To be of service to Steve Cronin was Joe le Blanc’s aim. Every gangster in Chicago was known to Le Blanc. He was one of those characters who hedge the borderland of gangdom, and who are safe so long as they mind their own affairs.
Le Blanc had been cautious in his actions. He had emphasized his connection with Frank Marmosa, and he intended to run his road house on the same plan that Marmosa utilized with the restaurant. But he had nothing to lose, and much to gain, by cultivating a secret friendship with Steve Cronin.
Before concluding the conversation, he made this fact evident.
“Listen, Steve,” he remarked, in a careful tone. “I’ve got to watch everything that I do. I’m not out to get into trouble. I’m going to run this place and be friends to everybody. But at the same time, if I can be of help to you — “
“I’ve got the idea, Joe,” interrupted Cronin. “Play with me, and you won’t lose a thing. You tipped me off to some real news tonight. Keep on with that kind of work.”
“But get me straight,” insisted Le Blanc. “I’m no double-crosser, Steve. I’m friends to everybody — but I’ll work with you, and with nobody else.”
Steve Cronin grinned. He realized that Le Blanc was speaking the truth, and he saw how the alliance could prove of great value to himself.
Cronin lacked much important knowledge about Chicago. In his period of service with Savoli, he had depended upon information given to him by the big shot, or by Borrango, the enforcer. But here was opportunity.
“I can do a lot, Steve,” continued Le Blanc, anxious to impress Cronin with his own importance. “I can tip you off to where guys are, when you’re looking for them. I can even get them out here — but I can’t do that too often. I’ve got to play safe, Steve — “
“That’s right, Joe. I won’t expect too much of you. Play with me, that’s all. And if you want to make a real start, find where Monk Thurman is, and see to it that Larrigan’s men get the dope.”
“Right, Steve.”
Steve Cronin shoved his hand toward Joe le Blanc, and the other man responded. As they clasped hands, Cronin summarized their alliance.
“You for me, and me for you. That’s the racket, Joe. Get it?”
“You for me,” repeated Le Blanc, “and me for you.”
Steve Cronin arose.
“Time to be getting in to town,” he said. “Got your car here?”
“In the garage, Steve.”
“Big car or a little one?”
“A coupe.”
“Great. I don’t like sedans. Sometimes you have a friend in the back seat of a big car — and sometimes a friend isn’t always a friend.”
“That’s the truth, Steve.”
THE two men left the room. Harper came in as they entered, and removed the bottles. Then he turned out the lights.
Scarcely had the room became dark before the iron shutters opened as noiselessly as they had in the afternoon. An invisible hand came over the window sill, and removed the small instrument from behind the radiator.
Outside the road house, a still, shadowy form moved back across the lawn to a clump of bushes. That spot had been the receiving end of the dictograph connection, where the invisible listener had overheard the entire conversation that had passed between Joe le Blanc and Steve Cronin.
No one saw the black shape enter the bushes. It remained there. When Joe le Blanc drove his car from the garage, the headlights shone directly upon the shrubbery, but they revealed nothing. The coupe moved slowly, and as it passed beside the bushes, Joe le Blanc spoke.
“I told Monk Thurman to come out here,” he said, “and I kind of expected him tonight. But now I’m glad he didn’t show up — “
Steve Cronin grunted a reply of approval as the car swung away from the shrubbery beside the drive.
As the red light on the rear of the automobile moved toward the highway, there was a sound that emerged from the silence of the bushes.
It was a sound that did not reach the ears of Le Blanc or Cronin, for they were then too far away, and the noise of the motor was throbbing in their ears.
Had they heard the sound, they would have been amazed — Joe le Blanc because of the strangeness of the sound; Steve Cronin, because he had heard that sound in the past.
Le Blanc would not have understood it; Cronin would have understood it too well.
For the sound that emerged from those closely woven bushes was a laugh — a strident laugh — a sinister, mocking laugh, that increased with the tempo of a winter wind, and dwindled away to a nothingness that carried an uncanny echo.
It was a laugh that had struck terror into the hearts of brave men; a laugh that carried a meaning that none could grasp, yet that all could fear. It was a laugh that seemed like the mockery of the night itself.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER VIII
SAVOLI GIVES ORDERS
AT eight o’clock the next evening, a man approached the Escadrille Apartments, just outside the Loop district of Chicago. On entering the pretentious building, he stopped in front of an open elevator, where the operator surveyed him in a casual manner.
“Hello, Steve,” said the elevator man. “Step in. You’re expected upstairs.”
Steve Cronin entered the elevator. He did not give the floor number. The operator knew where he was going — to the fourth floor. For the Escadrille Apartments were owned by Nick Savoli, and the king of Chicago gangland lived on the fourth floor.
The elevator operators were gunmen in disguise. They received full instructions when they went on duty. To the average person entering the Escadrille, they would have appeared to be ordinary elevator men.
But the man who operated the car in which Steve Cronin rode upstairs carried an automatic beneath his trim uniform, and had any strange gangster tried to go up to Savoli’s apartment, he would have encountered unexpected resistance.
Nick Savoli did not occupy the entire building. The other tenants of the Escadrille were wealthy persons who knew very little about the man who lived on the fourth floor.
Every one used the elevator; the only stairs were those that led through fire tower. It was impossible to reach the fourth floor except by elevator, as the fire tower exits were barred from the inside.
Steve Cronin slouched against the side of the elevator as he rode upward. The operator cast an admiring glance in his direction. He envied Steve’s position in gangland.
Cronin made frequent visits to the home of the big shot, and there were few gangsters to whom Nick Savoli granted that privilege.
The elevator stopped at the fourth floor. Steve Cronin stepped out, and stood before an iron grille. Beyond the ornamental device was a small antechamber.
The gangster pressed a push button. A stalwart Italian servant appeared. He recognized Cronin and unfastened the locked gate.
Cronin passed through the gate and entered a room on the right. Huge shelves of bookcases decorated the walls. The handsomely bound volumes showed no signs of having ever been removed from their resting places.
Cronin seated himself in a large leather chair. He took a cigarette from a stand, and lighted it. Leaning back comfortably, he puffed in an insolent manner, and threw out his chest with an air of self-satisfaction.
A DOOR opened at the far end of the library, and two men entered. Both were dressed in tuxedos. One was short, and heavy set. The other was tall, and slightly stoop-shouldered. The short man walked across the room, and approached Steve Cronin. The gangster waved his hand in greeting.
“Hello, Nick,” he said.
The short man nodded. No smile appeared on his dark-visaged face — a face that seemed rough despite the fact that it was smooth-shaven. This man sat in a chair near Cronin, and looked intently at the gangster.