“I thought, for a few minutes, that your proposition was phony; but that would be ridiculous. I’m out of the racket now. I’m going to play straight. I don’t know who your boss is; but you have plenty of confidence in him. I’m glad I was on the level with you.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Louie ought to be here by now,” he said. “You go downstairs first, with your bag. Get in the car. If you see any one prowling around, come back as though you forgot something.
“If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come along in a few minutes. Leave the door of the car half open.”
Fellows nodded. He picked up his bag and left the penthouse. When he reached the street, the insurance broker saw Prescott’s limousine standing in front of the building. The chauffeur was in the front seat.
Prescott had sent the car to bring Fellows to his home; hence the observant insurance broker recognized the car immediately.
Fellows opened the back door and entered. He closed the door and peered through the window, up and down the street. He saw no one. Then, to his surprise, the car began to move.
It started suddenly and Fellows lurched back into the seat. His outstretched hand struck a human form. There, beside him, was a man, trussed with rope and gagged.
THE car stopped around the corner, just as Fellows turned on the light in the rear. So intent was the insurance broker that he did not realize the car was no longer in motion.
For the light had revealed the features of the bound man, and Fellows looked upon Louie, Prescott’s chauffeur!
“What’s the big idea?”
The voice came from the front seat. Fellows looked into the face of the man who had taken the chauffeur’s place. The speaker had the ugly countenance of a professional thug.
“How did you get in here?” he demanded, still glaring angrily at Fellows.
Before the insurance broker could reply, he was startled by a volley of revolver shots.
The sound came from around the corner, back at the entrance where the car had been standing.
“Come on!” ordered the driver. “Scram out of this car before — “
Fellows needed no urging. He knew instinctively that murder was under way. He leaped to the street and dashed back around the corner.
A car was pulling away from the curb. A body was lying on the sidewalk.
Fellows ran toward the fallen man. Shots hit the paving beside him. The men in the fleeing car had seen his action, and had fired as their car turned the corner.
Fellows ducked into the entrance; then, realizing that the danger had passed, he hurried toward the man who lay on the sidewalk.
“Dead!” he exclaimed, as he lifted the man’s shoulders. The form was limp and lifeless.
The head dropped back as Fellows raised the body. The light from the front of the building fell directly on the face. A gasp of horror came from the lips of the insurance broker.
The murdered man was Horace Prescott!
CHAPTER II
FELLOWS SPEAKS
A SMALL group of men stood about the spot where Horace Prescott’s body lay. Three uniformed policemen were on duty, ordering the passers-by to keep moving. Another gang killing was sufficient to draw a crowd — even in Chicago.
A few plain-clothes men were on the scene. The only other privileged individuals were two or three men who had eluded the vigilance of the policemen, and who were standing in the background.
The detectives were watching five persons who were temporarily under their charge.
One was Claude Fellows; with him were two men who had witnessed the shooting from a distance. The others were Togo and Louie.
The Japanese servant had come downstairs with Horace Prescott. He had heard the shots as he was returning to the elevator.
Louie had been found in the automobile by the policemen. Fellows had led them there. The car had been abandoned.
A police car drove up and two men made their exit. One was Police Captain Julius Weaver. The other was Barney Higgins, assistant detective commissioner. He was well known as an investigator of gangsters.
The detectives became suddenly alert when their superiors appeared. They had been instructed to await the arrival of Weaver and Higgins, both of whom were at police headquarters when the news of the killing had reached there.
Barney Higgins looked at the body on the sidewalk. He turned to Weaver and nodded his head.
“They got Prescott, all right,” he said. “He had it coming to him, I guess. I knew he was in the racket — but I didn’t think he was in deep enough for this.”
HIGGINS began a quick inspection of the scene. Satisfied with his observations, he rejoined the police captain. Orders were given for the removal of the body.
The detective commissioner approached the group of men near the detectives.
“These two was witnesses,” explained a detective. “This one” — he pointed to Fellows — “was upstairs with the guy that was killed. He came down and got in the car. They ran him around the corner and told him to scram.”
Higgins stared at Fellows for a moment; then turned back to the detective.
“This man” — the detective indicated Louie — “was the chauffeur. They had him tied up in the car.”
“Landed on me the minute I arrived,” volunteered Louie.
“What did they look like?” questioned Higgins.
“Dunno,” answered Louie promptly. “Couldn’t see ‘em in the dark.”
Higgins looked at him as though he doubted that the chauffeur was telling all he knew. Then he turned to study Togo.
“Jap servant,” he was informed by the detective. “Came downstairs with the guy that was bumped off — “
“Bring them down to headquarters,” ordered Higgins. “No — wait a minute.”
He looked at Claude Fellows.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Claude H. Fellows,” came the response.
“Business?”
“Insurance broker from New York.”
“Did you see the shooting?”
“No. I was in the car. The man in the front seat drove me around the corner.”
“What did he look like?”
“About medium height, I should judge,” replied Fellows thoughtfully. “Dark complexion, and an ugly face. He looked like a gunman.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Yes.”
Higgins studied Fellows carefully.
“What do you know about Prescott?” he questioned suddenly.
Fellows was ready with an answer.
“I knew that he was expecting this,” returned Fellows calmly. “I met him through a friend and found that he was anxious to leave the city. He told me why.”
“Because?”
“Because of his gang connections. He gave me all the important facts concerning them.”
Higgins looked at the police captain and caught an approving nod.
“Come along with me,” said the detective commissioner. “You can tell me your story when we get to headquarters.”
Claude Fellows smiled. He had no reason to keep anything from the police. He did not know, however, what use they would make of any information that he might give them.
Higgins appeared to have considerable knowledge of Prescott’s connections. Yet Fellows was sure that he possessed vital facts which would be news to Higgins.
A YOUNG man stepped up and waved a greeting to the assistant commissioner. It was Jerry Kirklyn, reporter for a Chicago daily.
“Hello, Barney,” said the reporter. “What’s the dope on this? Looks like some mob has social aspirations, when it comes to killings. Got a story for me?”
“Later, Jerry,” said the assistant commissioner. “See me down at headquarters, after I interview the witnesses.”