“You get The Shadow,” interposed Savoli. “Then we will forget last night.”
Steve Cronin arose.
“Well,” he said bitterly, “you fellows know best. I don’t know where you’re going to get a guy that will take Steve Cronin’s place, though. Perhaps-”
He caught himself. As he turned away he failed to see the knowing expression that appeared on the faces of both the other men.
“So long, Mike. So long, Nick.” Cronin was hasty in making his farewell. “I’ll be at Marmosa’s tonight.”
He left the apartment. When the door had closed behind Steve Cronin, Mike Borrango laughed, and Nick Savoli grinned.
“You know what he was thinking, Mike?” questioned the big shot, in Italian.
“Of course,” responded the enforcer. “He knows who we’re going to get in his place — Monk Thurman.”
“Has Al Vacchi got hold of Thurman, yet?”
“I think he has, by this time. He traced back to find out what Eddie Heeny was doing, the day before he was killed. I think he’s located the man that introduced Monk Thurman to Heeny.”
Both men were silent for a few moments. Savoli chewed on his cigar; Borrango still leaned against the bookcase.
“The Shadow,” said Borrango softly. “What do you think of Cronin’s story?”
“It’s straight,” commented Savoli. “That fellow Cronin has nerve, even though he does bluster.”
“You are right. Yet he weakened when he talked about The Shadow. Why do you think The Shadow is here?”
“I do not know. We must learn more about him. We must prepare to meet him. We have dealt with the police. We can handle the mobs. But this Shadow — what is he?”
The telephone bell rang in the corner. Mike Borrango answered it, and a trace of interest lightened his face. He began to speak in Italian, and Nick Savoli listened intently to the enforcer’s words.
“It is you, Vacchi?” questioned Borrango. “What — now? Good! Right away. We are waiting. Send him here at once.”
He laid down the telephone.
“Al Vacchi has located Monk Thurman,” he said. “He is sending him up here right away. Perhaps — ” he became suddenly thoughtful.
“Perhaps?” questioned Savoli.
“Perhaps Thurman can tell us of The Shadow,” said Borrango. “He comes from New York. We will question him.”
“Good,” agreed Savoli. “But we have other work for him to do first. We must test him.”
Borrango nodded. Savoli arose from his chair and the two men left the library.
“Perhaps Monk Thurman can tell us,” Borrango spoke in an undertone as he walked along. “Perhaps he knows who The Shadow is. Perhaps” — he smiled as though the thought pleased him greatly — “perhaps Monk Thurman is the one who can put The Shadow on the spot!”
CHAPTER XII
SAVOLI HAS VISITORS
HALF an hour after Steve Cronin’s departure, a tall man entered the Escadrille Apartments. He walked directly to the elevator, and stepped inside.
The operator surveyed him curiously. The man was a stranger to him, and in all his contact with mobsters, the elevator operator had never seen a man like this one.
He stared at the masklike face, with the steely eyes, and wondered who this visitor might be.
“Fourth floor,” the man announced.
The operator hesitated. He had been told that a visitor was coming to Savoli’s, and had been ordered to bring him up. Yet there was something about the appearance of this unusual man that perplexed him.
“I said the fourth floor.”
The voice was harsh and grating. It was a command. The operator closed the door, and the elevator sped upward.
Outside the iron grating, the newcomer waited. He did not ring the bell immediately. Instead, he studied the heavy barrier, from its spiked top to its reinforced bottom, and his eyes surveyed the strong lock that held the grating shut.
After a full minute, the man rang the bell. The attendant appeared on the other side.
“Monk Thurman,” said the visitor.
The Italian opened the door to admit the New York gangster. He ushered Thurman into the library. The tall man took the same chair that Steve Cronin had occupied.
He looked slowly and deliberately around the entire room. His eyes noted the shelves of untouched books. Then his gaze was turned toward the window, at an angle in front of him, and he stared out toward the lake, with eyes that seemed unseeing.
The door opened at the other end of the library, and Savoli entered with Borrango. Still the visitor did not turn his gaze in their direction.
They approached and took their usual places, Savoli in the large armchair, Borrango against the bookcase. They exchanged glances as they surveyed Monk Thurman. Finally the man with the masklike face seemed to become aware of their presence. He looked from one to the other.
“You are Monk Thurman?” questioned Borrango, as the gangster’s eyes turned toward him.
“Yes,” came the cold, rasping voice.
“I am Mike Borrango,” said the enforcer. He waved his hand toward his chief. “This is Nick Savoli.”
Monk Thurman slowly turned his head and stared at the king of all Chicago. Nick Savoli returned the gaze, and the two men looked at one another steadily.
Both were expressionless, but Savoli’s hardened stare was more than matched by the unflinching features of Monk Thurman.
There was no further effort at introduction. Evidently Monk Thurman was awaiting an explanation from the others. This fact created a great impression upon both Savoli and Borrango.
Most gangsters were either awed or enthusiastic when they first entered the presence of the big fellow. They either wanted to shake hands with Savoli, or awaited some greeting from him. But Monk Thurman did neither. He did not even ask a question. He seemed to take it for granted that Savoli had something to say to him; otherwise he would not have come to this place.
IT was not Savoli’s habit to speak first. So Borrango broke the ice with his suave voice.
Strangely enough, Monk Thurman did not look at the speaker. He still focused his gaze upon Nick Savoli, as though he understood that Borrango was merely the mouthpiece of the big shot.
“We have heard that you did good work at Marmosa’s place,” said Borrango. “I thought that you might like to meet Nick Savoli.”
Monk Thurman turned his eyes toward Borrango, as if he did not understand the significance of the enforcer’s words.
“At Marmosa’s,” repeated the enforcer. “The gambling joint. Two nights ago.”
The New Yorker nodded as though he now understood.
“I remember now,” he said. “They had some trouble, while I was there.”
“Marmosa is a friend of ours,” said Borrango smoothly. “He suggested that you might be interested in some work here in Chicago. He did not say why you were here.”
The enforcer paused, to give Monk a chance to state his business in Chicago. The New York gunman stared at Borrango, then condescended to make an explanation.
“A vacation,” he said. “That’s all.”
“It’s not a healthy spot for a vacation,” observed Nick Savoli.
“No?” queried Monk Thurman. He raised his eyebrows as he spoke. “I have found it very healthy.”
Savoli shrugged his shoulders. Borrango was about to speak, but his chief silenced him with a gesture, and a word in Italian.
“Look here, Monk.” Savoli’s words were direct. “We can use a good man right here. We know plenty about you. You did a nice job two nights ago. We can give you some better ones. But tell me this. Why did you let those two gorillas off so easily?”
“You mean why didn’t I kill them?”