The speakeasy was crowded. The man with the flat derby had a hasty drink at the bar and then crowded through the hard looking group and disappeared through a door to the rear. There were two men in the room and they glanced up expectantly as the newcomer entered. Preliminaries were dispensed with. The slant-eyed man got down to business immediately.
“Well, I’ve come for my cut. Have ya got it? I’m blowin’ this burg tonight.”
One of the men laughed crookedly and handed over a bulky envelope. “Sure. Three grand, Diamond. I’m glad it’s you an’ not me that’s gettin’ it. Foolin’ with the Czar is—”
“Aw, go t’hell!” was the man’s only comment as he hurried out of the room, pocketing the money.
Ten minutes later he alighted from a taxi two blocks from a suburban railroad station. It was after midnight and the streets were deserted. A chuckle escaped the man as he watched the little red tail light of the cab disappear into the gloom.
In the next second the laugh changed to a choking cry of fear. A big car with no lights and curtains drawn thundered out of a divergent street. The man started to run like a frightened rabbit. A long spurt of flame ripped apart the darkness and spat forth a message of vicious death. Another streak of flame. Another. Above the staccato report of the machine gun came a hoarse scream of terror.
A powerful beam flashed from the car and played full and brilliantly on the sagging figure on the sidewalk, following it as a spotlight follows an actor on a darkened stage. Another stabbing, intermittent blade of red flame and the man fell to the pavement, writhing and twisting from the force of the deadly stream of hot lead.
Then the spotlight disappeared. The savage snarl of the machine gun ceased. An engine raced and then the murder car was scurrying into the night, leaving a limp, torn, and broken thing on the pavement.
Czar Rohan had just been to a funeral. In fact he had personally arranged for the elaborate ceremony which was the last rite for Diamond Gavoni who, only a week before, had pillaged one of Czar Rohan’s richest gasoline galleons of its amber liquid.
His venture had ended with a funeral cortege a mile long, a bronze casket that had set the Czar back five grand, and numerous floral wreaths from sympathetic henchmen. Behind the machine, carrying the remaining Gavonis, Czar Rohan had ridden alone, nodding complacently to the police along the way who were holding back other traffic to let the procession pass.
Now that it was over, Czar Rohan was speeding toward the outskirts of the city where he had recently built a spacious abode. “The House That Booze Built,” it had been laughingly christened by the Czar’s intimate friends who, by the way, amounted to scarcely enough to count off on his ten fingers. Those who were associated with him in his various activities were given their choice of being ruled or ruined. Diamond Gavoni had chosen the latter and had been speedily accommodated.
The Czar swung his big car from the boulevard into a side street. A hundred feet farther on he suddenly straightened in his seat, his hands jerking up convulsively from the steering wheel. The blood drained from his pain-distorted, unusually florid face, leaving it pasty white and the lips tinged blue.
As the Czars body stiffened, his foot pressed on the brake with a loud retching sound that could be heard for blocks. The patrolman on the corner came running. He found Czar Rohan limp in the driver’s seat, one hand clutching his left side. Huge globules of perspiration stood out on the gang leader’s forehead. His breath came in gasps. Czar Rohan grinned painfully as he looked into the face of the policeman.
“Oh-h, h-hel-lo-o, Au-August,” he mumbled weakly. “N-no, it w-w-wasn’t a slug. G-guess l-l h-had t-too much g-grub. Be okay in a m-minute.”
“Better not start right away, Mister Rohan,” advised the patrolman anxiously. “Maybe now I’d better drive you ’round to the Doc. He’ll give you a shot o’ somethin’ to fix you up.”
By way of assent Czar Rohan moved weakly from behind the wheel. The policeman hopped into the driver’s seat and swung the car around and back toward the boulevard.
“You wait out here, August,” said the gang leader when the car pulled up to the curb in front of an apartment house. “I can get to the elevator all right. Somebody might steal the car. There’s a lot o’ crooks around here.” And Czar Rohan grinned as he walked into the building.
When the gang leader came out some time later, the patrolman saw that he was still grinning, but there was a difference. The humor seemed to be forced. But the officer knew Czar Rohan well enough to refrain from asking any questions regarding his visit upstairs.
“Thanks, August,” he said, “I’ll be gettin’ along now.” And as he spoke he handed the patrolman a big cigar wrapped in a crisp green banknote.
“Thank you, Mr. Rohan. Thank you. You’re sure you oughta—?”
“Hell’s bells!” roared the gang leader, as he stepped into the car. “I don’t need no nursemaid. Can’t a guy get indigestion once in a while?”
The big car shot forward leaving the patrolman standing on the sidewalk, a quizzical expression on his face. Czar Rohan at the wheel was smiling no longer. Once on a straightaway, he stepped viciously on the gas and the powerful machine hummed over the concrete thoroughfare at terrific speed. Motor cops wasted but a glance. They liked Czar Rohan. He gave out expensive cigars wrapped in ten dollar bills.
There were no tender words, or anxious lips, waiting to greet the gang leader as he entered the door of his home. Czar Rohan had no use for women. Liquor and women softened a guy. You had to be hard to survive in this racket. He tossed his hat to a man servant and walked upstairs without a word. Entering his den, Czar Rohan slumped down in a big chair and confronted his problem. Mechanically he reached for a cigar but his hand was arrested by the recollection of the doctor’s words.
Three months to live! His heart was rotten. By avoiding any excitement and abstaining from nicotine he might manage to stretch it out a little longer. Czar Rohan swore and selected a long weed. He bit off the end viciously and rammed the cigar between his teeth. Three months to live! The words bit into his brain.
Not that Czar Rohan was afraid to die. He had laughed in the face of death a hundred times since ascending the throne as the high potentate of gangland. But he shuddered at the thought of dying in bed. There was Monk Drew who had died of pneumonia. The gang had shown their contempt by preparing Monk for the grave with little or no ceremony. He had had but two lines in the newspapers just above the classified section. A few lilies and a cheap box. That was Monk Drew’s reward for dying in bed.
It would be easy for Czar Rohan to just take a walk into the lair of the enemy and get a burst of lead through his heart. But that would leave his realm wide open to Scar Ferrini, the one man whom he had sworn to get — “Ferrini the wop,” who slowly but surely seemed to be undermining the Czar’s throne.
When nineteen years of age, Czar Rohan, known then simply as “Red,” had wrested the title of chieftain of all the apprentice gangsters of the west side from the grasp of “Little Mike” Zarotto. Following this bloody raid, Rohan had begun to rule. He had directed raids on warehouses, trucks, and merchants, planning the jobs with a skill that left nothing to chance.
He had had little to worry about from the law. Rohan knew all the cops throughout his domain personally, and they knew of him and his activities. They recognized his power and let him alone.
When the war broke out, Red Rohan lost little time in enlisting. He came back from France a top sergeant, with two wound stripes on his sleeve. He came back to find his kingdom under the rule of one Bouncer Carrigan. Three weeks later the body of Carrigan was found in a blind alley with enough lead in it to make a six-inch pipe. The police were at a loss to know how it got there, but nothing was done about it.