“A good fellow, this Monk,” observed Savoli, as he sat in the privacy of his den. “Two at one time. Quick. Right away. Leaves nothing behind him.”
“They can’t convict him if they do catch him,” responded Borrango. “The only evidence they’ve got is that he was there.”
“Right, Mike,” replied the big shot. “But better than that — Larrigan can’t trace this back to us.”
“What about Monk?”
“He will show up here. Later.”
“We’ve got to be careful about that.”
“Yes. Leave it to him. He understands.”
WHAT had become of Monk Thurman?
That question still perplexed gangdom on the second day after Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak had been placed on the spot in the New Yorker’s apartment.
The disappearance of a reputed killer was not an unusual event, so far as the police were concerned; but it was something new to the men of the underworld. The only fact that accounted for the evanishment of Monk was his lack of gang connections in Chicago.
Very few mobsmen knew him. Two of them — Schultz and Spirak — were dead. Two others — Genara and Anelmo — were laying low for reasons of their own. They still had hopes and intentions of putting Monk on the spot, but they were waiting to see what might develop.
The right man to get Monk Thurman was Mike Larrigan. It would be poor business for two of Savoli’s killers to interfere too quickly.
Even Nick Savoli was somewhat puzzled by Monk’s disappearance, yet he was also pleased.
CHAPTER XV
THE SHADOW HEARS
A NEW tenant moved into the Escadrille Apartments the morning after Schultz and Spirak had been killed. He was an advertising man from Boston, named Howard Blake.
Like all new tenants, he paid a large rental for his small furnished apartment. There were no cut prices at the Escadrille. Nick Savoli believed that the place should be kept exclusive.
The name of every new tenant was turned over to Mike Borrango, who checked up on the applicant. Borrango learned that Howard Blake was a wealthy man who intended to expand his business by opening an office in the Middle West.
Blake had chosen an apartment on the third floor. He was immediately listed by the men on duty downstairs.
None of those who lived in the apartment house realized the surveillance that existed. In fact, none of them knew that Nick Savoli lived there regularly.
It was understood that he owned the apartment house, and that he had the entire fourth floor; but he never appeared openly. He was generally supposed to be somewhere else.
Late in the afternoon of the second day following the killing of Schultz and Spirak, an unexpected visitor arrived at the Escadrille. This man was recognized immediately by the elevator operator, and the fellow whistled to himself, when he realized the consequences that might result from this visit.
For the man who entered the lobby was none other than Mike Larrigan, himself. There was no mistaking him. A huge, tall Irishman, whose freckled face bore a hardened, determined expression, and whose reddish hair showed beneath the slouch hat that he wore. That was Mike Larrigan.
Where he appeared, trouble brewed. Yet it was the first time that Larrigan had ever called upon Nick Savoli in the Escadrille Apartments. Intrepid though he was, the big Irishman had never dared to invade the camp of his avowed enemy.
But to-day it was different. Larrigan had been approached several times by Mike Borrango, who had met him as an emissary of peace. He had received telephone calls from Borrango. He had been assured that Savoli desired friendship.
Even after the raid that Hymie Schultz and Four-gun Spirak had made upon Marmosa’s gambling place, Borrango had called Larrigan and had repeated promises of good things for all if peace should be arranged.
In fact, the enforcer had gone so far as to offer his services in Larrigan’s behalf if the Irishman should desire it.
“If there’s anything that isn’t just right,” Borrango had said, “let me know about it. Come and see me. I’m your friend. Nick is your friend.”
MIKE LARRIGAN was not subtle. Yet he could recognize those who were. There was something about Borrango’s invitation that had placed him on the defensive.
He had an idea that a man could go into Savoli’s apartment and not come out. He likened the entrance of the Escadrille to a one-way street that had no ending.
He had expected some sudden attack from the Savoli gangsters. Now it had come. Mike Larrigan visualized purpose behind the murders of his two lieutenants, Schultz and Spirak.
At the same time he had decided to play a hunch.
Until now, Nick Savoli had had cause to want Mike Larrigan eliminated from the field of Chicago’s gangland. But now conditions were reversed.
Larrigan had a grievance against the big shot, assuming of course that Savoli had ordered the deaths of Schultz and Spirak. The big Irishman had become suddenly shrewd. He was positive that Nick Savoli would not reveal his hidden hand by another outrage. It was the psychological time for Larrigan to pay a visit.
Not that Mike Larrigan understood psychology. He believed in hunches, that was all; and this time he was sure he had a hunch.
He had come to the Escadrille accompanied by several henchmen, who were even now scattered about the avenue outside. They were watching him go in; they were to wait for him to come out. So when Mike Larrigan entered the elevator, he calmly told the operator that his destination was the fourth floor.
The operator excused himself for a moment and went to a telephone in the lobby. He talked in an undertone. He waited for a reply. Larrigan glowered at him from the elevator. At last the operator hung up the receiver, and returned.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You can go up.”
Larrigan became immediately suspicious; but now it was too late. The door of the elevator had closed, and they were speeding upward.
MIKE BORRANGO was a diplomat. He had the happy faculty of meeting other gangsters in the way they liked. He knew the fellowship that existed among the members of Larrigan’s clan, and he adopted that method of greeting.
He hurried across the room in advance of Savoli, and shook hands warmly with the visitor. Perhaps there was a hidden method in his actions; if so, Larrigan did not suspect it.
Had the Irishman been carrying concealed deadly weapons, with thoughts of ending the checkered career of Nick Savoli, he would have had no opportunity to do so while engaged in shaking hands with Borrango.
Savoli approached while Borrango was still beside Larrigan. He, too, acted with a friendliness that impressed the independent gang leader. The big shot motioned his visitor to a chair, and before Larrigan realized it, he and Savoli were engaged in conversation, with Borrango, his back to the bookcase, beaming upon both of them.
“They kept you waiting downstairs?” questioned Savoli, as though concerned. “That is not right. I shall change that. I have told them to send up my friends, always. I am sorry, very sorry.”
“That’s all right, Nick,” replied Larrigan gruffly. “You can’t take chances, any more than I can. There’s been times when things weren’t right between us — “
“That’s all talk, Mike,” interposed Borrango. “You haven’t met Nick often enough — that’s all. He’s a good friend of yours — always has been.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say — “
Borrango again interrupted Larrigan’s doubtful statement.
“You know how I feel, Mike,” said the enforcer. “There’s a lot of Italians who don’t like Irishmen, and a lot of Irishmen who don’t like Italians. But that doesn’t go for us. You and Nick are big shots! Don’t forget that!”