“Yes.”
“Killing is my business. It was not business the other night.”
Savoli looked at Borrango. The enforcer stroked his chin. He had received the cue to take over the conversation.
“We have some business for you,” he said. “It will lead to more. What do you say to that?”
Monk Thurman looked at Nick Savoli, entirely ignoring Mike Borrango.
“One thousand dollars a week,” said Savoli.
THE New Yorker retained his expressionless calm. Savoli had expected that the offer would meet with an instant acceptance; but in this he was mistaken. Thurman scarcely seemed to be giving it consideration.
“That’s without any conditions,” put in Borrango. “Do things your own way, just so long as you tip us off so we can fix the alibis.”
“Will you take it?” demanded Savoli.
“Yes,” said Monk Thurman, after a momentary pause.
“Good,” responded Savoli. “Tell him what comes first, Mike. He’ll be glad to hear it.”
“We’re working with you,” said the enforcer. “We’ve got a good job for you as a starter. We want you to bump off those two troublemakers, Schultz and Spirak — the same two that you got rid of in Marmosa’s place.”
Monk Thurman was not looking at Borrango, and the enforcer became annoyed. He stepped forward to attract Monk’s attention, to divert his gaze from the face of Nick Savoli.
Thurman turned his head, and looked behind Borrango, at the very spot where the enforcer had been before he stepped forward. Borrango hastily moved backward, and leaned against the bookcase again. He showed signs of nervousness, and Nick Savoli glared at him in disapproval.
Having gained Monk Thurman’s attention, Borrango managed to assume some of his usual calm.
“Let me give you the low-down, Monk,” he said, in a confidential tone. “We want peace here in Chicago. We want it if we have to kill to get it.
“There’s a fellow named Larrigan who thinks he is a big shot. He’s all right himself, but he has a bad crowd working for him. Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak will do anything to make trouble. With them out of the way, Larrigan will fall in line.
“You helped us out the other night. We’ve got to protect guys like Marmosa. We’ve got an excuse now to put Schultz and Spirak on the spot. You’re the man to do it. Those two boys are sore at you. They’re out to get you — if you don’t get them first.”
“That’s right,” put in Savoli.
“So we’re making you a fair proposition. Get them before they get you. We’ll square it for you, and we’ll pay you one grand a week while you’re working on them.”
“Where will I find Schultz and Spirak?” asked Monk Thurman calmly.
“They hang out on the South Side,” said Borrango eagerly. “Larrigan owns a saloon there, and they’re in and out all the time. But that’s a tough spot to get them. Maybe one at a time would be the best way — “
“Leave it to Monk,” said Savoli.
The New York gangster arose.
“I’ll take care of them,” he said.
Mike Borrango quickly pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. He peeled off ten one-hundred-dollar notes and then stepped forward toward Monk Thurman. The gunman took the money in a careless manner, and thrust it in his trousers pocket.
Then he withdrew it, as an afterthought, and held it in his left hand while he reached in his coat pocket with his right. He brought out a huge roll of bills that was twice as large as the wad of money carried by Borrango.
He spread out the roll, and displayed a mass of notes of one-thousand-dollar denomination. He thrust the ten one-hundred-dollar bills into the center of the wad, and replaced the cash in his pocket.
“I’ll get hold of Al Vacchi if I want anything else,” he said to Nick Savoli.
The New York gangster did not even nod toward Mike Borrango. He turned on his heel and left the room, leaving two astounded men behind him.
Borrango’s face showed amazement; but Savoli retained his semblance of calm.
“We gave him one grand,” said Savoli, with a short laugh. “And he had more than a hundred grand on him.”
“He is the man we need,” observed Borrango.
“Yes?” There was a trace of sarcasm in the big shot’s voice. “You think so, Mike? He is the man we need to watch! That is what I think.”
“Why?”
“Because he thinks he is too big. These men who bluster and talk — like Steve Cronin — they are useful because they are easy to control. But he — “
Nick Savoli shook his head, and then smiled slightly. He was thinking carefully, scheming in the way that had brought him to his high position as the dominating force of gangdom. A plan had occurred to him, and he gave only an inkling of it to Mike Borrango.
“He will be useful to us, Mike,” he said. “Useful while we need him, and then — “
The big shot raised his forefinger and poked it into Borrango’s side, in semblance of a gangster’s handling of an automatic.
Then he turned and left the library, with the enforcer at his heels.
THE door to the fire escape was at the end of the elevator hall. It was a large door, covered with sheet metal. The door began to move slightly, as though some one was working on it, from the fire tower.
Then it opened outward, and a tall, slim, black-clad form slipped through the doorway. With long, noiseless strides, the unexpected visitor moved to the iron gate.
This man was inconspicuous in the dimly lighted hall. Hidden beneath his black cloak, his face concealed by the turned-down brim of a soft black hat, he seemed like some monstrous bat.
Only his fingers were in view; long, tapering fingers that held a sharp-pointed instrument. The formidable lock clicked beneath his hands. He opened the iron gate, and entered the antechamber, closing the grilled barrier behind him.
The library door was unlocked. The man in black entered the large room. He trod silently over the thick rug, and slipped into a chair.
He was the third man to occupy that seat. First, Steve Cronin had been there; then the famous Monk Thurman.
This third man was a more sinister figure than either of the others. He seemed to become lifeless as he sat there, almost as though expecting the entrance of Nick Savoli and Mike Borrango.
But neither of those personages put in their appearance. At that particular moment, they were in Savoli’s denlike office, discussing a personality whom they had never seen — The Shadow.
They had not yet asked Monk Thurman what he knew about The Shadow. In fact, they were speculating just where The Shadow might be; and the last place that they would have suspected was Savoli’s own library!
The man in black seemed in no hurry to leave his chair in the silent room. Instead, he looked about him, and his gaze fell upon the spot so often chosen by Mike Borrango as a favorite standing place.
Rising, the sable-clad man walked to the bookcase, and ran one white hand along the lowest row of leather-bound volumes.
He noticed one book that was the fraction of an inch farther out upon the shelf. He removed the volume and inserted his hand in the space it had left.
A moment later there was a slight click. The bookcase swung outward, revealing a small room, with a passageway beyond.
The man in black replaced the volume, entered the tiny room, and partially closed the bookcase behind him.
The passage led to a circular stairway. The man went down the dark spiral and reached a wall at the bottom. Here his tapering fingers showed white amid the gloom, as he sought for a hidden spring. At last the wall swung outward to his touch, and he stood in a small apartment on the third floor.
The place was furnished, but it showed no sign of occupancy. There were two spring locks on the door that led to the elevator hallway.