SAVOLl MAKES PLANS
STEVE CRONIN was in the Escadrille Apartments the following afternoon, making his report to the big shot.
Savoli was in his accustomed chair. Borrango assumed his usual position against the bookcase. They waited for Cronin to explain.
“Ran into some tough luck, last night,” he said, in an apologetic tone. “Things didn’t turn out the way we expected.”
Nick Savoli did not make a comment, but Mike Borrango furnished the reply.
“McGinnis was here this morning,” he said. “He tells us that some one slipped in the car with you. How did he get there?”
“How should I know?” retorted Steve Cronin. “McGinnis was running things. The car was empty when I got in. I didn’t see any one climb aboard.”
“No?” Savoli’s voice caused the interruption. “Well, it looks like funny business to me. It never happened to McGinnis or Brodie before. They passed the buck to you. I’m tired of hearing this ‘I-don’t-know’ stuff.”
“Let me make this plain, Cronin,” said Borrango smoothly. “Brodie only knows that some fellow got in back with you. McGinnis tells us that some one cracked him with a rod.
“It don’t sound right. There’s no gorilla that works that way. It couldn’t have been a copper. Who was it?”
Steve Cronin realized that he was under partial suspicion. After all, it was up to him to make an explanation. He was the odd man on last night’s expedition.
He had hesitated to give his own opinion, not because he doubted the existence of The Shadow, but because he was afraid that Savoli and Borrango would not believe him. But now he saw a chance to tell a convincing story.
He glanced back and forth from Savoli to Borrango before he spoke.
“I don’t know how the man got in the car,” he said slowly, “but I do know who he was — and why he acted the way he did.”
A slight trace of surprise flickered momentarily across the features of Nick Savoli. Then the mob master resumed his accustomed calm.
Mike Borrango stepped forward a few paces; then returned to the bookcase and adopted the attitude of indifference assumed by his chief.
Steve Cronin moistened his lips. He realized that he had made an impression, and he intended to increase it.
“There’s only one man who could have done what that fellow did,” he said; “only one man who would have acted the way he did. I know — because I met him once before. Maybe you have heard of him; maybe you haven’t. But I know he is real — because I have seen him.”
The gangster paused, and continued his quick, alert glancing from Savoli to Borrango.”
“Who is this man?” questioned the enforcer.
“I don’t know what his real name is,” replied Cronin. “But I know what they call him. That man in the car last night was The Shadow!”
“The Shadow?” questioned Savoli. “Who is he?”
Mike Borrango stroked his chin. He looked at Cronin intently. Then he nodded slowly as he turned to Savoli.
“I have heard of The Shadow,” he said. “They talk about him in New York. No one knows who he is, or what he is. Cronin, here, says The Shadow is real. I have heard that he is just a fake — a bluff. Yellow squealers use his name as an excuse.”
THE tone adopted by the enforcer was different from his usual suavity. The real Mike Borrango had revealed himself. But he had done so with a purpose: namely, to arouse Steve Cronin to anger.
Borrango knew that gangsters spoke the truth when their tempers were heated, and he had made his artful insinuation to draw further statements from Cronin.
In this he was successful. Steve Cronin gripped the arms of his chair, and half rose. It was with difficulty that he restrained himself. For a moment, he was ready to leap at suave Mike Borrango.
“I’m a yellow squealer, am I?” he snarled. “You’ll eat those words, Borrango! Bring on your tough gorillas — I’ll mop up all of them! But I can’t fight a guy that I can’t see — a guy like The Shadow!”
Mike Borrango had gained his point. He lifted a restraining hand, and his voice again resumed its softness.
“I did not say that you were a squealer, Steve. I said only what I have heard — that yellow squealers have used the name of The Shadow as an excuse. If you say that The Shadow is real, he must be real. What do you think, Nick?”
Nick Savoli was chewing the end of an unlighted cigar. He looked at Cronin half doubtfully; then he removed the perfecto from between his lips, and answered Borrango’s question, although his remark was addressed to Cronin.
“Tell us more about The Shadow,” he said.
This was the final encouragement that Steve Cronin needed. He sat back in his chair, calmly lighted a cigarette, and began to talk in a leisurely manner. He was careful to give conviction to his story, and he also sought to again gain the favor of Mike Borrango.
“I DON’T blame you fellows for doubting me,” he said. “I didn’t believe in The Shadow the first time I heard of him.
“There was a guy named Croaker, in New York, who was scared of The Shadow. The gang bumped him off for double-crossing them, and the last words he said were, ‘The Shadow!’
“Then I met him, and I knew he was real.
“I was ready to pull a job in Harrisburg. I came into my hotel room, and I saw — The Shadow. He spoke to me. He whispered. He could have plugged me then, but he don’t work that way. He let me go.
“I’ve heard of him since. I was ready for him in New York, but I got the wrong guy. He’s liable to be anywhere — he’s liable to be anybody.”
“What do you mean by anybody?” asked Borrango.
“I mean that he can fix himself to look like anybody. When I was in New York, The Shadow was fixed up to look like a bird named Reds Larkin. We went out to get him. But we got the real Reds Larkin by mistake.
“I got away from New York, after that. Too many things happen when you try to cross The Shadow.”
“He bumps them off, does he?” asked Borrango. “Funny he didn’t put you on the spot last night.”
“He never bumps off anybody,” said Cronin, in a slow, awed voice. “The guys he wants to get just die — sometimes they kill each other! They lay traps for him, and they fall into the traps themselves. Did you ever hear of Diamond Bert Farwell?”
Borrango nodded.
“Well,” resumed Cronin, “it was The Shadow that got him. Bert was rigged up like a Chinaman. Called himself Wang Foo. The Shadow tipped off the dicks, and they nabbed Diamond Bert.”
“Oh, he works with the police, eh?” laughed Borrango. “Well, that won’t do him any good here in Chicago. We have the coppers fixed in this town.”
“We have?” The question came from Nick Savoli. “Is Clarendon with us, Mike?”
“No,” admitted Borrango.
“Think that over,” commented Savoli. “We go out to get Clarendon. The Shadow spoils the game. Does that look good?”
“I’ll get Clarendon for you,” blurted Steve Cronin. “I don’t want Machine-gun McGinnis to help me, either. I’ll walk up to him and give him the rod, anywhere and any time. That’s the way I work.”
“It’s not the way we work,” replied Savoli firmly.
“No, no, Steve,” added Borrango. “We strike once — that’s all. Clarendon is safe from now on. Lay off him. You had your chance last night.”
STEVE CRONIN shrugged his shoulders. He was crude in his methods, despite his shrewdness. Yet he realized the wisdom of Savoli’s methods.
The average killer would commit murder openly, and take his chances on a getaway. Savoli did not work in that manner. He covered up. He protected his gunmen.
Cronin realized that he was working for the big shot, and that he must play the game as he was told.
“You like to get them quick?”
The words came from Nick Savoli. He was studying Cronin narrowly, and the New York gangster detected an ominous tone in the big shot’s words. Yet the question allowed only one reply.
“Sure,” said Cronin boldly. “I like to go after my man and find him, wherever he is. I’ll put anybody on the spot — anywhere — any time.”
“Then get The Shadow.”
Steve Cronin turned pale. He had not expected this instruction. He glanced from Savoli to Borrango, and he realized that he had placed himself in a predicament.
“Sure, I’ll get The Shadow,” he said weakly. “I’ll get him if I can find him. But where am I going to find him? Maybe — maybe — “
“Maybe he’ll find you first, eh?” quizzed Savoli.
“Maybe he will,” admitted Cronin, in a feeble voice.
The two Italians looked at the gunman contemptuously. Then Nick Savoli became suddenly confidential. His words were intended to inspire new courage in the faltering spirit of Steve Cronin.
“You can get him, Steve,” he said. “We’ll fix it so as to help you. Marmosa needs a new man, don’t he, Mike?”
Borrango nodded. He spoke a few quick words in Italian, and received a response from Savoli. It meant that Borrango understood, and that he was to explain the rest of the plan.
“You go see Marmosa,” Borrango said, in smooth tones. “I will call him on the telephone before you get there. You will take the place of Eddie Heeny.
“There is a man there now — a gorilla that Joe le Blanc sent to Marmosa. But he will not do.
“You work there, and in all your extra time, keep looking for The Shadow. When you have found him — put him on the spot.”
Steve Cronin nodded his agreement.
The arrangement was better than he had expected. He had anticipated complete dismissal from the service of Nick Savoli. Such dismissal would have ended his career as a Chicago gangster. For those who were barred by the big shot could not join forces with any other mob.
They were men who knew too much, and their association with a smaller faction invariably meant sudden death at the hands of Savoli’s grim killers.
CRONIN had been demoted. That was certain. Yet a new courage had been instilled in him. As the outside man in Marmosa’s place he would be safe from trouble, and he would have a chance to rise again.
Nevertheless, the task of putting The Shadow on the spot brought qualms to the gunman’s troubled mind. He made a feeble effort to regain the good graces of his overlords.
“I’ll work for Marmosa,” he said, “but you may need me here, Nick. You said yesterday that I was doing nice work. I’ve been a good torpedo, haven’t I? I admit I flopped last night, but that — “
“We need perfect work, Steve,” interrupted Mike Borrango. “One slip is one too many. If it was any one but you — ” He waved his hands to indicate that dismissal would have been the verdict.
“You get The Shadow,” interposed Savoli. “Then we will forget last night.”
Steve Cronin arose.
“Well,” he said bitterly, “you fellows know best. I don’t know where you’re going to get a guy that will take Steve Cronin’s place, though. Perhaps-”
He caught himself. As he turned away he failed to see the knowing expression that appeared on the faces of both the other men.
“So long, Mike. So long, Nick.” Cronin was hasty in making his farewell. “I’ll be at Marmosa’s tonight.”
He left the apartment. When the door had closed behind Steve Cronin, Mike Borrango laughed, and Nick Savoli grinned.
“You know what he was thinking, Mike?” questioned the big shot, in Italian.
“Of course,” responded the enforcer. “He knows who we’re going to get in his place — Monk Thurman.”
“Has Al Vacchi got hold of Thurman, yet?”
“I think he has, by this time. He traced back to find out what Eddie Heeny was doing, the day before he was killed. I think he’s located the man that introduced Monk Thurman to Heeny.”
Both men were silent for a few moments. Savoli chewed on his cigar; Borrango still leaned against the bookcase.
“The Shadow,” said Borrango softly. “What do you think of Cronin’s story?”
“It’s straight,” commented Savoli. “That fellow Cronin has nerve, even though he does bluster.”
“You are right. Yet he weakened when he talked about The Shadow. Why do you think The Shadow is here?”
“I do not know. We must learn more about him. We must prepare to meet him. We have dealt with the police. We can handle the mobs. But this Shadow — what is he?”
The telephone bell rang in the corner. Mike Borrango answered it, and a trace of interest lightened his face. He began to speak in Italian, and Nick Savoli listened intently to the enforcer’s words.
“It is you, Vacchi?” questioned Borrango. “What — now? Good! Right away. We are waiting. Send him here at once.”
He laid down the telephone.
“Al Vacchi has located Monk Thurman,” he said. “He is sending him up here right away. Perhaps — ” he became suddenly thoughtful.
“Perhaps?” questioned Savoli.
“Perhaps Thurman can tell us of The Shadow,” said Borrango. “He comes from New York. We will question him.”
“Good,” agreed Savoli. “But we have other work for him to do first. We must test him.”
Borrango nodded. Savoli arose from his chair and the two men left the library.
“Perhaps Monk Thurman can tell us,” Borrango spoke in an undertone as he walked along. “Perhaps he knows who The Shadow is. Perhaps” — he smiled as though the thought pleased him greatly — “perhaps Monk Thurman is the one who can put The Shadow on the spot!”