Maxwell Grant
Gangdom's Doom
As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” December 1931
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!”
“Tonight?”
“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 tonight.”
“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 tonight.
“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 tonight 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.