Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 005 - Gangdom's Doom

GANGDOM'S DOOM

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. AN INTERRUPTED FLIGHT

? CHAPTER II. FELLOWS SPEAKS

? CHAPTER III. A VISITOR TO CHICAGO

? CHAPTER IV. GANGSTERS MEET

? CHAPTER V. GUNS BARK

? CHAPTER VI. AT THE GRAY MILL

? CHAPTER VII. PLANS ARE MADE

? CHAPTER VIII. SAVOLI GIVES ORDERS

? CHAPTER IX. MESSENGERS OF DEATH

? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW SPEAKS

? CHAPTER XI. SAVOLl MAKES PLANS

? CHAPTER XII. SAVOLI HAS VISITORS

? CHAPTER XIII. MONK LOOKS FOR TROUBLE

? CHAPTER XIV. MONK TAKES CREDIT

? CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW HEARS

? CHAPTER XVI. THE PEACE DINNER

? CHAPTER XVII. ENTER THE SHADOW

? CHAPTER XVIII. MONK THURMAN RETURNS

? CHAPTER XIX. VINCENT RECEIVES A MESSAGE

? CHAPTER XX. SAVOLI STRIKES

? CHAPTER XXI. MONK THURMAN SUGGESTS

? CHAPTER XXII. THE SHADOW STRIKES AGAIN

? CHAPTER XXIII. LARRIGAN IS SATISFIED

? CHAPTER XXIV. THE PLOT AGAINST SAVOLI

? CHAPTER XXV. LARRIGAN SWEARS VENGEANCE

? CHAPTER XXVI. GANG WAR

? CHAPTER XXVII. MOB RULE ENDS

CHAPTER I. AN INTERRUPTED FLIGHT

TWO MEN sat facing each other in a luxurious penthouse atop one of the Boulevard's newer apartment

houses. One was pale and nervous. His face twitched as he puffed his cigar with great rapidity. His

companion was a sharp contrast. Short, chubby-faced, and calm, he bore the air of a man who seldom

became perturbed.

The roar of Chicago's night traffic seemed far away, yet it disturbed the nervous man. He threw his cigar

in an ash stand, and walked to the window. He drew the curtains aside with caution and stared toward

the twinkling lights of the Loop. Then he turned to face his companion.

"I'm through with it, Fellows," he said, "I'm through. I want to get out— if I can. But there's no getting out

of this—"

He swept his hand toward the window, to indicate the city below. His eyes were pleading as he stared at

the quiet-faced man in the chair.

Fellows was thoughtful for a few moments; then he spoke with deliberation.

"How soon do you expect trouble, Prescott?" he asked.

"Soon," was the reply. "Very soon!"

"To-night?"

"No. I think I can count on a few days of grace. But after that—"

Prescott began to pound one palm with the fist of his other hand. His haggard face showed signs of long,

uninterrupted strain. He was nearing the breaking point. With an effort, he regained control of himself and

sat down on the edge of a chair.

"Fellows," he said, "I've talked too much. I did it to cover up. I thought that if I acted wise, as though I'd

been checking up on gang stuff as a hobby, no one would ever suspect that Horace Prescott was in the

racket, himself.

"It worked all right until I became foolish. It was when I began to play with rival gangs that they figured I

was giving them the double cross.

"Now I'm slated to be put on the spot. On the spot, Fellows! You know what that means!"

The other man interrupted.

"Outside of Chicago—" he began.

"It's all the same," replied Prescott. "They'll follow me anywhere. They'll get me!"

"Outside of Chicago," repeated Fellows insistently, "you will be safe. I promised you that you would be

protected, once you were clear of this city.

"You have done your part. You have given me the information I needed. You have had contact with both

Pete Varona and Mike Larrigan."

"Yes," agreed Prescott, "I know how those gangs work. I've seen too much of them"—there was

bitterness in his voice—"and when I said that the big shot, Nick Savoli, can be reached through Pete

Varona, I meant it. Pete's in with the big shot, all right."

"You are right when you say that you talked too much," resumed Fellows quietly. "At the same time, your

future safety lies in that very fact.

"I represent a man, Prescott, who is more powerful than any of these gangsters!"

"Not in Chicago," objected Prescott.

"Not in Chicago," agreed Fellows. "Not here, at present. But later" - his voice was prophetic—"the

situation may be different."

HORACE PRESCOTT seemed somewhat reassured by the quiet manner of his visitor. He looked at

Fellows inquiringly, hoping that the man would tell him more.

"The man I mentioned," said Fellows, "has been planning a most astonishing campaign. Even I, his agent,

do not know its details.

"I know only that it concerns the present situation here in Chicago; that gangdom is about to learn the

power of this man. I came here as a confidential investigator. I learned of you through Clyde Johnston."

"He knows a lot about me," observed Prescott. "Johnston is a good friend of mine.

"I've told you my racket—selling booze to society and to exclusive clubs. The cops never bothered me. I

was a society man, with a good income that came from an inheritance. That's partly correct. Only, I've

been making lots more by running bootleg liquor than I have from clipping coupons."

"My instructions," Fellows spoke again, "were to make contact with a man of your type.

"I am an insurance broker by profession. My clients are men of means. It was easy for me to learn who

was active in selling liquor to wealthy customers. In talking with Johnston, I discovered that you had

admitted to him that you were in difficulties."

Prescott nodded.

"Johnston doesn't buy liquor," he said. "He gave me plenty of advice when he found out that I was in the

racket. Old friend, you know. Thinking of my welfare. Told me to get out of the dirty game. I told him

that I couldn't."

"Yes," said Fellows, "he was very apprehensive about you. He told me all he knew about you when I

suggested that I might find some way of helping you. He called you on the telephone when I was in his

office. Hence our interview to-night."

"I've played square, haven't I?" asked Prescott pleadingly. "I told you everything, didn't I? If you want me

to write down all the details -"

"There's no need for it," said Fellows dryly. "I have an excellent memory. I shall make out my report

later.

"The real task now is to get you clear of Chicago. In New York, you will be safe."

"In New York!" exclaimed Prescott, in sudden alarm. "Why, there's gangsters there who work hand in

glove with these Chicago mobs—"

"That is true," interposed Fellows, "but the man whose instructions I follow is also in New York. He will

see that you are free from harm.

"You are willing to quit the racket. You have told all you know. In return, you will be sent to safety."

The chubby-faced man drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Horace Prescott.

"This envelope contains a ticket to New York," he said, "with reservations on the eleven-thirty train,

Michigan Central. You leave to-night.

"In New York, register, under my name—Claude H. Fellows—at the Metrolite Hotel. You will receive

immediate instructions from my patron."

"Are you going with me?"

"No. I have a ticket for Omaha, Nebraska. I have certain business there.

"Remember, Prescott, that I am an insurance broker. I travel considerably. I brought my bag with me

tonight. You will accompany me as though you were simply going to the station. But our routes will be in

opposite directions.

"Those who follow me will be on a false trail. Yet after you have dropped off at the Michigan Central

station, there will be no clew other than myself."

A look of satisfaction appeared upon Horace Prescott's face. He had trusted this man because he was in

an uncomfortable situation. He believed everything that Fellows had told him.

Now he felt assured that to-night would be his opportunity to elude the threats that hung above him.

PRESCOTT pushed a button on the wall. A Japanese servant entered. Prescott was about to speak to

him when a sound came from the street. It was the loud back-fire of a motor.

Prescott leaped to his feet and was halfway across the room before he could restrain himself. He

regained his composure with effort. Traces of alarm still remained upon his face. He had mistaken the

noise for a revolver shot.

"Togo," he said to the servant, "Mr. Fellows is leaving in ten minutes I shall drive to the station with him.

Tell Louie to have the car ready immediately."

The servant left to telephone the garage. Prescott looked at his watch. He lighted a panatella and puffed

nervously, then threw the cigar away.

"I'm trusting you, Fellows," he blurted suddenly. "I know your proposition is on the level. If these rats

wanted to put me out of the way, they wouldn't use any complicated plan to do it.

"I thought, for a few minutes, that your proposition was phony; but that would be ridiculous. I'm out of

the racket now. I'm going to play straight. I don't know who your boss is; but you have plenty of

confidence in him. I'm glad I was on the level with you."

He glanced at his watch.

"Louie ought to be here by now," he said. "You go downstairs first, with your bag. Get in the car. If you

see any one prowling around, come back as though you forgot something.

"If I don't hear from you, I'll come along in a few minutes. Leave the door of the car half open."

Fellows nodded. He picked up his bag and left the penthouse. When he reached the street, the insurance

broker saw Prescott's limousine standing in front of the building. The chauffeur was in the front seat.

Prescott had sent the car to bring Fellows to his home; hence the observant insurance broker recognized

the car immediately.

Fellows opened the back door and entered. He closed the door and peered through the window, up and

down the street. He saw no one. Then, to his surprise, the car began to move.

It started suddenly and Fellows lurched back into the seat. His outstretched hand struck a human form.

There, beside him, was a man, trussed with rope and gagged.

THE car stopped around the corner, just as Fellows turned on the light in the rear. So intent was the

insurance broker that he did not realize the car was no longer in motion.

For the light had revealed the features of the bound man, and Fellows looked upon Louie, Prescott's

chauffeur!

"What's the big idea?"

The voice came from the front seat. Fellows looked into the face of the man who had taken the

chauffeur's place. The speaker had the ugly countenance of a professional thug.

"How did you get in here?" he demanded, still glaring angrily at Fellows.

Before the insurance broker could reply, he was startled by a volley of revolver shots.

The sound came from around the corner, back at the entrance where the car had been standing.

"Come on!" ordered the driver. "Scram out of this car before—"

Fellows needed no urging. He knew instinctively that murder was under way. He leaped to the street and

dashed back around the corner.

A car was pulling away from the curb. A body was lying on the sidewalk.

Fellows ran toward the fallen man. Shots hit the paving beside him. The men in the fleeing car had seen

his action, and had fired as their car turned the corner.

Fellows ducked into the entrance; then, realizing that the danger had passed, he hurried toward the man

who lay on the sidewalk.

"Dead!" he exclaimed, as he lifted the man's shoulders. The form was limp and lifeless.

The head dropped back as Fellows raised the body. The light from the front of the building fell directly

on the face. A gasp of horror came from the lips of the insurance broker.

The murdered man was Horace Prescott!

CHAPTER II. FELLOWS SPEAKS

A SMALL group of men stood about the spot where Horace Prescott's body lay. Three uniformed

policemen were on duty, ordering the passers-by to keep moving. Another gang killing was sufficient to

draw a crowd—even in Chicago.

A few plain-clothes men were on the scene. The only other privileged individuals were two or three men

who had eluded the vigilance of the policemen, and who were standing in the background.

The detectives were watching five persons who were temporarily under their charge.

One was Claude Fellows; with him were two men who had witnessed the shooting from a distance. The

others were Togo and Louie.

The Japanese servant had come downstairs with Horace Prescott. He had heard the shots as he was

returning to the elevator.

Louie had been found in the automobile by the policemen. Fellows had led them there. The car had been

abandoned.

A police car drove up and two men made their exit. One was Police Captain Julius Weaver. The other

was Barney Higgins, assistant detective commissioner. He was well known as an investigator of

gangsters.

The detectives became suddenly alert when their superiors appeared. They had been instructed to await

the arrival of Weaver and Higgins, both of whom were at police headquarters when the news of the

killing had reached there.

Barney Higgins looked at the body on the sidewalk. He turned to Weaver and nodded his head.

"They got Prescott, all right," he said. "He had it coming to him, I guess. I knew he was in the

racket—but I didn't think he was in deep enough for this."

HIGGINS began a quick inspection of the scene. Satisfied with his observations, he rejoined the police

captain. Orders were given for the removal of the body.

The detective commissioner approached the group of men near the detectives.

"These two was witnesses," explained a detective. "This one"—he pointed to Fellows—"was upstairs

with the guy that was killed. He came down and got in the car. They ran him around the corner and told

him to scram."

Higgins stared at Fellows for a moment; then turned back to the detective.

"This man"—the detective indicated Louie—"was the chauffeur. They had him tied up in the car."

"Landed on me the minute I arrived," volunteered Louie.

"What did they look like?" questioned Higgins.

"Dunno," answered Louie promptly. "Couldn't see 'em in the dark."

Higgins looked at him as though he doubted that the chauffeur was telling all he knew. Then he turned to

study Togo.

"Jap servant," he was informed by the detective. "Came downstairs with the guy that was bumped off—"

"Bring them down to headquarters," ordered Higgins. "No—wait a minute."

He looked at Claude Fellows.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Claude H. Fellows," came the response.

"Business?"

"Insurance broker from New York."

"Did you see the shooting?"

"No. I was in the car. The man in the front seat drove me around the corner."

"What did he look like?"

"About medium height, I should judge," replied Fellows thoughtfully. "Dark complexion, and an ugly face.

He looked like a gunman."

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Yes."

Higgins studied Fellows carefully.

"What do you know about Prescott?" he questioned suddenly.

Fellows was ready with an answer.

"I knew that he was expecting this," returned Fellows calmly. "I met him through a friend and found that

he was anxious to leave the city. He told me why."

"Because?"

"Because of his gang connections. He gave me all the important facts concerning them."

Higgins looked at the police captain and caught an approving nod.

"Come along with me," said the detective commissioner. "You can tell me your story when we get to

headquarters."

Claude Fellows smiled. He had no reason to keep anything from the police. He did not know, however,

what use they would make of any information that he might give them.

Higgins appeared to have considerable knowledge of Prescott's connections. Yet Fellows was sure that

he possessed vital facts which would be news to Higgins.

A YOUNG man stepped up and waved a greeting to the assistant commissioner. It was Jerry Kirklyn,

reporter for a Chicago daily.

"Hello, Barney," said the reporter. "What's the dope on this? Looks like some mob has social aspirations,

when it comes to killings. Got a story for me?"

"Later, Jerry," said the assistant commissioner. "See me down at headquarters, after I interview the

witnesses."

He drew the reporter to one side.

"Wait until this man Fellows testifies," he said. "We're going to get the real low-down on Prescott's

hook-up with the mobs. But lay off until then."

"The detectives tell me," said Kirklyn, "that Prescott pulled out a gun and fired back when three men fell

on him at the door of the lobby. He wounded one, they say. Is that right?"

Higgins questioned one of the detectives and received the man's affirmation.

"What about it?" questioned the reporter. "Can you trace the man through the hospitals?"

"You know better than that, Jerry," he said. "These gangsters have their own physicians. Don't you

remember the doctor they bumped off six months ago? He was a sawbones who was going to pull a

double cross.

"This gangster that Prescott wounded is on his way to some crooked medico right now."

Jerry Kirklyn eyed Claude Fellows curiously. He recognized that the chubby-faced man was not of

gangdom's realm. He was anxious for a statement, and he made a quick approach.

"You were with Prescott before he was killed?" he asked. "What do you know about him?"

"I know everything," replied Fellows. "He told me all his story before I left him. We were going to the

station in his car.

"I am willing to give the police a complete statement that will—"

"Not here," objected Higgins. "Come along to headquarters. You can tell me about yourself on the way

down." He turned to the reporter. "You see me later, Barney."

The assistant commissioner gripped the insurance broker's arm. He turned and drew Fellows toward the

curb.

There were a few hangers-on standing near by. One of them, a sallow-faced youth with a cigarette

hanging from his lips, looked sharply at Fellows as he passed. The insurance broker entered the police

car with the officers.

The man began to stroll away as the car moved from the curb. He turned the corner and walked rapidly

toward a drug store which had a telephone booth sign on the window.

IN the police car, the detective commissioner disregarded Claude Fellows for the moment. He spoke to

Captain Weaver.

"There'll be a stew over this," he said. "The newspapers have been saying it's time we stopped these

killings.

"Our policy of letting gunmen bump each other off is all right— until something like this happens. We've

got to get the man who did this.

"Prescott was phony himself—we can prove that. Still, he was a man known in society circles. He wasn't

a gorilla type."

Higgins turned to Fellows.

"When we get to headquarters," he said, "you can spill what you know. In the meantime, tell me

something about yourself. We can have your statement on Prescott later."

Fellows explained his presence in Chicago in a quiet, convincing way. He spoke of his insurance business

and the wealth of his usual clients.

He said nothing about his mysterious chief in New York.

"Prescott was in a tough spot," he declared. "He wanted me to help him out. We were going to the

station. I was to take the Northwestern for Omaha; he was to drop out and take the Michigan Central

for New York."

Higgins nodded. He interrupted with a few words addressed to the police captain.

"The orders to kill Prescott came from higher up," was his comment. "Larrigan may have done it. Varona

may have ordered it. If Varona is responsible, the instructions probably came from the big shot."

"Savoli?"

"Correct."

As Higgins turned to Fellows, the police car stopped suddenly. They were at headquarters.

Captain Weaver alighted and walked away from the car, leaving Higgins with Fellows. The assistant

commissioner followed with the insurance broker. Fellows was speaking as they moved along.

Fellows had been doing some thinking during the ride. He was ready to tell the police everything he knew

about Horace Prescott. It would be the opening shot in a drastic campaign against gangdom. Higgins

would be able to act with the startling information he would gain.

With it all, Fellows could easily avoid mention of his real purpose in visiting Prescott. Neither Togo nor

Louie knew anything of Prescott's revelations.

Prescott had satisfied Fellows on that point. His servants had been chosen to create respectability, not to

act as associates.

"I know who killed Prescott," said Fellows quietly, as he stepped along beside Higgins. "I can positively

name the men in back of it, and tell why they struck."

Higgins stopped and clutched the insurance broker's arm. Something in the statement impressed him.

"Wait until we're inside," he ordered. "I want Weaver to be in on this. I think you've got the dope.

Remember now, play square. If you do—"

The assistant commissioner turned suddenly. A large touring car was coasting silently toward the curb.

In an instant, Higgins realized the menace.

"Duck!" he shouted, as he released his hold on the arm of his companion. "Duck for cover!"

BEFORE Fellows could respond, the staccato rattle of a machine gun drowned the commissioner's

words.

Claude Fellows was the living target of the steel-jacketed bullets. Standing alone on the sidewalk, he

went down beneath the metal avalanche.

A gasp escaped his lips as he fell. It was the last sound he uttered in this life.

The motor of the touring car purred as the automobile swept away. In a few moments it was traveling at

reckless speed, disappearing around the corner before any could identify it.

Higgins had escaped the attack. He rose from the spot beside the steps where he had flung himself.

He knew that the killers had not desired his death; yet he also realized that his position with the police

force would not have deterred the slayers in their mad desire to blot out Claude Fellows. Only through

his prompt, intuitive action, had Barney Higgins evaded a similar end.

The assistant commissioner bent over the body of the murdered man. He saw in an instant that Fellows

had expired. The man's lips were half open. They seemed on the point of speaking; about to cry their

knowledge of gangdom's crooked ways.

Claude Fellows had been wiped out; and with him, the revelations had been suppressed. He had begun

to speak, and the powers of the underworld had silenced him.

"We'll never know," muttered Barney Higgins. "We'll never know what he was going to tell us. We know

who this man is—but that is all."

There was conviction in the commissioner's tone. He was amazed by this bold stroke of gangdom—the

killing of a man who was about to enter police headquarters, accompanied by an assistant commissioner.

Higgins wondered what secrets had perished with this murdered man.

Yet, he connected Claude Fellows only with Horace Prescott. Had he known of the greater secret which

Claude Fellows possessed, Higgins would have been completely bewildered.

For Claude Fellows had not mentioned his unknown employer in New York. Barney Higgins had no

inkling of the most important factor regarding Claude Fellows.

He did not even begin to suspect that the supposed insurance broker had been the confidential agent of

The Shadow—that strange, mysterious being, whose name was a word of terror to the denizens of New

York's underworld!

CHAPTER III. A VISITOR TO CHICAGO

Two days after the episode which had resulted in the death of Claude Fellows, a young man arrived in

Chicago, and appeared at a restaurant known as Marmosa's Cafe, in the Loop district.

It was afternoon, and the large restaurant was virtually deserted. A hawk-eyed waiter, standing at the top

of a stairway with gilded railings, spotted the new arrival, and approached to talk to him.

"What do you want, sir?" he asked.

"I came to see Mr. Marmosa," replied the young man.

"I will see if he is here," responded the waiter. "What is your name, sir?"

"Harry Vincent."

The waiter ascended the curving stairway, and disappeared when he reached the balcony. The man who

had introduced himself as Harry Vincent sat down at one of the tables, and studied the sumptuous

surroundings of the cafe, with both ground floor and balcony filled with tables and booths.

Vincent's thoughts were interrupted by the return of the waiter, who beckoned to him to come upstairs.

When they reached the top, the waiter turned abruptly to the left, and conducted Vincent to a partitioned

office, hidden behind a corner pillar of the balcony.

Entering the office, Vincent discovered a man seated at a desk. The office was very small—scarcely

more than a nook, and the man who occupied it seemed out of proportion to his surroundings.

He was heavy-set, and slightly bald. He weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, and the chair in

which he was sitting was almost invisible beneath his bulk.

"Ah!" The man's voice was suave, and melodious. "You are Mr. Vincent, eh? I am Mr.

Marmosa—Frank Marmosa. You have come here as I asked you, eh?"

"Yes. I received your wire yesterday afternoon."

"Sit down, Mr. Vincent. Let me talk to you. I am glad that you have come, and I think that you will like it

here."

Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 005 - Gangdom's Doom

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