CHAPTER XV
Tony took Jane Conley, “The Gun Girl,” to one of the swankier night resorts that evening. They both enjoyed such high-powered diversion and it always brought back memories. It was at Ike Bloom’s that Tony first had seen her and been struck by her beauty. It was at the Embassy Club, while they sat waiting for Jerry Hoffman to come in so that they could carry out the death sentence pronounced on him by their employer, Johnny Lovo, that they really had become acquainted.
Tony, his evening clothes immaculate and perfectly fitted save for a slight bulge under his left arm where an automatic hung suspended in a shoulder holster, looked about the luxurious but crowded and noisy place, then glanced at Jane with satisfaction glowing in his expressive eyes. She was the most beautiful woman in the place, or the “joint,” as he mentally worded it. He wondered, with a sudden twinge of jealousy, if she would stick with him after the thirty-day probationary period had expired.
He observed that she seemed somewhat distrait to-night. Her hands fluttered nervously, little lines of concern wrinkled her forehead, and her glance kept wandering around as though she were looking for somebody yet hoping that she wouldn't see him.
"What'sa matter, baby?" asked Tony expansively.
"Nothing. I just don't feel very well."
"Aw, cheer up! Let's dance!"
They rose and moved out on the small, crowded floor, quite the handsomest couple in the place. Jane was a superb dancer and Tony, with his native Latin grace and sense of rhythm, equally good. Nobody watching them would have dreamed that they both had killed, not in the heat of passion, but coolly and deliberately—for money; and that they would kill again whenever the occasion seemed to demand. And yet they were not murderers, except legally. In their own minds, they felt completely justified for everything they had done. And their operation never had been and never would be the slightest menace to the general public. When they stalked with murderous intent, they invariably were after some certain person who "had it coming to him" and who would have done the same to them without any more compunction than they showed. And they always took care not to harm innocent bystanders.
When the cabaret's gayety was at its height in the wee hours, Tony saw Katherine Merton, the mysterious girl who, in the guise of a newspaper reporter, had visited him at headquarters and questioned him at length about many things. She was seated now on the other side of the club, attired in a somewhat daring evening gown of flashing sequins, and escorted by a dark, handsome man in a dinner jacket, whose general appearance, somehow, was anything but reassuring to Tony.
He wondered suddenly why she was here, if there was anything behind her presence beyond participation in the general gayety. The possibility worried him. He wondered if she had seen him, and hoped she had not.
"Say, Baby," he said, "do you know that dame over there, the one with the diamond dress?"
Jane turned and her glance searched the room. When she finally saw the mysterious girl, her eyes widened and she bit her lip.
"No," she answered sharply. Then: "Let's go!"
Puzzled, Tony escorted her from the club. He knew she had lied. But why? Newsboys were crying the early editions of the morning papers. Tony bought one, then his face set and an involuntary “Hell!” burst from his lips.
"What's the matter?" asked Jane anxiously.
"Steve missed, the damn dumb-bell!" snarled Tony.
The girl took the paper from him and looked at it. An attempt had been made that night on the life of Schemer Bruno, now leader of the North Side gang. But miraculously he had come through it unscathed. Questioned by police, he had admitted that he had an idea who was behind the attack but had refused to give them any information. It was thought by the police that the attack meant the beginning of a new gang war.
"The clumsy fool!" snarled Tony. "I should have known better than to trust that job to him. Now Bruno will be after us right. And he'll be so careful himself that we may not be able to get another crack at him for a hell of a while."
“Oh, Tony, that worries me!” said Jane. “You must be very careful.”
He drove home in wordless wrath, his active mind racing with murderous plans for annihilating his enemies. In front of the luxurious apartment house where they lived he stopped and let Jane out.
“I'll put the car away and be right back,” he said absently.
At the corner he swung to the left and headed for the garage a block away. Suddenly the angry whine of a heavy car approaching from the rear at high speed obtruded itself into his consciousness. Instantly suspicious, he increased his own speed. But the other car came alongside. He could see that it was long and low and black, with side curtains in place—the typical death car. Then a thin red stream burst from its side, he heard the rattle of machine-gun fire, and bullets tattooed against the side of his own car. But the body of his sedan was heavy steel and the glass was bullet-proof. It shed bullets as a duck does water. Yet these enemies, whoever they were, would not be satisfied until they had accomplished their murderous mission.
He realized that he dare not go into the garage for the death car would follow and finish him there. And the employees would be of no help. He must get to his own district, where these men would hardly dare follow and where, if they did, his gangsters always loafing around that all-night cigar store on the ground floor of the hotel which was his headquarters would come to his assistance and make short work of them.
Abruptly he pressed the accelerator to the floor and the big car leaped forward. At a crazy pace he raced through the dark, deserted city streets. And that other car hung doggedly to his trail. Several times they gained slightly, coming almost close enough to use their guns again. But always he managed to keep ahead of them.
On and on and on went that strange race, for him a race for life, for them a race for death—his death; careening around corners, streaking along on the straightaway. If only he could reach his headquarters before something happened. Surely they would not dare to follow him there.
From behind came the stuttering rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire again. Two of his tires, evidently pierced by the bullets, blew out with loud reports. The car slewed to the right, struck the curb with terrific force and turned over. Tony felt himself falling then everything went black.
When he regained consciousness he was lying prone but in an uncomfortably cramped position. There was a carpet under him and feet all around him and he was aware of a jolting, swaying motion. Abruptly he realized that he was on the floor of a car tonneau and that the car was moving. It couldn't be his car. Then it must be that of the enemy. He sat up, wildly staring about him. There were two men in the rear seat but it was too dark to distinguish their faces.
"He ain't dead, after all," said a strange voice. "Jeez! ain't that too bad?"
"What the hell's the idea?" demanded Tony.
"You'll know soon enough."
"Well, let me up on the seat there. This is too damned uncomfortable."
He tried to get up and found that he was weak and very dizzy. One of the men reached out and jerked him into the seat between them. He could see now that the front seat also contained two men.
"You want to enjoy this ride, kid!" snarled a voice in his ear. "Because it's the last one you'll ever take."
Tony's heart almost stopped. He'd faced danger and been in tight places before; but never a situation like this. He was being taken for a ride, about to be made the victim of the most feared and the most conclusive of all the means gangland used for ridding itself of its enemies. He turned to the man who had spoken.
"This is some of that damn crooked North Side outfit, I suppose," he said bitterly.
“Yes.”
“Who the hell are you?”
"Me?" The man laughed mirthlessly, a menacing laugh strangely like the rattling of a snake about to strike. “I'm Jerry Hoffman's brother.”