Neither Savoli nor Borrango explained this. They wanted Steve Cronin to fear for his own safety; to thank them for the alibi which they had provided. So they remained as motionless and as expressionless as pieces of statuary, while they watched the emotions that Cronin betrayed.
They knew that he had been momentarily amazed by the boldness of his mission; but they had also anticipated that his pride in his own prowess would dominate his actions.
In this they were not disappointed. Steve Cronin arose from his chair, pushed his cigarette stump into the ash tray, and swaggered toward the door. There he stopped, extended his arms, and snapped his fingers.
“Morris Clarendon,” he said, with a short laugh. “What does he mean? They’re all alike to me. Guess they’re all the same to McGinnis, too. Where are we going to knock him off?”
“McGinnis will tell you that,” said Savoli.
“O.K.,” answered Steve Cronin. “Is that all?”
“That’s all,” said Savoli.
Cronin waved his hand in farewell and left the room, rang for the elevator and went downstairs.
“Wait a minute, Steve,” said the operator, as they reached the ground floor. “Stay right here a minute.”
He went to the front door, and peered in both directions, along the street. Then he returned.
“What’s up, kid?” questioned Cronin.
“Nothing, I guess,” replied the operator. “Just wanted to make sure. A little while ago I went outside — just after I took you up. Went to the front door to smoke a cigarette. Thought I saw a guy slide up to the edge of the building.”
“What did he look like?”
“I couldn’t see. I wasn’t even sure it was a man. Looked like somebody slipping into the shadow alongside of the entrance. I went out to look around. Didn’t see anybody. But I just wanted to be sure it wasn’t any one watching you.”
“All right, kid,” said Cronin. “Guess you’d better lay off this stuff they call good liquor. Nobody’s worrying about me. I’m not doing anything.”
He left the apartment house, and as he went out of the door, he glanced at the shadowy spot mentioned by the elevator operator. It was only a small dark place near the entrance, and Steve Cronin laughed as he saw it.
Had Steve Cronin been less intent in his consideration of machine guns, and his plans for the night, he might have looked behind him as he walked along the street. But even if he had looked behind him, he probably would have seen nothing.
For the form which moved from the spot of blackness beside the entrance to the Escadrille Apartments was scarcely more than a shadowy blot. It emerged before Cronin had gone more than thirty feet. It flitted across the entrance, then disappeared again.
The shadowy blot had the form of a man’s silhouette, yet no person was visible against the wall. Then the moving blackness disappeared, and was lost in the night.
Still, it followed Steve Cronin, and always remained the same distance behind him. For every time the gangster passed beneath the bright lights of a street corner, the moving shadow became visible as it flitted swiftly after him.
CHAPTER IX
MESSENGERS OF DEATH
STEVE CRONIN followed a round-about path to the cigar store that was run by Georgie Sommers. The time had not yet arrived for his prospective alibi but he realized that it was advisable for him to utilize discretion during every stage of this night’s venture. In fact, he probably would not have been summoned to Nick Savoli’s apartment, but for the fact that he had been a frequent visitor there during the past few weeks.
The cigar store was located on a side street at the edge of the Loop. Cronin entered the place and was pleased to observe that it was virtually deserted. Georgie Sommers, a rotund man who looked like an ex-bartender, stood behind the counter in his shirt sleeves, and waved his hand in greeting when the gunman arrived.
“Hello, Georgie,” said Steve Cronin. “Not many of the boys here tonight. Checking business getting slow?”
“Not a bit of it,” replied Sommers. “They’ve all been here and gone.”
“I’m kind of late, eh? Well, I’m not going anywhere for a while. How about a game of cards, Georgie? Anything doing?”
Sommers looked at Cronin rather skeptically. He had not been told whom to expect. He wanted to be sure that the gangster was the right man.
Sommers knew that Cronin was well established with both Savoli and Borrango. Nevertheless he believed in being careful.
“A game of cards, eh?” he questioned.
“You said it, Georgie,” answered Cronin. “Any of the bunch upstairs now?”
The cigar-store owner shook his head. Then he seemed to gain a sudden thought.
“Say, Steve,” he remarked, in a confidential tone. “I’ve got a girl friend who would like to meet you. She’s coming over here in a little while. How about coming upstairs until she arrives? Maybe we can play cards — and maybe — “
He paused and made the motion of lifting a glass to his lips. The action brought a grin to Cronin’s face.
“Good stuff, Georgie?”
“The best there is, Steve. I don’t peddle it. Just keep a little for my friends. Came over the border last week.”
“O.K. with me, Georgie.”
The cigar man opened the back door of the room and called upstairs. A young clerk came down, and Sommers ordered him to take charge of the shop.
Then he led Steve Cronin up the stairs, to a room where the blinds were drawn. He brought out a bottle and two glasses.
WHILE the two men were engaged in conversation, a slight incident occurred in the cigar store below.
A man staggered into the place and ordered a pack of cigarettes. He found fault with the brand that was given to him, and began an argument with the clerk.
The clerk went to the show case behind the counter to obtain the cigarettes required. When he turned around, he was surprised to see that the man had left. There was no one else in the store at the time.
The clerk decided that his customer had walked out. So he forgot all about the matter.
Had the clerk been watching the customer, he would have been surprised by the man’s actions. For the stranger had not left the store.
The moment that the clerk had turned, he had moved noiselessly to the back of the store and had slipped through the door to the stairway.
Once behind the door, the man strode rapidly up the stairs. Yet he moved with catlike stealth. He paused outside the half-opened door of the room where Georgie Sommers and Steve Cronin were conversing. The cigar-store owner was giving instructions to the gangster.
“Walk across the hall, Steve,” he was saying, “and go down the back stairs. You’ll find a door leading out on the alley. Come in the same way. It has a trick lock. Pull out the knob before you turn it.”
“All right, Georgie,” replied Cronin.
“You’ll find me here when you get back,” added Sommers. “Don’t lose any time. The sooner you’re here, the better.”
The gangster did not reply. He apparently decided that the sooner he started the better it would be. He opened the door of the room, and as he did so, the man in the hallway merged suddenly with the shadowy wall.
The door opened outward. There was a small space in back of it, and the man was lost in that narrow hiding place.
Steve Cronin found the back stairs, and groped his way down through the darkness. He stumbled once or twice, and made some noise despite his carefulness, for the stairs were rough and winding.
The man who followed him made no noise. He moved silently, as though possessed of eyesight that could see through the darkness.
Steve Cronin opened the back door and closed it behind him. He had not gone more than thirty feet along the alley before the door again opened, just far enough to allow passage for the form of a tall, thin man.