“Big one,” admitted Scar. “Fan, she’s gonna get a damn’ double-crosser tonight — for me, see? Just like a regular moll.” He bit off a short laugh.
“Huh?” Pipe was puzzled.
But Scar buttoned his thin mouth; taking his long overcoat and hat, he left the saloon by a rear door.
To-night, Fan was real soft with Scar, even though she did wheedle him out of the money he carried. Scar thought grimly, “Anyway, she’s givin’ me a swell send-off!”
He leaned toward her quickly. “I hate a squealer!”
She jumped. “What made y’u say that, Scar?”
“Nothin’ — only I’m being double-crossed. Double-crossers are rats. Sometime I’m gonna have you get that damn’ double-crosser for me. Y’u can.”
She stared at him, uncertain, puzzled.
“Fan, I’ve done plenty for y’u. Y’u’ll do that job for me? Like a regular moll?”
“Of course. Sure — but what—”
“Never mind; tell y’u some other time — only, I wouldn’t keep a skirt what wouldn’t blot anybody they caught double-crossin’ me. I got to know y’u’re regular, don’t I?”
When he was ready to leave, she idled to the window, spun up the shade, and glanced out. “Still snowin’,” she observed.
Scar studied her, his lips a curved slit. She pulled the shade; then again, carelessly ran it up and down.
“Hell, Fan, y’u’re hand shakes!”
She whirled, her eyes narrowing. But Scar was picking up his long overcoat and plug hat; apparently his words were a casual remark.
“I’ve got to go,” he said slowly, “but y’u come with me — to the door.”
She drew back. Two spots of rouge leaped out against her whitening cheeks.
“What’s th’ matter? Don’t y’u wanna go to th’ door with me?”
She tried to brazen it out. “Sure, Scar, I’ll go to the door with y’u. Why not?”
“Why not?” he repeated softly; and put his arm around her, and they went down the creaking stairs to the hall door.
He leaned toward her. She kissed him quickly. Then, as his hand closed about the door knob, she dodged to one side.
Scar laughed. He caught her by the shoulders, whirling her around, facing him.
“Scared now?”
Suddenly hysterical, she blurted: “I didn’t double-cross you. Scar! I didn’t!” She opened her mouth to scream, but he clapped his hand over her lips.
“Y’u didn’t double-cross me?”
She shook her head frantically, gurgled in her throat.
“That’s jake!” He suddenly swept his coat around her shoulders, jammed his plug hat on her head, and swung wide the door. With a hard shove, he sent her stumbling into the snowstorm. “Now, prove y’u didn’t double-cross me!”
The words were still leaving his lips, when that cordon of sawed-off shot guns bellowed.
Swiftly Scar whirled, dodged down the hall, and slipped into the rear alley. “Sure,” he muttered, nervously adjusting his red necktie, “Fan got the double-crosser for me — just like a regular moll!”
Hair-Trigger
By William E. Poindexter
Racketeer Stories, March 1930
Benny was leader — and now he was out — croaked by one of his own mob! But. Benny never needed to hire a rod to protect himself. Even in death, Benny would get the rat that got him!
Benny Appco, youthful gang leader, lay dead in the front room of his home. Suffocating masses of flowers, tribute not only of gangland, but of many within the law, were piled high about him, filling the room and overflowing into the other parts of the house, accentuating the air of death that pervaded the place.
Stella Maud sat by her bedroom window, staring somberly down into the street which was still crowded by the morbidly curious, tears in her heart but not in her eyes.
Stella Maud was an anomaly of the underworld. She was a one-man woman. Since that time almost six years before, when the young Italian had swept her off her feet and carried her triumphantly from under the very guns of “Red” Vernon and his North Side gang, she had been loyal to him.
Stella Maud rose and paced the floor, lighting a cigarette only to crush it under her heel the next minute. The yellow morning sunlight streaming in upon her picked out hard lines in her face that had not been there yesterday. The word had gone out that Red Vernon had put Benny on the spot, but she didn’t believe it. It had none of the earmarks of Vernon’s work. She knew. With a quick, terrible exclamation deep in her throat, she threw open her door.
“Are you there, Steve?” she called huskily.
Steve Maris was there, small, quiet, insignificant-looking. As far as appearances went he might have been an elderly ribbon clerk on his day off. His eyes were those of the killer. Deadly eyes. Chilled steel.
“Steve, now that Benny’s gone, you’re the only one of the mob I can trust. This thing looks queer to me — damn queer. Has Rat Martin been around lately?”
Steve looked at her without apparent emotion, and shook his head slowly. “You don’t think he—”
She hesitated a moment in indecision. “No, I don’t,” she said at last with a gesture of contempt. “The rat wouldn’t have the nerve to do it himself. But he might know who did do it. He knows everything.”
Steve’s eyes grew a shade paler, a degree more deadly. “I’ll make him talk,” he said laconically.
“No, Steve, you’re a good egg, but let me handle this. Do you know where I can locate the Rat?”
He gave her a number. “It’s early, probably won’t be up yet,” he said with an economy of words.
She nodded, flung on her hat and coat, saw that the efficient little automatic in her handbag was ready for business. She went out, avoiding the room where Benny lay, and stepped into her low-slung Cadillac sedan with its cleverly armored body and bullet-proof glass. Twenty minutes later she stood before a door in a cheap rooming house. She tried the knob, found the door unlocked, and without hesitation pushed it open.
As she stepped in, the man on the bed turned in one swift movement, covering her with an automatic. She made a gesture of disdain.
“Put it up,” she said contemptuously. “Getting careless, leaving the door unlocked, ain’t you?”
“Guess I was drunk last night,” he admitted a bit sheepishly. “What you doing here, Stell?” He sat up, running his fingers through his tousled hair, his narrow, red-rimmed little eyes regarding her shrewdly.
“Listen Rat, who croaked Benny?”
“How do I know? Probably Red—”
“Hell!” she spat at him. “It wasn’t Red’s work and you damn well know it. You know who done it — you know everything.”
He chuckled, then his eyes grew hard. “You’re right,” he said slowly, “I know who done it an’ I’m going to tell you. I’ve got a good reason for lettin’ you know. It was Slink Douglas who put Benny on the spot.”
A slight swaying of her body was the only sign that the news was a terrific shock to her. Slink Douglas, Benny’s most trusted friend, with the exception of Steve Maris. Sudden divination came to the girl.
She nodded without apparent emotion. “But I’ll guarantee that you had your finger in it, too,” she said, and forced her mouth into a smile.
The Rat grinned back. “Maybe,” he admitted complacently, “but it was Slink who put the lead in ’im. Now listen here, Stell, you know yourself that the gang’s been ready for a new leader for a long time, an’ Slink fancies himself for the job. That suited me all right, I never had any love for Benny, anyway. So I did what I could to help him. But I didn’t know till afterwards that Slink not only wanted Benny’s mob, but he wanted Benny’s moll as well!”