A VISITOR TO CHICAGO
Two days after the episode which had resulted in the death of Claude Fellows, a young man arrived in Chicago, and appeared at a restaurant known as Marmosa’s Cafe, in the Loop district.
It was afternoon, and the large restaurant was virtually deserted. A hawk-eyed waiter, standing at the top of a stairway with gilded railings, spotted the new arrival, and approached to talk to him.
“What do you want, sir?” he asked.
“I came to see Mr. Marmosa,” replied the young man.
“I will see if he is here,” responded the waiter. “What is your name, sir?”
“Harry Vincent.”
The waiter ascended the curving stairway, and disappeared when he reached the balcony. The man who had introduced himself as Harry Vincent sat down at one of the tables, and studied the sumptuous surroundings of the cafe, with both ground floor and balcony filled with tables and booths.
Vincent’s thoughts were interrupted by the return of the waiter, who beckoned to him to come upstairs. When they reached the top, the waiter turned abruptly to the left, and conducted Vincent to a partitioned office, hidden behind a corner pillar of the balcony.
Entering the office, Vincent discovered a man seated at a desk. The office was very small — scarcely more than a nook, and the man who occupied it seemed out of proportion to his surroundings.
He was heavy-set, and slightly bald. He weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, and the chair in which he was sitting was almost invisible beneath his bulk.
“Ah!” The man’s voice was suave, and melodious. “You are Mr. Vincent, eh? I am Mr. Marmosa — Frank Marmosa. You have come here as I asked you, eh?”
“Yes. I received your wire yesterday afternoon.”
“Sit down, Mr. Vincent. Let me talk to you. I am glad that you have come, and I think that you will like it here.”
There was a chair opposite the desk — a chair crowded into the extreme corner of the tiny office. Harry Vincent took his place there, and looked quizzically at Frank Marmosa.
There was a real friendliness about the big man beyond his suavity. Vincent sized him up as a man who could be trusted, with reservations. Marmosa was presumably of Italian ancestry, but one could not have judged his nationality without knowing his name.
“My telegram surprised you, eh?” chuckled Marmosa, as he studied Harry Vincent. “Well, my boy, it was just by a chance that I learned of you.
“I have been waiting for two weeks to hear from my friend Barutti, in New York. I had asked him for a man to work with me here. I received no reply, until night before last, when Barutti called me up by long distance. He told me to wire you in Michigan; that you would be the man I needed.”
A SUDDEN light dawned on Harry Vincent. Now, for the first time, he understood the connection that had brought him to Chicago.
He had suspected that the hand of The Shadow was behind this mission, for Vincent was a trusted agent of the strange man whose name carried terror to the minions of gangdom. But he had never before heard of Frank Marmosa, and only the mention of Barutti gave him the inkling that brought realization of the situation.
Barutti operated an Italian restaurant in New York. Harry Vincent had chosen the place as a favorite eating spot, when in Manhattan.
Barutti was not a figure in the underworld; on the contrary, he operated a legitimate business. But, like many others, he had certain connections of a doubtful sort.
Two weeks ago, Harry had been dining in Barutti’s restaurant. The Italian had exhibited a letter, remarking that it was from a big man in Chicago.
“A verra big man,” Barutti had said, with a grin. “A big man in bizaness — a big man like dis” — and he had qualified the final statement by spreading his arms to indicate a person of enormous size.
Barutti had then talked with a man seated at another table in the Italian restaurant — a chap whom Harry had seen there on several occasions, and who talked both English and Italian.
From the snatches that Harry had heard of their mixed conversation, Barutti had told the other customer that his friend in Chicago had asked a favor, but that he would not grant it at present. For Barutti was going away for a month’s vacation. His friend in Chicago could wait.
Harry had also left New York for a vacation — to the town in Michigan where his family resided. He had been there ten days, and had then been startled to read of the death of Claude Fellows.
This news, furnished by a Chicago paper, had stunned Harry Vincent. He was one of the few persons who knew that the insurance broker was an agent of the mysterious Shadow. He had wondered what would follow.
The result had been a telegram from Chicago, signed by Frank Marmosa, telling Harry to come to see him immediately.
A complete theory had now formed in Harry’s mind.
His thoughts went back to that day in Barutti’s place. Barutti had shown the letter to the stranger who dined there. That stranger, Harry felt sure, was none other than The Shadow!
Immediately after the death of Claude Fellows, The Shadow must have called Frank Marmosa by long distance, representing himself as Barutti, to tell Marmosa that he had found the man he wanted.
WHILE Harry Vincent still pondered on this idea, Frank Marmosa resumed the conversation, and his words formed a cue which Harry was quick to follow.
“So you are a friend of Barutti, eh?” questioned Marmosa.
“I have known him a long while,” replied Harry quietly.
“You know him very well?”
“Quite well.”
“He told me that I could trust you in every way.”
“Whatever Barutti may have said is true.”
“Good.” Frank Marmosa’s grin displayed a row of large, white teeth. He studied Harry carefully, then motioned toward the door with his thumb.
“Shut the door,” he said.
Harry complied with the order.
“Barutti told you about me?” questioned Marmosa, in a low, confidential voice.
“He told me that you were a big man in Chicago,” answered Harry.
The statement seemed to please Marmosa. He grinned and chuckled, and looked approvingly at Harry.
“You know what it means to be a big man in Chicago?” asked Marmosa.
Harry nodded.
“You know what makes big men in Chicago, eh?” continued Marmosa. “You know what is most important, eh?”
“I think I know.”
“What is it, then.”
“Getting in right — and staying in right.”
“Very good,” chuckled Marmosa. “You understand. Barutti did well to send you here.
“Well, Vincent, I am in right; and I stay in right. When they say to me: ‘Frank, you must give us a rake-off,’ I smile, and I pay it. When some one else says: ‘Frank, you must give us a rake-off,’ I smile again.
“I pay to those who are big. They keep away those who are little. You understand? I am in right. You will be in right, too.”
The big man stared steadily at Harry Vincent. The young man met his gaze. Finally, Marmosa grinned again, and extended his hand. Harry shook it, and with that action, he realized that he was entering a new career. He had blindly made a bargain with Frank Marmosa.
“You are all right, young fellow,” said the big man assuringly. “You will work for me, eh? Good. Come along. I will show you something that will surprise you.”
HE rose and opened the door. Harry followed him along the soft carpet of the balcony. Frank Marmosa pressed a hidden spot in the wall, behind a shielding pillar, and a partition slid noiselessly aside.
The two men entered a spacious room, evidently built over the kitchen of the restaurant. The place was a glittering den of gambling.
In the center stood two roulette wheels, along the sides were faro tables, while card tables in the corners invited the play of those who preferred poker.
There was a short mahogany bar in the far corner of the room. Its brass rail shone like gold, and behind it stood a man in a white coat, polishing glasses.
“Come.”
Marmosa led Harry around the room, and pointed out the roulette wheels and the faro tables as though he were directing a sight-seeing tour.
When they reached the bar, Marmosa smilingly invited Harry to have a drink. When the young man shook his head in refusal, Marmosa’s grin broadened to his characteristic smile.
“That is good,” said Marmosa solemnly. “The men I have here — they all drink. It costs me money, but it is not the money that I mind.
“When they drink, they cannot watch. They are no longer wise. You are the man I want here. Barutti did well to get you.”
He conducted Harry back to the office, and there, by the little desk, the proprietor of the gambling den explained the purpose for which he had required a new man.
“I have many people here in Chicago,” he said, “but if they know nothing, they are no good; if they know too much, they are no good. I must keep in right with the big shots; but my business is my own.
“I must have a man who minds no business except mine; you understand, eh? He must learn to know those who come in, and who go out. He must watch this, and he must watch that; but he must not deal with any except me. You understand, eh?”
“Exactly,” replied Harry.
“More than that,” said Marmosa thoughtfully, “this man must seem as a diner in the restaurant, or as a player in the gambling room.
“I do not need a man with a gun. They are easy to get — too easy to get. I have them, but they do not look well.
“I want a man who will act as a gentleman, who will watch, and who will not drink. He must be ready to give orders to the others. You are the man I need.”
“I will be,” interposed Harry, “after I have seen your place in operation. I must, of course, first know something about it.”
“Ah!” interrupted Marmosa. “You will learn quickly. Very, very quickly. Money? I shall give you plenty.
“Barutti has told me all about you, over the phone. He says that you will work whenever I may need you; that you do not talk loud; and that you do not have the big, swelled head. All that is good. Very, very good.”
The huge man stared from the window, and Harry followed his gaze. Below them was the bustle and confusion of a Chicago street. The whole situation seemed unreal to Harry Vincent.
Here, in this quiet cubby-hole of an office, one would never suspect that the entrance to a de luxe gambling den lay only a few feet away.
“I have a man who will help you,” explained Marmosa. “His name is Joe le Blanc. He is a good man, but not the one I need. He is going away soon, to open a place of his own — a road house outside of the city.
“He is in right; he has fixed it with the big shots. I am giving him the money to start the place. But he will stay here a while until you understand what you are to do.”
Marmosa looked at his watch. Then he opened a drawer in the desk, and drew out a stack of letters. He extended his hand to Harry.
“Go away, now,” said the big man, “and come back here at seven o’clock tonight. If you need money at any time, tell me. I am trusting you because I know Barutti.
“Stay at a hotel near here, so you will not have far to go.”
HARRY VINCENT left the office and walked down the gently sloping stairs. The entire restaurant seemed different to him now.
Now he realized that the elaborate downstairs establishment was nothing more than a blind for the den upstairs. Perhaps Frank Marmosa was conducting a profitable restaurant; but that was not the business upon which he relied.
Harry registered at the Goliath Hotel, a single block from the restaurant.
Within an hour after his arrival in Chicago, Harry Vincent had stepped within the borderland of gangdom. He had obtained a position which would enable him to watch and to gain information without incurring the grave risks that threatened the average gangster. Yet he realized that even his position with Marmosa held danger in store, and he welcomed that danger.
For he knew that while he might appear to be working for Frank Marmosa, the gambling king, he would actually be working for another. He owed his real allegiance to that strange, mysterious person who was the talk of all New York — the man they called The Shadow.
One dominating thought gripped Harry’s mind. He was sure that he had divined the purpose of the work that lay ahead.
The Shadow had transferred activities from New York to Chicago, with one definite motive — to track all those who had been responsible for the death of Claude Fellows!
Harry had heard of Chicago gangsters. Now he was to encounter them. They were different from the mobsters of New York.
They worked in compact gangs, Harry knew, and their foothold was greater, so far as the police was concerned.
If the newspapers spoke truly, gangsters ruled Chicago as kings.
All his old adventures with The Shadow recurred to Harry’s mind, as he stood by the window, looking out over the vast city of Chicago, to the blue waterfalls of Lake Michigan.
He had done much to help The Shadow, and still that mysterious man amazed and bewildered him.
In and out of New York, The Shadow had struck the plots and counterplots of crafty criminals until his name had become a terror to those who fought against the law. Yet The Shadow had never been revealed. His personality was still a mystery.
Some believed him to be a detective; others claimed that he was a master mind that knew no law. Whichever might be true, it was certain that The Shadow had brought many crooks to justice, and that he was a criminologist of tremendous ability.
Yet here, in Chicago, Harry Vincent felt qualms. This was to be a new game.
It would not be a battle of wits for The Shadow, although wits would play their part. It would be a fight against tremendous odds; against groups of desperate men who ruled their realm with automatics, bombs, and machine guns.
Even The Shadow, with all his amazing power, was human. When the gangsters of Chicago were thwarted, they spoke with bullets.
Did The Shadow know the dangers that lay here? Did he realize the strength of the powerful organizations that defied the police, and openly ridiculed the law? Did he know the risk he would take if he came to Chicago?
For a few moments these questions passed in rapid succession through Harry’s mind, and for the first time since his association with The Shadow, he felt the fear of impending disaster. Then he recalled the times when the amazing superman had met and conquered those who blocked his path.
Still standing by the window of his room, Harry Vincent smiled grimly, and his lips spoke these words:
“The Shadow knows!”