Gangdom's Doom

CHAPTER XII SAVOLI HAS VISITORS

HALF an hour after Steve Cronin’s departure, a tall man entered the Escadrille Apartments. He walked directly to the elevator, and stepped inside.

The operator surveyed him curiously. The man was a stranger to him, and in all his contact with mobsters, the elevator operator had never seen a man like this one.

He stared at the masklike face, with the steely eyes, and wondered who this visitor might be.

“Fourth floor,” the man announced.

The operator hesitated. He had been told that a visitor was coming to Savoli’s, and had been ordered to bring him up. Yet there was something about the appearance of this unusual man that perplexed him.

“I said the fourth floor.”

The voice was harsh and grating. It was a command. The operator closed the door, and the elevator sped upward.

Outside the iron grating, the newcomer waited. He did not ring the bell immediately. Instead, he studied the heavy barrier, from its spiked top to its reinforced bottom, and his eyes surveyed the strong lock that held the grating shut.

After a full minute, the man rang the bell. The attendant appeared on the other side.

“Monk Thurman,” said the visitor.

The Italian opened the door to admit the New York gangster. He ushered Thurman into the library. The tall man took the same chair that Steve Cronin had occupied.

He looked slowly and deliberately around the entire room. His eyes noted the shelves of untouched books. Then his gaze was turned toward the window, at an angle in front of him, and he stared out toward the lake, with eyes that seemed unseeing.

The door opened at the other end of the library, and Savoli entered with Borrango. Still the visitor did not turn his gaze in their direction.

They approached and took their usual places, Savoli in the large armchair, Borrango against the bookcase. They exchanged glances as they surveyed Monk Thurman. Finally the man with the masklike face seemed to become aware of their presence. He looked from one to the other.

“You are Monk Thurman?” questioned Borrango, as the gangster’s eyes turned toward him.

“Yes,” came the cold, rasping voice.

“I am Mike Borrango,” said the enforcer. He waved his hand toward his chief. “This is Nick Savoli.”

Monk Thurman slowly turned his head and stared at the king of all Chicago. Nick Savoli returned the gaze, and the two men looked at one another steadily.

Both were expressionless, but Savoli’s hardened stare was more than matched by the unflinching features of Monk Thurman.

There was no further effort at introduction. Evidently Monk Thurman was awaiting an explanation from the others. This fact created a great impression upon both Savoli and Borrango.

Most gangsters were either awed or enthusiastic when they first entered the presence of the big fellow. They either wanted to shake hands with Savoli, or awaited some greeting from him. But Monk Thurman did neither. He did not even ask a question. He seemed to take it for granted that Savoli had something to say to him; otherwise he would not have come to this place.

IT was not Savoli’s habit to speak first. So Borrango broke the ice with his suave voice.

Strangely enough, Monk Thurman did not look at the speaker. He still focused his gaze upon Nick Savoli, as though he understood that Borrango was merely the mouthpiece of the big shot.

“We have heard that you did good work at Marmosa’s place,” said Borrango. “I thought that you might like to meet Nick Savoli.”

Monk Thurman turned his eyes toward Borrango, as if he did not understand the significance of the enforcer’s words.

“At Marmosa’s,” repeated the enforcer. “The gambling joint. Two nights ago.”

The New Yorker nodded as though he now understood.

“I remember now,” he said. “They had some trouble, while I was there.”

“Marmosa is a friend of ours,” said Borrango smoothly. “He suggested that you might be interested in some work here in Chicago. He did not say why you were here.”

The enforcer paused, to give Monk a chance to state his business in Chicago. The New York gunman stared at Borrango, then condescended to make an explanation.

“A vacation,” he said. “That’s all.”

“It’s not a healthy spot for a vacation,” observed Nick Savoli.

“No?” queried Monk Thurman. He raised his eyebrows as he spoke. “I have found it very healthy.”

Savoli shrugged his shoulders. Borrango was about to speak, but his chief silenced him with a gesture, and a word in Italian.

“Look here, Monk.” Savoli’s words were direct. “We can use a good man right here. We know plenty about you. You did a nice job two nights ago. We can give you some better ones. But tell me this. Why did you let those two gorillas off so easily?”

“You mean why didn’t I kill them?”

“Yes.”

“Killing is my business. It was not business the other night.”

Savoli looked at Borrango. The enforcer stroked his chin. He had received the cue to take over the conversation.

“We have some business for you,” he said. “It will lead to more. What do you say to that?”

Monk Thurman looked at Nick Savoli, entirely ignoring Mike Borrango.

“One thousand dollars a week,” said Savoli.

THE New Yorker retained his expressionless calm. Savoli had expected that the offer would meet with an instant acceptance; but in this he was mistaken. Thurman scarcely seemed to be giving it consideration.

“That’s without any conditions,” put in Borrango. “Do things your own way, just so long as you tip us off so we can fix the alibis.”

“Will you take it?” demanded Savoli.

“Yes,” said Monk Thurman, after a momentary pause.

“Good,” responded Savoli. “Tell him what comes first, Mike. He’ll be glad to hear it.”

“We’re working with you,” said the enforcer. “We’ve got a good job for you as a starter. We want you to bump off those two troublemakers, Schultz and Spirak — the same two that you got rid of in Marmosa’s place.”

Monk Thurman was not looking at Borrango, and the enforcer became annoyed. He stepped forward to attract Monk’s attention, to divert his gaze from the face of Nick Savoli.

Thurman turned his head, and looked behind Borrango, at the very spot where the enforcer had been before he stepped forward. Borrango hastily moved backward, and leaned against the bookcase again. He showed signs of nervousness, and Nick Savoli glared at him in disapproval.

Having gained Monk Thurman’s attention, Borrango managed to assume some of his usual calm.

“Let me give you the low-down, Monk,” he said, in a confidential tone. “We want peace here in Chicago. We want it if we have to kill to get it.

“There’s a fellow named Larrigan who thinks he is a big shot. He’s all right himself, but he has a bad crowd working for him. Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak will do anything to make trouble. With them out of the way, Larrigan will fall in line.

“You helped us out the other night. We’ve got to protect guys like Marmosa. We’ve got an excuse now to put Schultz and Spirak on the spot. You’re the man to do it. Those two boys are sore at you. They’re out to get you — if you don’t get them first.”

“That’s right,” put in Savoli.

“So we’re making you a fair proposition. Get them before they get you. We’ll square it for you, and we’ll pay you one grand a week while you’re working on them.”

“Where will I find Schultz and Spirak?” asked Monk Thurman calmly.

“They hang out on the South Side,” said Borrango eagerly. “Larrigan owns a saloon there, and they’re in and out all the time. But that’s a tough spot to get them. Maybe one at a time would be the best way — “

“Leave it to Monk,” said Savoli.

The New York gangster arose.

“I’ll take care of them,” he said.

Mike Borrango quickly pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. He peeled off ten one-hundred-dollar notes and then stepped forward toward Monk Thurman. The gunman took the money in a careless manner, and thrust it in his trousers pocket.

Then he withdrew it, as an afterthought, and held it in his left hand while he reached in his coat pocket with his right. He brought out a huge roll of bills that was twice as large as the wad of money carried by Borrango.

He spread out the roll, and displayed a mass of notes of one-thousand-dollar denomination. He thrust the ten one-hundred-dollar bills into the center of the wad, and replaced the cash in his pocket.

“I’ll get hold of Al Vacchi if I want anything else,” he said to Nick Savoli.

The New York gangster did not even nod toward Mike Borrango. He turned on his heel and left the room, leaving two astounded men behind him.

Borrango’s face showed amazement; but Savoli retained his semblance of calm.

“We gave him one grand,” said Savoli, with a short laugh. “And he had more than a hundred grand on him.”

“He is the man we need,” observed Borrango.

“Yes?” There was a trace of sarcasm in the big shot’s voice. “You think so, Mike? He is the man we need to watch! That is what I think.”

“Why?”

“Because he thinks he is too big. These men who bluster and talk — like Steve Cronin — they are useful because they are easy to control. But he — “

Nick Savoli shook his head, and then smiled slightly. He was thinking carefully, scheming in the way that had brought him to his high position as the dominating force of gangdom. A plan had occurred to him, and he gave only an inkling of it to Mike Borrango.

“He will be useful to us, Mike,” he said. “Useful while we need him, and then — “

The big shot raised his forefinger and poked it into Borrango’s side, in semblance of a gangster’s handling of an automatic.

Then he turned and left the library, with the enforcer at his heels.

THE door to the fire escape was at the end of the elevator hall. It was a large door, covered with sheet metal. The door began to move slightly, as though some one was working on it, from the fire tower.

Then it opened outward, and a tall, slim, black-clad form slipped through the doorway. With long, noiseless strides, the unexpected visitor moved to the iron gate.

This man was inconspicuous in the dimly lighted hall. Hidden beneath his black cloak, his face concealed by the turned-down brim of a soft black hat, he seemed like some monstrous bat.

Only his fingers were in view; long, tapering fingers that held a sharp-pointed instrument. The formidable lock clicked beneath his hands. He opened the iron gate, and entered the antechamber, closing the grilled barrier behind him.

The library door was unlocked. The man in black entered the large room. He trod silently over the thick rug, and slipped into a chair.

He was the third man to occupy that seat. First, Steve Cronin had been there; then the famous Monk Thurman.

This third man was a more sinister figure than either of the others. He seemed to become lifeless as he sat there, almost as though expecting the entrance of Nick Savoli and Mike Borrango.

But neither of those personages put in their appearance. At that particular moment, they were in Savoli’s denlike office, discussing a personality whom they had never seen — The Shadow.

They had not yet asked Monk Thurman what he knew about The Shadow. In fact, they were speculating just where The Shadow might be; and the last place that they would have suspected was Savoli’s own library!

The man in black seemed in no hurry to leave his chair in the silent room. Instead, he looked about him, and his gaze fell upon the spot so often chosen by Mike Borrango as a favorite standing place.

Rising, the sable-clad man walked to the bookcase, and ran one white hand along the lowest row of leather-bound volumes.

He noticed one book that was the fraction of an inch farther out upon the shelf. He removed the volume and inserted his hand in the space it had left.

A moment later there was a slight click. The bookcase swung outward, revealing a small room, with a passageway beyond.

The man in black replaced the volume, entered the tiny room, and partially closed the bookcase behind him.

The passage led to a circular stairway. The man went down the dark spiral and reached a wall at the bottom. Here his tapering fingers showed white amid the gloom, as he sought for a hidden spring. At last the wall swung outward to his touch, and he stood in a small apartment on the third floor.

The place was furnished, but it showed no sign of occupancy. There were two spring locks on the door that led to the elevator hallway.

The man in black examined the locks, and soon satisfied himself that they were vulnerable. In fact, he opened the outer door of the apartment, and experimented with master keys that he drew from a pocket of the cloak.

This procedure finished, he closed the door again, and studied the movable wall of the apartment. After finding the secret catch that opened the wall on the apartment side, the mysterious man went up the spiral stairway, and a few seconds later again stood in Savoli’s library, with the bookcase open behind him.

OF all the gangsters who made frequent visits to Nick Savoli’s lair, not one had ever suspected the existence of this secret passageway. None had realized that Mike Borrango instinctively stood in front of the hidden exit. Yet the man who concealed his identity beneath the black cloak and hat had ferreted out the secret as though by telepathy.

Now he stood alone in the center of Savoli’s library, and for the first time since his arrival, a sound escaped his lips. He laughed softly, yet even that murmuring tone was sinister in its mockery.

It was the same laugh that Steve Cronin had heard the night before: the laugh of The Shadow!

The motionless figure became suddenly active, as though keen ears had detected the sound of approaching footsteps. In a fraction of a second, the man in black passed through the secret opening, and closed the bookcase behind him. Mike Borrango entered the library just too late to observe what had happened.