FELLOWS SPEAKS
A SMALL group of men stood about the spot where Horace Prescott’s body lay. Three uniformed policemen were on duty, ordering the passers-by to keep moving. Another gang killing was sufficient to draw a crowd — even in Chicago.
A few plain-clothes men were on the scene. The only other privileged individuals were two or three men who had eluded the vigilance of the policemen, and who were standing in the background.
The detectives were watching five persons who were temporarily under their charge.
One was Claude Fellows; with him were two men who had witnessed the shooting from a distance. The others were Togo and Louie.
The Japanese servant had come downstairs with Horace Prescott. He had heard the shots as he was returning to the elevator.
Louie had been found in the automobile by the policemen. Fellows had led them there. The car had been abandoned.
A police car drove up and two men made their exit. One was Police Captain Julius Weaver. The other was Barney Higgins, assistant detective commissioner. He was well known as an investigator of gangsters.
The detectives became suddenly alert when their superiors appeared. They had been instructed to await the arrival of Weaver and Higgins, both of whom were at police headquarters when the news of the killing had reached there.
Barney Higgins looked at the body on the sidewalk. He turned to Weaver and nodded his head.
“They got Prescott, all right,” he said. “He had it coming to him, I guess. I knew he was in the racket — but I didn’t think he was in deep enough for this.”
HIGGINS began a quick inspection of the scene. Satisfied with his observations, he rejoined the police captain. Orders were given for the removal of the body.
The detective commissioner approached the group of men near the detectives.
“These two was witnesses,” explained a detective. “This one” — he pointed to Fellows — “was upstairs with the guy that was killed. He came down and got in the car. They ran him around the corner and told him to scram.”
Higgins stared at Fellows for a moment; then turned back to the detective.
“This man” — the detective indicated Louie — “was the chauffeur. They had him tied up in the car.”
“Landed on me the minute I arrived,” volunteered Louie.
“What did they look like?” questioned Higgins.
“Dunno,” answered Louie promptly. “Couldn’t see ‘em in the dark.”
Higgins looked at him as though he doubted that the chauffeur was telling all he knew. Then he turned to study Togo.
“Jap servant,” he was informed by the detective. “Came downstairs with the guy that was bumped off — “
“Bring them down to headquarters,” ordered Higgins. “No — wait a minute.”
He looked at Claude Fellows.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Claude H. Fellows,” came the response.
“Business?”
“Insurance broker from New York.”
“Did you see the shooting?”
“No. I was in the car. The man in the front seat drove me around the corner.”
“What did he look like?”
“About medium height, I should judge,” replied Fellows thoughtfully. “Dark complexion, and an ugly face. He looked like a gunman.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Yes.”
Higgins studied Fellows carefully.
“What do you know about Prescott?” he questioned suddenly.
Fellows was ready with an answer.
“I knew that he was expecting this,” returned Fellows calmly. “I met him through a friend and found that he was anxious to leave the city. He told me why.”
“Because?”
“Because of his gang connections. He gave me all the important facts concerning them.”
Higgins looked at the police captain and caught an approving nod.
“Come along with me,” said the detective commissioner. “You can tell me your story when we get to headquarters.”
Claude Fellows smiled. He had no reason to keep anything from the police. He did not know, however, what use they would make of any information that he might give them.
Higgins appeared to have considerable knowledge of Prescott’s connections. Yet Fellows was sure that he possessed vital facts which would be news to Higgins.
A YOUNG man stepped up and waved a greeting to the assistant commissioner. It was Jerry Kirklyn, reporter for a Chicago daily.
“Hello, Barney,” said the reporter. “What’s the dope on this? Looks like some mob has social aspirations, when it comes to killings. Got a story for me?”
“Later, Jerry,” said the assistant commissioner. “See me down at headquarters, after I interview the witnesses.”
He drew the reporter to one side.
“Wait until this man Fellows testifies,” he said. “We’re going to get the real low-down on Prescott’s hook-up with the mobs. But lay off until then.”
“The detectives tell me,” said Kirklyn, “that Prescott pulled out a gun and fired back when three men fell on him at the door of the lobby. He wounded one, they say. Is that right?”
Higgins questioned one of the detectives and received the man’s affirmation.
“What about it?” questioned the reporter. “Can you trace the man through the hospitals?”
“You know better than that, Jerry,” he said. “These gangsters have their own physicians. Don’t you remember the doctor they bumped off six months ago? He was a sawbones who was going to pull a double cross.
“This gangster that Prescott wounded is on his way to some crooked medico right now.”
Jerry Kirklyn eyed Claude Fellows curiously. He recognized that the chubby-faced man was not of gangdom’s realm. He was anxious for a statement, and he made a quick approach.
“You were with Prescott before he was killed?” he asked. “What do you know about him?”
“I know everything,” replied Fellows. “He told me all his story before I left him. We were going to the station in his car.
“I am willing to give the police a complete statement that will — “
“Not here,” objected Higgins. “Come along to headquarters. You can tell me about yourself on the way down.” He turned to the reporter. “You see me later, Barney.”
The assistant commissioner gripped the insurance broker’s arm. He turned and drew Fellows toward the curb.
There were a few hangers-on standing near by. One of them, a sallow-faced youth with a cigarette hanging from his lips, looked sharply at Fellows as he passed. The insurance broker entered the police car with the officers.
The man began to stroll away as the car moved from the curb. He turned the corner and walked rapidly toward a drug store which had a telephone booth sign on the window.
IN the police car, the detective commissioner disregarded Claude Fellows for the moment. He spoke to Captain Weaver.
“There’ll be a stew over this,” he said. “The newspapers have been saying it’s time we stopped these killings.
“Our policy of letting gunmen bump each other off is all right — until something like this happens. We’ve got to get the man who did this.
“Prescott was phony himself — we can prove that. Still, he was a man known in society circles. He wasn’t a gorilla type.”
Higgins turned to Fellows.
“When we get to headquarters,” he said, “you can spill what you know. In the meantime, tell me something about yourself. We can have your statement on Prescott later.”
Fellows explained his presence in Chicago in a quiet, convincing way. He spoke of his insurance business and the wealth of his usual clients.
He said nothing about his mysterious chief in New York.
“Prescott was in a tough spot,” he declared. “He wanted me to help him out. We were going to the station. I was to take the Northwestern for Omaha; he was to drop out and take the Michigan Central for New York.”
Higgins nodded. He interrupted with a few words addressed to the police captain.
“The orders to kill Prescott came from higher up,” was his comment. “Larrigan may have done it. Varona may have ordered it. If Varona is responsible, the instructions probably came from the big shot.”
“Savoli?”
“Correct.”
As Higgins turned to Fellows, the police car stopped suddenly. They were at headquarters.
Captain Weaver alighted and walked away from the car, leaving Higgins with Fellows. The assistant commissioner followed with the insurance broker. Fellows was speaking as they moved along.
Fellows had been doing some thinking during the ride. He was ready to tell the police everything he knew about Horace Prescott. It would be the opening shot in a drastic campaign against gangdom. Higgins would be able to act with the startling information he would gain.
With it all, Fellows could easily avoid mention of his real purpose in visiting Prescott. Neither Togo nor Louie knew anything of Prescott’s revelations.
Prescott had satisfied Fellows on that point. His servants had been chosen to create respectability, not to act as associates.
“I know who killed Prescott,” said Fellows quietly, as he stepped along beside Higgins. “I can positively name the men in back of it, and tell why they struck.”
Higgins stopped and clutched the insurance broker’s arm. Something in the statement impressed him.
“Wait until we’re inside,” he ordered. “I want Weaver to be in on this. I think you’ve got the dope. Remember now, play square. If you do — “
The assistant commissioner turned suddenly. A large touring car was coasting silently toward the curb.
In an instant, Higgins realized the menace.
“Duck!” he shouted, as he released his hold on the arm of his companion. “Duck for cover!”
BEFORE Fellows could respond, the staccato rattle of a machine gun drowned the commissioner’s words.
Claude Fellows was the living target of the steel-jacketed bullets. Standing alone on the sidewalk, he went down beneath the metal avalanche.
A gasp escaped his lips as he fell. It was the last sound he uttered in this life.
The motor of the touring car purred as the automobile swept away. In a few moments it was traveling at reckless speed, disappearing around the corner before any could identify it.
Higgins had escaped the attack. He rose from the spot beside the steps where he had flung himself.
He knew that the killers had not desired his death; yet he also realized that his position with the police force would not have deterred the slayers in their mad desire to blot out Claude Fellows. Only through his prompt, intuitive action, had Barney Higgins evaded a similar end.
The assistant commissioner bent over the body of the murdered man. He saw in an instant that Fellows had expired. The man’s lips were half open. They seemed on the point of speaking; about to cry their knowledge of gangdom’s crooked ways.
Claude Fellows had been wiped out; and with him, the revelations had been suppressed. He had begun to speak, and the powers of the underworld had silenced him.
“We’ll never know,” muttered Barney Higgins. “We’ll never know what he was going to tell us. We know who this man is — but that is all.”
There was conviction in the commissioner’s tone. He was amazed by this bold stroke of gangdom — the killing of a man who was about to enter police headquarters, accompanied by an assistant commissioner.
Higgins wondered what secrets had perished with this murdered man.
Yet, he connected Claude Fellows only with Horace Prescott. Had he known of the greater secret which Claude Fellows possessed, Higgins would have been completely bewildered.
For Claude Fellows had not mentioned his unknown employer in New York. Barney Higgins had no inkling of the most important factor regarding Claude Fellows.
He did not even begin to suspect that the supposed insurance broker had been the confidential agent of The Shadow — that strange, mysterious being, whose name was a word of terror to the denizens of New York’s underworld!