Moran laughed. He admired this cheaply gaudy, painted girl of Regan’s for her nerve and the fight that was in her. He could have told her much that she didn’t know about the crooked deal they had handed Big Red. Maybe he would — someday.
“Listen, Floss,” he grinned, “I’m admittin’ we couldn’t prove all the stuff we checked up against Red right now. If we could only get you to talk — the way he did—”
“What do you mean?”
The detective’s face became serious.
“Double-crossin’ you like he did. Why the very night we picked him up in the Princess Hotel, do yuh know who he was with? That dame from Torreli’s place.”
Floss O’Connor’s small white face was within an inch of his own. Gone now was the happy, careless girl that had been Big Red Regan’s moll. In her powdered face her eyes were dark as the night. Her nervous, highly polished fingers twitched. But her voice was low and well under control.
“Phil Moran,” she said, “you’re a liar! There never was a squarer shooter in this world than Big Red, an’ you know it. He’d have gone to hell for any one of his friends. You know that too. An’ I’m tellin’ you right now that I’m out to get the man that double-crossed him. I know more than you think I do. I’m out to get the man who—”
“Who is he?” grinned Moran. “Do I know him?”
Floss O’Connor’s painted young mouth twisted into a bitter laugh.
“You know him, Mister Moran — an’ so do I.”
But before the first year of Big Red’s sentence had passed, Floss seemed to have forgotten her promise. She never spoke of Red any more.
She didn’t even seem to avoid Italian Joe Mercurio, although it was common knowledge now that the wop had used Red as bait for the law. She seemed gay and happy although something hard had come into her face.
But it wasn’t until after the Jersey payroll robbery that she actually seemed to yield to Italian Joe.
The wop had drawn on Eddie the Dope for a remark passed about Big Red being double-crossed by her. Everyone knew that the success of that bold daylight holdup had hinged upon the expert timing worked out by Big Red Regan months before.
The Italian had simply made use of Big Red’s carefully worked out plans. Since Regan couldn’t possibly be imagined disclosing these plans to anyone, with the exception of Floss O’Connor, the wise ones again nodded their heads knowingly.
No one else said any thing. Eddie the Dope was fool enough to talk, that’s all.
From that time on the entire river mob knew that Floss was Italian Joe Mercurio’s girl. Some of them felt sorry for Big Red. Eddie the Dope, slinking down side streets to avoid the Italian, kept his mouth shut now, but his scheming brain was ever on the alert.
Alone, or in dark corners, he would heap vile curses on the head of the man who had not only made himself head of the river mob, but had stolen Big Red Regan’s moll as well.
“Wise guy!” he spat venomously. “I’m a dope, am I? Well, snake, before I’m t’roo wit’ you, I’ll show yuh which one of us is the dope, you or me!”
The curious thing was that Floss O’Connor, the cause of the bad blood between Eddie the Dope and Italian Joe, had taken sides with the cokey.
“Leave ’im alone, Joe,” she screamed, fighting mad at sight of the Italian’s automatic. “You’re not going to burn him down while I’m here. Get behind me, Ed!”
Then, more softly she added, “What do you want to let your wop blood run away with you for? I don’t want to lose you, vet!”
The smooth, oily haired Italian eyed her with the look of a hungry animal. Then a satisfied grin crossed his heavy lips.
“Don’t you worry about losin’ me, kid,” he smirked.
Floss O’Connor shivered a little, but her painted lips curved in a smile. Eddie the Dope’s lifeless eyes wandered from the girl’s face to Italian Joe.
Then with a vile curse he turned his back on them. But anyone who by chance had met the cokey later that night, slinking along back streets, would have noticed first of all the shrill little laugh almost of triumph that broke from his lips from time to time.
Eddie the Dope had planned his revenge well.
Up in that grim hell, the Big House, the fading daylight filtered in upon Big Red Regan. Clutched in his fingers was the dirty scrap of paper that the guard had just passed to him. Scarcely moving his lips the big Irishman crumpled the paper in his powerful fist and shot a question at the slouchy uniformed man who stood watching him.
“You got this note from Eddie the Dope himself, or did he send someone?”
“From Ed — he’s been down in the village since last night,” the guard whispered hoarsely.
“Has he got any of the mob with him?”
“Listen here, Red,” countered the guard, “when do I get them five grand for fixin’ this getaway for you?”
“Just as soon as I’m on the outside, Doyle,” replied Big Red. “You know me an’ you know that I never went back on my word in my life. All that I want to do is to get out for twenty-four hours.”
“If I c’n get you out at all yuh might as well stay for the rest of your life, or until they pick you up again,” growled Doyle. “I’m takin’ a hell of a chance, Red. I wouldn’t do it for any guy but you—”
“An’ what about Ed?”
“He’s alone. Got a stolen car with stolen license plates. He’s fixed it so there’ll be a second car, about eight miles. From there on a milk truck’ll carry yuh through. You’ll be in N’Yawk about an hour before dawn.”
“An hour before dawn,” breathed Big Red Regan, his lips setting grimly. “Thanks, Doyle. Don’t be surprised if you find the hot seat waitin’ for me by the time I come back.”
“Gawd, the chair!” gasped the guard. “Listen Red, there ain’t no dame in the world worth goin’ to the chair for.”
Then he shivered with the fear that gnawed at his soul. “What’ll happen to me if they find out how you made your getaway?”
Big Red Regan laughed grimly.
“No one will ever find that out, Doyle. No one knows that Eddie the Dope is your brother so even if we’re stopped there’ll be nothing to connect you with the break. When I’m once clear of the gates I’ll go to heir before I’ll let any guy stop me until my job is done. After that I don’t give a damn. There’ll be an investigation with the usual hokum — a gun smuggled in to me somehow— You’ll say that you were beaten unconscious an’ your keys stolen.”
The guard interrupted him nervously.
“I... I guess that for five grand, Red, you c’n make a real job outa that beaten unconscious. I got it all fixed for Smolsky an’ the gate to let yuh through. But yuh need clothes, an—”
Big Red Regan’s grim smile widened at the guard’s words. Turning his back to Doyle, Big Red bent forward. A second later he swung around to face him again and the guard’s face paled with fear. Over Red Regan’s arm hung a folded suit of clothes while his right hand gripped the ugly, cold steel of a Smith and Wesson Special.
“Gawd!” gasped the guard. “Where an’ when in hell did yuh get them?”
Red Regan’s only answer was a hoarse chuckle at the fear that lined the guard’s face. Then his eyes clouded with the determination of the killer who felt his lean fingers closing upon his victim’s throat.
“I’ve still got some — friends, Doyle,” he whispered.
But the guard only shook his head. It was more than he could understand, why a man should be willing to go to the chair on account of a woman. His brother, Eddie the Dope, had told him all about Floss and Italian Joe, but even Eddie hadn’t known about the clothing and the gun that had been smuggled in to Big Red. If such a thing had been done right under his nose and the noses of the other guards, then—