“How much?” he asked weakly.
He was satisfied to get away without exposing the contents of the bag to Phil Moran’s greedy eyes. Floss O’Connor eyed the Italian’s trembling fingers with a sneer. And this yellow rat was the man who thought he had won her.
The detective slipped the money into his pocket — two grand wasn’t bad for a night’s work. His hoarse words reached Floss O’Connor’s ears as the trim little roadster pulled away from the curb.
“I coulda told you a lot if I’d wanted to, Floss. You coulda been my girl if you’d played on the level with me. I could even ha’ tipped you off about Eddie the Dope shootin’ off his damn mouth an’ the law stepping in just at the minute that Big Red Regan was makin’ his break for liberty!”
Through the silent towns that bordered the Hudson River, Italian Joe’s trim roadster tore on. Off in the distance a sleepy clock chimed the hour. Four o’clock! She had timed the distance from Yonkers well.
Italian Joe, bent over the wheel, kept his eyes on the winding road, leaving Floss to her own thoughts. And with the passing of each mile her heart grew lighter. The happy, careless girl of old seemed to come to life again within her.
Town after silent town was left behind them. As they neared the village of Ossining, Joe’s nervousness seemed to increase. Big Red’s threatened break put the fear of God in him. It was lucky for him that he had been tipped off about Eddie the Dope in time. His fingers clutched the wheel grimly as he tore through the town. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. The Big House — and Red Regan — lay behind him. Ahead was Canada and safety.
His nerve returned to him again by degrees. Why should he let the spectre of Big Red Regan haunt him? He had played a desperate game and won. The old arrogant, complacent smile returned to his lips.
And then, suddenly, he saw the black hulk of the car that blocked the road ahead of him.
There was no room for him to pass it. To think of turning around was both foolish and futile. Besides — the Big House lay back there — and Red Regan— With a grinding of brakes he stopped short, and then he laughed, nervously. The black hulk had turned out to be nothing more threatening than a milk truck.
But a shiver of fear went through him as he watched the truck’s driver, apparently attempting to turn on the narrow road.
But God in Heaven, what was this? The man who had been seated beside the driver had jumped out and was slowly approaching the roadster. And then Italian Joe Mercurio cried out in fear as he caught sight of the man’s face in the faint light of approaching dawn. It was Big Red Regan!
The driver was Eddie the Dope, the cokey that Phil Moran said had talked too much and consequently spoiled Big Red’s break for liberty. Italian Joe’s face was the color of putty as he turned to Floss O’Connor.
“We’re trapped, Floss!” he screamed. “Gawd! Big Red’s got us!”
To his great amazement the girl only leaned back in her seat and laughed.
“Here he is, Red! Just as I swore to you I would, I have delivered him right into your hands!”
Then turning to Italian Joe she went on, “I swore to God I’d get the man who double-crossed Big Red. Well, here you are, you rat! Get out an’ take what’s comin’ to you!”
Big Red Regan, wearing the clothes that his moll had smuggled in to him under the very eyes of the guards, reached one powerful hand forward. A second later Italian Joe Mercurio was standing out in the road facing him and almost slavering with fear. His rat eyes wandered about hopelessly in search of a means of escape. Eddie the Dope jumped forward, insane rage firing his muddled brain.
With a quick jerk of his right wrist he swung an ugly looking automatic into view. Before Big Red or Floss could make a move to stop him the automatic went into action. The crashing slug tore straight into the Italian’s head. The wop went down. Eddie the Dope did a dance of rage, pumping slug after slug into the body at his feet.
And they left him there, beside the road, his body riddled with bullets. They stopped only long enough to give Eddie time to ditch the truck, then, with Big Red Regan at the wheel of the wop’s roadster, the two gunmen and Big Red’s moll tore on into the night.
In the Grand Hotel in Montreal, Big Red Regan opened the black bag and spread money and jewels out on the bed. At sight of the fortune before him Eddie the Dope gave vent to a shrill whistle and hurried to the door to assure himself again that they were locked in safely. The big good natured Irishman counted out the money.
“You better take yours in cash, Eddie,” he laughed. “I don’t want you to get all snowed up an’ go peddling any of these things around up here. There’s no sense in inviting the bulls to jump on our trail.”
Eddie the Dope looked hurt, but his eyes brightened at sight of the pile of dollars that came his way. As far as he was concerned, the hell with Canada! He would be off for New York again before the night was over. When he had left them alone together, Big Red Regan grinned.
“We’ll disappear for a while, Floss,” he said. “After all, as Doyle said, I might as well stay away for the rest of my life, or until they pick me up again anyway.” He laughed. “Five grand of this goes to him, Floss. Then it’ll be me an’ you for England an’ the continent for a while. I’ve got a hunch that we’d both like to live on easy street for a few years. What d’yuh say?”
Floss O’Connor’s eyes were soft as the night again, and her round white breasts quivered under his hand.
“I’ll go any where you say, Red. Ain’t I your girl?”
Rod Rule
By Cyril Plunkett
The Dragnet Magazine, January 1930
Who won the upper hand: gangland’s most powerful leader with his mob of hi-jackers, racketeers and coldblooded killers — or his gun-flashing henchman who played a lone game?
“Count” Corrigan slammed the door leading from the blind stairway to the card room above Rigo’s and sauntered up the aisle to the front of the confectionery store. His tall, thin body was faultlessly attired in a dark suit. The Count sometimes affected a monocle which, however, was not to be smiled at. It was thus he had gained the name “Count.” Rigo grinned at him from behind the soda fountain.
“You lost, eh?” he asked.
The Count laughed. One could never tell from his expression just what the Count was thinking. His half smiling mouth, showing even, white teeth, gave him a cynical, amused air.
“Does this look like it?”
Rigo’s eyes bulged. The Count had pulled out a roll as big as his fist.
“Fix me up a drink, Rigo,” Corrigan continued. “Something cold... and no liquor! Get it?”
“You keep da head clear,” Rigo grinned knowingly.
“Right!” Corrigan answered. Facing the street he swung the glass to his lips. It remained there, poised, while his body seemed suddenly to freeze.
On the street two distinct things had caught his eye. He was conscious of them both as of the opening and closing of a camera’s shutter. The first was a girl, face white as chalk, black eyes terrified, imploring. She waved her hand, her mouth forming the single word “down,” her eyes staring straight into his as she slipped from his vision.
The second was a large black touring car which had drawn up to the curb. In its back seat were two swarthy men. Over the side, protruded the muzzle of a machine gun.
The Count dropped to the floor. There was a harsh report, the splintering of glass. From the street came the roar of the car’s motor — within the store the sharper crack of a forty-five. The Count’s arm jerked with its recoil. He sent five bullets into the tonneau of the fleeing car.