He suddenly pressed the trigger of his automatic. One of the gangsters had tried to draw a rod. The bullet from Thurman’s gun grazed the man’s knuckles.
Then the tall New Yorker leisurely brought out his other automatic and backed against the door. He pushed it open, and slipped out into the night.
“Don’t let him get away!” shouted the bartender.
Three men leaped to the door, drawing their guns as they advanced. They were sure that Monk Thurman would be fleeing down the street, and they were eager for the pursuit.
But as the first man crossed the threshold, there was a pistol shot outside. The gangster dropped with a bullet in his shoulder, and the two that followed him stopped suddenly.
“Go get him!” cried the bartender.
“Nothing doing,” growled one of the mobsmen. “Leave him to Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak. They’ll tail him until they get him.”
A policeman poked his head into the saloon. He looked cautiously around. It was his duty to report any disturbance on Larrigan’s premises, but experience had taught him that discretion was advisable.
“Any trouble, boys?” he asked pleasantly.
“Naw,” replied the bartender. “Some smart gorilla just fired a couple shots and beat it. Don’t know where he is now. Guess he’s a mile away by this time.”
The bartender’s estimate of distance was exaggerated. At that particular moment, Monk Thurman was strolling leisurely along the street, less than a block away. He hailed a taxicab, and ordered the driver to take him to a large hotel in the Loop.
IT was several hours later when the New York gunman again appeared in a realm where gangsters presided. It was after midnight when he walked into Marmosa’s Cafe, and strode up the steps to the gambling den. A man rose from a table at the top of the stairs. It was Steve Cronin, now on his new job.
“Where you going?” he demanded.
“In the gambling joint,” responded Monk.
Cronin stared at the man closely.
“Aren’t you Monk Thurman?” he asked.
“That’s my name.”
“I’m Steve Cronin. Maybe you heard of me in New York.”
“Can’t say that I have. What brought you out here?”
“The coppers were after me.”
“Oh!” Monk Thurman’s voice was contemptuous. “The coppers never get after the guys I run with. We go after the coppers. I’m out of your class, fellow.”
He turned on his heel, and walked toward the entrance to the gambling den. Steve Cronin thrust his hand to his pocket and gripped the handle of an automatic. Then he thought better, and restrained himself.
Monk Thurman entered the gambling den unmolested. He saw Joe le Blanc and Harry Vincent in one corner, and nodded his head in greeting. Then he observed the Homicide Twins, and walked over to them.
“So you’re the fellows that moved out the other night, eh?” he said. “Lucky for you I was around here. When you have any more trouble, just give me a call. You’ll find me here.”
He handed a card to Anelmo. The Sicilian glowered as he received it.
“Who’s the tough guy you got outside?” questioned Monk. “Cronin? Is that his name? He was going to pull a gat on me.
“Well, that makes three of them out to get me. I hear that Schultz and Spirak are tailing me. Maybe I’ll have to call on you two to help me out. Maybe — not!”
HE turned away, apparently indifferent to the anger that appeared on the faces of the hot-blooded Sicilians. Then he spied Frank Marmosa, and shook hands with the proprietor of the gambling den.
“Smart guy, eh?” hissed Genara, to Anelmo.
The other man responded in Italian. The two carried on a low-voiced conversation.
“Do you remember what I said last night?” asked Anelmo.
“Yes, but I said to wait.”
“We have waited long enough.”
Monk Thurman’s remarks had hit home. Genara and Anelmo were men who brooked no ridicule. The fact that Monk Thurman had openly declared to them that others were already trailing him was all they wanted to know.
They knew that Thurman’s position with Marmosa rendered him invulnerable while in the gambling den. They realized that the New York gunman was already being sought by Nick Savoli, who wanted him as a killer.
“It may be too late to-morrow,” observed Anelmo, as he watched Monk.
“I agree,” replied Genara.
At two o’clock, Al Vacchi arrived at Marmosa’s place, ready to collect the big fellow’s share of the receipts. Vacchi was a short, bald-headed Italian, who greeted every one with a broad smile. The Homicide Twins watched him sullenly as he shook hands enthusiastically with Monk Thurman.
“There is no reason to be here longer,” whispered Anelmo.
“Come,” replied Genara.
The Sicilians left the gambling den, which was now protected by Al Vacchi and his bodyguard.
Steve Cronin was no longer at the head of the stairs. He had evidently left at the time Vacchi had arrived.
“Remember the days when we were banditti?” asked Anelmo.
Genara nodded. He and his companion had been the most notorious of all outlaws in Italy, prior to their importation to Chicago. Often had they lain together in ambush, awaiting the arrival of wealthy travelers.
“Tonight,” said Anelmo, “we shall lay another ambush!”
CHAPTER XIV
MONK TAKES CREDIT
SHORTLY after three o’clock, two men alighted from a taxicab some distance from the Loop. They stood together near the wall of a building, and one pointed out a four-story apartment house down the street.
“That’s the place,” he said. “It must be the back apartment.”
“You’ve figured the lay, I guess, Hymie,” his companion replied gruffly. “There’s only one thing I’m worrying about. Maybe this guy is all set for us.”
“Him? Not a bit of it. Anyway, there’s two of us.”
“Maybe he’s got somebody with him.”
“He hasn’t any pals here in Chicago — “
“He’s a fast shooter, Hymie. Maybe he’ll make trouble for us.”
“He can’t fire two ways at once. Listen, Spirak. Here’s the way we’ll get him. I know that old apartment house. I can pick the lock of the front door in one minute. The back is a cinch, too. If you can’t get in the door, it’s easy to smash in the window of the kitchenette.”
“Which will we try?”
“I’ll take the front, and you take the back. You sneak in, and if you see him, plug him. I’ll go slow, but if I run into him, I’ll give him the works. But come in fast if you hear shooting. It may be him, you know.”
Four-gun Spirak nodded.
“It’s all right if you say so,” he said. “But I’d rather wait and take this gorilla for a ride. It would be a cinch later on.”
“Maybe,” replied Hymie Schultz, “and maybe not. I figure it this way, Spirak. The quicker we get him, the better. There’s no cops around this place, even though gorillas used to live in that apartment house. We can finish this mug and then clear out.”
They separated as they arrived at the apartment house. But just before they parted, Schultz gave a last admonition to his companion.
“If he isn’t in, we wait for him.”
“O.K., Hymie. It will be soft for us then.”
FOUR-GUN SPIRAK slowly crept up the steps that led to the back door of the second-floor apartment. He pulled a skeleton key from his pocket and inserted it in the keyhole of the door.
He stopped to listen. He had made more noise than he had anticipated. Yet he was quickly reassured. There was no sound from within. If Thurman was in the apartment, he was probably unaware of Spirak’s approach.