AFTER a conversation by telephone with Marmosa, Mike Borrango was elated. He hung up the receiver and turned to his chief.
“Vincent is from New York,” he announced. “Borrango got him through a fellow named Barutti — a man who runs an Italian restaurant there.
“Vincent came to town just before this trouble started. He isn’t a gangster. He’s just the type man that would be used by this gentleman crook called The Shadow.”
Nick Savoli nodded.
“Perhaps,” suggested Borrango, “he may be The Shadow. The fellow has to stay somewhere — “
“We can check on that easily enough,” answered Savoli. “Marmosa can tell us where Vincent has been during the past few nights. But I do not think he is The Shadow.”
“He appears to be watching Genara and Anelmo.”
“Yes. He’s watching them for The Shadow. He is so open in his methods that he can suspect nothing. Very well. We will deal with him to-morrow night,” said Savoli.
“You mean — “
“Let Genara and Anelmo take him.”
“I shall speak to them to-morrow,” said Borrango. “But how about our other man — Monk Thurman?”
Savoli shook his head.
“Let him work in his own way,” he said. “He would not work well with Genara and Anelmo. If Monk comes here, hold him in readiness. That is all.”
“And Steve Cronin?”
“Leave him out of it. He has done his share. Tell our two Sicilians to do a neat job. Fix it with Marmosa, so Vincent will suspect nothing.”
“Right,” agreed the enforcer.
“But remember this,” added the big shot, “Genara and Anelmo must not act too quickly. Let them report here by telephone after they have captured their man.”
“I understand,” said Mike Borrango.
The enforcer’s words concluded the discussion.
After Borrango had departed, Nick Savoli indulged in a grim smile. He plucked his chewed cigar from his mouth, and threw it from the half-opened window.
“To-morrow night,” he muttered, in a satisfied tone. “To-morrow night, we will strike.”
The big shot seemed sure that his henchmen would be capable of swinging a powerful counterstroke against that mysterious being who called himself The Shadow.
CHAPTER XX
SAVOLI STRIKES
ON the following evening, Harry Vincent was unusually alert as he entered Marmosa’s place. He realized that affairs were coming to a head.
His work was cut out for him. Harry had his instructions to watch the two Sicilians, the Homicide Twins. This infamous pair, drawing pay from Nick Savoli, were equal to a hundred hoodlums in the big shot’s opinion.
Genara and Anelmo came in early. As usual, they took their post in a quiet corner, appearing quite indifferent to those about them.
There were few players that night; the usual gathering of regulars. Yet there was one man who commanded Harry’s attention.
Somber, gray-haired, neatly dressed, he somehow seemed to be out of his element. Yet there was nothing conspicuous about him — unless it was the intentness with which he followed the path of the small white ball waltzing around the roulette wheel. Harry noticed that the stranger lost steadily.
Every now and then, the gray-haired man quit the table. He walked about the room, as though to change his luck. Always, however, he came to a halt near the corner where Anelmo and Genara were standing.
The Homicide Twins spoke to each other in low-pitched Italian. Evidently they saw nothing marked in the stranger’s occasional nearness, for they continued their conversation. The gray-haired man was obviously an American; the chances were he couldn’t understand Italian, anyhow.
Harry idly wondered as he saw the stranger return to battle with the spinning wheel. Then his speculations were cut short. The Homicide Twins were casually making for the door.
Harry discreetly waited a few moments, then followed. On the balcony he saw the twins earnestly talking to Steve Cronin.
As Harry approached the trio, Anelmo and Genara nodded as one man, and sauntered off toward the street door.
“Where is Mr. Marmosa?” Harry asked Cronin.
“He’s not in the office,” Cronin replied. “I was just there. Why do you want him? What’s up?”
“Nothing special,” said Harry. “Just want to check up on a new player. Guess he’s O.K., but I want to make sure.”
This, of course, was just a pretext. What Harry really wanted was to keep an eye on the Sicilians, and to report to The Shadow from an outside telephone. He had a hunch it was no longer safe to use the booth in Marmosa’s place.
“Stay here, then,” said Cronin. “Maybe I can find him.”
A FEW minutes later, Cronin returned with the proprietor.
“What’s the matter, Vincent?” inquired Marmosa. Cronin went into the gambling room.
“Just wanted to check up,” said Harry. “There’s a gray-headed fellow inside. Not quite sure of him. I think I saw him once before — “
“The guy who lays a few bets, then quits, and exercises between innings?”
Harry nodded, grinning.
“He’s O.K.,” said Marmosa. “He’s been in a couple times. Colliver, the advertising man, introduced him. Don’t worry about him.”
Harry put on a look of relief. “Well, if he’s all right, everything’s all right,” he advanced. “Guess I can step out for a few minutes, then. I wanted to change my room over at the hotel. O.K.?”
“Sure thing, Vincent,” said Marmosa. “But come into the office first. You can do something for me while you’re out.”
The proprietor led the way. Within the small room, he drew an envelope from the desk drawer.
“Take this to the bootblack shop down the alley,” Marmosa directed. “First alley down the street; halfway up the block on the right. Be sure you give it to the boss. Just ask for Angelo.”
Harry took the envelope, thrusting it into his pocket, and left. He would drop off the envelope first, then cut through the alley to his hotel.
Probably the envelope held hush money for some cop. Harry understood that Marmosa paid various police officers for protection.
The bootblack’s was not hard to find. It was the only lighted place along the length of the dark, sinister alley. Moreover, it was more brightly illuminated than is usual for bootblack parlors.
A stubby, swarthy man came to the door, and admitted that he was Angelo. His bright, piercing eyes took in Harry’s features.
Feeling a strange uneasiness, Harry delivered the envelope and left hurriedly.
BEFORE he had gone a dozen strides, two men abruptly emerged from the darkness. Harry was about to shout, but felt the muzzle of a revolver digging into his side.
“Keep moving!” The command came in a harsh tone, tinged with an Italian accent. Harry shuddered. The two words had been sufficient for him to recognize the voice of John Genara.
On the other side of Harry, the second man pressed closely. That would be Anelmo.
Harry Vincent was in the company of the Homicide Twins!
He decided there was nothing to do at the moment except to obey the killers. Moving at a brisk gait, the captors and their prisoner reached the end of the alley.
A few passers-by chanced to be on the opposite side of the street, but Harry was not so impatient for death as to risk crying out. He had no alternative save to play the game of the Homicide Twins.
A large sedan parked beside the curb. Roughly, Harry was shoved into its front seat.
Anelmo took the wheel beside the prisoner. Genara ducked into the back seat, with his automatic at the ready.
As they drove along busy thoroughfares, Harry Vincent endured that mental anguish that has gripped many gangsters. He was being taken for a ride; a one-way ride, from which there could be no turning back.