SAVOLI GIVES ORDERS
AT eight o’clock the next evening, a man approached the Escadrille Apartments, just outside the Loop district of Chicago. On entering the pretentious building, he stopped in front of an open elevator, where the operator surveyed him in a casual manner.
“Hello, Steve,” said the elevator man. “Step in. You’re expected upstairs.”
Steve Cronin entered the elevator. He did not give the floor number. The operator knew where he was going — to the fourth floor. For the Escadrille Apartments were owned by Nick Savoli, and the king of Chicago gangland lived on the fourth floor.
The elevator operators were gunmen in disguise. They received full instructions when they went on duty. To the average person entering the Escadrille, they would have appeared to be ordinary elevator men.
But the man who operated the car in which Steve Cronin rode upstairs carried an automatic beneath his trim uniform, and had any strange gangster tried to go up to Savoli’s apartment, he would have encountered unexpected resistance.
Nick Savoli did not occupy the entire building. The other tenants of the Escadrille were wealthy persons who knew very little about the man who lived on the fourth floor.
Every one used the elevator; the only stairs were those that led through fire tower. It was impossible to reach the fourth floor except by elevator, as the fire tower exits were barred from the inside.
Steve Cronin slouched against the side of the elevator as he rode upward. The operator cast an admiring glance in his direction. He envied Steve’s position in gangland.
Cronin made frequent visits to the home of the big shot, and there were few gangsters to whom Nick Savoli granted that privilege.
The elevator stopped at the fourth floor. Steve Cronin stepped out, and stood before an iron grille. Beyond the ornamental device was a small antechamber.
The gangster pressed a push button. A stalwart Italian servant appeared. He recognized Cronin and unfastened the locked gate.
Cronin passed through the gate and entered a room on the right. Huge shelves of bookcases decorated the walls. The handsomely bound volumes showed no signs of having ever been removed from their resting places.
Cronin seated himself in a large leather chair. He took a cigarette from a stand, and lighted it. Leaning back comfortably, he puffed in an insolent manner, and threw out his chest with an air of self-satisfaction.
A DOOR opened at the far end of the library, and two men entered. Both were dressed in tuxedos. One was short, and heavy set. The other was tall, and slightly stoop-shouldered. The short man walked across the room, and approached Steve Cronin. The gangster waved his hand in greeting.
“Hello, Nick,” he said.
The short man nodded. No smile appeared on his dark-visaged face — a face that seemed rough despite the fact that it was smooth-shaven. This man sat in a chair near Cronin, and looked intently at the gangster.
Despite his feigned nonchalance, Steve Cronin was inwardly ill at ease, for he was now in the presence of Nick Savoli, the reputed overlord of gangdom.
The tall, dark, stoop-shouldered man who had accompanied Savoli took a standing position against a bookcase at the side of the room. He was none other than Mike Borrango, prime minister of gangland’s emperor.
There were no formalities in this meeting. Steve Cronin, a gangster of recognized ability, had the privilege of greeting his chief as “Nick.”
The king of the racketeers made no pretense of royal ceremony. He was a man who ridiculed sham, for his real power was greater than that of a monarch. His single word could bring swift death; his henchmen obeyed his commands without a murmur.
Steve Cronin knew that he had been summoned for a mission. He had already received an inkling of this from Mike Borrango, as he had intimated to Joe le Blanc.
He knew that there was a big job ahead, and he could already hear the rattle of a machine gun in his imagination.
Savoli did not speak at once. Instead, he lighted an expensive cigar.
“What’s up, chief?” questioned Cronin, in a hoarse voice. He was anxious to end this tension.
Savoli did not reply. He still gazed at the gangster. Then he turned toward Borrango, and raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.
Borrango stared at Cronin also, and made no sign in reply. Savoli evidently took this as a mark of approval.
“Steve,” he said, “you have done some nice work. Some very nice work.”
Cronin grinned at the compliment.
“Very nice work,” resumed Savoli. “You think you can do more nice work?”
“Anything you want, Nick,” replied Cronin gruffly. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“What do you think, Mike?” asked Savoli, turning to Borrango.
The tall Italian thereupon shrugged his shoulders.
“You need another man, Nick,” he said, in a smooth, musical voice. “I think that Steve can speak for himself. You heard what he just said.”
CRONIN looked at Borrango, and gripped his hands together in simulation of a handshake. It was his method of thanking Borrango for the recommendation. He did not know that Savoli and Borrango had discussed this matter before he had arrived.
Right now they were creating an effect in Cronin’s mind. They formed an admirable team of pretenders, Savoli and Borrango. The average mobster was always deceived by their actions.
Savoli, skeptical, and hard visaged, seemed difficult to convince. Borrango, smooth, and suave, could make the average man believe that black was white.
Borrango was called the enforcer, but it was seldom that he used brutal tactics. His method was to make compromises; to offer compliments; and to bring others to his way of thinking.
At this very moment, Steve Cronin believed that he stood “in right” with Mike Borrango. He held the impression that the enforcer was fixing everything for him, so that he might gain Nick Savoli’s full favor.
As a matter of fact, Borrango was playing his usual game. With Mike Borrango, fallacies were more desirable than fact. He liked to lie and to create false impressions, for he was imaginative and ingenious, and neither of those qualities was necessary to tell plain truth.
“Very well.” Savoli’s comment came as a final statement. It seemed as though he had suddenly decided to choose Steve Cronin for tonight’s mission. “I shall count on you, Steve. You explain to him, Mike.”
The tall Italian leaned back against the bookcase.
“It is this way, Steve,” he said, in his perfect, purring English. “We are putting a man on the spot tonight. Machine-gun McGinnis is doing the trick, and you are to be with him.”
“O.K. with me,” responded Cronin.
“It is important that you have an alibi,” resumed Borrango. “We have arranged that, with Georgie Sommers. You know where his place is. Go there from here.”
Steve Cronin nodded. He knew that Georgie Sommers was an alibi man, but he had never yet been sent to the man’s place.
Sommers ran a small cigar store, where gangsters frequently dropped in to park their guns when they were entering the Loop. There were times when gunmen went without guns, yet wanted their automatics when they were in a hurry.
“Will McGinnis be there, too?” questioned Cronin.
“Do not worry about McGinnis,” replied Borrango. “Just tell Sommers you want to play cards upstairs. He will know what you mean.
“He will show you out the back way. Cover your tracks from there on, until you get to Hallahan’s garage. You will find a big touring car there. Get in it. Take orders from McGinnis.”
“O.K., Mike.”
“Afterward, go back to Sommers. He will introduce you to a young lady whom you may have met before. Go to a night club with her. That will give you a double alibi.”
“O.K. I go back into Sommers’ place the same way he lets me out.”
“Certainly.”
SILENCE followed. Steve Cronin looked questioningly at both Savoli and Borrango. The king of gangsters was staring at him, as though still unconvinced that he had chosen the right man. The enforcer counteracted his chief’s critical glance by a slight smile of approval.
“Anything else?” questioned Cronin.
Mike Borrango shook his head.
“Don’t I know the name of the guy we’re going to put on the spot?” asked Cronin.
“That is a natural question,” replied Borrango softly. “Yet it may be best for you to wait until McGinnis tells you. He will do the principal work. You are helping him tonight.”
Savoli made an interruption.
“I’ll tell him, Mike,” he said, as though bestowing a favor upon Cronin. “This is an important job. Best for him to know.”
Borrango bowed his approval.
“You’re going to get Morris Clarendon,” said Savoli.
“What!” Steve Cronin’s voice was incredulous. “You don’t mean — “
“That’s just the man I do mean,” replied Nick Savoli emphatically. “Morris Clarendon, the assistant district attorney.”
Steve Cronin steadied himself with an effort.
The name of Morris Clarendon was known to every gangster in Chicago. Clarendon was a fearless prosecutor, one who had sent racketeers and bootleggers to jail despite the efforts of gangland’s high-salaried lawyers.
“You are to get Morris Clarendon,” said Borrango, as though echoing the words of his chief. “He has been a troublemaker. It is time that he was put on the spot. So do not fail.”
Steve Cronin nodded, and a gleam of satisfaction appeared in his eyes. Determination governed his features, for he realized that here was the opportunity he had long awaited.
Steve recalled that an important case was coming up within the next week, and that Clarendon had announced that he would send two prominent racketeers to jail. The assistant district attorney was keeping certain witnesses under cover. Gangland had not been able to reach them.
Now Cronin thought he understood. With Clarendon dead, the unknown witnesses would lose their protector. More than that, they would be terrified by the death of the man upon whom they relied. They would fear the iron hand of Nick Savoli, king of mobsters.
BUT Steve Cronin knew only half the story. Nick Savoli was no clumsy fool. When he used his methods, he always considered the future.
The racketeers who were up for trial had no connection with him. On the contrary, they were secretly identified with Larrigan, archenemy of King Savoli.
This killing was to accomplish two ends: first, to eliminate the one prosecutor who was a thorn to Nick Savoli; second, to make trouble for those gangsters who had interfered too often in Savoli’s business.
Neither Savoli nor Borrango explained this. They wanted Steve Cronin to fear for his own safety; to thank them for the alibi which they had provided. So they remained as motionless and as expressionless as pieces of statuary, while they watched the emotions that Cronin betrayed.
They knew that he had been momentarily amazed by the boldness of his mission; but they had also anticipated that his pride in his own prowess would dominate his actions.
In this they were not disappointed. Steve Cronin arose from his chair, pushed his cigarette stump into the ash tray, and swaggered toward the door. There he stopped, extended his arms, and snapped his fingers.
“Morris Clarendon,” he said, with a short laugh. “What does he mean? They’re all alike to me. Guess they’re all the same to McGinnis, too. Where are we going to knock him off?”
“McGinnis will tell you that,” said Savoli.
“O.K.,” answered Steve Cronin. “Is that all?”
“That’s all,” said Savoli.
Cronin waved his hand in farewell and left the room, rang for the elevator and went downstairs.
“Wait a minute, Steve,” said the operator, as they reached the ground floor. “Stay right here a minute.”
He went to the front door, and peered in both directions, along the street. Then he returned.
“What’s up, kid?” questioned Cronin.
“Nothing, I guess,” replied the operator. “Just wanted to make sure. A little while ago I went outside — just after I took you up. Went to the front door to smoke a cigarette. Thought I saw a guy slide up to the edge of the building.”
“What did he look like?”
“I couldn’t see. I wasn’t even sure it was a man. Looked like somebody slipping into the shadow alongside of the entrance. I went out to look around. Didn’t see anybody. But I just wanted to be sure it wasn’t any one watching you.”
“All right, kid,” said Cronin. “Guess you’d better lay off this stuff they call good liquor. Nobody’s worrying about me. I’m not doing anything.”
He left the apartment house, and as he went out of the door, he glanced at the shadowy spot mentioned by the elevator operator. It was only a small dark place near the entrance, and Steve Cronin laughed as he saw it.
Had Steve Cronin been less intent in his consideration of machine guns, and his plans for the night, he might have looked behind him as he walked along the street. But even if he had looked behind him, he probably would have seen nothing.
For the form which moved from the spot of blackness beside the entrance to the Escadrille Apartments was scarcely more than a shadowy blot. It emerged before Cronin had gone more than thirty feet. It flitted across the entrance, then disappeared again.
The shadowy blot had the form of a man’s silhouette, yet no person was visible against the wall. Then the moving blackness disappeared, and was lost in the night.
Still, it followed Steve Cronin, and always remained the same distance behind him. For every time the gangster passed beneath the bright lights of a street corner, the moving shadow became visible as it flitted swiftly after him.