and newspaper reporters were summoned to Fat’s Place for the story of a killing. An armistice had been violated.

The police investigation profited little. No one would admit knowing anything about the slayer or the cause of the killing. Out of the welter of internationally opposed descriptions, the police chose one which flung wide the dragnet for a roughly dressed stranger, taller than medium — probably a Swede or Norwegian.

But over the mysterious grapevine telegraph of the underworld went the news:

“A cannon calling himself Chi Kid knocked off Dogs Miller in Fat’s Place tonight. Mart Farrell will want him.”

“Hey, Mart! I want off tomorruh aft’noon an’ night. Me an’ de twist’s goin’ to Coney. Oke wit’ youse?”

Paddy Bowers flung down his cards as he spoke and turned to Mart Farrell — “The square guy who never broke a promise.” Paddy was Mart’s chauffeur, and for the last hour he had been losing steadily “throwing jacks” with Chimp Janos, Mart’s wrestler bodyguard.

The racketeer chief nodded absently but did not look up. His finely chiseled features seemed worn and lines of worry showed between his usually placid eyes.

Speck Thompson, the red-haired and befreckled liaison man of the gang, turned anxiously to Chimp and Paddy. The three exchanged worried glances. Finally Speck, after a period of silence, said:

“What’s the matter, Big Shot, still got th’ hunch?”

Mart’s eyes came up slowly from contemplation of his well kept hands — caught and held Speck’s glance levelly.

“Yes,” he replied slowly. “Still with me. Remember, you chaps, I’ve been in this game eight years, principally because I always play my hunches. There’s black trouble coming now, and it isn’t so far away.”

“Got a name for it?”

“Yes — ‘Chicago.’ Ever since we ran their Big Noise off last fall they’ve been trying to cook up a new racket here.”

“ ’At’s easy,” Chimp broke in crisply. “Let ’em start it an’ ’en knock ’em off.”

Mart lost himself in frowning thought for a moment before he replied.

“Maybe you’re right, Chimp, but there’s enough lads going for one way rides without sacrificing a lot of our best guns just because the Big Noise in Chicago thinks he’s fast enough to cut in here. Damn it all! For a plugged nickel I’d hop a rattler for Chicago tonight, hunt this troublemaker up and shoot it out with him on his own dunghill.”

“Let’s go!” Chimp roared. “I’ll take a stack wit’ youse.”

Then the telephone tinkled its summons. Mart, his features still an angry red, reached out for the receiver.

“Yes?” he said. “Fat? — Yes — Who? Dogs Miller! — In your place just now? — What about the rule? Who did it? — Stranger, eh? — Who? Chi Kid? Yes, I know him. A rod for the Big Noise. — Call Campbell to take the body. — I’ll be right down. Thanks. Goodbye!”

He snapped the receiver back on the hook.

“Put the word out,” he snapped in tones choked with anger. “A cannon named Chi Kid just burned Dogs Miller down in Fat’s Place. I want him!”

The others were on their feet, cursing, burying him under a flood of questions.

“Maybe Dogs was wrong,” he said, “but he was my pal and that makes him right. Fat says he made one of his cockeyed gun plays and the fellow — a stranger — croaked him.”

Then, for the first time in their long association, the three men closest to the Big Fellow saw his veneer of coldness and self control crack like thin glass. Hands shaking in anger, teeth bared in a snarl, he whirled to Speck and gritted:

“You’re top cutter now. Get the word out everywhere. Five to the man who turns Chi Kid in to me before night — alive. Ten grand if it’s before noon. Snap into it. He don’t know how hot this killing is. He’ll stick around.”

“Everybody? Anybody?” Speck asked. “All the gangs?”

Mart flared back at him bitterly:

“Anybody in the world — even a lousy dick. You know what a friend Dogs was to me, and whoever turns Chi Kid in can lift my bankroll Come on, you guns — maybe we can get him yet tonight.”

Speck already was busy at the telephone as they clattered down the stairs and into Mart’s big Lincoln roadster.

Only once did Mart break silence on the fast trip along Broadway and down the Eighth Avenue short cut. Then he said:

“I knew the lid was going to blow off with us standing on it. Now watch me put it back on.”

Fifteen minutes after they had left the house, Paddy piloted the big roadster up to Fat’s Place and snapped on the parking lights. A solitary dark figure detached itself from the shadows and whispered:

“Fat’s closed now. It’s Mr. Farrell, isn’t it? He said to bring you in through the side door.”

Then, as though obeying orders to hustle the visitors within as quickly as possible, the man shoved Paddy forward and motioned for Mart to follow. A black passageway yawned before them but Paddy, a regular patron, knew the way. Mart, lulled to security by the other’s assured progress, stepped out briskly. The guide fell in behind him with Chimp bringing up the rear.

The events of the next ten seconds always were vague in Mart’s mind. In his grief and anger over the death of Dogs he relaxed his vigilance for the moment. Suddenly through the daze, he sensed rather than heard a warning shout in Chimp’s gruff voice.

Instinctively he threw himself to one side and the slungshot blow intended for his skull grazed his left shoulder. He heard Chimp’s joyous battle cry as he leaped to grips with the attacker — the double roar of a pistol — Paddy’s feet pounding back from the door. All of these items registered vaguely in Mart’s mind as he tugged at the pistol which had jammed in the holster under his left arm.

At last the weapon worked loose. At the same moment a dark form appeared for a moment, shadowlike, in the entrance to the passageway, but Mart withheld his fire in the fear of hitting Paddy or Chimp.

A second later a powerful engine roared into life and gears clashed. Then came the sound of a car — his car — whizzing off down the street

Chimp was staggering to his feet, cursing. Paddy ran to the mouth of the passage and called back that the assailant had escaped; that Mart’s car was gone. Someone opened the side door of Fat’s place and a stream of light showed Chimp bleeding from a wound in the face.

Mart led the injured gunman inside, while Paddy borrowed a flashlight and searched the passageway. Suddenly he shouted and came rushing back with a seriously damaged derby hat.

Mart took it, studied the inside and went white with rage. His hands trembled as he fought back the words that leaped to his lips — for there stared back at him from within the crown the initials “C.K.” and the address of a Chicago hatter.

Silently, striving to keep his face expressionless, Mart turned to study the faces before him. Carefully he kept the hat turned against his side so that the telltale markings could not be seen by the others.

It all was plain to him now, the Chi Kid had not gone to earth. Instead he had waited for the almost certain coming of Mart, his first victim’s chief. Then, coolly, he had sought to kill him with one smashing blow on the skull. Even in his rage Mart could not repress a thrill of admiration for the gameness of one willing to take on the death gamble at odds of one to three. At least, here was an antagonist worthy of his own attention.

Resolutely putting the intruder out of his mind for the moment, Mart turned to ascertain the extent of Chimp’s hurts. As usual that human ironclad had escaped without great damage. One bullet had struck a glancing blow on the jaw, tearing away the lobe of the ear in passing.

The impact over the main trunk nerve had served to stun the Chimp momentarily, but already he had tied a clean towel about his head and now was staring about the circle to surprise someone laughing at his odd appearance.

“No wonder they call him Chimp,” Mart mused as he marked his bodyguard’s resemblance to the jungle dweller whose nickname he bore. The bloodstained towel bandage set off his protruding jaw, red-rimmed slits of eyes and the huge hands hung on arms all too long for the height of the squat body.

Turning back to the group before him, Mart looked from one to another, waiting for one of them to open the way for him to start a line of inquiry suggested to him by the markings in the hat.

There was Fat Siler, the self-satisfied smirk wiped off his flabby face; “Red” Slater and Hymie Eltner, gang leaders in widely separated localities; Gus Banks, a racketeer who posed as a labor organizer; Albert Skillman, contact man with the agents of the controlling powers; Benny Kauffman, who owned the delicatessen and fruit store racket — and a number of lesser lights.

These, Mart knew, comprised the loosely organized group which endeavored to keep in effect a working agreement between the various gangs. All supposedly were friendly; certainly all acknowledged him as the Big Shot — yet as he studied them red lights of suspicion and rage danced in his eyes.

He centered his attention on Fat, who was squirming uneasily in his chair. Finally Fat broke the silence.

“I thought you’d like to have some of the boys here, Mart. This Chicago cannon sure shot a big hole in things when he turned Dogs off.”

“He did!” Mart replied coldly. “Now what did you tell the dicks?”

“Usual thing — stranger — bum description. I knowed you’d want to tend to this guy yourself.”

“Instead of which he nearly attended to me.”

Mart snapped the words out angrily. He was watching Fat’s expression closely. What he saw sent his nails digging into his palms. Fat knew! He was too ready with his apparently surprised query:

“Hey? You mean this Chicago gun was in th’ scuffle out there just now?”

Mart favored him with a snarling grin; threw the smashed derby into his lap.

“That’s what he left behind,” he rasped. “Write your own ticket. He got me flat-footed. I was thinking about the way Dogs had been burned down. He pretended you’d sent him to bring us in through the side door, then got in behind me and tried to knock me off with a sap. Chimp crawled him, but he shot his way out and got away in my car.”

Fat did not respond, but Mart saw that his hands were trembling. The air was electric with tension now and it seemed that every member of the group jumped when Mart turned suddenly and barked:

“The Chi Kid came here tonight, Fat; he came to see you. What did he want? You knew he was coming, I can prove that. Now, what was it for? What business could a Chicago gun have with you?”

Fat looked miserably from face to face. Everywhere, he met only hard eyes and seeming suspicion. He knew too well what this meant — he was on trial — and his next few words would clear or smash him.

“I... I don’t know what he wanted, Mart,” he said huskily. “I’d swear to that on a stack of bibles as high as the Chrysler building. I did know that somebody’d be along from Chi in a day or two — but that come to me roundabout and I wasn’t say in’ nothin’ until I could get all the dope.”

“Quit stalling and spill it!” Mart demanded tersely. “As a matter of fact, you’ve been dickering with the Chicago outfit, haven’t you?”

“Jeez no, Mart!” Fat wailed. “Here’s what happened. See if you can make head or tail out of it.

“Babe Jordon come over from Newark a week ago: introduced a man as Bill Meadows from Philly. He said this bird was comin’ in with a taxi racket and wanted some advice. We talked Philly for awhile and the feller sure knew the town and the big shots there.

“Anyhow I tol’ him to keep out: told him everybody’d forget personal rows and gang up on him if he came in. I told him, ‘New York’s organized better’ll Chi ever was.’ ”

“Well—” Mart demanded. “What then?”

“He kept on askin’ a lotta questions, wantin’ to be told why he couldn’t edge in. When I’d tell him, he’d ask if this or that couldn’t be done. He wanted to know if the cops could be got to, if anything went to city hall — an’ he brought your name in. He said you was all that stood in his way.

“When he got up to go, he says, ‘Think it over: a guy named “Kid” will see you in a few days.’ That was all until tonight when Parker whistled back that Chi Kid wanted t’ see me. Me an’ Red and Hymie was talkin’ so I said for him to wait.

“That’s all, Mart; hope to Gawd I die this minute if they was anythin’ else.”

The circle of faces remained bleak, but no one saw fit to comment on Fat’s story. Presently Mart motioned for Skillman to accompany him to a corner of the room. Then, one at a time they called Slater and Eltner, quizzing them about their presence in Fat’s private office.

Both plainly were worried and lost no time in returning to the others at Mart’s nod of dismissal. He chatted for a moment longer with Skillman, then both rejoined the others.

Fat was in a state of complete funk by now. His lips were working spasmodically and great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. Unsteadily he reached for the whiskey bottle, but snatched it back as Mart snapped, crisply:

“Fat, you sold out to the Chicago gang. We’ve got it on you. You called Slater and Eltner in tonight; you said it was important business. Then you stalled for two hours.

“You were waiting, Fat, for Mister Chi Kid to come and lay his plan before you three. You figured that with Slater handling things in the Bronx and Eltner taking care of the East side, you could pull some more in with you, enough so that the Chicago lads could get a foothold.”

“It’s a lie!” Fat almost screamed the words. “Jees, Mart! Ain’t I always shot square wit’ you ’n everybody; I’m makin’ good jack the way things is. Why should I turn up my pals?”

Mart leaned forward fixing him with a baleful glare as he said raspingly:

“Fat, for fifty grand — half of it — you’d sell your soul and the lives of your whole family. You were the pivot guy; I know it now. They tried to get to Skillman and when he balked, they dickered with some of the Brooklyn outfit. But they didn’t get anywhere until they found you.”

“It ain’t so, I tell you,” Fat chattered through bloodless lips. “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.”

Mart was inexorable.

“Last chance, Fat, or a ride,” he snapped. “Tonight wasn’t the first time Chi Kid had been here. He was here once before — when?”

He barked the last word. It snapped like a pistol shot.

“Yester— He never was here before.” Fat’s voice rose to a scream.

But he knew that he had fumbled. Moaning, hiding his face behind his fingers as though to shut out the sight of the vengeance which was upon him, he rocked unsteadily in his seat.

Chimp came to his feet, gibbering horribly, his bony hands twitching toward the flabby bulk weaving before him.

“Lemme have him, Mart!” he husked. “Gimme him — the damned, lousy double crossin’ rat.”

“No! No!” Fat wailed, terrified. “Not that, Mart. Gimme a chanst!”

Mart motioned Chimp back.

“Wait,” he commanded. “I’m going to count six. If Fat starts talking, it’s off. If he doesn’t, you can help yourself — and tear me off a chunk of white meat.”

Fat uttered a moan of mortal anguish. Unnerved, broken, he slid to his knees. He raised his hands, pleadingly, to the others.

“Skill—” he mouthed droolingly. “Boys — make him gimme — a chanst. I ain’t done nothin’ — honest t’ Gawd I ain’t.”

“One!”

Mart pitched his voice to rise over the tumult. The others continued to regard Fat stonily, faces set in grim refusal to interfere.

“Two!” — “Three!” — “Four!” It seemed to the others that an almost interminable period divided the count. Fat was on his face now, groping and grovelling in anguished terror.

“Five!”

Chimp leaped to his feet, kicking his chair halfway across the room.

The crash seemed to galvanize Fat into action. Hoisting himself to his hands and knees like a fallen boxer, his head rolling drunkenly, he muttered:

“I did it... I did it! They promised — protect me. The Big Noise — got something on me — made me help. It... it wasn’t much — he wanted, Mart — taxicab racket—”

The words broke the calm of the onlookers. Skillman and the others, accustomed as they were to the unmasking of double crossers, growled angrily at the spectacle of Fat, recipient of gangland and official bounty, turning on his own kind.

But over it all rose Chimp’s voice. Bloody and horrible in his rage, he kept shouting over and over again his plea of:

“Gimme him, Mart. Lemme have him!”

Again Mart waved him back.

“Where did the Chi Kid go after he killed Dogs?” he demanded.

Fat groaned and slumped back to the floor again. Mart hooked his foot into the other’s armpit and thrust him over on his back.

Then calmly, unhurriedly, he stooped and smashed downward with his open palm, putting all of the strength of his powerful shoulders into the blow. Blood leaped from Fat’s nose and lips.

“Where did he go, I asked you?”

“Up-upstairs — to my room.”

“And he was on the extension line when you ’phoned to me?”

“Yuh — yes.”

“Where’s his hideout?”

Fat moved his head from side to side wearily. All of the life seemed ebbing from his gross body. He gulped, blew a bloody froth from his lips.

“I don’t—” he began miserably.

Mart’s foot crashed against his ribs.

“You do know,” he snarled through lips stiff with hate. “And you’ll tell me — now. Where is it?”

“Ep — Eppsley Arms on Broadway — name of his moll, Vi Taylor.”

“Tie him up,” Mart commanded, turning to Paddy. “Maybe he’s given us a bum steer. If it is, I’ll work on him again. Put him up in his room and stay there with him.”

Now he was the old Mart, the efficient, well poised leader. He continued to snap out his orders.

“You, Chimp,” he said, “help Paddy put Fat upstairs. Then we’ll go and make a call. I want the rest of you to stay here — and there’ll be no telephone calls going out over this line. Get me? Somebody else besides Fat was in on his play and now that I’ve started hunting, I’m going to get all the rats.” One by one he caught and held the eyes of the others. They were stony hard, but all stared back defiantly except Red Slater and Hymie Eltner. They fought with all of their willpower to face the racketeer chief down, but each in turn lowered his gaze guiltily.

There was a bleak half-smile on Mart’s lips as Chimp came down from upstairs. A moment later the door slammed behind them.

Mart and Chimp were “going calling.”

“Where to, Mart?” Chimp asked as they reached the street. “We gotta chanst to corner dis Chi Kid tonight. Huh?”

“Home first,” was the reply. “After that we’ll take a crack at this slippery gay-cat. Keep your eyes open for a taxi.”

A maroon Paramount solved that portion of their problem. Within a few minutes it had deposited them before Mart’s headquarters flat.

As he unlocked the inner door, Mart heard the telephone bell. He picked up the instrument and answered with his customary inquiring “Yes?”

“Mart Farrell?” a crisp voice asked.

“Yes. Who is this?” Mart replied.

“I just want to tell you how lucky you are, but that your luck’s gone sour now. You’re a big sap — a nitwit.”

“Yes? Then I presume this is the Chi Kid,” Mart hazarded the guess, but his voice was cold and hard.

“Himself,” the other said gloatingly. “I said you’re a sap, and you are. Now here’s some news for your thick head.

“Go back to Fat’s place and you’ll find him all tied up like you left him — but I slit his throat, the big stoolie. You’ll find your fuzztailed guard beside him. He ain’t so damn pretty neither. I moved the front of his face back an inch or two with a piece of pipe.”

Chimp, standing beside Mart and listening to the voice coming through the loosely held transmitter, saw his muscles bulge and knot as he fought for self-control. Mart’s voice was cold, and emotionless as he replied:

“Got your rod on you?”

“Surest thing you know. I’d feel half naked without it. Listen, saphead, don’t fret about my rod. You’ll see it plenty soon, and it’ll be right in front of your eyes.”

“Check!” Mart snapped. “I’ve passed out the word that there is five grand for whoever brings you in. That’s off. If you’ve got the guts, it’s you and me for it.”

The taunt struck home as he hoped it would. Chi Kid’s voice cracked as he yelled obscenities into the mouthpiece. Mart cut him short.

“Where are you talking from?” he demanded. There was a chance that surprise would make the answer truthfully.

“From Fat’s,” the other snarled — then cursed himself for the slip. But congenital killers are braggarts. Mart was not surprised when Chi Kid continued:

“I drove your car two blocks and beat it back so I could listen in on what was happening. I was back of the bed when your punks carried Fat in. After your ape left, I fixed the other two up — and now I’m pulling out.

“If you’d had anything in your head but mush you’d have searched the place for me before you left. I was waiting — wanted to show you that rod you’re yelping about.”

With the words “From Fat’s,” Mart heard a scuffle of feet behind him. Half turning he saw the door closing behind Chimp then a clatter of feet on the stairway and the bang of the outside door.

Chimp was on his way to trap the Chi Kid. Mart, tied to the telephone, had no choice but to remain and stall the other as long as possible.

“Yes, Kid,” he replied in an unhurried, conversational tone, “I must see that rod. But do you know, I’ve an idea mine is better. I use dumdums — and while they tell me you have a face like a gutter rat, I know it won’t be any prettier with one of my slugs in it.”

“You big, fat-headed rumdum gay-cat—” Chi Kid bellowed, but Mart continued. He was talking now against time, wildly anxious to hold the killer on the line. Any thing would do that would keep him from realizing the passage of time.

“I think you’re short on guts, like all the rest of the Chicago mob,” he taunted. “Here’s a chance to prove I’m wrong. Any taxi driver will take you to the zoo in Prospect Park, Brooklyn. It’s up a little hill, away from the road — a sweet place for a couple of men to show one another their rods. Do you get what I mean?”

“Hell, I ain’t dumb,” Chi Kid expostulated.

“No? Well, it’s guts I’m talking about. Here’s the lay. At the top of the hill there’s a flat place about 200 yards long. You name the hour and come in at the north end, I’ll come alone from the south. Each holds his rod in his right hand pocket; that’s how we’ll know each other.

“We’ll walk toward the center and start shooting when we feel lucky. We can get our affair over with and the winner can make a lam before the cops get there. Are you game?”

“Fine simp you think I am!” Chi Kid growled. “You’d have the dump planted with cannons; you wouldn’t even be taking a chance. All I’d get out of it would be a barrel of lead. Not me, Mister, I’m hep.”

“Hep — also gutless!” Mart rejoined tauntingly. “There’d be no other guns there; they wouldn’t be needed. Get this, Chi Kid — I want you, man to man. You croaked the best pal a man ever had and it’s up to me now to get you. I wouldn’t take a hundred grand for the pleasure of seeing you through the sights on my gun.”

“Leave it at that then,” Chi Kid snarled. “Just keep your eyes open and be ready to start smoking — I’ll be in front of you, turning you down, before you know it.”

“Did you say ‘in front’?” Mart sneered. “Why, you filthy little ambusher, you wouldn’t face even a rookie harness bull, let alone a good rod-man.”

His eyes sought the clock on his desk. Mow long had he been talking? He must hold Chi Kid a few moments longer. He was hoping — almost praying — that Chimp would get there before Chi Kid could get away.

The latter was snarling curses and threats again. This time Mart did not interrupt. Every second was precious. When the mouthings ceased suddenly, Mart said, “Listen — when will you feel brave enough to take a chance?”

For a few long seconds there was no answer. Then the other said, “What’s that?” but his voice was a half whisper now.

“You swear fine,” Mart went on desperately, “but I still think you’re a filthy coward. See here, skunk — I‘ll play any game you can think of — adjoining hotel rooms — meet on a corner — anything. I don’t want to have to wait to ship your carcass back to Chi so they can be planting you while Dogs Miller is being put away.”

“Ye-ah?” It was Chi Kid’s turn to taunt now. “Don’t forget your other curly-toothed bandit down here — the one with his face smashed in. He’s going to need some burying too — and that’s saying nothing of the nice funeral the boys’ll frame up for you. That’ll be something forth—”

The line went dead. Mart jiggled the hook, but the only result was a belated “Number, please?” from the operator.

Mart sank dispiritedly into his chair. Either through craft or accident, Chi Kid had sensed danger. Damn the luck! Now he’d be on his way to another hideout. The Windy City crook was getting all of the breaks. It wasn’t humanly possible for Chimp to be anywhere near Fat’s place yet.

He lifted his wrist and consulted the face of his watch. It was nearly four o’clock. He’d have to go back to Fat’s and send Skillman and the others home, and too, he must find out if Chi Kid really had claimed two more victims.

He was exhausted, mentally and physically. It was the let-down which comes with failure even to men as iron as he. The thought of a reviving shower came to him like an inspiration. Five minutes later, rejuvenated, he was getting into clean linen and a light suit of neutral color.

He donned his shoulder holster and gun, his coat and a limp-brimmed Panama, then started for the door.

A telephone shrilled again. This time it was the mellow ring of his private line — a number known only to his aides. He picked up the receivers but listened for a moment before speaking.

A confused sound of men’s voices made an overtone above the crackling on the line. “Probably from a speakeasy or night club,” he reflected as he settled in his chair and said, “Yes?”

“Mart! Mart! Jeez, chief, I got him!”

It was Chimp’s hoarse voice, shrill now with excitement.

“I got him down here at Fat’s place — tied up — waitin’ fer youse. Come on, Mart — hurry!”

“Chimp!” Mart shouted joyously. ‘“Are you sure?”

“Soit’nly” the other replied. “W’en I run outta de house Eddie Moran was comin’ along in his new cab — an’ he jerked me down here in no time.

“We was two blocks fr’m Fat’s w’en I seen a little guy wit’out a hat, doin’ a lam. So I gotta hunch an’ scrooched down in de cab, tellin’ Eddie t’ pick dc guy up if he flagged him.

“Sure enough, dat’s w’at happened — an’ I folded him all up in a bundle w’en he started t’ get in. Hot cats, Chief, but maybe that sucker isn’t sore! Hey, when’r youse down?”

“Now, Chimp!” Mart exulted.

Dawn was breaking as he left the house.

Chimp, a transformed, joyous victor, opened the door as Mart leaped from his cab and ran along the passageway.

“Get a load of dat, Mart,” he husked happily, pointing to what at first seemed a blood stained bundle of clothing lying in a corner.

The Chi Kid it was, in truth, but under the deft handling of the Chimp he had been metamorphosed from a natty, cold nerved gunman into a bloody, chattering Thing.

“I woiked ’im over some,” Chimp confessed naively. “He socked me in de eye wit’ his t’umb — an’ ’en he needed it anyhow.”

The Chi Kid’s face was a mass of purple bruises; the beak of a nose puffed and patently broken at the bridge. His eyes were mere slits, and one of his ears was horribly cauIiflowered. What Chimp lacked in science, he more than made up for in strength.

The final indignity was the manner in which the Chicago killer had been rendered helpless. Ankles and wrists were lashed together in such a way that the Chi Kid’s body formed a painful “U.” His agony must have been excruciating but as Mart approached he could hear the man gurgling curses in his throat.

“Hello, Chi Kid,” Mart said in a casual tone. “Let me see that rod you were going to show me — you gutless punk!” The last words blazed from his lips as the face of Dogs Miller flashed into his memory.

“Well,” the Chi Kid snarled. “It took a man to get me — not a white collar simp.”

“When’re yuh gonna croak him, Mart?”

Chimp, breathing heavily at his elbow, interrupted Mart’s reply.

“Not for a little while,” he said. “This punk’s going to tell me a lot of things about the Chicago racket before he gets out of those ropes.”

“An’ then you’ll gimme him?”

Mart smiled bitterly.

“I think not, Chimp,” he said slowly. “You see, he killed my pal and I promised him over the telephone that we’d make it man to man. He told me too that he’d killed Paddy and Fat — know anything about that?”

With the words the others made a concerted rush for the stairs of the upper room, but Mart called them back.

“Just Skillman, please,” he said, “I don’t want any rummaging done up there until I see what papers Fat may have been keeping.”

He was watching the faces of Red and Eltner as he spoke, and noted that both flinched and looked covertly at one another.

Skillman was back in a matter of seconds, whitefaced and nauseated. He nodded his head affirmatively.

“Both of them,” he said. “He cut Fat’s head nearly off and Paddy’s face looks like a mule had kicked him.”

A ghastly chuckling came from the bloody bundle which was the Chi Kid.

Mart leaped and caught Chimp from behind in a choking throat lock as the gangster threw himself forward intent on finishing the killer with his hands.

“Wait!” he commanded. “He’d rather be knocked off quick than to tell what he’s going to tell before he goes. Quiet, I tell you!” His great muscles, a fair match for those of Chimp, were cutting off the latter’s breath. Finally he felt Chimp’s arms go lax at his sides and released the hold.

“Aw, cripes, Mart!” he wheezed. “I can’t stand his gigglin’ over killin’ Dogs ’n Paddy. Hell wit’ dose Chi mobs. Lemme pull him t’ pieces!”

For answer Mart drew two tables together and with one lurching swing of his shoulders, lifted the Chi Kid from the corner and laid him on his side, while the others clustered around the improvised couch.

“Now Chi Kid,” Mart said calmly, “here’s a proposition for you. I told you over the telephone while I was stalling you an hour ago, that I’d make it man to man.

“You dirty louse, I mean just that!

“When you’ve told me what I want to know, I’ll give you back your rod, give you time to get the kinks out — and then we’ll shoot it out. If you get me, you walk out, a free man, but you won’t get me, Kid — you’re going to pay for Dogs and Paddy.”

“Bunk!” the Chi Kid mumbled. “Kid somebody else, nitwit.”

He had managed to force one puffed eyelid open and his beady, black eye was studying Mart’s face venomously.

“No kidding about it,” Mart replied. “Take it or leave it, Chi Kid, you can have that chance or I’ll give you to Chimp.”

Despite his iron nerves, the prisoner could not control the shudder which shook his frame.

“What do you want to know?” he mumbled.

“You came here to get me and to knock off my lieutenants, didn’t you?”

“Yes — you know that anyhow.”

“Why?”

“The Big Noise in Chi’s cuttin’ in here.”

“What is the plan?”

Chi Kid remained silent. Mart did not press the question, waiting coldly until the other said:

“Listen. I ain’t no stoolie, but flopped this game anyhow — so if you’re on the square about givin’ me a break with my rod, just you and me, I’ll tell you the set-up.”

“Everything?” Mart demanded.

“The works.”

“All right. Now who was in on this with you and Fat?”

“Red Conley and Eltner, an’ Izzy the Yid over in Brooklyn.”

Mart raised his eyes accusingly at the two gang leaders. Eltner was brazenly defiant. “He’s a damn liar,” he said.

Red, however, was white with desperation. His right hand was stealing under his lapel toward the gun under his armpit. Mart’s draw was like a flash of light. Before anyone realized it, the traitor’s forehead was threatened by the unwavering muzzle of the racketeer’s gun.

“Take him, Chimp!” Mart snapped.

The ex-wrestler needed no second bidding. Before Red could cry out for mercy, Chimp’s hands had flashed upward. The left clutched Red’s head high in the back. The right caught at his chin — then pulled suddenly in opposite directions.

There followed a grisly, muffled snap — a single groan — and Red, his neck broken at the axis, slumped to the floor.

The others stepped back from the body and all eyes turned to Eltner. Chimp, his hands still raised in the gesture of attack, nodded toward the other and said, “Him, too?”

Mart shook his head.

“Hymie’s a rat,” he said, “but we’ve got to have somebody to throw to the bulls so the reformers’ll be quiet. We’ll give him to the homicide squad and they’ll figure out a nice little yarn that will send him to the hot-spot in Sing Sing for these three killings.”

Already his gun had covered Eltner, and at a nod of command Chimp stepped forward to deprive the trembling victim of his weapons — a heavy automatic and a spring-knife. Then Mart turned again to the Chi Kid.

“There it is,” he said. “An out for you if you win. All of the killings accounted for and a nice, easy case for the dicks. Now speak up. What was the plan?”

“I was to get you and that ape-guy, Doggie and the chauffeur. Then the Big Noise and two others was coming in to take over. It was all framed to get the gangs to fighting while the Big Noise got his claws on the alky and dope rackets. After that — well, you know the game.”

“Anybody come with you?”

“Only my twist — Vi Taylor. She hasn’t done anything yet. Leave her alone, will you?”

“Send her back to Chicago if I get you — make your own arrangements if you win,” Mart snapped.

He nodded to Skillman and for a few moments they talked in a corner. Then Mart turned to the others and said:

“It’s time to scatter now. I’ll attend to what is to be done here. Everybody forgets what has happened during the night. Skillman will wait at the end of a telephone line to hear from me and when I give him the word he’ll slip the dope to the dicks.

“Beat it now, boys.”

“But Mart” — it was Kelly Martin speaking — “don’t you want us to stick around if... if—” He motioned toward the Chi Kid.

Mart shrugged contemptuously.

“Hell no!” he said. “See you all tonight. Go out one at a time now, and forget what you’ve seen and heard.”

They left as he had directed, but each stopped and clasped Mart’s hand in friendly good wishes, before going.

While this was going on, Chimp saw to it that Eltner’s wrists and ankles were tied and looked again to the Chi Kid’s bonds to be certain they were secure.

When the last man was gone, Mart said:

“We’ll go up and search Fat’s room now, Chimp; probably there’ll be some letters or telegrams to tell us more of the story.”

With a last look at the prisoners. Chimp turned and followed Mart to the death room above.

The Chi Kid, listening for the sound of their feet upstairs, set his teeth in his lower lip to suppress a groan and forced one swollen hand backward and upward toward the other coatsleeve.

It was a gruesome task Mart and Chimp found awaiting them in the death chamber, but it was one they were forced to perform for the common good. Mart’s leadership demanded that he go through to the end, so he turned resolutely from the ghastly bodies of Fat and Paddy, to search drawers and other hiding places for needed evidence of treachery.

The task required nearly an hour of reading, assorting and the final search for some concealed hiding place in the walls. Until now nothing had been found which had a bearing on the Chicago mob and its plots.

Mart, tapping the walls for hollow places came at last to the bed on which Fat’s body lay. He pushed it out and instantly his eyes lighted. There, hidden behind the frame of the bed was an ordinary, built-in cupboard, secured by an ordinary tongue lock.

Fat’s key-ring provided the proper key and Mart exclaimed in satisfaction as the door swung open and disclosed a steel cash box, a document folder and some bankbooks. He opened the steel box and there came to light several thousand dollars in large bills and a number of promissory notes.

What he sought was contained in the document folder. There were two compromising letters from the Big Noise in Chicago, several carefully worded telegrams, and the note of introduction Chi Kid had given Fat on the occasion of his first call.

Another paper bore a list of the gang leaders. Several were crossed out. Others had question marks after them, indicating to Mart that they had refused so far to join in the plot.

After the names of Red, Hymie, Izzy the Yid, and four other minor leaders, were crosses. Satisfied that here was the proof he sought, Mart put the folder in his pocket and returned the other articles to the cupboard. Then he snapped the lock shut and nodded to Chimp.

After one final look about the room, they went downstairs, passed through the rear of the bar and into the back room where they had left the prisoners.

Chimp walked in advance. As he entered the door, he leaped forward excitedly.

“Cripes. Chief — he’s gone!” he barked.

Mart leaped past him toward the table where they had left the trussed-up Chi Kid.

The table was empty and the ropes with which he had been bound lay on the floor. Mart picked up one of them and examined it carefully. It had been cut, cleanly, with some keen instrument. Mart swore and flashed his hand to his gun, his eyes darting about the room in search of his resourceful enemy.

Nowhere was there trace of the Chi Kid.

Hymie Eltner still lay in the corner where Chimp had dumped him unceremoniously, after binding his hands and feet. Mart strode over, glowering blackly, and examined the bonds. They had not been tampered with.

Chimp was dashing about the place, seeking in closets, under the bar — anywhere — everywhere — for some trace of the vanished gunman.

Finally, satisfied that Chi Kid had gone from the building, Mart strode over to Eltner.

“Tell me,” he rasped, “who turned him loose?”

“Nobody,” Hymie replied. “He had a safety-razor blade stitched in his coatsleeve. You hadn’t been gone five minutes before he’s cut himself loose. And the lousy rat lammed without giving me a chance. He left a message for you, Mart—”

“What?”

“He said to tell you that he’d stick around — that he wanted to show you his rod, like he’d promised. Cripes, I hope you get him, Mart — even if you are giving me the works. No chance for me, Big Fellow?”

Mart glared at him for a full minute, then turned away dispiritedly.

“Cut him loose,” he said to Chimp, “he’s just a rat and there’d be another rat in his place. What do we care for all the Hymies and Reds and Izzys when there’s a Chi Kid loose in the town?”

“Youse ’r th’ doctor,” Chimp said, “but kin I take a good sock at him before he goes.”

Mart shrugged, nor did he give more than a casual glance a moment later when there was a thudding blow and Hymie, his face a gory mask, crashed into a corner.

“C’mon, Mart,” Chimp said a moment later. “Let’s get outta disjoint; it gives me de willies. Jees! An’ t’ink of de times I been down here an’ got cockeyed with the guns and frills!”

There was no reply. Mart, his head sunk in thought, walked out through the door and into the morning sunlight.

The Chi Kid was free — and Dogs Miller and Paddy were unavenged.

When they reached the street and found a cruising taxi, Mart directed the driver to circle about for several blocks. Search failed to reveal any trace of the car Chi Kid said he had abandoned and Mart was forced to the conclusion that it was his own motor which had provided the second getaway.

Wearily, disheartened by the ill luck which had pursued them, Mart and Chimp returned to the apartment. There was but one interruption of the silence when Chimp said:

“Dat’s w’at youse get for playin’ square wit’ a sneak, Mart. You shoulda let me have ’im ’n den youse wouldn’t be goin’ aroun’ wit’ yer lower lip hangin’ down like a wet towel.”

“Oh, I’ll get him!” Mart snapped. “I’d given him my word, Chimp — and that’s something I’ve never broken yet.”

“Yaaaah!” Chimp growled. “Dey calls youse De Square Guy — ’n for dat youse’ll mebbe get your noodle shot off. Bla-a-ah.”

They found Speck drowsing in a sleepy hollow chair, but Mart left it to Chimp to tell him the incidents of the night. Without a word he walked to the rear and entered his bedroom.

Tired as he was, almost exhausted, he spent an hour spreading the call among gang leaders, hi-jackers, harbor mugs, anyone who might find a trace of a little crook with a broken nose and a bruised face.

“A grand to know where he is — I’ll get him myself,” was his set formula.

At last, with the hands of the clock pointing to 2 p.m. he literally fell into bed. His last thought was:

“The showdown with Chi Kid is coming. I’m ready for it.”

Midnight! Mart’s bedroom, where for ten hours he had slept without movement was black as the Pit. Not a ray of light filtered in about the curtains and the only sound was the sleeper’s deep breathing.

But one of the jungle animals would have been watching the dark shape crouching in a corner back of a huge wing-chair. More, its night-seeing eyes would have witnessed the method of entrance.

For the dark form, ten minutes before, had swung down on a rope from the cornice, pausing at the bathroom window. There had been just the tiniest of scratching sounds to accompany the removal of an oval of glass, but there was no click, no rustle as the intruder pushed back the catch and raised the sash a sufficient distance to permit him to slip through.

In the next room Speck sat on guard, while Chimp, now thoroughly rested, had gone to a white-tile eating place on Broadway for a substitute for the three meals he had missed. Speck was playing his interminable games of solitaire. The only sound in the apartment was Mart’s deep, regular breathing and the slap-slap of Speck’s cards.

Now the intruder was moving. Crawling, snakelike, he neared the door, rose on hands and knees and grasped the key firmly. For what seemed an age he retained his hold, turning the wards by microscopic degrees until he felt the actuating spring take hold. Then, delicately, he reversed the pressure, holding back the tongue of the lock to prevent it snapping into place.

Finally the task was ended. The metal bar which meant safety to the intruder rested in the mortised stop. The fingers clung delicately to the key, releasing their pressure slowly to guard against even the slightest click.

Then the Chi Kid reversed his position and started creeping, ever so slowly, toward the sleeping racketeer, still so completely immersed in slumber.

He advanced his fingers an inch at a time, feeling lightly over the soft surface of the Chinese rug for any slight inequality which would indicate a hidden alarm contact. With each tiny inch of progress he was careful to test the floor ahead of him for creaking boards by putting part of his weight on his outspread hands.

Once Mart stirred as several fire engines, their sirens shrieking eerily, rushed past on West End avenue. Recoiling like a spring, the Chi Kid squatted on the balls of his feet, right hand on the butt of his gat. The shrieking died away and Mart’s breathing became regular again.

Now the intruder was not more than three feet from the foot of the bed. He arose to his full height and took a cautious step forward. As he moved, his hand came forth and brought with it the rod he had retrieved when he escaped from Fat’s.

Another step, he calculated, would bring him to the foot of the bed. Thence he would work to right or left and when he stood beside the sleeper there would be needed only the flash of his pencil battery lamp, one quick shot — and then the getaway while Speck was battering his way through the locked door.

Cautiously he swept the toes of his right foot back and forth across the carpet. It was soft and yielding. Apparently all was well. Slowly, firmly, he set the foot down and balanced himself with outflung hands, like a tight-rope walker, as he shifted his weight from his left foot to the right.

Too late he realized that something had shifted underfoot. Instantly he caught himself and tried to swing backward.

Too late.

Even as he executed the movement, a gong whirred above his head and two scorching, stunning rays of light leaped out of the wall above the bed.

Blinded by the intense light, off balance and with his gun hand pointed toward the side wall, the Chi Kid stood for a second like one stunned.

But one chance remained for him — he must force his eyes open and plant a pot shot into the place where Mart had laid but a moment before.

But even that was denied him, for, as the motor thought went to the muscles of his arm, a heavy automatic materialized in the light rays and covered him.

“Drop it!” Mart’s voice was low and calm, but Chi Kid sensed the grim purpose behind it. With a grimace of disgust he opened his fingers and let the weapon drop to the floor.

Blows on the door behind him showed that Speck was in action. Then there was a pause and a splintering roar as the gunman sent a slug crashing through the lock. In another split second Chi Kid was covered from the rear and Speck’s arm shot around his neck in a strangle hold.

Mart arose, stretched and smiled at the picture before him.

“I thought you’d come,” he said quietly, “but I had the cards stacked on you. How do you like my system, Kid? Pretty hard to beat?”

Mart stooped and turned back, a corner of the rug.

“They’ll carry you out of here,” he said, “so I might as well show you. See these one-inch strips of wood between the flooring strips? Any one of them will throw a switch. That in turn drops down a projector box containing four 1000-watt lights. Behind these are reflectors and the light is shot out in crossed rays through lenses. The same operation starts the gong in the ceiling — and I always sleep with my gun in a holster strapped to the edge of the bed.”

The Chi Kid tried to stare into the light rays, but was compelled to close his already weakened eyes.

“It’s no use,” Mart said as he noted the action. “Even I cannot stand their glare. They give me time to wake up and get the drop — like I got it on you. Now let me see” — he walked over and picked up the Chi Kid’s gun — “this, I suppose, is the rod you’ve been wanting to show me so badly.

“It’s been your worst friend, Chi Kid — but I’ll send it back to Chicago with you. I’m going to ship you direct to the Big Noise himself, way-billed as a musical instrument.”

“Hell with that,” the gunman snarled. “Shoot your gun, stupid; I’m game.”

“Sit down over there,” Mart replied, indicating the wing chair. “You’ll get all the shooting you want before the night is over.

“Where’s Chimp?” he continued, turning to Speck.

“Out for a bite to eat; be right back,” the other replied without letting his eyes leave the form of Chi Kid. Almost with the words, however, a key turned in the lock and the door slammed. A second later, Chimp dashed into the room, blinking as the light rays stabbed at his eyes. Then he saw Mart in his pajamas, and lastly the Chi Kid guarded by Speck.

“Cripes, Mart!” he jubilated. “Youse gottim, hey? Now lissen, Big Fellow, don’t play aroun’ no more. Give it to him quick — like he give it to Dogs and Paddy.”

Mart raised his hand for quiet. Actually he was responding to Chimp’s suggestion, but his eyes bored into the Chi Kid’s as he said:

“Three times is out. That’s where you’re going tonight. But I’ve made you a promise, Chi Kid — and I’m going to keep it. I told you that no one but I had a right to kill you; that I’d give you a break with a rod in your hand. I still agree to that even though you’ve lost the right to hold me to my promise.”

“Jees, Mart — no!” Chimp and Speck shouted the words together.

“Yes!” Mart said and there was finality in his tone. “They say that Mart Farrell never broke his word after it once had been given. That won’t be changed. I’m going to send this rat to stew in hell — but he’s to have an equal chance at me.”

“Yer nuts!” Chimp exploded disgustedly. “Burn him down an’ call it a day.”

Mart’s reply was to turn back the rug from the polished floor and push two chairs into nearby corners. On one he laid the Chi Kid’s rod. His own weapon he put down on the other. Then he said:

“Here’s the rules. Speck keeps you covered. We both stand face to the wall. Chimp counts slowly as long as he wants to. When the time comes, whether at two or two hundred, he’ll say ‘Fire.’ Then we each turn, grab a rod and turn loose. I hope you like it in hell.”

Mart watched as the Chi Kid slipped from his chair and swaggered to the wall. He hated the ratty little killer as he never had hated anyone before, yet unwillingly he felt a surge of admiration for the businesslike manner in which Chi Kid accepted the duel.

Mart cast one last glance over the scene as his antagonist stood, facing in, against the wall; smiled grimly at Speck who stood out of the line of fire covering the Kid; then nodded to Chimp to begin the count. Then he too took his place.

“One!” Chimp’s voice quavered. “Two!” He was calmer now. “Three!” A pause. “Four” — “Five.” He was spacing the count properly now and Mart began swinging his body as he caught the cadence. “Six!” Still true to the time-beat!

“Seven!” The cadence had been lost and Mart caught the break between the syllables.

It was coming. Chimp, an inveterate crapshooter, believed in the luck of that numeral. The thoughts flashed like lightning but his muscles and nerves were coordinated — ready, balanced for the turn and slashing grasp for the gun butt — as Chimp barked “Fire!”

The following day a scarehcad appeared in the press.