There were reasons why he did not want a man who was nursing a vengeance. He was not anxious to embroil himself in a feud on account of Tim Waldron’s death. Still, he wanted to know more.
“Why did Marsland knock off Waldron?” he questioned.
“Don’t ask me,” responded Shires.
“Was he trying to muscle in on Waldron’s racket?”
“Nope. Waldron had that racket by the ears. He was the big noise, and he was making a go of it.”
“Maybe this guy Marsland thinks he can take it over?”
“Marsland?” Shires was contemptuous. “Him? He just came out of the Big House. All he did last night was queer the racket for good. You’ve seen the newspapers, ain’t you?”
Killer Durgan shook his head. His action was a silent lie. He had read all about the death of Tim Waldron, but he wanted to hear the version Shires had to offer.
Ernie Shires leaned forward as he spoke: “Waldron was running a storage-warehouse racket. The suckers began to squawk. Told the coppers and all that, but Waldron had things fixed well enough so they didn’t try to hang anything on him.
“But last night, Cliff Marsland comes along and bumps him off. That would’ve been all right, maybe, but Waldron had a bunch of gorillas checking up on Marsland. They was in the hallway outside of Waldron’s rooms, when the shots was fired.
“They tried to give Marsland the works. Instead, he cleans ‘em and makes a get-away. There was just one guy in that gang that was a real pal of Waldron’s. That was Hymie Bergerman.
“He comes in just as one of his own gang pulls a gat and tries to plug Marsland. Hymie gets the lead by accident. His own guy knocks him off. That made a mess of things.
“There was so much shooting going on around the Spartan Hotel that the coppers had to come in. Everything was haywire, with Tim and Hymie out of the picture.
“The coppers find everything up in Tim’s room — papers, accounts and all that — showing that he was the big guy in the storage racket.
“Some smart dick gets a lot of dope on the situation. He spills the whole lay, and all the tabs have been mooching around. Now it’s all over the front pages, and the whole racket has gone blooey!”
“Blooey, eh?” Killer Durgan laughed. “That guy Waldron had a lot to learn! Thought he was a big shot!
“The way he was running that racket, he must have thought Santa Claus was in with him! Go on!”
“That’s all there is to it!”
“That’s all, eh? Where did you come in? I thought you said something about handling jobs for Waldron!”
Ernie Shires licked his lips thoughtfully. He suspected that Killer Durgan knew more than he had pretended.
Durgan was a big racketeer. It was probable that his ignorance was feigned. Shires wondered if Durgan had heard of the fiasco in which he had figured. He decided to sound him out.
“I pulled a lot of jobs for Waldron,” he said. “I was doing one last night — about the time when Waldron was bumped off.”
“Yeah?” Durgan seemed inquisitive. “Tell me about it!”
“There was six of us,” explained Shires. “Held up a van belonging to a storage guy named Brooks. We was there to slug the driver and smash up the stuff.”
“Did you do it?” There was a sharpness in Durgan’s question.
“Well — no,” admitted Shires. “There was a car dogging the van. A guy pumped us with a rod that had a silencer on it. We plugged back at him; then we had to beat it.”
“You had to beat it!” retorted Durgan contemptuously. “You — not the gorillas you had with you! I read part of the newspapers, anyway.
“Those guys were nabbed by the coppers. That helped to put the skids under Waldron’s racket. That was the beginning.” Durgan laughed.
“That was the beginning,” he repeated, “and you have the nerve to come around here and want me to take you on! One grand a week, you were getting? No wonder Tim Waldron went blooey!”
A LESS hardened mobster than Ernie Shires would have quailed beneath Killer Durgan’s contempt. But Shires was no ordinary gangster.
“One grand a week!” said Shires slowly. “That’s what I was getting from Waldron — and I’m worth that to you, Durgan! Get me? You want to know why? I’ll tell you!”
He waited a few moments for Durgan to wonder at his words; then:
“You think I fell down on the job last night,” he said. “That’s what they all think — although they don’t know who I was. The coppers don’t know that one guy — that’s me — got away.
“There’s been no squeals from the gorillas. There ain’t nobody that knows who was there — that is, nobody that’s going to talk. I just told you, because I’ve got something else to say.
“I know who queered that job. And it wasn’t the cops or anybody connected with the cops! It was some one else and I know who!”
Killer Durgan looked sharply at him, the cold sneer lurking at his mouth corners. But his eyes gleamed with interest.
“All right, wise guy. Who was it? Some bird that had it in for Waldron?”
Shires flipped a cigarette from a pack and lighted it before answering. “Sure, a guy that had it in for Waldron! And maybe the guy put it up to Marsland to get Waldron. A guy who has it in for you, too! And maybe he’ll get you, the same way.
“He’s got it in for you and every bird running a racket in this town! And I’m the baby that knows the lay! Get me?”
Shires let the smoke dribble from his nostrils. “A grand a week, Durgan,” he suggested softly. “Is it worth it to you — to keep on living?”
Killer Durgan became thoughtful. He had a crafty, cunning brain. His contempt was feigned; his sneers only pretense. He had a sense of perception that Tim Waldron had lacked.
He was sizing up Ernie Shires, reading him as one reads a book. He knew that Shires was quick-witted and as observant as himself. And he wanted to know what Shires knew.
“One grand a week,” Durgan repeated slowly. “Well, you might be worth it at that, working for me. If you spill what you know!”
Ernie Shires grinned. He had a revelation to make, and he was sure he had built up Durgan’s interest.
“You want the name of the guy who busted up Waldron’s racket?” he asked. “You want to be sure that he’s big enough to give you trouble, too? That he’s one hell of a sight more dangerous than the cops? Is that it?”
Durgan nodded slowly. “And your job is to fix him so he won’t make trouble — unless it’s trouble to the morgue keeper. I’ll back you with plenty dough, with anything from pea-shooters to pineapples. If you need real gorillas — not cripples like Waldron had — I’ve got them, too!”
“I’ll need ‘em all right,” retorted Shires. “I’ll need ‘em because I know who we’re up against! But even he can be handled, and I’m the guy who can do it. Probably the only guy in this burg who has the brains and the guts to run the scheme through.
“Say, Durgan, it’ll be worth more than a grand a week when I bring this guy to you — harmless as a dead toad!” Shires laughed. “Why, from now on his life isn’t worth a Mex nickel — if I’m helping you!”
Durgan nodded, then jerked erect, startled at Shires’s next words.
“Because the guy that’s making all the trouble is” — Ernie Shires paused impressively before he added the name — “The Shadow!”
SHIRES stared at Durgan closely. For a moment he anticipated that his statement would be received with the same contempt that Tim Waldron had exhibited.
But when Shires had figured Durgan as a man of cunning, he had not missed his mark. The evil-faced racketeer was sober.
“The Shadow!” he repeated.
Ernie Shires nodded.
“You’re sure of it?” questioned Durgan seriously.