Red Rohan was back. He found that prohibition had assured unlimited prosperity to his profession and he made the most of it. He found the liquor traffic blocked to the north by a gang lord, self-styled “Butcher” Lewis. Rohan assembled his hosts and marched on Lewis’ stronghold. The casualties proved heavy on both sides. Butcher Lewis was given an impressive funeral. Red Rohan called himself Czar and ruled the city.
On several occasions one or more of his lieutenants had sought to rebel. Their fate had been certain and swift. Outraged citizens demanded that the law do something about bringing their murderers to justice. The police had protested that no hint had been given as to the identity of the killers.
They were right. None had been given. But they knew. The press knew. The average man in the street could guess. But nothing was done. Czar Rohan’s position grew more and more secure as time went on. He was to find, however, that there were other rulers as powerful in their own backyard as he was in his. One of these had extended his control throughout a whole section of the country. He was called Scar Ferrini.
The wop was ten years younger than Czar Rohan but he was a shrewd ruler, as ruthless as he was shrewd. For Ferrini, Czar Rohan had had respect. So long as the wop did not encroach on his territory there was no reason to declare war. Rohan was content with his own wealth and power.
However, Scar Ferrini was different. His lust for power was never satisfied. His mob moved into Rohan’s town by ones and twos, under cover. It had taken two years and had been carefully figured out. It was the last big stronghold east of the Mississippi that Ferrini did not control. He had to have it.
When he thought his men firmly enough entrenched in Rohan’s realm, Ferrini himself moved east and sent an emissary to the Czar himself. That incident had convinced Czar Rohan that Ferrini was yellow. He sent the emissary back in a box with a declaration of war. And it had been war, bloody and ruthless.
Diamond Gavoni had been the twelfth of Ferrini’s men to die. The Czar had crossed nine guns off his payroll in accomplishing this slaughter. It had proven a bonanza era for undertakers. Ferrini, however, continued to wage a war of conquest. Other gangsters from his western strongholds trickled into town and filled the gaps in Ferrini’s ranks.
Czar Rohan had challenged the wop to stand up and battle, the winner to take all, but Ferrini was yellow. He kept to the waterfront in a huge brick building with barred windows and steel doors. Armed guards protected both entrances day and night. When the wop did go out he was followed by a big gorilla with guns in holsters slung under each arm.
Czar Rohan began to realize that Ferrini’s power was slowly but surely gobbling him up. His flow of liquor was tapped until the money that must be paid for protection began to loom up as an enormous sum. High police officials had been approached by Ferrini. His bids for the rights to liquor traffic were higher.
Czar Rohan was asked to ante accordingly. He found that there was no sentiment in business. He knew that these men higher up could have him snuffed out even quicker than his rival could. Czar Rohan paid, but he knew that his little empire was crumbling.
No, the Czar was not afraid to die. But he did not want Ferrini to live on and reap the fruits of his years of strife in his own town. He sat in his chair with his chin on his chest. His eyes were closed, deep ridges crossing his forehead. On the arms of his chair his hands were clenched in rigid, motionless fists. The Czar was no more than forty-five years old but as he sat there he seemed to age twenty years.
His mouth was a straight grim slash, his eyes sunk into dark caverns and, as he blinked the lids, blazed with unholy light. He was thinking fast. He knew that he could not get into Ferrini’s lair without being spotted by the wop’s henchmen. He would be filled with lead before he could get within a mile of Ferrini.
“God! I’ve got to do something!” Czar Rohan jumped up, cursing in desperation. “I’ve got to do something!” Time after time he paced up and down the room, hands gripped behind his back, muttering to himself. Three hours later he was still struggling with his problem. He was afraid to go to bed, haunted by the horrible thought that he might die in his sleep. It was nearly morning when he fell asleep in his chair, exhausted.
He was awakened at noon by one of his body guards. The man thrust a newspaper into his hands. Czar Rohan remembered the doctor’s warning and remained relaxed in his chair. The expression on the gunman’s face already had betrayed the fact that the news was bad.
“Chief! Fer God’s sake, ain’tcha gonna—? Why don’tcha read it?”
“Keep your shirt on, Pigeon,” answered Czar Rohan calmly. “I haven’t woke up yet.”
“Ferrini’s—”
“Shut up! I’ll read it for myself,” snapped the gang leader, slowly raising the newspaper. The gunman watched him intently, waiting for the usual snarl of rage that promised swift and deadly reprisal. It did not come. Instead Czar Rohan let the paper fall back into his lap and looked up at the perplexed gunman, his expression unchanged.
“So they got Carmody, Pigeon,” he said absently. “He must’ve got careless. Huh! Took him for a ride. Ferrini would do that. It’s safer.”
Czar Rohan’s eyes blazed. The gunman’s question froze on his lips.
“Sure! They’ll pay, Pigeon! But you’ll wait for orders like you’ve always done,” the gang leader snapped. “I’m still runnin’ this town.”
“Okay, chief.”
When the gunman had gone, Czar Rohan walked wearily to the window and stared out into the street. So they had got Carmody. Ferrini had not been slow to avenge Diamond Gavoni’s death. Carmody! The best man left under the Rohan banner.
It was at Carmody’s funeral that Czar Rohan and Scar Ferrini met each other for the first time. The friends of the deceased and their enemies had complied with the unwritten law of gangland and had attended the ceremony minus their rods. The wop, assured that his life was in no immediate danger, confronted the Czar.
“So you’re Rohan!” he sneered. “The king of this burg. Well, you’re dam’ near through!”
“Yeah?” answered the Czar quietly. “Listen, Ferrini! You’re a cheap yellow skunk. I hear you only dug down into your pocket for a little lousy wreath for Carmody.” Czar Rohan was grinning now. “And after I set myself back ten grand for Diamond’s funeral. Do you call that gratitude?”
Ferrini’s dark eyes snapped. “Listen, Czar. There’s only one funeral that I’m going to pay for. And that’s yours. I’ll let you name the kind o’ flowers you like now. Never mind the expenses. Will you have a bronze kimona or a plush one?”
Czar Rohan laughed and turned to the group of gangsters. “You heard what the wop said, boys. In case I kick off sudden like. I’m dependin’ on you birds to see that he keeps his word. His word’s no good to me. I want plenty of roses, boys, and a bronze box. The bugs don’t get you so quick.”
Ferrini sneered. “Grandstand stuff, Czar, huh? It’s goin’ to be too bad that you won’t be able to smell them pretty roses—”
“By the way, wop,” interrupted Czar Rohan. “I was thinkin’ that a double funeral would save the boys money. Name your posies, Ferrini.”
The Italian laughed. “Get this, boys,” he said. “If I get bumped off by Rohan, you can wrap me up in poison ivy. And if I was you,” he snapped at the Czar, “I’d get out o’ town tonight. I’ve got you licked, Rohan. My mob outnumbers yours two to one. If you’re in this burg tomorrow night, the morgue will be packed next morning with some o’ your best guns.”