CHAPTER XIII
Tony read the newspapers next morning with unusual interest and a mounting fury. "GANG LEADER FLEES" was the big, black headline on all of them. Beneath that was a chronicle of Johnny Lovo's abdication and departure and of the succession of Tony Camonte, a young, little known gangster to his place as commander of the mob. And all the papers carried an interview with Captain Flanagan, chief of detectives, in which he calmly assumed credit for having run Lovo out of the city. The captain also intimated in the interview that the Lovo mob had been so thoroughly harassed by the men in his department that it was completely disorganized and would soon be a thing of the past. The captain closed with a trite, high-sounding but really meaningless statement as to the inevitable triumph of law and order when properly administered and promised the people that he would continue to exert his utmost efforts to rid the city of gangs. It was easy to see where the papers had received their information; the temptation to grab unearned glory had been too much for the captain.
"That ———" Tony's voice crackled with venom as he spat out the epithet between clenched teeth. "I'll get him yet."
Tony drove to his headquarters with a ferocity that brought down upon him the profane maledictions of innumerable pedestrians and other motorists. But by the time he reached his desk his fury had cooled to an icy, wordless anger infinitely more dangerous. Never yet had he failed to get even with a betrayer.
"The D.A.'s been callin' up every five minutes for the last hour," said Al, the little, rat-faced door-man. "Said you was to give him a ring the minute you come in. Sounds like he's awful upset about somep'm."
"To hell with him!” snarled Tony. "If he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me. We ought to get some service out of that ‘bit’ we pay him every month."
"Better be careful with him. Chief," warned Al. "He's more dangerous than any mob leader in town. He's got a strong-arm squad that's took many a poor guy for a ride."
Tony considered a moment then, with an angry grunt, reached for the telephone and called the District Attorney's office. At last there came to him over the wire a gruff voice that he recognized from that conference long ago to which he had accompanied Johnny Lovo.
“Camonte?” barked this voice brusquely. “This is District Attorney Crowder. I see in the morning papers that Lovo's left town.”
"Yeah."
"And that you're in command of his mob now."
"Yeah, that's right."
"Well, I presume you are familiar with his—er—arrangement with me?"
"Yeah, I got a complete ‘pay-off’ list of the ‘bits’ and I'll keep takin' care of 'em just as he did."
"Don't say things like that over the phone," commanded the D.A, sharply, in his voice such concern that Tony grinned. "Then things are going to go right ahead?"
“Yeah, only more so. This mob's been too quiet lately.”
"Well, keep things out of the papers."
"That'd be easy, if the ‘dicks’ wasn't so damn mouthy."
“I know. All right, then. I'll send Moran out to see you to-morrow afternoon."
Tony hung up, his lips curved in a sneering smile. The D.A. had been worried about his monthly bit, now that Lovo had gone. And he was sending Moran out for it the next afternoon. Moran was one of his younger assistants, a brilliant prosecutor when he and his chief wanted him to be, but in the meantime the collector for his superior.
Reporters besieged the headquarters all morning but Tony refused to see them or even to send out a statement. The less publicity he got, the better he liked it.
Shortly before noon Al brought in a note to him. It was written on cheap white paper in a graceful feminine hand and read:
Dear Mr. Camonte:—
May I see you for five minutes? Thanks!
Katherine Merton.
Tony looked up, frowning in annoyance.
"Who's this dame?" he demanded.
"Don't know, chief. Never saw her before. But she sure is a swell looker."
"Yeah?" Tony seemed to brighten up a bit. "She don't look like a gun girl or anything?"
"Naw. A dame with eyes like this one's got couldn't hurt a kitten."
"All right, I'll take a chance. Send her in."
A moment later Miss Merton came in and Tony's first glimpse of her made him glad that he had granted the interview. Al's description of “a swell looker” was all right as far as it went but it did not take into account her dignity and charm. She was the sort of girl that immediately and un consciously made a young man ambitious for more intimate acquaintance and an old man regretful for his age. Tall, with an athletic figure and an easy, graceful stride, she walked into the office with a calm, unbrazen assurance. She was dressed in a gray tweed suit and a small gray and black hat that fitted closely the fine contour of her head.
"How do you do, Mr. Camonte," she said, and extended her hand. "I'm Miss Merton."
Tony accepted the hand and felt sorry that he had no right or excuse for holding it longer than he did. Her voice was rich and soothing, well-placed and completely poised, and her frank blue eyes held an engaging twinkle of understanding good humor.
"I want to ask a favor of you, Mr. Camonte," she began. "I've found that men of your type are almost always chivalrous if they have the opportunity to be."
"Yeah, sure," mumbled Tony, embarrassed. "Be glad to do anything I can."
"I thought so. Now, the problem is this: I have a job that I very much want to keep. And right now you are the only person in the city who can help me keep that job."
"Yeah? How's that?"
"I'm with the Examiner," continued the girl gently, almost regretfully. "And the city editor told me this morning that if I didn't succeed in getting an interview with you he'd fire me."
"A reporter!" exclaimed Tony in amazement and his expressive black eyes flashed angrily. "I'm not seeing any reporters."
"I knew you wouldn't, of course. And I understand just how you feel. But you see how it was with me—I had to come out here and try to see you or lose my job. I guess, though, that I'll lose it anyway."
She sighed and, succeeding in looking small and miserable for a moment, sniffed audibly. Tony growled under his breath and lit a cigarette.
"Well, miss, I can't tell anything about my business," he objected doggedly.
"Of course you can't." She seemed amazed at the mere idea. "And I wouldn't think of asking you anything like that, even to save my job. All I wanted to know was if Mr. Lovo really had left and if you really were going to be the commander from now on—my, I should think it would require unlimited brains and nerve to manage an—er—operation like this. And you look so young to have such an important position."
During the ensuing twenty minutes Miss Merton secured her interview. Her questions were adroitly harmless on the surface, dealing only with things which were already known or soon would be known about the gang and its operations, and Tony had no realization of how much he had said.
"I'll bet you'd make a wonderful husband," she said finally, her eyes sparkling in a way that gave him an unaccountable thrill. "Men who lead adventurous lives always do; they like the relief of a quiet, comfortable home."
Thus she steered the conversation into romantic channels and for some little time they dealt with love, marriage and so on. Mostly they talked in generalities but occasionally she elicited from him a personal opinion that would be "meat" for a sensational newspaper story on "A Gang Leader's Ideas of Love" or some such "shop-girl-appeal" topic.
"By the way," she said at last, "did you ever know a girl named Vyvyan Lovejoy?"
The question gave Tony such a shock that he almost cried out. Only his iron reserve enabled him to keep from betraying himself by an obvious reaction. Did he know Vyvyan Lovejoy? Did Romeo know Juliet? Vyvyan was the burlesque leading woman who had been his first love. He had killed Al Spingola, the city's most important gang leader at that time, in order that he might have her for himself. It was his reckless love for her that had started him on his career beyond the law. And when he had come back from the war and found her living with another man he had killed them both. At the mention of her name, all these events had rushed through his mind like a private mental movie. As it came to an end, his eyes narrowed and his mouth set grimly.
"No," he said. "Why do you ask?"
"I interviewed her once," answered the girl smoothly. "And you look a great deal like a picture she had. There's something about the eyes—"
Tony felt considerably upset. To his knowledge, Vyvyan had never had a picture of him. Nor had any one else. In fact, he didn't know of his picture ever having been taken. He didn't believe in pictures; they were too liable to fall into the wrong hands and some time be a means of identification.
"And by the way," continued Miss Merton smoothly, "do you ever see that stunning brunette who was with you at the Embassy Club the night Jerry Hoffman was shot?"
At this question, Tony did start. Even his iron-like nerves could not withstand a shock like that. He and Jane Conley, "The Gun Girl," the girl with whom he was now living, had killed Jerry Hoffman, then leader of the North Side gang, that night at the Embassy Club, the city's most exclusive night resort. Johnny Lovo had given the orders and paid for the job being done. And so far as Tony knew, Lovo was the only other person besides himself and Jane who even knew that they had been in the club that fatal night.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"You see, I was there that night and my escort pointed out all the notables to me. You were among them. He said he thought you would make a great success in your chosen profession." She laughed lightly.
"Who was your escort that night?" demanded Tony.
"Oh, I don't think it would be fair to tell." She rose, smilingly, and extended her hand. "I won't take up any more of your valuable time now, Mr. Camonte. But perhaps some other time we can chat a bit. Anyway, thanks so much for a very interesting interview; it will enable me to keep my job."
And she departed, leaving behind her a much perturbed gang leader. Now that he was no longer under the influence of her personality—and her expert flattery—he realized that she was a smooth worker, that she had attained her objective in spite of him. And how had she known so much? And what could possibly have been her object in mentioning those past occurrences to him? The more he thought about it the more worried he became. At last, in response to a sudden awful suspicion, he picked up the telephone and, calling the Examiner, asked to speak to Miss Katherine Merton. A moment later he hung up slowly, feeling dazed and very uneasy. The Examiner had no one by that name. Then who was the girl? And what had been her object?