GANG WAR
THE next week proved to be the most tumultuous period that had ever rocked Chicago’s underworld. Mobsters were at work.
Larrigan’s hoodlums were shooting down all the stray Savoli gangsters that they could find. At first, the tide was turned against the big shot. His forces seemed to waver before the open attacks of Larrigan’s mob.
Then Nails Pietro gained courage, and his killers did their work.
The police theory seemed to be turning into fact. Let the gangsters kill each other. It might prove true, at last. Yet the killing seemed one-sided. Savoli’s men were falling like the leaves of autumn.
The police were forced to action. This open warfare was too desperate. Squads of policemen entered the struggle, and unwittingly served Nick Savoli a good turn. For they killed a few of Larrigan’s mobsters.
Then came the turn of the tide. The big shot had been waiting. His gorillas fought back, but more efficiently than Larrigan’s men, and the mobs of independent leaders who thought that Savoli’s end was near.
The master of the old regime planned his executions, and they had a terrifying effect upon the enemy.
The prime job was the killing of Mike Larrigan. The wild gang leader had adopted every precaution within his power; yet he was following the old plan that the best defense was a powerful offense. He was wary, was Mike Larrigan. Yet his end came when he least expected it.
As he was riding along a busy street, his car was riddled with machine-gun bullets. The barrage came from the ground floor of a partly completed building. The roar of the gun was drowned by a multitude of riveters, who worked on, unconscious that they were a party to the killing.
Before Larrigan’s mobsmen or the police who were near by had grasped the situation, Machine-gun McGinnis quietly packed up his typewriter, and left the premises.
Thus came the end of a fierce six-day fight.
Without their chief, Larrigan’s hoodlums scattered. The lesser mobs slipped into retirement. There was no one else to carry on.
Nick Savoli grinned when Machine-gun McGinnis came to report, with Brodie, the chauffeur.
The big shot had had a hectic week. His bullet-proof car had been plastered with gunfire. It had rolled away just in time to escape the explosion of a pineapple. A squad of automobiles had peppered the front of the Escadrille Apartments, but to no avail.
Now, at last, there was to be relief.
EXCEPT for the one futile attack by the passing automobiles, life had been comparatively quiet at the Escadrille. There were more gangsters than usual, and they were constantly on watch. But they had proven a protection rather than an attraction to lure rival mobs.
Everything had swung to Nick Savoli’s advantage, even though his ranks were depleted, and his organization had suffered. It was true that his peace plans had gone to naught. But his supremacy was on the verge of greater establishment.
From the smoking ruins of the underworld, he could gain the opportunity to set up a new and more powerful kingdom.
Yet events were in a critical stage. Any unexpected incident might cause a complete crash. Nick Savoli realized this, and so did Mike Borrango. They knew the insecurity of their position. Between combats with rival mobs and conflicts with the police, the big shot’s system had been taxed to the breaking point. But for the death of Larrigan, the emperor would have lost his throne.
Now he had the opportunity to regain it. All rivals had been driven to cover — all the enemies had been forced away, except one — The Shadow. But that formidable opponent had not even appeared during the conflict.
Borrango had mentioned The Shadow to Nick Savoli. The enforcer was sure that the man of mystery had left Chicago when the guns had begun to bark. But Savoli was not so sure.
He, himself, was subtle. He had waited until the others had shot their bolt. Perhaps The Shadow was waiting, too; waiting until the opposing forces had gone their limit.
If so, that time had come now!
Still came the other question. Where was Monk Thurman?
Had he been killed by Larrigan’s men, during the first part of the fight? What was his attitude now, toward Savoli?
He had not kept the appointment which would have meant his death. Did he know the truth?
Neither Savoli nor Borrango had heard the story of Mike Larrigan’s ride, and the walk which had followed it. Larrigan had kept that secret to himself.
Perhaps Thurman had left town. If he was still in Chicago, he might be an enemy, rather than a friend.
It was possible that he had aligned himself with one of the rival mobs; yet that seemed unlikely. For none of Savoli’s men had encountered Monk Thurman during the week of strife.
THERE was too much going on to watch minor events around the Escadrille Apartments. Some of the tenants had been having decorating work done. One apartment on the third floor — occupied by a man named Howard Blake — was undergoing a complete renovation.
On this particular afternoon when Nick Savoli and Mike Borrango were planning their great campaign of reconstruction, several workmen had gone into Blake’s apartment, carrying their tools, and painting equipment.
The stalwarts of the Savoli mob were due to assemble. Machine-gun McGinnis and Brodie were already there. Two lieutenants — Spiker Condi and Texas Carey — were announced.
Steve Cronin, who had been acting as Savoli’s bodyguard, and who had done heavy work during the fighting days, was the last to put in an appearance.
The group gathered in the library. Mike Borrango left for a few minutes. He visited the third floor, to make sure that two gunmen were in the apartment below, that served as the secret means of exit from Savoli’s place.
The enforcer noticed a man in the hallway operating a vacuum cleaner that was attached to a plug in the wall. He was glad to see such evidence of peaceful activity, here in the Escadrille.
But Mike Borrango would have been surprised had he remained there. The man in the hallway moved the vacuum to the entrance of Howard Blake’s apartment. There another man joined him. They removed the cleaner from the hose; in its place they put a strange machine. A lever was turned, and a hissing sound followed.
The two gunmen in the third-floor apartment that was directly beneath Nick Savoli’s library were unaware what had taken place outside. It was their duty to challenge any one who might enter their apartment. They were watching for human beings; not for more subtle, invisible invaders. While they talked together, one was surprised to see the other gasp, and sink to the floor.
The remaining man was astonished for the moment. Then he bent to aid his companion. He, too, gasped, and fell unconscious.
Meanwhile, Mike Borrango had joined the others in Nick Savoli’s library. The big shot took charge of the meeting. He outlined what had been accomplished, and what was to be done.
Other mobs worked in haphazard fashion. Savoli’s organization was compact. Every event of consequence was reported to headquarters.
Savoli announced a reapportionment of territories; some to be governed by commanders of larger districts, until new appointees could be named.
This was a big day for such henchmen as Machine-gun McGinnis, Brodie, and Steve Cronin. They were advanced to lieutenancies, as a reward for their recent endeavors.
ALL were intent upon the plans; so intent, in fact, that a new arrival entered the room unannounced. The first sign of his presence was his voice.
Nick Savoli looked up. For once the big shot expressed surprise. Monk Thurman stood before him. The man seemed friendly. Borrango took charge.
“Hello, Monk!” Savoli exclaimed. “Where have you been? We have been looking for you?”
“I’ve been out of town,” responded Monk. “Larrigan’s mob was after me — that’s why I didn’t have a chance to go with McGinnis that night. I hopped out in a hurry. I just came back. Hear you’ve been having some big times while I’ve been gone.”
“We needed you,” said Savoli.
“Yeah? Perhaps you can use me now.”
“We can.”
“All right. Suppose you give me the South Side, or some other place to handle for you. I’ll show you what can be done in this town.”
Nick Savoli eyed the gangster narrowly.
“If you had been here this past week,” he said, “you might have done something to get what you want.”
The other Savoli henchmen were surly as they looked at Monk Thurman. They resented the tone in which the New Yorker had spoken.
“So I don’t deserve a share, eh?” questioned Monk.
“No,” replied Savoli.
“You owe me plenty,” retorted Monk, with a harsh laugh. “Plenty! Get that?”
“For what?”
“For double-crossing me with Larrigan!”
As Monk Thurman shot forth this accusation, Nick Savoli slipped his hand toward his jacket pocket. But he was too late. He was dealing now with Monk Thurman — not with Anelmo or Genara.
Before the astonished gangsters could realize what had occurred, Monk had produced two businesslike automatics. The guns appeared in his hands as if by magic. He drew them in a fraction of a split-second, and both of the guns were leveled toward Nick Savoli.
“Move your hand one inch,” threatened Thurman, “and you get all that is in these!”
Nick Savoli’s fingers trembled on the verge of his jacket pocket.
Monk Thurman stepped backward a few paces. His sharp, keen eyes were alert as they turned in different directions. He observed every gangster who was before him, and each man knew that a single motion would mean death.
“Double-crossers,” said Monk. “You, Savoli. You, Borrango. You, McGinnis. The three of you. Your game didn’t work, did it?”
He centered his gaze on Machine-gun McGinnis, who was seated beside Brodie, the chauffeur.
“You, at least, made up for it,” he said. “You mowed down Larrigan, didn’t you?”
“Sure I did,” retorted McGinnis proudly.
“You’ve mowed down a lot of people, haven’t you?”
“Sure.”
McGinnis was defiant. He wondered what Thurman’s game might be, and he was stalling for time.
“Remember one you killed outside of police headquarters? A New Yorker? Do you remember his name?”
McGinnis smiled sourly at Thurman’s question.
“Sure I remember his name’” he said. “I read the papers. His name was Claude Fellows — “
Monk Thurman smiled reassuringly.
“You killed Claude Fellows?”
“Sure, I killed Claude Fellows.”
“Who was with you?”
“Brodie, here.”
“You remember it?” Monk asked the chauffeur.
“Sure thing,” replied Brodie.
“You saw McGinnis kill Claude Fellows?”
“I did.”
Nick Savoli had been looking at McGinnis, urging the machine-gunman to answer the questions. Any stall for time would help. There was sure to be a break in favor of the big shot and his henchmen, for they outnumbered Monk Thurman seven to one.
“That’s all I wanted to know,” said Monk. He started at Nick Savoli. “Now I have something to tell you. I didn’t bump off Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak.”
“You didn’t — “
“I didn’t kill them. Anelmo and Genara did the job!”
There was the silence of amazement at this revelation.
“One week ago,” said Monk, “I told Anelmo and Genara that I knew who killed Larrigan’s men. I told them that I would tell you — tonight. It is nearly evening now. I am telling you a few hours in advance.”
A sudden dawn of understanding seemed to come over Nick Savoli. The big shot opened his mouth in astonishment. He was about to speak; for a moment words failed him.
“You — you told them,” he repeated. “You told Anelmo and Genara that you knew. You — Monk Thurman — “
“Monk Thurman is dead,” responded the one with the masklike face. “He was dead before I came to Chicago. He was put on the spot in New York. I am not Monk Thurman.”
“You are — ” Savoli stopped.
For from those straight masklike lips came a mocking laugh — a blood-chilling laugh — a laugh which Savoli had heard before. It was the laugh of The Shadow!
THE gangsters were like frozen images. To Nick Savoli and Mike Borrango, this strange turn of affairs seemed beyond belief. Then, gradually their brains functioned; their recollections returned.
They realized the stunning truth; that no one had ever seen Monk Thurman and The Shadow at one and the same time. They realized that this amazing man had gained their confidence and had thwarted them at every move.
The crucial moment had arrived in the career of Nick Savoli! The fate of his underworld empire hung by a thread!
There was only one course to save it; to overpower that terrible man who held the big shot and his six henchmen beneath the muzzles of his automatics!
It was Steve Cronin who acted. He was nearest to The Shadow. The gaze of the man with the masklike face had shifted. With a sudden impulse, Cronin leaped forward, and as he hurled himself against his enemy, he pulled a revolver from his pocket.
The Shadow laughed. He stood motionless, his automatics still holding the others at bay. It was as though he felt himself protected by an invisible power.
In that brief moment, Nick Savoli and the other gangsters wondered at the calmness of the pretended Monk Thurman.
A cry of triumph came from Steve Cronin’s lips as he swung the automatic upward. But his shout died as a revolver shot echoed from the side of the room, and a spurt of flame came from the bookcase.
Steve Cronin fell dead, his outstretched arms extended futilely toward The Shadow.
The bookcase swung open, and six men poured into the room. They were just in time; for at the sound of the shot, other gangsters had recklessly swung into action.
There was a quick, short struggle. Texas Carey fell, the victim of a shot fired by Barney Higgins, the detective commissioner. The others were overpowered.
With Higgins were three detectives; the other two men were Morris Clarendon and Harry Vincent. They quickly captured the gangsters.
Nick Savoli, the big shot, offered no resistance. He did not even get up.
When the struggle was over, Barney Higgins turned to the spot where The Shadow had been standing. A cry of amazement came from his lips.
Silently, swiftly, the man disguised as Monk Thurman had disappeared. His work had been accomplished. He had left the gangsters in the hands of the police.
The confession of Machine-gun McGinnis, actual slayer of Claude Fellows, had been recorded by those who stood behind the bookcase. Now the murderer had been captured.
Then, from the anteroom, the door of which stood slightly opened, came a peal of startling laughter. It was a long, weird laugh, that carried a sinister note of gloom to Nick Savoli and his henchmen. It was The Shadow’s laugh of triumph!