PLANS ARE MADE
“WELL, Steve,” remarked Joe le Blanc, “how do you like the joint?”
“You asked us all that question,” responded the stocky man with the black mustache. “That isn’t why you tipped me off to stay after the others went. What’s on your mind, Joe? Spill it!”
Joe le Blanc stared shrewdly at the man who had spoken so plainly. He had intended to lead up slowly to the idea that he had in mind; but now he decided that direct procedure was the best policy.
“Listen, Steve,” he said, “you and I can do a lot for each other. Savvy?”
The other man laughed.
“I might be able to do a lot for you, Joe. It’s a question how much you could do for me.”
“I can do plenty, Steve.”
“What, for instance?”
“Well, I can tip you off to a bit of interesting information for a starter. Did you ever hear of Monk Thurman?”
The question produced another laugh from the stocky individual.
“Did I ever hear of Monk Thurman!” he exclaimed. “What’s this, a game of ‘Ask Me Another’? Next you’ll be wanting to know if I ever heard of George Washington.”
Joe le Blanc indulged in a grim smile.
“All right,” he said. “Of course you’ve heard of Monk Thurman. But did you ever meet him?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Several times.”
“Does he know you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.” Joe le Blanc’s statement was emphatic. “Steve Cronin knows Monk Thurman. Monk Thurman doesn’t know Steve Cronin.”
“All right,” replied the other man. “Monk Thurman doesn’t know me. But Monk Thurman’s in New York. How does that concern us?”
“Monk Thurman is in Chicago!” answered Le Blanc.
“What of it?” retorted Cronin. “He doesn’t mean anything here. I’m in with the Chicago big shots. I wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for all the gangs in New York.”
“No?” questioned Le Blanc. “Well, Nick Savoli would give a lot of real dough just to have Monk Thurman on his pay roll. What do you think of that?”
CRONIN stared sharply at the other man. Joe le Blanc smiled. His words had created the impression that he had desired. He knew that Steve Cronin’s interest was now aroused.
He waited quietly, anticipating an exclamation of surprise from Cronin, and he was not disappointed.
“Savoli wants Thurman?” cried Cronin. “What does the big shot know about Monk Thurman? How does that guy figure in Chicago?
“Why, I heard that he was finding things pretty tough in New York — that he was in wrong all around!”
“Well, he’s in right here,” retorted Joe le Blanc. “When I say that Nick Savoli wants him, I mean that Mike Borrango wants him, and that amounts to about the same thing.”
This new statement did not please Steve Cronin. There was an anxious expression on the dark man’s face, and he looked at Le Blanc as though demanding further details.
“Here’s the low-down, Steve,” said the proprietor of the Gray Mill. “There was a fracas at Frank Marmosa’s, last night.”
“I heard about it,” said Cronin. “Somebody plugged Eddie Heeny, while he was in the restaurant. They say that Schultz and Spirak were mixed up in it.
“But what has that got to do with Monk Thurman?”
“Just this.” Joe le Blanc leaned across the table and spoke emphatically. “Heeny was killed in the restaurant. But the real blow-off was in the gambling joint. Schultz and Spirak tried to stick up the place.”
“No!” There was incredulity in Cronin’s voice. “Where were the Homicide Twins? I thought they protected Marmosa.”
“Where were they? Outside, following a blind lead. Chasing the guy that plugged Heeny.
“Larrigan’s men were in the joint, and they had us covered. But Monk Thurman was there, too. Listen, Steve, you missed the greatest gun play of your life.
“Monk crippled both those boys like they were a couple of Boy Scouts. He was laying against the bar like he was asleep, and he just put those two false alarms out of commission in about five seconds!”
“Monk Thurman did that? I can’t believe it, Joe.”
“Why not? He’s a killer, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t work that way. He fights with a mob. Shoots at close range. This marksmanship stuff is news to me.”
“I saw it, Steve.”
“He’s playing a new game then. But how does that tie him up with the big shot?”
Joe le Blanc laughed.
“Wake up, Steve,” he said. “Marmosa pays coin to Savoli, doesn’t he?”
“Of course.”
“Well, he called up Mike Borrango last night, and told him all about the battle, when Mike came to collect the cut.”
“Did he introduce Thurman to Borrango?”
“No. Monk was gone.”
“Oh!” There was a note of relief in Cronin’s interjection. “So Borrango hasn’t got hold of Thurman, yet.”
“Not yet, Steve. That’s why I’m wising you up. Monk Thurman is a killer de luxe. He did a better job last night than Genara and Anelmo could have done together.
“He’s the kind of a torpedo that both Savoli and Borrango can use.
STEVE CRONIN sat for a moment in careful thought. He reached to the table, poured himself a drink from a bottle, and then turned to Joe le Blanc.
“Thanks for the tip-off, Joe,” he said. “I get your drift exactly. You know what I’ve been doing here. I came in as a stranger. I got with Savoli. I’ve moved up, right along. I’m one of his best men right now.”
“That’s right, Steve. I’m a friend of yours. I want to see you stay where you are — or get further.”
“O.K., Joe. Well, I’m getting farther. I’m going out on a real job to-morrow night. When I pull that one, I’ll be worth plenty dough to Savoli!”
Le Blanc did not reply, but he raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner. Cronin observed him; and smiled slightly.
“Can’t tell you what it is, Joe,” he said. “I’m leaving Savoli’s some time in the evening. The alibi is all fixed. I’ll let you in on this much of it — I’m taking Guisto’s place.”
“I get you, Steve. He got his the other night, didn’t he?”
“Yeah — “
“Say, you’re with Machine-gun McGinnis, now, aren’t you? I suppose he will be on to-morrow night’s job.”
Steve Cronin snapped his fingers.
“Enough said, Joe,” was his reply. “Forget it, now. What concerns you is this: after to-morrow night, I’m going to mean something here in Chicago. I’ll have the jump on the rest of the boys. I don’t want any competition.”
“Such as — “
“Such as Monk Thurman. That’s why I’m glad you tipped me off. I heard that Monk was through in New York. The West Side gang was out to get him. Well, he’s made a mistake if he’s come to Chicago.”
“I don’t know about that, Steve. Savoli wants him, that’s a good start for him.”
“Well, I hope Savoli don’t find him. That gives me an idea, Joe. Suppose, before Savoli or Borrango find Monk Thurman, Schultz and Spirak get ahold of him. Where will Monk Thurman be then?”
“Out in a ditch, full of lead.”
“Correct. Then he won’t be any use to Savoli.”
“I get you, Steve.”
“Right, Joe. If you locate Monk, just pass the word along to Larrigan’s gang. Then it will be curtains for this tough gorilla from New York.”
Joe le Blanc nodded his head as he looked shrewdly toward his companion. He knew that he could profit greatly by aligning himself with Nick Savoli’s henchmen. He had chosen Steve Cronin as the first one to approach, chiefly because Cronin was advancing rapidly in the employ of the big shot.
STEVE CRONIN had come to Chicago a few months before. He was wanted in New York, and he kept away from the East. Under the protection of Nick Savoli, he had developed into a notorious gunman.
Cronin was famed for his nerve. He had displayed it often in the past, when working in his own interests. Now, as Savoli’s man, he had reached a high place in Chicago gangdom. It was rumored that he was slated to become Nick Savoli’s personal bodyguard.
To be of service to Steve Cronin was Joe le Blanc’s aim. Every gangster in Chicago was known to Le Blanc. He was one of those characters who hedge the borderland of gangdom, and who are safe so long as they mind their own affairs.
Le Blanc had been cautious in his actions. He had emphasized his connection with Frank Marmosa, and he intended to run his road house on the same plan that Marmosa utilized with the restaurant. But he had nothing to lose, and much to gain, by cultivating a secret friendship with Steve Cronin.
Before concluding the conversation, he made this fact evident.
“Listen, Steve,” he remarked, in a careful tone. “I’ve got to watch everything that I do. I’m not out to get into trouble. I’m going to run this place and be friends to everybody. But at the same time, if I can be of help to you — “
“I’ve got the idea, Joe,” interrupted Cronin. “Play with me, and you won’t lose a thing. You tipped me off to some real news tonight. Keep on with that kind of work.”
“But get me straight,” insisted Le Blanc. “I’m no double-crosser, Steve. I’m friends to everybody — but I’ll work with you, and with nobody else.”
Steve Cronin grinned. He realized that Le Blanc was speaking the truth, and he saw how the alliance could prove of great value to himself.
Cronin lacked much important knowledge about Chicago. In his period of service with Savoli, he had depended upon information given to him by the big shot, or by Borrango, the enforcer. But here was opportunity.
“I can do a lot, Steve,” continued Le Blanc, anxious to impress Cronin with his own importance. “I can tip you off to where guys are, when you’re looking for them. I can even get them out here — but I can’t do that too often. I’ve got to play safe, Steve — “
“That’s right, Joe. I won’t expect too much of you. Play with me, that’s all. And if you want to make a real start, find where Monk Thurman is, and see to it that Larrigan’s men get the dope.”
“Right, Steve.”
Steve Cronin shoved his hand toward Joe le Blanc, and the other man responded. As they clasped hands, Cronin summarized their alliance.
“You for me, and me for you. That’s the racket, Joe. Get it?”
“You for me,” repeated Le Blanc, “and me for you.”
Steve Cronin arose.
“Time to be getting in to town,” he said. “Got your car here?”
“In the garage, Steve.”
“Big car or a little one?”
“A coupe.”
“Great. I don’t like sedans. Sometimes you have a friend in the back seat of a big car — and sometimes a friend isn’t always a friend.”
“That’s the truth, Steve.”
THE two men left the room. Harper came in as they entered, and removed the bottles. Then he turned out the lights.
Scarcely had the room became dark before the iron shutters opened as noiselessly as they had in the afternoon. An invisible hand came over the window sill, and removed the small instrument from behind the radiator.
Outside the road house, a still, shadowy form moved back across the lawn to a clump of bushes. That spot had been the receiving end of the dictograph connection, where the invisible listener had overheard the entire conversation that had passed between Joe le Blanc and Steve Cronin.
No one saw the black shape enter the bushes. It remained there. When Joe le Blanc drove his car from the garage, the headlights shone directly upon the shrubbery, but they revealed nothing. The coupe moved slowly, and as it passed beside the bushes, Joe le Blanc spoke.
“I told Monk Thurman to come out here,” he said, “and I kind of expected him tonight. But now I’m glad he didn’t show up — “
Steve Cronin grunted a reply of approval as the car swung away from the shrubbery beside the drive.
As the red light on the rear of the automobile moved toward the highway, there was a sound that emerged from the silence of the bushes.
It was a sound that did not reach the ears of Le Blanc or Cronin, for they were then too far away, and the noise of the motor was throbbing in their ears.
Had they heard the sound, they would have been amazed — Joe le Blanc because of the strangeness of the sound; Steve Cronin, because he had heard that sound in the past.
Le Blanc would not have understood it; Cronin would have understood it too well.
For the sound that emerged from those closely woven bushes was a laugh — a strident laugh — a sinister, mocking laugh, that increased with the tempo of a winter wind, and dwindled away to a nothingness that carried an uncanny echo.
It was a laugh that had struck terror into the hearts of brave men; a laugh that carried a meaning that none could grasp, yet that all could fear. It was a laugh that seemed like the mockery of the night itself.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!