Gangdom's Doom

CHAPTER XXV LARRIGAN SWEARS VENGEANCE

MIKE LARRIGAN was ready for action. In the security of his hideout, he impatiently awaited the hour of one.

A good fellow, Nick, thought Larrigan, as he prepared to leave his hideout. The big shot left nothing to chance.

Monk Thurman would be waiting on the spot. More than that, Larrigan, in the car manned by Machine-gun McGinnis, would approach his enemy in the guise of a friend.

It was a good idea to have McGinnis along. Larrigan knew the machine-gun master, and he realized that the presence of McGinnis in the car would spell certain doom for Monk Thurman.

Everything was properly planned. Larrigan climbed into his big sedan, and started out for Cicero. Larrigan did not know just where Monk would be; McGinnis would be informed as to that detail. But at one o’clock, the slayer of Larrigan’s lieutenants would embark upon a voyage into the unknown realm of departed gangsters.

Larrigan drove leisurely along a wide street; then turned into a less traveled thoroughfare. He was watching the road ahead; hence he was completely surprised when he felt the muzzle of an automatic between his shoulders.

“Keep on!” said a rasping voice.

It was Monk Thurman!

Larrigan growled in astonishment. Nevertheless, he continued to drive ahead. He cursed himself for his foolishness. He had brought no one with him; that was bad enough. But he had been guilty of a greater error; he had failed to look in the rear seat.

The car had been locked all evening. Somehow, Monk Thurman had entered and yet left no evidence.

“You didn’t expect to meet me so soon, did you?” jeered Thurman, from the back seat. “Well, here I am, and we’re going for a ride. How do you like that, Larrigan?”

The Irishman did not reply. He was scheming to wreck the car; but he saw no opportunity. He well knew the ability of Monk Thurman. One false move, and Mike Larrigan would be no more. So he drove grimly ahead, even though he was sure that death lay at the end of this journey.

“You like to get them in the dark, don’t you?” continued Monk. “That’s the way Schultz and Spirak worked. Don’t give a man a chance. Good idea — it all depends on the man.”

He laughed hoarsely. The New York gangster was enjoying the ride. Larrigan fumed at his helplessness.

THE car rolled on in silence. They were outside the city limits, bound for the country, where lonely roads were many, and chances of safety were few. Monk Thurman directed Larrigan.

“Turn left here,” he said. “There’s a nice spot down this road. Just a little way farther, Larrigan. Time will seem a lot shorter after you get there.”

They rode on for a few miles. Then the man in the back seat gave a sharp command, and Larrigan halted the car at the side of the road.

“Get out,” said Monk.

Larrigan obeyed. He stood with his hands above his head, while his captor felt his pockets and removed his two automatics.

“Spirak had four of these,” taunted Thurman. “They didn’t do him much good though, did they?”

He pushed Larrigan forward to a small tree. He commanded the Irishman to turn around. Larrigan obeyed. He stood there, awaiting the shots that would send him to eternity.

But Monk Thurman made no move. A distant clock struck two. Larrigan expected it to be the hour of his death.

Then Monk Thurman spoke slowly and distinctly, as though to impress every word on Larrigan’s mind.

“You’re yellow, Larrigan,” he said. “Yellow, like all of your tribe, and the rest of these Chicago mobsters.

“You want a man to stand on the spot, while you shoot him. Just like you’re standing now. That was the way you were going to get me.

“Well, it’s the other way around. What do you mean to Nick Savoli, compared to me? You’re just as dumb as you are yellow. You didn’t even wise up when Borrango called you the second time, telling you to wait an hour.

“You can thank me for that, Larrigan. I’m kind hearted. I didn’t want to see you go on the spot too soon. Things are more quiet, early in the morning. But I want to tell you something, Larrigan.

“I’m not afraid of a yellow guy, no matter how big he is. That means you. I could have put Schultz and Spirak on the spot, that night in Marmosa’s Cafe. But I only crippled them. I wasn’t afraid of them, was I? They got theirs later, didn’t they?

“I wasn’t afraid of your whole gang of hoodlums, that night I crashed into your saloon, was I? You’re waiting for me to put you on the spot, right now. Well, I’m not going to do it.

“Nick Savoli turned you over to me, and Mike Borrango helped out. I’ve got you where they want you, and I’m going to let you go. That’s how much I’m afraid of you, and your mob. It’s a long walk back to town. I hope you enjoy it.”

Monk Thurman moved away from the astonished Larrigan. The gang leader was too amazed to move. He stood gaping in silence, as Monk drove away in the big sedan.

Then Larrigan swore beneath his breath. His mind was bewildered. He believed that he had been double-crossed by Savoli and Borrango; but more than that, he had gone through a most incredible experience.

For the first time in the history of gangdom, a gunman had put his victim on the spot and let him live!

THERE was no gratitude in Mike Larrigan’s heart as he began the long journey back to the city. His spirit was filled with hatred for Monk Thurman.

He was resolved, more than ever before, to get the man whom he held responsible for the deaths of his most important lieutenants. Yet even greater than his hatred for Monk Thurman was his desire for vengeance upon Nick Savoli and Mike Borrango!

“I’ll get those greaseballs!” he muttered, as he strode along the lonely road. “They’ll find out what I can do!”

He thought of Monk Thurman, laughing, gloating, as he rode along in Larrigan’s sedan. The gang leader was filled with rage.

He hastened his footsteps, hoping to shorten the time of his return. He was resolved that Monk Thurman would be dead before another day had passed; and he was determined to overthrow the underworld empire that Nick Savoli claimed.

It was nearly daylight when the disgruntled gang leader rattled into Chicago in a milk wagon which he had commandeered.

He arrived at his saloon, too exhausted for immediate effort. Yet he called his henchmen long enough to give them instructions and to send out hunting parties for Monk Thurman.

The detested Savoli could wait; he would hear from Mike Larrigan soon enough!

By evening, the gang leader had recovered from the effects of his ride and the long walk home. Then his mind was occupied with new events that had already crowded their way into huge headlines in the evening papers.

There was no mention there of the disgrace which had befallen Mike Larrigan. Instead the journals told of new gangland killings.

Pete Varona, and Al Vacchi, Savoli lieutenants, and claimants for the presidency of the Unione Italiane, had been put on the spot.

They had been murdered during a party in Varona’s apartment. Their bodies had been discovered shortly after the shots had been fired. Both men were dead when the police arrived. The assassins had escaped — nothing unusual in Chicago.

These reports had been in the morning newspapers, but the full story had been left for the evening journals. The later papers had amplified the news of the underworld with even more sensational findings.

On a lonely road, near the Indiana border, the police had discovered the bodies of those notorious killers, John Genara and Tony Anelmo!

Four Savoli henchmen in a single night! What was in back of this?

The newspapers hinted that the Sicilians had been put on the spot for attempting a double cross; but they made no connection with the Varona-Vacchi murder, which seemed obviously the work of rival gangsters.

MIKE LARRIGAN grinned grimly as he read the reports. This was good news to him.

Varona and Vacchi had been able lieutenants of the big shot; Genara and Anelmo had been Savoli’s most formidable killers. There could be only one immediate result: a weakening of the Savoli forces.

This was opportunity.

That night, three of Larrigan’s hoodlums acting under orders, entered a road house and shot down two of Savoli’s gunmen. The news was phoned immediately to the big shot and his enforcer.

Borrango called up Larrigan. He heard nothing but curses in reply.

Then Machine-gun McGinnis brought in the news that Larrigan had not kept the rendezvous that would have led to the death of Monk Thurman.

McGinnis had gone on alone, but to no avail.

What had become of Monk? That was a question that perplexed both Savoli and Borrango.

They had but one cause for rejoicing; that was the fact that Larrigan had struck crudely, and had made no attempt at subtle effort. They knew now that he was their enemy, even though they did not know why.

Before the reports of the road-house shooting had been printed in the morning newspapers, the Savoli organization was in motion.

Its many industries — gambling, bootlegging, and other activities — must go on. But with it all, gunmen were set to work, to meet the onslaughts of Larrigan’s mob.

There were other dangers, too. The murders of Varona and Vacchi were traced to Nails Pietro and his gang. They, like Larrigan and his crew, were to be the objects of Savoli’s vengeance.

Even without the four men who had been so important to him, Nick Savoli was confident. Yet he was anxious to trace Monk Thurman.

The New York gangster would be most useful now. That was not all; even in this mad whirl of approaching warfare, the big shot had not forgotten a sinister figure in black — a man whose hand had entered into the grim game.

Nick Savoli was on guard against — The Shadow!