“I get yeh!” Chick exclaimed. “Notice the blinds at the other No. 6. All drawn down, like a gambling house. They’re expecting a sucker, or going to get rid of one. The taxi-bucker was right, Gabby, when he stated he left a man resembling The Spider at No. 6.”
“Easy, kid. Swell stall. That transom on the other number 6 can be swung around to read No. 9, its right number.”
Gabby bobbed her head. “You’re a clever brain-worker, Chick. We better blow. Climb over the fence before they spot us.”
He crossed the Square with her. “I’ll phone the Big-Shot, kid. I’ll collect a couple yards for you when I see the pay-off man. You take your big phaeton home and get back as quick as you can with a couple of pineapples. Just strong enough to blast the doors in of No. 9. Those doors are probably steel-lined.”
“Sure, if The Spider’s mob hang out there.”
“Two bombs,” repeated Chick. “I’ll gather a bunch of killers. We’ll lay in a car we have, near the alley, going north. We’ll block the south end with an old wagon.”
“I don’t get you yet,” said the puzzled Gabby.
“Easy. The Spider and his yellow curs will beat it in the car they have planted in their garage. We’ll give them the works when they come out the north end of the alley.”
“Maybe they’ll stick in the house, y’u know. Even if the doors are blown to pieces.”
“Have you any tear-gas at the tavern?”
“Dad can get some from the station house. The captain in charge has a bunch of tear-gas bombs. And he’s crookeder than hell.”
“That’s set then, kid. Beat it and meet me where the wagon is blocking the south end of the alley. I’ll have two more centuries for you. How long will it take you?”
A gold wrist-watch flashed from Gabby’s shapely wrist.
“A couple of — three hours, sharp.”
Chick Chester sensed a note of doubt in Gabby’s voice. “Three hours, ye — s? What’s the matter, kid? Don’t you want to do it?”
“I want to do it! Sure. But I don’t want to see you croaked in one of them dog-fights. The Spider will lug along that machine-gun, y’u know. The one Dad copped from some arsenal. It’s a hell of a thing, and ain’t sub-caliber.”
“We’ll get the drop on them and — that’s all there will be to it. If we don’t get that bunch of snakes tonight, they’re going to get us an’ get the Big-Shot. He knows what they’re planning.”
“I wouldn’t have them croak you before you can croak them, y’u know. Give me a kiss and I’ll go after the stuff.”
Chick watched the moll glide through the dark shrubbery of the Square. “Best ever,” he said to himself. Out came his watch. He marked the hour hand with his polished finger-nail.
“Three a.m. is The Spider’s time to get the works,” he said with Indian grimness.
Connecting with the Big-Shot and getting his permission to wipe out The Spider’s gang was a delicate matter, which Chick knew best how to do. Morphy was under-cover so deeply it took him fifteen minutes before he heard his voice on a private, relayed wire. “Hol’ on,” grunted the Big-Shot, “before goin’ ahead. I’ll get th’ low-down on No. 9, through me own channels.”
Chester waited. The word came back to work fast and hard and go the limit. “Unleash the Rose Hill rodmen.”
A bunch of gangmen, crowded in a hundred-horse-power sedan that had a steel shutter at the rear, met Chick by appointment. The pay-off man attended to blocking the alley with a junk-wagon. A beer truck was moved to the cross street above No. 9 and backed to the curb so that any escaping gangsters from the alley should turn in an easterly direction. A runabout, containing a driver and a “thrower,” were waiting to blast out The Spider.
The moll, driving her phaeton like an expert, appeared sooner than she had promised. Chick aided her with a quick arm when she finished parking and sprang from the seat. She reached back and lifted up a package.
“Don’t drop this,” she warned him. “There’s enough soup in it to blow up the block, y’u know.”
“Wait,” said Chester. He crossed the street and handed the package to the “thrower” in a runabout. “Blast goes off at three-forty-five. Circle at the corner of Prospect Square and give No. 9 the tear-bomb on the way back. Nine is three doors from the lamppost. They’ve got a changeable number on the transom. It may read 6, but it’ll be 9.”
The car rolled from the curb. Chick went back to Gabby. He saw her hastily conceal something under her skirt. The object appeared to be larger than a gat.
“What’s the idea, kid?” he asked her.
“Nothing. That is, not much. I’m in on this too, y’u know.”
“What do y’u mean?” Chester’s black eyes searched the girl’s form. There was an unusual bulge on her right hip. She quickly covered it with her coat.
“Come clean, kid.”
“Say, who do’y’u think I am? A rummy? You come clean — with the jack. I’m going to do a little private work of my own on this job. Where’s the two C’s?”
Chester handed her the money. Again he looked intently at the moll. He gripped her arm. “We’re going to start in a few minutes,” he said evenly. “I can’t drag you along when The Spider’s mob get what’s coming to them. Sure you’re not going to gum things up?”
“I’m going to stay right here. I’ll be sitting in that old bus of mine when you come back — if you do come back.” Gabby averted her head. “Be careful,” she whispered. “I’ve fallen hard for you. Don’t get croaked!”
He walked away from her with a soft feeling in his heart. This feeling changed when he slipped up to the waiting sedan and instructed the driver: “Keep the front, right hand seat for me. I’ll be back when I give the job the once over.”
The net drawn around The Spider’s lair was tighter than a French “fly-trap.” Chester saw with satisfaction that the junk wagon effectively blocked the south alley. The beer-truck, laden with near-beer in kegs, apparently had broken down across a respectable street. A Rose Hill gangster, in greasy overalls and cap, was taking off a double-tired wheel. He nodded curtly when Chick went by him, coughing that everything was O.K.
Avoiding No. 9, Chick detoured for three blocks and came up to the rear of the waiting sedan. Its curtains were drawn. Two rodmen had their subcaliber machine-guns ready to run out the side windows. The steel shutter protected the rear of the car.
Swinging beside the driver Chester pulled out his watch. He looked up and down the dark, deserted street. “Start your engine,” he drawled. “Listen, pals. It’s time — it’s overtime — for—”
A roar and the reverberations of the roar came crackling through the misty air. A second roar sounded. The “pineapples” manufactured by Gabby had not been duds. Chester gripped the driver’s arm.
“Wait. Now, there they go. No. 9 is one hell’s mess now. It’s full of gas.”
The black runabout had flashed over the asphalt and swung at the Square’s stone arch.
Chester ordered. “Step on it. Round the corner. Now up to the next. Slow down. Wait. You heard me. What do you see by the beer-truck?”
“Nothin’ at tall. Yeah, that them. Comin’ out dat alley. Wot tu hell. They’re crashin’ th’ truck. No — say, they took th’ sidewalk, chief! See Th’ Spider’s car? It’s turned at th’ Square. They ain’t comin’ dis way.”
The cunning brain of The Spider had sensed a trap after he retreated to the garage in the rear of No. 9 and started his car. He acted contrary to the route framed for him.
The snarls from the gangmen at the machine-guns rang in Chester’s ears. “Beat it through — same way they went!” he told the driver. “Keep ’em in sight. We got the fastest car.”