“I’ll get that rat, Dwyer,” Baroni was breathing. “I’ll burn his guts for this.” He turned fiercely on the man beside him.
“What do I pay you lice for? Why did you let him get the drop on us?”
“You’re talking through your hat, boss,” said the gunman sullenly. “Burnie, Monk, Steve, and Fred were wiped out. The rest of us would have got it too, if this mug hadn’t edged in.”
Baroni lapsed into silence, mopping his fat face again.
“I gotta have a drink,” he said presently. “My nerves are shot. Stop at Frenchy’s place, Al.”
The torpedo driving the car nodded. A block farther on, brakes squealed and the big car slid to a halt before the door of an underworld dive.
“Come in, guy, and I’ll set you up a snifter,” said Baroni expansively.
The Agent followed the trio to the door of this joint that was still a speak-easy, even though prohibition had been repealed. A slit-eyed man with spiky mustaches opened the door, stared at them through the grating, and admitted them when he recognized Baroni.
“Where’s the rest of the boys?” he asked.
“They got into a little trouble, Frenchy. Fix up some Scotch.”
Darting an inquisitive look at the Secret Agent, the little Frenchman went off to obey orders. Baroni motioned toward a back room and heaved himself into a chair. He was still perspiring. His hands were trembling. His pasty, soggy face showed evidences of the terror that had almost paralyzed him. He gulped three glasses of whisky before turning to the Agent.
“Now,” he said. “What’s your name and who the hell are you?”
“James Porter,” said the Agent quickly. It was one of his many aliases. He drew a card from his wallet, handed it to Baroni to prove it.
The big gangster stared at the card impressed.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Dabble in the stock market a little.”
Baroni’s eyes showed cunning.
“You ain’t making much money now?”
“No,” said the Agent. “You know what happened to the market.”
Baroni rested his fat chin on one hand, placed his elbow on the table.
“Listen,” he said. “You seem like a good guy. Maybe I could give you a job that would bring in some kale. Then you could hit the high places regular. Four of my torpedoes were wiped out tonight. I gotta get some more. How would you like to be one of them?”
The Agent nodded slowly.
“I’ll think it over,” he said. This was what he wanted. This would give him a chance to see what, if any, were Baroni’s connections with the hideous strangler murders. But he didn’t want to appear too anxious.
Baroni took another drink and his self-confidence and suavity increased.
“I got Dwyer’s number,” he said. “I’m going to get him and take over his rackets. There may not be as much dough as when we was running alky — but there’ll be plenty. There’s a dope racket that I’m gonna look in on. You could contact the rich guys and high-steppin’ dames with that million-dollar manner of yours. We could clean up.”
Baroni stared blandly at the Secret Agent, seeming to see in him possibilities for a new type of clean-up — dope peddled to society people who could pay for it. The Agent hid the contempt he felt.
He was about to answer when the three men beside him stiffened. A police siren had suddenly sounded in the street outside. It was followed by the sound of a car sliding to the curb.
Baroni’s eyes darted to the windows in the rear of the room. But a thunderous knocking came at the outside door before he could move. Frenchy, trembling, went to the door. They heard him arguing for seconds. Gruff voices sounded outside. Then the Frenchman slid the bolts and stepped back, wringing his hands.
The Agent, looking over the shoulder of Nick Baroni, saw the foremost figure in the group that was entering. It was Inspector John Burks of the city homicide squad.
Chapter XV
WITH a deep scowl on his face, Inspector Burks strode into the speak-easy’s back room. He eyed the group sitting at the table distastefully.
“Well, Baroni, I figured I’d find you here,” he said.
The big gangster spread his fat hands and shrugged.
“There ain’t no law against a guy having a little drink with a few pals.”
Slowly, sternly, Inspector Burks eyed the faces of the assembled group. He removed his hat, ran quick, tense fingers through his snow-white hair. His contrasting jet-black eyebrows drew together as he frowned.
“Haven’t I got enough trouble with the strangler killings without you gangster rats making more?”
“I don’t get you, chief,” said Baroni blandly. “Me and these mugs have been here all evening.”
“Don’t lie to me,” cried Burks. “Four of your men were picked up on the floor of the Mephistopheles Club — stiffs all of them. You and Dwyer have been fighting again.”
“Maybe we did have a little scrap,” said Baroni. “But I ain’t admitting it.”
“I’ve got fifty witnesses,” said Burks. “You were seen there.”
Baroni’s voice grew unctuous, smooth as syrup.
“Who started it, chief — did anybody tell you that? If I was there and if I fought, it was only in self-defense. The law says a guy’s got a right to—”
Burks silenced him with a wave of his hand.
“Murder is murder, Baroni. Three of Dwyer’s rats were killed, too. You were mixed up in murder tonight. It may land you in the pen, or maybe the hot seat. You’d better come clean.”
A sickly, pasty hue had come over Baroni’s face again. His tone grew whining.
“Listen, chief — maybe I did get mixed up in a little trouble tonight. Maybe there was some guys wiped out. But I didn’t start it, I tell you. It was that rat Dwyer. He’ll get a bellyful of lead for this. He’ll—”
Inspector Burks struck the table with his clenched fist until the whisky glasses leaped and the bottle tipped over, gurgling its amber fluid on the floor.
“I’m going to have a talk with Dwyer, too,” he shouted. “I’m going to tell him the same thing. You two mugs are going to make peace, or I’ll see that you both go to the hot seat. Prohibition’s over. This racket stuff’s got to stop. Both of you are going to break up your gangs and go out of business. If you don’t, I’ll get you on murder charges for what happened tonight.”
It was a threat. The Secret Agent knew that. Inspector Burks was taking what seemed the wisest course. There were few convictions for gang killings. It was hard to get witnesses who would testify in court, harder still to pin crimes on the mobsters. They hired the cunningest, most unscrupulous criminal lawyers to be had. Baroni could plead self-defense. He might get off. But by threatening him, Inspector Burks hoped to win his point.
Baroni’s face muscles sagged. He had visions of a golden stream from new rackets being diverted from his pockets.
“I’ll — I’ll think about it,” he said.
“You’ll do as I say. You’ll bury the hatchet with Dwyer — shake hands with him and go out of business. If I find you in any public place again with torpedoes around you — if there is one more killing, I’ll railroad you both to the pen on a first-degree murder charge. I’m going to talk to the D.A. about it.”
With this ultimatum, Burks turned on his heel and stalked out of the place.
Baroni wiped his face again.
“Let’s have another round of drinks, boys,” he said.