Cronin laughed, as he looked at the Sicilian killer.
“You think so?” he questioned. “Well, maybe I hear some things that may be useful to you.”
“What, for instance?” asked Anelmo.
“I hear a lot of talk about a smart guy from New York,” observed Cronin. “A fellow that thinks he’s some gorilla. Calls himself Monk Thurman.”
Both Genara and Anelmo expressed interest. Cronin had scored his first point.
Despite his drunken condition, he realized that the Homicide Twins were quite as interested as himself when it came to considering the progress of Monk Thurman in Chicago.
“I hear he tried to make you boys look cheap,” said Cronin boldly.
“What’s that to you?” broke in Anelmo.
“Plenty,” said Steve Cronin. “He’s after my job. Trying to get in right with the big shot.”
There was a gleam of understanding in Tony Anelmo’s eye. He smiled in an ugly manner.
Both he and Genara had no love for Monk Thurman after last night’s proceedings. They would rather have seen Schultz and Spirak successful in their attempted holdup of Marmosa’s, than have another gunman do their work as Thurman had done.
“Ha,” said Anelmo softly. “So this man Monk is smart with you, too, eh? What has he done to you, Steve?”
“Nothing — yet. He’s just laying low. Ready to take my place if I slip a bit. I don’t like guys like him. They’re better off in New York, or — “
He did not complete the sentence, but the suggestion was understood. Anelmo glanced at Genara, and the other Sicilian understood his companion’s thought.
It would be a mistake to put Monk Thurman on the spot unless several persons were gunning for him. Steve Cronin’s expression of enmity was a stepping-stone to the action that the Homicide Twins craved.
AS Cronin stepped away for a moment, Anelmo put his idea to Genara, in whispered words.
“Those other two,” he said in Italian. “Schultz and Spirak. They might fix this man called Monk. Here is another who might do the same. What if you and I — “
“Wait,” replied Genara significantly.
Cronin came back to where the two men were standing.
“Who’s that fellow?” he asked, indicating Harry Vincent.
“New man here,” replied Anelmo. “Name is Vincent. Takes place of Joe le Blanc.”
“He looks like a guy I bumped off, once,” remarked Cronin. “Whenever I bump off one, I like to bump off any that look like him.”
Cronin was right in his recognition of Harry Vincent. He had encountered that young man once before, and had tried to murder him. It was only by a fortunate chance that Harry had escaped the death intended.
But now Cronin suddenly regretted his last statement. He sought a pretext to cover up the remark that he had just made to Genara and Anelmo, and he chose the first thought that came to mind.
“Last night the first time he was here?” he asked. “This new guy Vincent, I mean?”
Anelmo nodded.
“Huh,” grunted Cronin. “He comes in the same night as Monk Thurman and those other two birds. Looks funny, don’t it? Who’s he working with — Thurman or Larrigan’s gang?”
The chance suggestion reached its mark. Anelmo looked at Genara, and the latter nodded. Cronin caught the exchange of signs.
“Good guy to watch,” he said. “Keep your eyes on him, boys. Meanwhile, I’ll be looking for Monk.”
He half staggered across the room, and grasped Kitty Boland by the arm.
“Come on, kid,” he said. “It’s getting late. I’m taking you home.”
At the door, Steve Cronin bumped against Harry Vincent. When Vincent turned, the gangster looked at him closely.
For an instant an expression of surprise came over Harry’s features; but Cronin was too intoxicated to detect it. Then the gangster and the girl left the gambling den.
“Steve Cronin,” murmured Harry. “Here in Chicago. He’s a bad actor, that fellow, and I have a score to settle with him. I’m going to watch him if he comes around here often.”
The thought of watching Steve Cronin remained in Harry’s mind long after the gangster had left. In fact, it so dominated his thoughts that he paid no attention to Genara and Anelmo, who stood quietly in their inconspicuous corner.
Had Harry noticed them, he might have forgotten Steve Cronin for the time. For while he was thinking of watching Cronin, he himself was being watched by the Homicide Twins.
But none of them were watching the players gathered at the roulette wheels. They paid no attention whatever to a quiet, gray-haired gentleman who was playing large stakes and winning constantly, much to the annoyance of the croupier.
The man had seen Steve Cronin enter and leave; he had caught the glances exchanged between Genara and Anelmo; he had observed Harry Vincent’s recognition of Steve Cronin.
Yet he remained silent, and did not speak. At times he laughed so softly that his mocking tones were heard by no one but himself.
CHAPTER XI
SAVOLl MAKES PLANS
STEVE CRONIN was in the Escadrille Apartments the following afternoon, making his report to the big shot.
Savoli was in his accustomed chair. Borrango assumed his usual position against the bookcase. They waited for Cronin to explain.
“Ran into some tough luck, last night,” he said, in an apologetic tone. “Things didn’t turn out the way we expected.”
Nick Savoli did not make a comment, but Mike Borrango furnished the reply.
“McGinnis was here this morning,” he said. “He tells us that some one slipped in the car with you. How did he get there?”
“How should I know?” retorted Steve Cronin. “McGinnis was running things. The car was empty when I got in. I didn’t see any one climb aboard.”
“No?” Savoli’s voice caused the interruption. “Well, it looks like funny business to me. It never happened to McGinnis or Brodie before. They passed the buck to you. I’m tired of hearing this ‘I-don’t-know’ stuff.”
“Let me make this plain, Cronin,” said Borrango smoothly. “Brodie only knows that some fellow got in back with you. McGinnis tells us that some one cracked him with a rod.
“It don’t sound right. There’s no gorilla that works that way. It couldn’t have been a copper. Who was it?”
Steve Cronin realized that he was under partial suspicion. After all, it was up to him to make an explanation. He was the odd man on last night’s expedition.
He had hesitated to give his own opinion, not because he doubted the existence of The Shadow, but because he was afraid that Savoli and Borrango would not believe him. But now he saw a chance to tell a convincing story.
He glanced back and forth from Savoli to Borrango before he spoke.
“I don’t know how the man got in the car,” he said slowly, “but I do know who he was — and why he acted the way he did.”
A slight trace of surprise flickered momentarily across the features of Nick Savoli. Then the mob master resumed his accustomed calm.
Mike Borrango stepped forward a few paces; then returned to the bookcase and adopted the attitude of indifference assumed by his chief.
Steve Cronin moistened his lips. He realized that he had made an impression, and he intended to increase it.
“There’s only one man who could have done what that fellow did,” he said; “only one man who would have acted the way he did. I know — because I met him once before. Maybe you have heard of him; maybe you haven’t. But I know he is real — because I have seen him.”
The gangster paused, and continued his quick, alert glancing from Savoli to Borrango.”
“Who is this man?” questioned the enforcer.
“I don’t know what his real name is,” replied Cronin. “But I know what they call him. That man in the car last night was The Shadow!”