GUNS BARK
MIDNIGHT had passed, and the crowd had thinned. Many players had lost all their money, but those who remained were playing for tremendous stakes. Thousands and thousands of dollars were in view, stacked in piles of bills.
Harry moved alongside of Joe le Blanc, and nudged the man, to indicate the immense sums of money that formed the stakes. Le Blanc nodded.
“Big night,” he said, in an undertone. “Marmosa’s getting all he can. Savoli’s man will be around to collect later on.”
The Homicide Twins were still watching Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak, but the two unwelcome mobsters seemed quite indifferent to the money that was on display.
As for Monk Thurman, he seemed to be utterly oblivious to his surroundings. He was leaning with his back against the bar, his eyes half closed, as he listened to the chatter of Joe le Blanc, who had become voluble under the encouragement of many drinks.
Glen Colliver and his party were the principal players left. The advertising man tossed a thousand-dollar bill on number nine, and lost his bet. He shrugged his shoulders, and turned his pockets inside out with a laugh.
“That finishes us,” he said. “Come along, folks. We’ll play again some other night.”
Sleek Frank Marmosa shook hands with Colliver as he left with his three companions. Then the proprietor returned, and glanced at the few players who remained, all of whom were men.
Harry could divine his thoughts. The big money was ended with Colliver’s exit. There would be no purpose in keeping on with the play.
Standing in the center of the room, Marmosa slapped his hands together as a signal that the play should end. The croupiers stopped the wheels and began to gather up the profits of the night.
Harry looked for Hymie Schultz, and saw the gangster shrug his shoulders. Four-Gun Spirak joined him, and the two men sauntered from the room, the old doorman opening the panel for them to leave.
“Hot shots, ha-ha!” laughed Joe le Blanc. “Guess they got cold feet when they saw the Homicide Twins watching them. Came in to look the place over.
“Well, they got an eyeful. Marmosa had a big night, just to make them enjoy their visit.”
He was addressing his words to Monk Thurman, but the New York gangster apparently did not hear them. He had slouched against the bar, and was half asleep, his head resting on one hand.
Harry had not observed Thurman drinking during the evening; he could not account for the man’s stupor.
The last players were walking toward; the door, under the guidance of Frank Marmosa, when three revolver shots were heard. They were outside of the gambling den; evidently they had been fired in the restaurant.
The effect upon those present was electric. Harry felt a sudden nervous excitement, and looked around the room, almost expecting another shot close at hand.
THE croupiers and Frank Marmosa had become as rigid as statues. They were listening, and wondering. The departing players were moving toward the wall, as though seeking a hiding place. The bartender and Joe le Blanc became suddenly still.
The only man who apparently did not hear the shots was Monk Thurman; the only ones who sprang to action were Genara and Anelmo, the sinister Homicide Twins.
The two gunmen rushed to the exit, pushed the doorman aside, and disappeared into the restaurant, leaving the panel open behind them. Those still in the gambling den remained motionless, expecting to hear some sound from without.
“Shut the door!” exclaimed Marmosa, addressing the doorman. The old attendant stood as though petrified, and the proprietor hurried forward to do the work himself.
Then he stepped suddenly backward, as two men plunged through the opening.
One darted into the center of the room, holding two automatics with which he covered the entire place. The other hesitated only an instant; just long enough to let the heavy panel slide back into place. Then he was with his companion, supporting him with two more gats.
The raiders were Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak. They had taken advantage of the departure of Genara and Anelmo. They had been out of sight behind the pillar when the Homicide Twins had dashed by. Now the field was theirs!
“Stick ‘em up!”
The command came from Spirak. It was scarcely necessary, for most of the men in the room had unconsciously obeyed the moment that they had seen the guns. Harry Vincent did not realize that his hands were above his head until he looked upward and saw them.
Hymie Schultz, laughing sarcastically, was advancing toward the roulette tables, where the helpless croupiers were standing.
He had pocketed one gun now, to free his left hand for the task of gathering up the money that still lay in view. But he had nothing to fear. Spirak was covering every one with his automatics, and he had two reserve revolvers in the inside of his coat.
“Stick ‘em up!”
The command was repeated by Spirak, an instant after his first cry, while Schultz was still advancing toward the wheels.
Harry glanced to his right, and saw the object of Spirak’s threat. It was Monk Thurman, still slouched against the bar, who had not heeded Spirak’s command.
The New York gunman was still in his stupor. Evidently he had not been conscious of anything that had happened. Even now, he was still oblivious, and made no sign of response.
FOUR-GUN SPIRAK hesitated only a brief moment. Evidently he and Schultz had no desire to use ammunition in the gambling den, even though shots had been fired outside. But Spirak was going to take no chances, even with a man who seemed unconscious.
Le Blanc kicked Monk Thurman, but the New Yorker made no response. That was his last chance.
Spirak swung the muzzle of one automatic in the direction of the man who was slouching on the bar, and the killer pressed his finger against the trigger.
A shot rang out, but it did not come from the gat wielded by Four-gun Spirak.
It was Monk Thurman who fired. His left hand had been hanging behind him. He had swung it upward the instant that Spirak covered him. The bullet from his automatic struck the hand that held the gun pointed at Monk.
Spirak’s revolver fell to the floor. With an oath, the Chicago mobster brought his other gun into play, but here again a shot interrupted him. A bullet crashed into his forearm, and his second revolver dropped from his nerveless fingers.
With two amazing shots, Monk Thurman had disarmed Four-gun Spirak, and had left him helpless, and unable to draw his two remaining weapons.
Hymie Schultz was prompt in action. He had been reaching for the money when the first shot was fired. He wheeled suddenly just as Thurman’s second bullet found its mark. He pressed the trigger of his automatic, but as he did, Thurman’s gun barked once more. Thurman’s shot struck the revolver held by Hymie Schultz, and the weapon clattered against the leg of the nearest roulette table. Hymie’s first shot crashed into the bar, grazing the arm of Joe le Blanc; and that was the only bullet that left his automatic.
Hymie Schultz gave a quick glance about him. He saw Four-gun Spirak staggering toward the door, and he made a rush in that direction. Marmosa fell upon him, and the croupiers joined in.
There was a melee at the door, as the Marmosa crowd struggled with the gangsters.
There was no opportunity for Monk Thurman to fire another shot, for he might have hit friends as well as enemies. Schultz and Spirak were being overpowered, and their capture seemed certain.
But Hymie was a redoubtable fighter. He freed his left hand and pushed aside the sliding panel. Then he managed to pull his second automatic from his pocket.
Marmosa seized Hymie’s wrist, but the wiry little gangster broke away. He pushed Four-gun Spirak through the open doorway, and with a snarl of vengeance, clubbed one croupier with his revolver, and leveled his hand to fire into his opponents.
But that action opened a direct line that ran from Monk Thurman to the biceps of Hymie’s left arm. The New York gunman did not neglect the opportunity. His shot found its mark.
Hymie’s arm dropped, and a croupier yanked the automatic from his grasp. The little gunman leaped through the door and followed Spirak into the restaurant.
There was confusion for a moment; then Marmosa ordered a pursuit. He pulled a revolver from his pocket, and he and the croupier who had Hymie’s gun ran after the fleeing gangster.
“Come on!” cried Joe le Blanc.
Harry followed him. They reached the balcony of the restaurant, to find the dead body of Eddie Heeny sprawled across the table in a pool of crimson blood.
“They got him,” was Le Blanc’s only comment. “Come on, Vincent!”
They joined Marmosa and the croupier downstairs. Two policemen entered the restaurant. They recognized the proprietor.
Schultz and Spirak had escaped!
MARMOSA was voluble in his explanations, and the policemen nodded their understanding. One of them called up headquarters.
The death of Eddie Heeny had made it a serious affair. Harry listened to Marmosa’s words. The proprietor of the gambling den was telling a clever story.
“Two men came in here,” he said. “They came to get Eddie Heeny, who was up there on the balcony. He shot them, but they killed him. We ran out here to get them, but they were gone.”
“Who were they?” demanded one of the policemen.
Frank Marmosa shrugged his shoulders. Joe le Blanc duplicated the gesture. Harry and the croupier said nothing.
The men who had been gambling were coming down the stairs. They were not familiar with the affairs of gangland; they could not have told the names of the attackers had they been questioned. But Marmosa now had the situation under control. The guests were allowed to go.
Joe le Blanc drew Harry Vincent to a corner of the restaurant, and gave his explanation of the affair. The brief summary convinced Harry that Joe’s theory was correct.
“There’s another guy in this,” whispered Le Blanc. “Some pal of Schultz and Spirak. He must have sneaked in here and waited downstairs. Then Schultz and Spirak came out to attract Heeny’s attention.
“Heeny probably talked friendly to them, because they were out of the gambling joint. That gave their pal the chance to plug Heeny.”
“But what about Genara and Anelmo?”
“That was all figured in the game. Schultz and Spirak got back behind the pillar while their pal was finishing Heeny. One shot did it.
“Anelmo and Genara came out and saw the guy running from the restaurant. They went after him. That gave Schultz and Spirak the chance to do their stuff.”
The police were removing Heeny’s body. Marmosa was talking to a headquarters man, and the proprietor’s story seemed to be holding weight.
As the policemen left the place, Marmosa motioned to his three companions, and they went up the stairs, back toward the gambling room where the others still remained.
“Who was that bird?” questioned Marmosa, addressing Joe le Blanc. “The way he finished up Spirak and Schultz — “
“Who was he?” Le Blanc laughed loudly. “Did you ever hear of Monk Thurman?”
“Monk Thurman — from New York?”
“That’s the guy!”
Marmosa paused to mop his brow with a silk handkerchief.
“Monk Thurman,” he repeated, in wondering tones. “They say it was getting hot for him in New York. I didn’t know he was here.”
“Well, you know it now. Heeny brought him in. I didn’t have a chance to tell you who he was.”
“Wait until Savoli hears about this,” said Marmosa. “I’m going to call up Mike Borrango; I want him to come around to collect tonight. This Monk Thurman is a man that he can use.”
“And how!” exclaimed Le Blanc.
THEY entered the gambling room. The injured croupier was sitting in the corner; the bartender and the doorman had just finished binding his head.
“Where’s Monk Thurman?” demanded Marmosa.
“Who?” asked the bartender.
“The fellow who was up here — the guy that crippled Schultz and Spirak.”
“Why, he’s right over there, leaning against the bar — “
The bartender paused, wondering.
“I saw him just a few minutes ago,” he insisted. “Standing there, quietlike, saying nothing. I didn’t see him go out of — “
“He’d have to go downstairs,” replied Marmosa.
“Say!” Joe le Blanc had an explanation. “I’ll bet he went out with those other fellows — the ones who were playing roulette.”
“If he did, he’s a wizard.”
“That’s what he did. It’s the only way he could have done it.”
Frank Marmosa made no reply. He was speechless. The others made no comment. They looked at each other in wonder, and in silent admiration of the amazing Monk Thurman.
To Harry Vincent, the event was a revelation.
There had been five gangsters in that room. Two, the Homicide Twins, had been outwitted. The others, Schultz and Spirak, had been conquered single-handed by a man who held one gun against their four.
Now this amazing gangster had gone, quietly and unobserved, leaving wonderment behind him.
Monk Thurman!
The man was a supergangster. Chicago had never known another like him; that was Le Blanc’s strong statement.
But Harry Vincent was not comparing Monk Thurman with Chicago gangsters. He was comparing him with another person entirely. For Harry had seen another man who could act with such amazing promptness, and who had the ability to make mysterious departures which no one could fathom.
Monk Thurman was an incredible personage; his accomplishments seemed almost beyond human ability. Yet there was one other man as remarkable as Monk Thurman — a man whom neither Le Blanc nor Marmosa had ever seen.
Until this night, Harry Vincent had believed that only one human being was capable of performing the wonders just displayed by Monk Thurman — and that being was The Shadow!