Gangdom's Doom

CHAPTER XVI THE PEACE DINNER

THE time had arrived for truce in gangdom. News of the dinner in the Goliath Hotel had reached the newspapers as well as the police. Jerry Kirklyn, the Chronicle reporter, discussed it with Barney Higgins the afternoon before it occurred.

“What are you going to do about it, Barney?” he demanded. “What does Weaver say?”

“We’re going to let them alone,” replied the assistant detective commissioner.

“What! All those mobsters?” questioned Kirklyn.

“We’ve got nothing on them, Jerry,” replied Higgins. “Of course, we’ll have men outside the Goliath Hotel. If we see any gunmen that are wanted, we’ll pick them up. But those fellows will stay away.”

“How about Savoli and Borrango? How about Larrigan? Are you going to let them get away with this merger?”

“Call it a merger if you want, Jerry,” laughed Higgins. “To us, it’s just a meeting of men that might bear watching. Some of the gorillas that will be there are murderers, right enough; but they’ve all been acquitted.

“This dinner may mean a lot to us — later on; but right now, there’s no reason for us to stop it. It’s a mistake to pick up any of these big gangsters without full provocation. Sooner or later we’ll get them — “

“Sooner or later they may get each other,” interrupted Kirklyn. “That’s the old police formula. Let them shoot each other. The trouble is, they increase faster than they drop off. If this peace racket works, they’ll multiply more rapidly than ever.”

“Perhaps so, Jerry. But we can’t do anything tonight.”

“What does Morris Clarendon think about it?” demanded Kirklyn.

“This isn’t Clarendon’s business,” retorted Higgins. “He’s a prosecutor. That’s all.”

“Speaking of Clarendon,” said Kirklyn suddenly, “what’s the real dope on that story that some torpedoes tried to get him one night?”

Barney Higgins snapped his fingers nervously.

“There’s nothing in it, Jerry,” he said.

“Clarendon seemed to think there was,” persisted the reporter. “He was all set for an interview. Then he shut up like a clam. What did he do? Talk to Weaver?”

“Look here, Jerry,” said Higgins. “If you want to work with me, you’ve got to play the game. When anything actually happens, I’ll tell you all there is to know. But rumors are out.

“We have enough trouble getting these gangsters when they really pull something. We can’t make arrests on the strength of things that never happen.”

“All right, Barney,” laughed Kirklyn. “I thought you might tell me something about it, at least.”

THE detective commissioner looked about him to make sure that no one was within hearing distance. They were standing outside of headquarters. The street was deserted.

“Here’s the dope, Jerry,” said Higgins. “You can’t use a word I say. If you do, I’ll deny it.

“Clarendon had an appointment with a stool pigeon who was going to turn State’s witness. We found out later that the stool had been put on the spot before he had a chance to meet Clarendon.

“While Clarendon was waiting, a car pulled up, and he saw the muzzle of a machine gun poked out through the curtains. He thought he was going to get his. But the car moved on.

“He told us about it. Since then, he’s been watching out.”

“They were going to get him?”

“We don’t know, Barney. Maybe they mistook Clarendon for some one else. More likely, they were after the stool pigeon who was due there. Perhaps they intended to give Clarendon the works, but got cold feet.

“We don’t know. Clarendon was too surprised to get the number of the car. He was scared. I don’t blame him. That’s all there is to it; so forget it.”

The reporter lighted a cigarette.

“Thanks, Barney,” he said. “All that dope is good to know, in case I ever am allowed to use it. I think I’ll be ankling up to the Goliath, to see what’s doing on the outside.”

Some of gangland’s choicest battlers arrived at the hotel shortly after Jerry Kirklyn took his position there.

Every gang leader of prominence was slated to arrive. Their chief lieutenants and pet killers were also to be present. Only those who were in hiding, and those who were in jail, were not expected.

The dinner was being held in a large private dining room. Each arrival entered through an outside room. There each newcomer was greeted by three gangsters who seemed to be a receiving committee.

Their real purpose was to frisk the man they welcomed. No gats allowed was the rule of this peace meeting.

Barney Higgins and two plain-clothes men were in this outer room. They had been virtually invited there. They were a safeguard, for the receiving committee carried no weapons.

It was well understood that the detectives should not enter the dining room. If they insisted upon going in, the peace talk would be off.

Jerry Kirklyn managed to squeeze in and stay close to Barney Higgins.

MIKE LARRIGAN was an early arrival. The big Irishman nodded in a friendly manner to Barney Higgins; then went through the formality of a search.

Shortly after his entrance, Higgins nudged Kirklyn. Genara and Anelmo, the Homicide Twins, had put in their appearance. Both men were expressionless. They seemed to be a pair apart from all others. They were searched, and they went into the dining room.

The real event was the arrival of Nick Savoli. His appearance was heralded by Mike Borrango and Al Vacchi. Higgins suspected that the big shot would not be far behind his henchmen, and in this he was correct.

Savoli was accompanied by Steve Cronin. He had restored the New York gunman to temporary favor for this occasion. Cronin had been inactive for some time; he made an ideal bodyguard for this event.

Savoli’s former bodyguard was out of Chicago, and was wanted by the police.

Both Savoli and Cronin submitted to a search. No weapons were found upon them. But just as they were entering the dining room, Machine-gun McGinnis arrived with three other Savoli gorillas.

Two of these gangsters were found to be armed. They grinned as they left the hotel to park their weapons.

Barney Higgins looked significantly at Jerry Kirklyn. The reporter understood.

Nick Savoli had left nothing to chance. He knew that the search at the door, conducted by two of his men, and one of Larrigan’s, would be thorough. But he had assumed no risks while en route to the Goliath Hotel.

The reporter was seized with a sudden inspiration. Now that Savoli had arrived, there was no use waiting in the outer room. He made his way to the kitchen, and looked for an opportunity to take the place of a waiter.

But here he was foiled. Two gangsters were there, one representing Savoli, and one representing Larrigan. The moment that he came under their observation, Kirklyn decided it would be best to leave.

THUS it happened that the elite of Chicago’s underworld assembled undisturbed for the dinner that was to end in the burial of the hatchet.

All the would-be big shots were present, gathered in their little individual groups. Nick Savoli sat at a table at the end of the room, with Steve Cronin, Mike Borrango, and Al Vacchi beside him. His other henchmen were at nearby tables.

Larrigan, surrounded by the lesser lights of his mob, had a table at the side. There was gloom in his camp.

He and his fraternal gangsters missed the delightful presence of Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak. But no mention was made of the two departed lieutenants.

Such gang leaders as Joe Morgan, “Goofy” Salvis, and “Nails” Pietro held forth with their smaller companies of mobsters. These groups were expectant. They wondered what they had to gain.

They looked enviously at Pete Varona, “Spiker” Condi, “Texas” Carey, and other district rulers of the Savoli organization. These men obeyed every command of the big shot.

They knew that their territories were to be reapportioned, to give the newcomers a break. Yet they relied upon Nick to see that they did not lose through the impending changes.

Singularly enough, there were two men who sat alone, apart from all others. They formed a sinister pair that viewed the proceedings with an indifferent air.

They were none other than John Genara and Tony Anelmo. These individualistic gangsters were mercenaries who killed for cash, and who had no interest in territorial disputes.

They belonged to the Savoli organization, and were so highly touted that their presence was necessary. They had been summoned by Borrango as a master stroke of subtle diplomacy.

Like the sword of Damocles, their presence hung above the heads of those who dined with the big shot. Every gangster knew what the Homicide Twins could do. They served as a reminder that Savoli had men who could strike in the dark.

The dinner was a pretentious affair. Elaborate courses were served. The best liquors in Savoli’s warehouses had been surreptitiously introduced; so certain was the big shot that there would be no police interference.

No business was discussed while the waiters served the dinner. That was to be later, when the room was cleared. Yet some member of Larrigan’s gang, inspired by an overindulgence in strong drink, made the mistake of mentioning the names of Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak.

“We’ll get the guy that got them!”

The exclamation came from Larrigan’s table.

The big Irishman grinned. Then he caught the eye of Mike Borrango. The enforcer made a warning gesture. Larrigan silenced the offender.

But the unwise statement had its effect upon many of those present. Steve Cronin, seated beside Nick Savoli, slipped his hand beneath the table. An automatic had been planted there, fully loaded, by a waiter in Savoli’s employ.

THE lesser gang leaders buzzed in low conversation. It had been reported that Larrigan was to receive the scalp of the man who had killed his friends.

All believed that Monk Thurman was the killer. It had also been hinted that Monk might have had a companion; but that was doubtful.

Nevertheless, this open outcry seemed to prove that Larrigan had received the promise when he made terms with the big shot, and that he had lined up his mobsters by telling them the news.

The two men upon whom the shout seemed to make the least impression were Genara and Anelmo. The Homicide Twins made no sign that would have aroused the slightest suspicion.

But something occurred that impressed these silent, sinister men. As silence became restored, a low voice spoke. The words were in perfect Italian, and they reached the ears of the Sicilians.

“Who killed Schultz and Spirak?” asked the voice.

Genara looked at Anelmo, and his companion returned the gaze. For an instant, each supposed that the other had spoken. Inwardly startled, neither man gave visible sign of his surprise.

“Monk Thurman did not kill them,” announced the same voice.

Genara looked about him, to see if any of the other diners had heard the words.

Those at the nearest table were engaged in conversation. They could not have heard the voice. Genara raised his eyebrows as he looked at Anelmo.

Both the Sicilians were searching in their gaze. They were sure that no one had spoken from the next table. The only person near them was a waiter, who had been placing dishes on a tray.

Now the man approached, and calmly cleared the plates from the table where the Homicide Twins were seated. He came under the close scrutiny of both men. Neither had seen him before.

He was a man of middle age, who walked with a limp. His dull, expressionless face showed no signs of intelligence.

The waiter moved away unmolested. The Sicilians had not considered him for more than an instant. They still sought the source of the mysterious voice. The waiter picked up the tray and walked by the table.

Then came something stranger than the voice itself; a low, whispered laugh, that seemed to emanate from a spot above the table where the killers sat. It was a laugh such as neither Genara nor Anelmo had ever heard — a laugh that reminded them of the sinister words that they had heard; a laugh that mocked their inability to discover its author.

ANELMO half rose from his chair. He stared at the figure of the departing waiter. The man was lame, and stoop-shouldered — an innocent-appearing person in every respect.

Genara gripped his companion’s arm.

“Sit down, Tony,” he whispered in Italian. “We’ll find out about this later.”

“Suppose Savoli learns — ” There was no fear in Anelmo’s voice. His words carried only grimness.

“Savoli will not learn,” said Genara, in the same undertone. “Wait. We will talk later.”

“You mean — “

Genara released his grip on Anelmo’s arm. Tony nodded very slightly. He understood.

He and Genara had talked much together, particularly in that corner of Marmosa’s gambling den. Their words had been no more than veiled ideas. But they were schemers who understood each other.

They had a plan which now would be forced to its culmination. For some man — who, they did not know — knew the secret of their latest crime. With such men as Genara and Anelmo, a third person’s knowledge meant danger.

The room became quiet. Waiters had cleared the tables and gone away. The big shot was about to talk business, and while he had the floor, all must listen.

But even as Nick Savoli spoke, Genara and Anelmo were not listening. The sinister Sicilians were thinking only of that mysterious voice which had reminded them of their crime.

Had they known the source of the words, which had been uttered with the skill of a practiced ventriloquist, they would have realized that they were encountering a personage as sinister as themselves.

The middle-aged waiter was merely a man playing a part. His limp, his stoop shoulders, and his stupid face were a disguise. For the laugh which had startled gangland’s most formidable murderers was the laugh of The Shadow!