SAVOLI STRIKES
ON the following evening, Harry Vincent was unusually alert as he entered Marmosa’s place. He realized that affairs were coming to a head.
His work was cut out for him. Harry had his instructions to watch the two Sicilians, the Homicide Twins. This infamous pair, drawing pay from Nick Savoli, were equal to a hundred hoodlums in the big shot’s opinion.
Genara and Anelmo came in early. As usual, they took their post in a quiet corner, appearing quite indifferent to those about them.
There were few players that night; the usual gathering of regulars. Yet there was one man who commanded Harry’s attention.
Somber, gray-haired, neatly dressed, he somehow seemed to be out of his element. Yet there was nothing conspicuous about him — unless it was the intentness with which he followed the path of the small white ball waltzing around the roulette wheel. Harry noticed that the stranger lost steadily.
Every now and then, the gray-haired man quit the table. He walked about the room, as though to change his luck. Always, however, he came to a halt near the corner where Anelmo and Genara were standing.
The Homicide Twins spoke to each other in low-pitched Italian. Evidently they saw nothing marked in the stranger’s occasional nearness, for they continued their conversation. The gray-haired man was obviously an American; the chances were he couldn’t understand Italian, anyhow.
Harry idly wondered as he saw the stranger return to battle with the spinning wheel. Then his speculations were cut short. The Homicide Twins were casually making for the door.
Harry discreetly waited a few moments, then followed. On the balcony he saw the twins earnestly talking to Steve Cronin.
As Harry approached the trio, Anelmo and Genara nodded as one man, and sauntered off toward the street door.
“Where is Mr. Marmosa?” Harry asked Cronin.
“He’s not in the office,” Cronin replied. “I was just there. Why do you want him? What’s up?”
“Nothing special,” said Harry. “Just want to check up on a new player. Guess he’s O.K., but I want to make sure.”
This, of course, was just a pretext. What Harry really wanted was to keep an eye on the Sicilians, and to report to The Shadow from an outside telephone. He had a hunch it was no longer safe to use the booth in Marmosa’s place.
“Stay here, then,” said Cronin. “Maybe I can find him.”
A FEW minutes later, Cronin returned with the proprietor.
“What’s the matter, Vincent?” inquired Marmosa. Cronin went into the gambling room.
“Just wanted to check up,” said Harry. “There’s a gray-headed fellow inside. Not quite sure of him. I think I saw him once before — “
“The guy who lays a few bets, then quits, and exercises between innings?”
Harry nodded, grinning.
“He’s O.K.,” said Marmosa. “He’s been in a couple times. Colliver, the advertising man, introduced him. Don’t worry about him.”
Harry put on a look of relief. “Well, if he’s all right, everything’s all right,” he advanced. “Guess I can step out for a few minutes, then. I wanted to change my room over at the hotel. O.K.?”
“Sure thing, Vincent,” said Marmosa. “But come into the office first. You can do something for me while you’re out.”
The proprietor led the way. Within the small room, he drew an envelope from the desk drawer.
“Take this to the bootblack shop down the alley,” Marmosa directed. “First alley down the street; halfway up the block on the right. Be sure you give it to the boss. Just ask for Angelo.”
Harry took the envelope, thrusting it into his pocket, and left. He would drop off the envelope first, then cut through the alley to his hotel.
Probably the envelope held hush money for some cop. Harry understood that Marmosa paid various police officers for protection.
The bootblack’s was not hard to find. It was the only lighted place along the length of the dark, sinister alley. Moreover, it was more brightly illuminated than is usual for bootblack parlors.
A stubby, swarthy man came to the door, and admitted that he was Angelo. His bright, piercing eyes took in Harry’s features.
Feeling a strange uneasiness, Harry delivered the envelope and left hurriedly.
BEFORE he had gone a dozen strides, two men abruptly emerged from the darkness. Harry was about to shout, but felt the muzzle of a revolver digging into his side.
“Keep moving!” The command came in a harsh tone, tinged with an Italian accent. Harry shuddered. The two words had been sufficient for him to recognize the voice of John Genara.
On the other side of Harry, the second man pressed closely. That would be Anelmo.
Harry Vincent was in the company of the Homicide Twins!
He decided there was nothing to do at the moment except to obey the killers. Moving at a brisk gait, the captors and their prisoner reached the end of the alley.
A few passers-by chanced to be on the opposite side of the street, but Harry was not so impatient for death as to risk crying out. He had no alternative save to play the game of the Homicide Twins.
A large sedan parked beside the curb. Roughly, Harry was shoved into its front seat.
Anelmo took the wheel beside the prisoner. Genara ducked into the back seat, with his automatic at the ready.
As they drove along busy thoroughfares, Harry Vincent endured that mental anguish that has gripped many gangsters. He was being taken for a ride; a one-way ride, from which there could be no turning back.
He knew now why other spotted men had gone to meet death without an outcry. The steadily leveled automatic from behind was a sure silencer. As long as the road lay ahead, there was still a slim sliver of hope. A false move, and all hope would be blotted out instantly.
Somehow, Harry’s true connection with The Shadow had been discovered. Yet it seemed incredible that the Homicide Twins would act without first consulting Frank Marmosa.
In thinking this, Harry failed to realize the true state of affairs. Had he seen Marmosa at that very minute, he would have been enlightened.
The proprietor of the gambling den had taken over the duties of Harry Vincent. He himself was watching the patrons of his establishment. Steve Cronin was on the inside, in place of the Homicide Twins.
Marmosa had neglected to tell Harry that his mission to the bootblack shop was planned to spring a trap.
And now Frank Marmosa had forgotten Harry Vincent. It often paid to forget people in Chicago. The one hope that Harry held — that Marmosa would wonder about his absence — was a false one.
For while Harry pondered on that very matter, Frank Marmosa was smiling as he ushered one of his patrons to the door. It was the gray-haired man, who had lost so heavily.
THE sedan rolled into a squalid district. Harry had no idea whatever as to the location. He was only partly familiar with Chicago, and he had lost all sense of direction.
Anelmo guided the sedan down a side street, and pulled up before a dark building. Genara stepped from the back seat.
A few moments later, he pushed Harry Vincent out onto the sidewalk. Thereupon Harry was guided through a gate in a ramshackle board fence.
Anelmo produced a key and opened a door in the side of the house. Harry was shoved down a short flight of stairs. Another door was opened, and Anelmo switched on an electric light.
Harry looked about him. He found himself in a small stone-walled cell, hidden beneath the house. He realized that with the locking of the lone door, the place would become a soundproof vault.
It was a spot well chosen for murder. Here, locked away from the outside world, there would be no sign of the crime.
Harry shuddered as he looked at the businesslike automatic displayed by John Genara. He wondered why the Sicilian did not shoot him quickly, and end the mental agony.
Then the truth began to dawn. When gangsters put their victims on the spot, they either left the body in the car or dumped it out.
Yet Harry had been brought to this solitary place. Why? Because his captors must want information!
Thoughts of torture gripped Harry Vincent. Scarcely had his mind turned to this channel before his fears were realized.
There was a heavy chair in the corner. Anelmo propelled Harry thereto. Then he took a rope and bound Harry’s arms in back of him. He thrust a rod of iron through the rope. Harry knew what would happen next.
The first act of torture began. While Genara covered Harry with the revolver, Anelmo twisted the iron rod. A pang of pain shot between Harry’s shoulders.
“Stop!” he cried.
The turning ceased. Harry stared wildly into the dark visage of the Sicilian who stood before him. John Genara neither spoke nor smiled.
He seemed to wait Harry’s words. When the young man did not speak, Tony Anelmo seemed to catch an invisible signal from Genara. There was another twist of the iron rod.
THE pain was excruciating. Harry gasped. These men were inquisitors, but possessed a terrible grimness. They took it for granted that Harry knew what they wanted to know. They placed the burden upon him. Until he talked, they would not stop.
The first words that Harry would utter would be a starting point, They would form an admission that he could give the information they required.
“Why are you doing this?” cried Harry.
The twisting continued slowly.
“What do you want to know?”
The twisting became unbearable.
“Stop! I shall tell you!”
The words escaped Harry’s lips almost involuntarily. Evidently Anelmo realized that a point had been gained. He did not turn the iron bar an inch farther. Yet Harry knew that he must speak, or the torture would begin again.
“Tell me what you want to know,” he said.
“The Shadow,” said Genara. “Who is he?”
“I do not know.”
Again that twisting of the iron rod. Harry’s lips twitched, and he bent his head in pain.
“I do not know,” he repeated. “I would tell you, if I knew. I have met him. I have worked for him” — his words became slow and painful under the terrific strain — “but — I - do — not — know — who — he — is!”
Anelmo stopped the torture. Harry’s chin rested against his chest. The words had been virtually squeezed from him by the terrific pressure that Anelmo had induced.
Men spoke the truth beneath that torture. Genara and Anelmo had each been witness of the fact on more than one occasion. They knew now that Harry Vincent was telling all he knew.
“Where is The Shadow?” demanded Genara.
“Here, in Chicago,” admitted Harry.
“Where in Chicago?”
“I do not know.”
Anelmo was ready to turn the iron rod; but Genara stopped him with a quick gesture. He saw an opportunity to press a question. He leaned forward and spoke harshly, close to Harry Vincent’s ear.
“Did you telephone him last night?”
“No,” gasped Harry.
“Who did you telephone last night?”
“I called — my hotel,” gasped Harry. “About — changing my room.”
It was the same excuse he had made to Frank Marmosa. But it wouldn’t do this time.
The twisting began anew, and while Anelmo operated the iron rod that wrenched at Harry’s shoulder sockets, Genara still leaned forward, ready to catch any word that might be uttered.
Harry was overcome by the pain. His senses began to leave him. That proved to be his temporary salvation. Genara spoke to Anelmo, in Italian.
“Stop,” he said. “He is fainting. I don’t think we can make him tell.”
“Shall we kill him then?”
“No. Not until I have telephoned Borrango.”
GENARA walked from the room, leaving by the door which he had entered. But instead of going to the outer door, he went up another flight of stairs, and entered a room on the first floor of the building.
The place had been a store. Now it was closed. The windows were barred; the door was nailed shut. The entrance to the cellar was a massive door which Genara unlocked.
There was a telephone in the dark room, and it had never been disconnected. Genara lifted the receiver and dialed a number by the ray of a tiny flashlight.
He heard the ring at the other end. Then came the voice of Mike Borrango.
Genara spoke in Italian, and told his story briefly. When he had concluded, Borrango told him to wait a few moments for instructions.
Meanwhile, Harry Vincent was regaining consciousness. For a moment he did not realize where he was. Then the pressure of the ropes that bound his arms brought him to full understanding of the grim reality that threatened him.