Cardona discovered that she had left town some time ago, and there was no way of tracing her new address.
While the detective was working on this, he had received a bunch of violets at his hotel.
They carried the usual disk. Cardona had it in his pocket now. He brought the disk from his vest.
Madame
Plunket
Chicago
Those were the words inscribed upon the disk. They had brought Cardona to Chicago. He had located the medium.
At the first seance, Little Flower had spoken to the sitters!
Chicago was a long way from New York, but Cardona felt positive that there was a connection here. Anita Marie, of Philadelphia and Madame Plunket, of Chicago! Two birds of the same plumage!
There had been no disturbing element at the seances which Cardona had attended in Chicago. But he was getting a line on Madame Plunket, and he was convinced that the medium was the lowest of grafters.
The advice that she was passing out indicated that she must have a fund of information somewhere in her house. Cardona knew the law on fortune telling. It would be no trick at all to get the local police to make a raid, when the proper time came.
The train was nearing the station where Cardona must leave. He arose and waited for the stop. Descending the steps from the elevated platform, he turned westward along a narrow street. He walked beneath the glaring light of an electric lamp.
Cardona had no idea whatever that his presence in Chicago was known; nor did he suppose that it might be of interest to anyone other than the spirit medium. Hence, he did not notice the lurking forms that were behind a signboard near the sidewalk.
Cardona, however, did see a darkened car parked on the other side of the street. Professionally, he eyed it with suspicion.
Gangsters were rampant in Chicago. This might be one of their machines. Cardona started his right hand toward his pocket, then stopped abruptly.
Some one had planted the muzzle of a revolver against the center of his back! There was no command to raise his hands. Just a low growl to "keep moving." Cardona, recognizing the threat, obeyed. Simultaneously, the car on the other side of the street approached. Cardona felt himself being urged toward the curb. A minute later, he was between two men in the back seat of the sedan, and the car was heading for parts unknown!
Well did Joe Cardona realize his predicament. He fancied that he had been mistaken for someone whom these gunmen intended to put on the spot.
It was the tightest place in which the sleuth had ever found himself. He could only hope that he might find some way to bluff it out with these intended killers.
He knew well enough that silence was the game for the present. Any attempt at conversation might mean immediate death. No killer would permit the beginning of an outcry. The question lay in what would follow.
When the gunmen found that they had the wrong man, they might let him go. Cardona speculated upon what they would do if he revealed himself as a detective. Gangsters did not go out of their way to war with the police. In that, he might find salvation.
The car traveled a long way. Cardona had lost all sense of direction. They were away from the city now. The detective could hear the waters of Lake Michigan. It was a windy night, and the sound indicated that the waves were high.
The car swung toward the lake and stopped at a low, sloping building. Cardona was forced out, and his captors led him to a door in the side of the building. They went down four steps, and entered a low-roofed room. One of the men switched on the light.
Three men had captured the detective. They were a hardy, sullen-faced crew. Cardona, himself the possessor of a poker face, stared steadily as they frisked him of his police revolver, and backed him up against the wall.
One of the men — a big fellow — faced Cardona. He was the leader of the gang. He addressed the sleuth in no uncertain terms.
"All right," he said. "Spill it. What are you nosing about in Chicago for?"
"Do you know who I am?" questioned Cardona quietly.
"Sure I do," retorted the captor. "You're a New York flatfoot, named Joe Cardona. To square it, I'll tell you who I am. Did you ever hear of Snooks Milligan?"
Cardona nodded. He knew that Snooks Milligan was a survivor of an extinguished gang. Snooks and a few others had joined up with Gallanta's outfit.
"Well," said the hard-faced captor, "I'm Snooks Milligan. And when I want a guy, I get him. I wanted you tonight — so I got you!"
Cardona shrugged his shoulders. He saw no connection between his present investigation and the affairs of Chicago gangsters.
"Come on!" growled Milligan. "Spill it! Why are you out here? Talk quick, or it's the works for you!"
"I'll tell you why I'm here," declared Cardona plainly. "I'm looking in on a bunch of phony spirit mediums. That's where I was bound to-night. There's a woman named Plunket who runs a fortune-telling graft right near where you grabbed me."
"Yeah?" questioned Milligan, in derision. "You can't get away with that stall, Cardona. That may be your blind. But I've got a tip that you're out here to make trouble for us. What do you think of that?"
"You've got the wrong lay," declared Cardona frankly.
"I have, eh?" quizzed Milligan angrily. "Well, I'm going to find out about it! Savvy?? Bring him along." The last words were addressed to the other gangsters. One opened a door and turned on a light. Cardona was forced down another pair of steps into a cellar room.
There was a small platform in the corner; above it was a horizontal rack with a roller and a handle that resembled a clothes wringer.
While one of the gangsters held an automatic against Cardona's ribs, Milligan advanced and pressed a knob on the wall some distance from the rack. The platform tilted forward and extended into a black hole on the floor. Milligan pressed a second knob. The platform moved up again. The gangsters were binding Cardona's arms with ropes. They shoved the detective onto the treacherous platform, and hooked the ropes to the roller by the wall. One man turned the handle, and the ropes tightened, drawing Cardona back, almost to the wall.
"You've heard it said that gangsters don't talk," declared Milligan, to Cardona. "You're going to learn different, now. This is the place where they talk — when that roller begins to work. And when we're through with them" — the gangster motioned significantly to the knob on the wall — "that's the end.
"That hole underneath you is big enough, Cardona! Big enough to hide you along with others that have disappeared!"
Cardona knew well that a certain number of gangsters disappeared annually in Chicago. It was supposed that they were bumped off and left in vacant lots and other spots, in accordance with the usual scheme of things.
The usual idea was that only a certain percentage of the slain victims were discovered; for bodies frequently came to light in obscure places.
But now Cardona had inside knowledge of one of gangland's burial grounds, where bodies of murdered gunmen were lost forever.
The thought chilled him; for he realized that with the knowledge he now possessed, he was doomed to die.
Hence, Cardona shut his lips grimly when Snooks Milligan began a new questioning. The detective's only course was to let the mobsmen believe that he actually knew something that he would not tell. Something the mobsters wanted to know. That would at least give time to live — even though existence would be strained by torture.
Seeing that Cardona would not talk, the gang leader signaled one of his underlings to turn the winch. The man obeyed.
Cardona felt a terrific strain upon his shoulders. He resisted the tightened pressure. Another turn, and it seemed as though his shoulders would be wrenched from their sockets. Still, Cardona was obdurate. Minutes of agony went by, while Snooks Milligan glowered in amazement. This iron detective was resisting as Milligan had never seen a man resist before!