“I guess that’s my work, Billie,” answered the Killer, proudly puffing out his chest. “You’re right! This town’s mine!” He clenched his fists until the knuckles showed white under the swarthy skin. “I’ll shoot up that truck tonight—”
The bright scarf slipped to the floor. Catanesi half rose in his chair, his great arms out-spread to encircle the girl.
At that moment the door opened to admit Charlie, the former member of Regan’s outfit. He lounged confidently in, making no excuse for his delay in answering his leader’s summons. The Killer, plainly annoyed by not being able to show the girl the iron discipline which he had instilled into his gang, turned angrily to face him.
“What’s the big idea, of keepin’ me waitin’?” he snapped.
“I didn’t know you was in a hurry, boss,” replied the man, although his swaggering began to be a little uneasy. “I was just finishin’ a game—”
“You lazy scum,” barked the Killer, his eyes two smoldering pin points of savage fire. “Things are gettin’ too damned easy around here. It’s about time I showed some of you wise guys who runs this outfit.” The shiny blue steel barrel of a Smith and Wesson .38 came slowly up from behind the table.
Charlie’s eyes bulged in terror from their sockets. Like a flash his hand darted to his arm-pit. The gun in the Killer’s hand roared once. The man slumped forward, pitching headlong to the floor where his fingers beat a horrible, soundless tattoo on the heavy carpet.
The girl looked at him coldly. He was a rat and deserved what he got. With a convulsive twitch the corpse lay still, while an ever widening pool of blood stained the carpet with its sullen crimson.
“The poor sap!” exclaimed Catanesi scornfully. “I was only going to nick him in the arm to show him I won’t be monkeyed with, but he asked for it.” He pushed a button on the table, then rose and walked over to one of the richly gleaming shelves that lined the wall.
The girl’s mind was working like a steel trap. Obviously, the Killer was suspicious of her; even if she had him believe she was double-crossing Regan it would be difficult for her to send Mike the signal she had promised, unless—
She slipped off the table and picked up the square of silk all wet and discolored by the murdered man’s blood. Her back was between Catanesi and the corpse. Instinctively she secured Charlie’s automatic, slipping it into the pocket of her jacket.
“Hey, Joe!” she called, holding out her dripping scarf. Here was her signal ready to hand. It would whip Mike Regan into action like nothing else she could possibly think of. Besides that, she knew that the Killer’s vindictiveness would make him send it. “How about sending this to Mike?” she went on. “I know where he’ll be just before the hold-up. It ought to jar him plenty!”
“Say, that’s great!” declared the Killer. “An’ I’ll make sure it gets to him. It’ll get Regan so wild, maybe he’ll hot-foot it over here, then I’ll have him where I want him.” His powerful hairy hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically. “Regan’II go out slow, but before I drill him I’ll show him the moll who ditched him, ditched him for me. Killer Joe Catanesi!”
The man had fallen for it, hook, bait, line and sinker. But it would be Regan’s moll who’d do the showing! The gangster moved toward her and she saw that one entire section of book-shelves had swung outward to reveal a small, but very well stocked bar. “I’ll have a straight Scotch,” she said with a laugh.
“And I’ll take a kiss,” said Catanesi, his breath hot and inflamed on the girl’s throat.
“I’ll be damned if you will!” Billie Ross jumped back from the encircling arms that were about to grasp her. “You’ve got to show me first, Joe, that you’re the man you say you are. You wipe Regan off the map. Then—” Her eyes promised everything.
In vain the Italian pleaded and argued. The girl was adamant and something about her seemed to warn the burly gangster that it would be dangerous to lay hands on her.
“Cut it, Joe,” she said at last, wearied by his demands. “What in hell’s the matter with you? Tonight’s only a few hours off. I’ll be your moll, then — get me? Or are you scared you can’t pull it off?”
Catanesi scowled furiously and poured her the drink she asked for. “I’m going to send my best man, Karl Mischek, on this job. We’ll have a little supper served right here, and Karl can come back and tell us all about it.” He looked at her inquiringly from under his bushy eyebrows.
“Then I’ll keep my end of the bargain,” the girl promised.
The door closed behind the Killer as he went out to make the necessary arrangements with his gang. Two men came in to remove the slowly stiffening body and clean up the blood-stained carpet. Billie Ross was alone. If her daring plan succeeded, they had the Killer licked. But luck and perfect timing were essential. She paced nervously up and down the room, longing for the hours to pass. She knew the man she loved well enough to be certain how he would act when he received her signal. As for the rest—
The big Irishman, all unconscious of the trick that was about to be played on him, was waiting with his gang in their hide-out on the river front. With the skill of a born general he had prepared for every possibility that might occur that night.
Everything was in readiness. The short day was closing in and it only remained to kill the few minutes before the start of the expedition.
Men sprawled in all attitudes around the long, squalid room: some cleaned and oiled their rods, others conversed in low, spasmodic voices, others again gnawed their nails and stared moodily at the cob-webbed rafters. Over all there brooded an atmosphere of tense expectancy.
There was a sharp, sudden creak on the rickety landing outside. Instantly all eyes turned towards the door which opened to admit the dilapidated figure of old Moe, a drunken wharf-rat.
“Moe says he’s got somethin’ fer ya personal, boss,” said the sentry whose fingers were twined in the old man’s collar. “So I brought him up.”
“All right, Mac, you can go back to your post,” Regan told him, advancing toward the limp scarecrow who was swaying unsteadily now that he was no longer supported by the guard’s grasp. “What is it, Moe?”
“De guy as gave me dis,” the old man fumbled in his pocket, “says to me ya’d maybe gimme de price o’ a coupla drinks,” he whined, succeeding at last in extracting Billie’s bloodstained scarf which he waved feebly.
There was a sharp intake of breath, then, “Give me that scarf, you—” Mike Regan roared in a flaming burst of rage. Taking the silk square into his hands, he buried his face in it. “My poor darling, poor little kid, poor Billie,” he moaned over and over again.
“Steady, Mike, steady!” Conners had sprung to his side and gripped him firmly by the arm.
Like a maddened bull, the big Irishman threw off the consoling hand of his lieutenant. “By God! I’ll make that yellow punk sweat for this! He’ll wish he’d never seen the light of day when I get through with him!” Knocking over the uncertain figure of Moe, Regan paused in the doorway, his eyes blazing. “You handle this job tonight, Red, and no quarter! I’m going on a still hunt for the Killer and I’m going to cut his heart out!”
Before Conners could reply, his leader was in the street. Remorse over Billie’s sacrifice had kindled his temper to a white heat. One thought only was uppermost in his mind: to stand face to face with the Killer, to pound the yellow wop to a bleeding pulp with his own hands!
He ran wildly down the street, swung himself onto the footboard of a cruising taxi and bellowed hoarse directions to the driver. Regan was too blind with fury to see a furtive form that had been skulking in a doorway dart out and run to the nearest cigar store.