But the Hungarian’s dying words of warning had not gone unheeded. Catanesi’s men broke and fled for their cars, keeping up a frantic fusillade on their pursuers. No time to save a wounded pal! Leaving the last car to block Conners, the survivors piled rapidly into the three ahead of it.
Running the gauntlet of fire from the enemy, as their cars started down the lane, a man jumped onto the car that blocked the pursuit and backed it out into the road. Instantly Conners’ three cars turned into the narrow lane, rocking and bumping over the uneven ground in their mad haste to catch up with the battered remnants of the Killer’s gang.
Soon the lane joined the highway again. Throttles full open, the pursuing cars shot down the broad road like streaks of lightning toward the glow of red tail-lights that marked their prey. Through the outskirts of the town thundered the six cars, their occupants keeping up a running fire.
Gradually the pursuit began to gain. Regan’s drivers knew the town like the palm of their hand, and Red Conners had been a racing driver. Ceaselessly, the man beside him on the front seat pressed the trigger of his sub-machine gun.
The rearmost of Catanesi’s fleet skidded wildly across a street to pile up in a plate-glass show window. As the pursuing cars flashed by, they hosed the wreckage with a hurricane of lead. Ahead of them the almost deserted streets emptied as if by magic.
All at once the two cars ahead parted company. Conners hurtled after the leader while his two other cars tore after the second, forcing it closer and closer to the side of the street. A last well directed volley made the driver swerve desperately. His right front wheel crashed into a fire-hydrant. The car swung around, hung poised for a second, then crumpled with a rending smash on its side.
Red Conners was pressing his foot almost through the floor in his effort to catch up with what was now the one remaining car. But its engine was more powerful than the one he was urging to give him its last ounce of speed. And they were nearing the Killer’s house. Conners swore grimly to send that car to hell before they reached it.
Down a hill plunged the two cars, and up a steep road toward an embankment that overhung the river. For a fraction of a second Conners drew closer as the front car slowed up to hit the grade. The man beside him took his chance.
A jet of flame spurted through the air, and a hunk of lead buried itself in the head of the driver of the leading car. Up the hill it roared, veering wildly onto the embankment while its occupants struggled frantically to gain control of the wheel. Too late! The car crashed through the posts on the embankment, careened down the slope to be swallowed up in the black waters below.
Conners slackened speed for an instant to allow his two machines in the rear to catch up with him. Then the trio of cars swept on.
But the Killer, sprawled lazily in a chair in his luxurious room, was still insolently confident of victory. Billie Ross, perched on the arm of his chair, was still plying him with liquor in her desperate effort to gain time.
The sound of cars roaring down the street with cut-outs open came in faintly through the closed windows. Pushing the girl aside, Catanesi stood up.
“Must be the boys comin’ back,” he said, picking up his two gleaming knives and advancing toward the prostrate man. “I’ll spread eagle the big mick to put on a show for ’em. The rod who bumped off the most men in Mike Regan’s gang can have the first crack at the leader.”
The girl shuddered at his inhuman cruelty, straining her ears for the sound of approaching footsteps. A swift glance showed her that Mike Regan had come to. Though he was as motionless as before, the knuckles of the hand that gripped his automatic were white.
Catanesi, the two knives held carelessly in his left hand, came toward his prisoner.
“Reach for the ceiling or I’ll drill you!” barked Regan. The knives clattered from the Killer’s nerveless hand to the floor. His jaw fell open, then he looked helplessly around him like a cornered rat.
“You needn’t expect any help from me, Joe,” said Billie with a cold laugh as she came up to remove the Killer’s armament. “You promised me today that Regan and I would hear your lieutenant tell us all about it. Well, I think you’re going to listen to a different story.”
Muffled reports, a single sharp cry, and shouts of men fighting in the house reached the three participants in the grim drama. Each interpreted the noise in his own way. Billie Ross seated herself calmly on the table, a strange smile of triumph on her face. Regan, frowning anxiously, let his eyes wander for an instant. Seizing his chance, the Killer rushed for the door. Like a flash, the Irishman grasped a knife and hurled it. Catanesi howled with pain as the glittering blade ripped through his outstretched hand, pinning it to the panel.
“There must be some way we can get out of here, Billie,” muttered Regan, jumping to his feet. “For God’s sake don’t make a noise! Do you know the back way?”
“We’re going down the front way,” replied the girl, calmly lighting a cigarette. “And you can put your gun away, Mike.”
But Regan spun around, leveling his rod as the door was flung open and a group of men, headed by Red Conners, poured into the room.
“This is the story I wanted you to hear, Killer Joe Catanesi,” shouted Billie Ross triumphantly to the impaled and writhing gangster.
A look of incredulous surprise was on Red Conners’ face, as he saw that the two for whom he had exacted such terrible vengeance were alive and unharmed.
“I swore I’d make ’em pay and I did!” There was a ring of victory in his voice. “I busted that Chicago gang so wide open they’ll never be heard of again!”
But the Killer was game to the last. In the bitterest moment of his life he had seen victory turn suddenly into humiliating defeat. At least he could kill off the author of it!
With his free hand he struggled to loose the knife which had pierced his wrist. Like a cat he turned to aim the dripping blade at the girl’s heart. But the glint of the knife caught Regan’s eye. His gun barked once, and the Killer crumpled slowly to the floor, a bullet in his brain.
Regan’s thirsty henchmen made for the Killer’s bar. As the drinks were passed around, comprehension of Billie’s daring strategy slowly dawned in Mike Regan’s brain. She had made him fight and conquer Catanesi with his own weapons. Lifting his glass, he toasted her.
“To Billie Ross, who’s made this man’s town really deserve the name of ‘The City of Bullets’ and to our last drink with you boys!”
They stared at him open-mouthed.
Gangster Stories, May 1930
In the New York Times of February 26, a headline said: “Murder rate in States with the death penalty found more than double that in those without.” This is the result of a statistical analysis by the League to Abolish Capital Punishment.
What are we to gather from this report? Is capital punishment a failure? Is crime on the increase? Certainly the latter is true if we are to make our test by the amount of space given to crime news by the most conservative daily papers.
It is well nigh impossible to find a newspaper without gory details of some crime featured on its front page. Is all this an aid or a hindrance?
We believe that the criminal must go. He is usually a cowardly fighter, shooting down his enemies from ambush; protected by shrewd lawyers; endeavoring to outwit the police; and banded together for further protection. He is a sort of fighting minority.